Admiral Wolf

by C. Gockel

  “Yep,” said Davies.

  “You’re serious?” Michael asked. Falade and Lang were quiet but looked just as skeptical.

  Michael was still in civilian clothes—they were waiting on the extra suit from the injured Luddeccean, as well as weapons from the police. He looked fragile in comparison to the others.

  Davies nodded. “We’ll pass for one of the pirates.”

  “Exactly,” said 6T9. “If we don’t get caught in friendly fire, we’ll be fine.”

  Michael blanched.

  Wincing inwardly at his failure of a pep talk, 6T9 touched his side. Eliza’s ashes were under his armor right next to his access key. His hand slid down to his hip. Attached to his holster was an impact and heat-resistant packet, no larger than his palm, filled with the precious Q-comms, the “brains” of his new lieutenants. Circuits in him fired, and others went dark. He shook his head. What had Volka said when they’d inserted FET12’s Q-comm? “Birth is frightening, but joyous, too.” He was afraid. He was about to bestow sentience upon unsuspecting beings and then immediately thrust them into armed conflict.

  There was a whoosh, and a gangway dropped. The ship pinged him over the ether and he answered to a very polite, and very embarrassed, “Android General 1, I am Osprey235, so pleased to meet you, sir. I beg you, sir, do not be dismayed by my exterior. As you can see from my most recent system checks, I am flightworthy.” Data from the ship began spilling in front of 6T9’s eyes—but was interrupted by a warning from his own systems. He was low on power. The stun weapons that hung at the Luddecceans’ waists caught his eyes, and he licked his lips. Fortunately, their backs were to him as they surveyed the ship. Michael, however … the newly minted Fleet officer saw 6T9’s reaction—and his lip curled up.

  In a spark of insight, 6T9 realized the man thought he was thinking of something other than a recharge. Quips flickered through his mind: Don’t worry, Lieutenant, you have a fine package, too, or, more cruelly, Don’t worry, you don’t have a bulge I’m interested in. Instead he turned away, annoyed.

  “Something wrong?” Shipman Davies asked.

  He could lie to the Luddeccean—he was already lying to him—but they were about to serve together. Shouldn’t he stick to the truth as much as possible? “I need to recharge,” 6T9 replied. “Your stunners are making me hungry.” Davies blinked rapidly but gave no other sign of alarm. 6T9 wondered what he would say if he saw him with his face peeled back. He frowned and then nearly groaned at another realization. “They’re probably as depleted as mine.” He gazed up the gangway. The interior was lit, and that sign of electricity was inviting. “I’m going to plug into the ship, warm her up, get a feel for her systems, and recharge. You can recharge your weapons as soon as I’ve got her going.”

  Davies nodded. “Sounds good. After you.”

  6T9 trod up the gangway. It creaked beneath his steps. Could this thing really be spaceworthy? Could it handle reentry?

  “I really think I’m going to need that envirosuit,” Michael murmured, the gangway squeaking beneath his even lighter tread.

  They reached the inner airlock. The door to the cabin was shut, and the ship piped into 6T9’s mind. “The door seals are brand new!” The door whooshed open and shut a few times, and there was a sucking sound as the rubber seals at the edges were tested. 6T9 didn’t sigh. The seals might be new, but there was a hole as large as his head right about his shoulder level. Its edge, melted and blackened by phaser burn, was an open window to the cabin within and made the “brand new seals” completely worthless.

  “Welp, no working airlock,” Davies remarked. “Good thing the atmosphere below is breathable, but we’d better get you that suit, Lieutenant Snow.”

  Sounding desperate for approval, the ship’s voice piped into 6T9’s brain, “Please assure the humans that my airlock seals are working.” It opened and closed the compromised door again for emphasis. “Please?” the ship said again. “I want them to feel safe.” It was so friendly, polite … and stupid.

  6T9 turned to the humans. “The seals on the airlock are brand new—”

  “But—” Davies gestured at the hole.

  “The ship is very sensitive about this,” 6T9 said. “And it’s trying very hard to help.”

  Three mouths gaped at him. 6T9 put a finger to his lips for silence. The Luddecceans tilted their heads like curious, confused puppies. Michael sighed and looked distinctly unhappy. Static flared on 6T9’s skin, and he turned to the door. It opened at his approach. The floor of the cabin was grav plating that was damaged in spots. There were some bolts jutting from the floor, as though there had once been seating, but now there were just safety straps along the walls. There was a charge port for weapons that the Luddecceans and 6T9 made a beeline for. As soon as he’d snapped his weapons in, a buzzing from the corner by the cockpit caught his attention. There was a pile of knapsacks there. He went over and lifted one up.

  There was a speaker on the floor beneath, and it crackled to life. “Gentlemen, I am Osprey, your ship. I regret this is my sole remaining speaker. Perhaps you’d like some music while the stewardesses bring you drinks?”

  The humans’ eyes got wide and shifted around the barren cabin. Michael lifted a hand to his temple and swirled a finger in the air. The Luddecceans’ eyes got even wider. Apparently, that was a hand sign for crazy on Luddeccea, too. Michael mouthed the words, “Reset system to factory settings?”

  6T9’s circuits dimmed, and he mouthed in response, “No time.”

  Michael’s lips parted as though to protest, but then he pressed them tight and gave a small nod.

  “Gentlemen,” the ship said hopefully. “I have a musical library of over 3 billion recordings.”

  “‘Taking Off’ by Herbie Hancock,” 6T9 said, trying to pick something that would appeal to Luddeccean sensibilities.

  “A medieval classic! Excellent choice, sir,” the ship replied and stopped speaking in favor of music that was the cheerful strains of Herbie Hancock’s “Watermelon Man” and not medieval.

  6T9 hefted the pack in his hands and peered inside. “These are jetpacks,” he said, turning it around. It was larger than the typical jetpack; he never would have expected it.

  Michael joined him and picked up another. Under his breath, he muttered, “It must be one hundred years old. It’s got etherless controls on the straps.”

  “These are exactly like the jetpacks we train with,” Falade exclaimed. “Galactics aren’t so much more advanced than us.”

  Michael looked like he might reply, but 6T9’s glare cut him off.

  “There are seven of them,” Lang added, casting a nervous gaze to the airlock and its useless door.

  Davies picked one up and handed it to Lang. “Make sure all of them are charged.” To 6T9, he said, “Sir, Falade and I will go outside and load up the weapons as they arrive while you, errr … eat.”

  6T9 nodded. “Good.” As the two Luddecceans left, he turned his attention to Michael. “Go with them—but keep your ether open. Your first priority will be to warn your contacts below.”

  Michael stared at him. Michael was the only one who understood that 6T9 was a general in name only—but then Michael said, “Yes, sir.” His eyes narrowed. “But only because you’re right—this time.”

  6T9’s Q-comm sparked, processors humming with every word he’d heard whispered among Fleet Marines, and everything he knew about Michael, the idealistic, peaceful protestor who’d been drawn into Fleet to save his world. “I would expect you to disobey if it was an inappropriate order,” 6T9 said.

  Something in Michael’s stance loosened. Saluting 6T9, he said, “I’m on it.”

  Michael’s footsteps were squeaking down the ramp when 6T9 turned to the cockpit. There had been an airlock between the cockpit and the main cabin—6T9 could see the track of the former door, but the door was missing now. There were two chairs, both ripped, leaking stuffing, and missing armrests, but there was an outlet and a compartment underneath the control panel. 6T9
opened the compartment and found the cables he expected. He took off his helmet, peeled off his face, sat down, and jacked in. Power surged through the cord. Skipping the ether, 6T9 accessed the ship’s system through the hardlink. Data flowed in front of his eyes. His Q-comm digested it almost instantaneously, and he frowned.

  … And then his vision went gray. He was being pulled into another Q-comm conference call, and it was either with the researchers in the World Sphere studying the spacefaring alien race the Dark had destroyed, or …

  “Sixty?” Volka’s voice filled the mindscape. “Sixty, are you there?”

  He hesitated to respond. Why was he afraid to respond? His Q-comm fired off the query …

  “Sixty?” Volka called, voice distressed.

  And he decided the query was as idiotic as hesitating. He gave himself an avatar in case Volka was somewhere with access to a holo.

  “You’re here!” Volka sprung into the mindscape in front of him. The avatar of her was obviously a construct of Bracelet. The device had made herself shine conspicuously through Volka’s envirosuit, and Volka’s features were slightly indistinct and a bit ghostly in the dim mindscape.

  “Is something wrong?” 6T9 asked her.

  Putting her head in her hands, Volka whispered, “I’ve done something terrible.”

  His Q-comm flared, and he knew why he hadn’t wanted to meet her.

  “I’ve done something terrible,” Volka confessed to Sixty.

  “Darmadi,” Sixty whispered.

  Volka’s shoulders hunched. She hadn’t been fair to Alaric when she’d read his mind. She could have warned him as she walked into the room, but she’d been intrigued, maybe seduced by the glimpse of him that telepathy gave to her. Still, that had been far less bad than what she’d done to the Marines guarding Ambassador Zhao, and what she’d tried to do to Ambassador Zhao himself.

  “The Republic is sending an ambassador to meet with the Dark,” Volka said.

  “That’s suicide,” Sixty replied.

  She looked up and found he’d almost closed the virtual distance between them.

  “I know.” Her ears curled. “No one asked my opinion, though, so I went to the ambassador. I didn’t ask to be admitted to see him. I made his guards let me in.”

  “Made them?” Sixty asked.

  “I … was … mad … I grabbed the threads … and yanked them,” Volka stuttered. Her stomach sank. She felt cold as ice.

  “Threads?”

  Wrapping one arm around herself, she closed her eyes. “I used mind control.” It was simpler than explaining what she felt.

  “By accident … because you were concerned?” Sixty supplied.

  Volka rubbed her eyes. “On purpose … because I was …” Her lip curled up in disgust at herself. “Offended that no one had consulted me.” That had been it, in truth, hadn’t it? She hated being minimized, hated being seen as little more than a ferry operator. How shallow was that? How much more should Sundancer feel abused? Maybe the ship only still clung to Volka and Carl because she was young and naive and didn’t know better?

  “The ambassador?” Sixty asked.

  “He knew … knows … it’s a suicide mission.” Volka whispered. “He is so nice, Sixty. So kind. He doesn’t think I’m an idiot. He isn’t condescending …” She exhaled. “His granddaughter is an android—”

  “Zhao,” 6T9 said. “It’s Ambassador Zhao.”

  She blinked. “You know him?”

  “I know of him,” 6T9 said. “His granddaughter Rushi was one of the first androids that passed as human.”

  “She loves him very much … I think.” She bit her lip, remembering how Zhao had teased Rushi, “You look so glum, and yet you wear red, the color of good fortune. You’re glad to be rid of me!”

  “I’m wearing red because you asked me to!” Rushi had replied.

  Zhao had tapped his neural port. “Did I?” He tapped his port again, and a light blinked in his temple. “Ah, I did. You were going to wear white, the color for funerals.” He tsked.

  Rushi had swallowed audibly and turned to Volka. There had been tears standing in her eyes. That had been when Volka realized she was an android. The emotion in her expression had been haunting, but her tears smelled wrong, and Volka hadn’t felt her despair.

  In the present, Volka’s stomach constricted. “He’s dying. He has … Alzheimer’s … I thought you don’t get it in the Republic, but he has it. The only thing keeping him together is his cybernetics, but even that is failing; some rare virus is causing inflammation. I didn’t believe him at first, because he seemed so lucid, but he wasn’t lying either … not intentionally.”

  Sixty only stared at her, and she clarified, “I was able to read his mind. I don’t care for him; I was just upset. But maybe he only thinks he is dying?” She desperately wanted to hear that Zhao was wrong, that he wasn’t dying. But if he wasn’t, what would she do?

  Sixty’s eyes went blank for an instant, and then refocused. “I suspect he is telling the truth. Rushi spent a decade trying to find a treatment for NaloreanSV … I thought her dedication was intense for an academic pursuit. She succeeded but the cure works best in young patients with new infections. Zhao had already been infected for years, and he is several centuries old.”

  Volka’s ears folded. “He said the disease will progress to his … auto … autonomic nervous system and he won’t be able to breathe.” She looked to him again for confirmation, not sure what she’d do if it wasn’t true.

  “That is how the disease would progress in a man Zhao’s age,” Sixty said, and Volka’s heart sank.

  Sixty tilted his head. “I’m surprised he told you about this.”

  Scanning the gray at her feet, Volka said, “I might have compelled him, too.” She met Sixty’s eyes again. “Sixty, there are members of the Galactic Senate who don’t believe the threat of the Dark is real! Zhao says they’re resisting quarantine measures for System 5 evacuees and not monitoring their ports of entry. He knows he’ll be killed but also knows with Rushi there providing timestamped, instantaneous reporting, they won’t be able to say his death was staged … and since he is going to die anyway, he wants his death to mean something. I tried to take that from him, Sixty!”

  Frowning, 6T9 was as motionless as a statue in the dismal gray.

  She swallowed, remembering something Zhao had said. “The problem with most Galacticans, Volka, is that they’ve never known evil. Petty cruelty, certainly, but not evil of the sort that has no qualms with genocide. They can’t imagine it, because it isn’t logical, you see? I have to open their eyes.”

  And then Rushi had whispered, “We have to.”

  Volka blubbered on. “Rushi will be destroyed, and she knows that … I think … I can’t read her like Zhao.” Her ears sagged. She had to rely on her wits, and she felt like her wits had betrayed her. She shouldn’t have tried to dissuade Zhao; she definitely shouldn’t have used mind control on the Marines. She shrugged helplessly. “And I’m going to play ferryman … like … like … Sharon.”

  Sixty’s brows rose. “Charon.”

  “What?” Volka’s ears came forward.

  “It’s not Sharon, it’s Charon, the name of the Greek ferryman to the Underworld,” Sixty replied.

  Ears folding back in dismay, Volka exclaimed, “I don’t have a cybernetic brain, I can’t remember everything perfectly, and I’m not educated, but it doesn’t mean I’m stupid!”

  “Of course not!” Sixty said, finally, finally, lifting his hands as though to put them on her shoulders, but then he dropped them and bent lower. “Volka, I don’t know how much longer I have with you. Listen, you have to learn to control your telepathy, and you must be careful what you say. In the Republic, giving away health information is a crime. You could do serious damage to—”

  He looked up as though hearing a far-off sound, and then he vanished.

  Volka found herself standing alone in the gray, feeling emptier than she had before. She’d never told Sixty
that she’d needed him. He’d never said that he loved her. Those were things people in real relationships said to one another, weren’t they? But maybe Galacticans didn’t. Scrunching her eyes shut, she massaged her eyelids. What did she know about being in a “real” relationship, let alone being in one with a Galactican? She felt like something was off, but maybe she was just being overly emotional … or just Luddeccean.

  On her wrist, Bracelet chimed. “We have to get to the mission briefing, Miss Volka.”

  “Right, then,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  There was nothing else she could do. But something in the conversation niggled at her, something she couldn’t put into words or even string together into a coherent thought.

  6T9 snapped from the mindscape, circuits misfiring with a case of mental whiplash. When Volka had said she’d done something wrong, his first thought was that the call would be a confession about her and Darmadi. And then it turned out not to be that. He’d been relieved—except she’d been able to read Zhao’s mind because she was upset, but she could read Darmadi’s mind no matter her mental state. It was an admission of love. And then she’d confessed to using mind control on purpose because she was offended. That was not like his Volka. If the Marines were questioned for letting her pass, there could be repercussions for them. And then she’d told 6T9 about Zhao’s diagnosis—it wasn’t public knowledge. If she dropped that knowledge around, she might wind up hauled into an inquiry on suspicion of hacking into restricted data—and she might get Zhao fired. It was possible that the Senate didn’t know and would send someone else in Zhao’s stead—someone not prepared to die. 6T9 reached up to massage his temple and encountered cold metal instead of skin. He dropped his hand and banged the back of his head against his headrest. Nebulas, elderly humans who were ready to sacrifice themselves. Eliza had been like that, and it had made him feel terrible. He winced. Volka had just felt terrible. He hadn’t comforted, he’d just bounced from shock, to more shock, and then to fear for her, and then he’d been sucked out of the mindscape. Why?