by C. Gockel
A night bird called, and Volka’s ears perked toward the sound, and then swiveled back to him. “Hi, Sixty,” she said cautiously. Shissh’s eyes disappeared, and he heard her loping away.
“I had to know if you were all right,” he blurted.
She shrugged noncommittally, and he knew he was bungling it. Not that it wasn’t true, but—
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong. You are more than just your original operating system.” Her inherent monogamy tied her to Captain Darmadi, and even though her operating system didn’t come with a switch like he had for monogamy, religious software had compelled her to resist her connection to the captain. His circuits darkened. Religious software could be updated much too easily; in point of fact, she ignored that software by being with him. It was messy code that wasn’t reliable.
Volka’s gaze dropped to her feet. “You didn’t say it to be cruel.”
She said it like that made it worse.
Her ears flattened. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can change my original systems, Sixty.”
Carl thought she could not. Could she be satisfied with someone who would always be … disconnected … from her telepathic communication? How much did he care?
A clock was ticking down in 6T9’s mind. “I miss you.” He wasn’t sure if his sex ‘bot operating system had blurted that, or his Q-comm, or both. The thing was, no matter how messy Volka’s code was, it had been reliable for him in many ways, hadn’t it?
Volka glanced up at him, eyes shining in the dark.
“I have to go in thirty-three seconds,” 6T9 said, sad and relieved. He was afraid of the answers to his queries. “I will just stare at you now.” Every moment he looked at her, he knew she was alive, and he was glad for that. Maybe because of that previous reliability? He’d asked her to marry him to keep her for himself, but maybe that was not something she could give him?
Volka took a step back. “I don’t think you’ve really said … or asked … what you really want to know.” Was there a hard edge in her voice?
He hadn’t, and Volka with her so-called primitive mind had noticed. But his time had run out. In milliseconds, he was back in his own body, staring at tracks beneath the car. They were stationary now. He’d reached his stop. Lifting his rifle, 6T9 did not hesitate. It was time to lead an army, time to be Android General 1.
30
Duty Before All
Galactic Republic: Time Gate 1
Volka exited Sundancer, already dressed in her envirosuit. Carl hopped at her heels. The Marines were already waiting for her across the deck. As she walked in their direction, she wondered what danger Sixty was walking into—he hadn’t said. The call hadn’t been about whatever physical danger he’d been facing, it had been about her and his apology—that hadn’t felt quite like an apology. It had felt like an accusation. She was more than her operating system, but wasn’t he? He’d been jealous, though that was supposed to be impossible. Her brow furrowed, and she felt a headache coming on.
Thoughts from the Marines swirled up around her, and she couldn’t think of Sixty and his strange visit. Stratos was picturing her and Rhinehart together again. She almost snapped at him, “Get some real porn!” but bit her tongue. Other thoughts drowned out his—a general, “Why did she leave the gate last night?” Young’s thought was slightly different. “How did she leave last night?”
Young had gotten almost as much flak from Fleet as Volka had. They had no record of him condoning the drop-off of the chip, but he was the leader of the mission; it had still been his responsibility. Volka’s interrogators were thinking about replacing him. She hadn’t let slip that she knew, but it was one of the reasons Volka hadn’t slept in the Diplomatic Corps last night. To prove she held the cards. Sixty hadn’t asked her if she’d used mind control to leave Time Gate 1. The truth was, she didn’t know and didn’t know if she cared.
Approaching Young, his thoughts became clearer. “Did they piss you off so much you’ll leave? How much more will it take?” Aloud, he only said in his booming voice, “Good morning.”
Volka smiled tightly. “Good morning. Nice to see a friendly face.” She didn’t want him or his team replaced. She didn’t want to know the deepest darkest thoughts of sixteen new Marines or to have to hold their proverbial hands as they adapted to working with a telepathic spaceship.
“Glad to be here,” Young muttered. Four words—but behind them were memories of the debriefing he’d had the day before. One more slip-up, and he’d be relieved of duty. He was pissed, though not at her. He wondered if he had done the right thing. Could his team have died out there in the nothing? If it hadn’t been for Volka leading them in a telepathic revolt, would they still be out there?
Scanning the crew, Volka said, “If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be here,” and imbued it with the same certainty and feeling she did when she “talked” to Sundancer, even if she wasn’t sure. The galaxy was on the line. The Republic needed Sundancer, Volka, and Carl. Intel hated it—and the feeling was mutual, but they collaborated for mutual benefit. Barely. Young’s head canted toward her. She felt his gratitude but did not acknowledge it.
He admired her role in their escape from the elder ships too much, and Volka added, “If it wasn’t for you and your team’s quick thinking, Sundancer would be dead.”
They’d survived as a team—her telepathy had saved them from the elder ships, but they wouldn’t have even made it that far without them. They would have died when they slipped over the edge of the universe. Young’s chest warmed at her words, and she was careful not to make eye contact. It would be too easy to manipulate the emotion she sensed. It wasn’t exactly romantic; it was scarier than that. “Where is Dr. Patrick?” Volka asked.
Tapping his temple, Young said, “Good question.”
His eyes became vacant, and Volka heard his thoughts. They’d been given another assignment. Her jaw got hard. Things being what they were, it would probably be harder than ferrying spy drones.
31
The Mission
Luddeccea: Galactic Republic Embassy
“Miss Darmadi—” the Galactican man began.
“Mrs. Darmadi,” Alexis corrected, jostling Markus on her hip and readjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder.
He licked his lips. “Mrs. Darmadi, the train exhibit is closed.”
“Perfect,” said Alexis tightly. She didn’t want any more witnesses than necessary for what she was about to do. Earlier, the Galactican Train Exhibition had been mobbed with visitors. Now she and her boys were the only ones left. The building’s interior was cold and austere, and her voice echoed faintly.
“You and your …” His eyes flitted to Lucas and Sam playing with model magni-trains a few meters away, and his nose wrinkled as though he’d smelled something distasteful. “Ahh …”
The boys were dressed in their Sunday best clothes; their hair was neatly combed. They were playing quietly, and Alexis had managed to keep them from flinging their knapsacks on the floor. They were their school knapsacks—shiny black leather, not the large canvas things for camping. Sam and Lucas were, for their ages, the picture of decorum. As was Markus, who had decided to take an unusually long nap in his sling.
“Children?” Alexis snapped.
His eyes went to Markus, and he visibly shuddered.
She had a sudden urge to say, “Don’t worry, babies aren’t contagious,” or more satisfyingly, “Beware, wake him and he’ll bite.”
“Yes, children … need to leave,” the man replied, raising his hands as though he could sweep her to the door.
Sweat prickled on the back of Alexis’s neck, though the room was cool. “We will be remaining until the ship arrives.” What would she do if they refused to let her remain?
“The ship …?” the man said.
Alexis dropped her voice so Sam and Lucas couldn’t hear. “The Republic ship that is coming here to take all the weere you’ve hired as domestics to the Republic.” The Ludd
eccean newspapers had informed the populace that the Galactican ship would be arriving this evening and to not be alarmed. It was a scheduled visit from their allies, not an invasion. She had the clipping in her purse, next to Alaric’s second, short letter.
The man’s jaw sagged.
Alexis leaned forward. “Yes, I know about your plan, I helped the ambassador devise it. You saw me talking to him when I arrived.”
One of the man’s eyebrows lifted, and his nostrils flared. “He didn’t say you and … they … were invited to stay.” He eyed Markus suspiciously.
“Nor has he asked me to leave,” Alexis said.
“He is otherwise occupied,” the man stated flatly.
In the enormous windows, a flash of white, like sunlight on a frothing waterfall, made Alexis and the man pivot.
Sam gasped.
Lucas exclaimed, “A spaceship!”
Alexis had ridden aboard the Republic’s enigmatic faster-than-light spaceship, but she’d been unconscious and never seen it. It didn’t look like any spaceship Alexis had ever seen. Shaped like a raindrop, its surface was smooth and pearlescent, its wings were delicate, and it was as silent as moonlight. It didn’t land; instead, it hovered above the embassy garden, shimmering slightly. It was a lovely thing; Alexis couldn’t lie about that even to herself. It was the starship of her husband’s lover. She’d have preferred it be ugly and sinister looking.
As if in answer to her dark thoughts, a small, lithe figure clad in mirror-like armor dropped from the ship and landed with inhuman grace on the lawn.
The cool prickle of sweat spread from the back of Alexis’s neck down her spine. She lifted her chin. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? The woman marching across the lawn, now trailed by a Republic Fleet Marine and a golden-haired werfle, was going to steal her husband, not just with her affections, but with a society where Alaric believed he belonged.
Alexis was already reviled for her part in convincing—or rather blackmailing—the Counsel into allowing the Republic to recruit weere from “weere houses.” If her husband left her, it would be seen as her fault, under ordinary circumstances. In her situation, it would be viewed as poetic justice. Her sons would grow up without a father and with a mother who was shunned by society. The shame she endured now would be small compared to that.
Outside, a strange weere woman and one young weere boy began walking across the lawn toward the ship, clutching packs on their backs.
“Sam, Lucas, come!” Alexis ordered.
The Galactican’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
Her eldest came obediently, but Lucas protested, “I don’t wanna!” clasping a train in white-knuckled hands. The man inhaled sharply.
Outside, Volka and one of the Fleet Marines were speaking with the ambassador. The golden-haired werfle was standing between them on its back paws, for all the world appearing to pay attention. The other weere women were crouching low, moving beneath the ship. One by one, they disappeared into the craft’s interior. Alexis had to act fast.
Holding out a hand, Alexis informed her reluctant child, “We’re going to the spaceship.” Dropping the train, he ran to take her fingers.
Eyes widening, the man said sternly, “Madam, you may not.” He sidestepped toward a door opposite the one they’d entered and held his hands to block her path. Well, at least she knew the way.
Alexis strode toward him, boys’ hands in hers, Markus stirring ever so slightly in his sling. “We shall see about that,” Alexis said.
The man dropped his hands. The demeanor that had been merely condescending changed to something icy and hard. “You will halt!”
Alexis did not halt. An instant later, she was staring down the barrel of a pistol.
The weere women and one young boy were excited, frightened too, but mostly excited, and one in particular was happy to see Volka. “Lydia,” Volka said, leaving the ambassador’s side. She took the outstretched hands of the approaching weere woman, and Lydia beamed at her. Volka and Sixty had encountered Lydia about to take her own life on a horrible night during Volka’s surprise season.
“You look grand,” the older woman said to Volka. It was exactly what Lydia was thinking, and it was such a relief to encounter no duplicity. Lydia was filled with happiness and anticipation.
Volka focused on the other woman with her nose, ears, and eyes. She’d found that if she really paid attention to a person, she could block out the mental noise of others around her. Lydia smelled well, no hint of illness. Her heart rate was elevated, and her pitch slightly high, but that was to be expected when someone was exhilarated and happy. And although Volka wasn’t a judge of feminine beauty, Lydia’s long hair was shiny and thick, the streak of gray stunning instead of dowdy. The lines around Lydia’s mouth and eyes were delicate, and there were no dark circles under them, either.
“Will I get to wear a suit of shining armor, too?” Lydia asked.
Volka beamed at the older woman’s child-like wonder. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I guess it depends on where you are stationed.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Lydia gazed up at Sundancer in absolute rapture. “I thought my life was over; now I feel like it is just beginning.”
Lydia’s life had been virtually over when Volka had met her. She was the former weere of a wealthy human. She’d grown too old for him and found herself not marriageable or employable among humans or weere on Luddeccea.
“A lot of the ways of the people in the Republic will be strange,” Volka felt compelled to warn her. “And sometimes they don’t think much of Luddecceans.”
Lydia snorted and winked. “Well, sometimes I don’t think much of Luddecceans, either.”
Volka smiled, feeling lighter. For these women, and one young boy, the Republic was everything Lydia believed it to be. It was a new beginning.
Beneath Sundancer, the last of the weere émigrés were being helped aboard by Stratos and Ramirez. Young followed them up, leaping in easily with the help of cybernetic enhancements.
“Come on,” said Volka, gently taking Lydia by the arm. Buoyed by the happiness of everyone around her, she was almost at Sundancer’s keel when she realized there was a problem. Scanning the ground, Volka blurted, “Where did Carl go?” He’d been talking with Young and Starcrest just before she’d seen Lydia, but hadn’t been with Young when the lieutenant entered the ship.
Lydia blinked at her blankly, but Stratos said, “I saw him go into the house.”
“Excuse me,” Volka said, still grinning, too drunk on Lydia’s happiness to be mad at the werfle. She squeezed the other woman’s arm, caught Stratos’s eye … and accidentally fell into his mind and a very imaginative, very sexual fantasy Stratos was having involving Rhinehart and Lydia.
“Really?” Volka blurted.
Stratos’s jaw fell. His brow furrowed. His expression, even without telepathy, said, “What did I do wrong?”
Volka took a breath and realized her tone had been a bursting dam of indignation that had been brewing all day. The Marines thought about sex. A lot. Because they were human or because they were young—artificially at least—or because they were Marines, she did not know yet. As Sixty would say, her sample size had been too small. She did not want to know the answer. She bit her lip. Stratos had never been anything but polite to her. What to say …
Stratos gestured at the house and said almost tentatively, “Yeah, I saw him go in there?” Volka saw an image of Carl hopping in the door in Stratos’s mind.
She smiled and said weakly, “Really … that … naughty werfle?”
He snorted. “Our mighty overlord.”
She almost smiled, but then he looked to where Lydia had just gone, and—
“Carl!” Volka shouted mentally and aloud, trying to block the images out of her mind.
“Hatchling, we got a situation inside the embassy!” Carl replied.
Breaking into a run, Volka dashed into the embassy through the back door. She was alm
ost at the reception area when she heard Alexis in her mind, her thoughts an angry snarl. “He’d shoot an infant?” A shiver of fear and a whimper of, “Mommy,” rang in Volka’s mind, too.
Skidding to a halt just before the main reception area, Volka found her eyes on a man’s back. He had a pistol raised at Alexis. In his mind were no words, just a black hole of rage. On either side of Alexis, Alaric’s sons were looking up at the man with wide, startled eyes. They smelled like fear.
“Put your weapon down, sir,” Volka commanded. “I know this woman.”
The man paid no attention to her—nor did Alexis. She stood silent, mute, but resolute.
Ambassador Starcrest’s voice rose behind her. “Put the weapon down, Mikovits.”
The man between Alexis and Volka lowered his pistol and turned around slowly. His eyes fell on Volka, and she was overwhelmed by hate—hate for her, hate for Luddeccea and its populace that was xenophobic, ignorant, and that bred like rats, and hate in particular for Alexis and her vile, disgusting children he’d been stuck babysitting. Volka gazed down at Alaric’s sons. They were dressed in their Sunday best, their hair was neatly combed, and they wore smart little school knapsacks on their shoulders. They were heart-achingly beautiful.
Starcrest’s voice rumbled. “Mikovits, you are dismissed.” And Volka knew in that simple declaration that Mikovits’s career with the Diplomatic Corps was over.
Mikovits’s nostrils flared, but he stormed past Volka and the ambassador. Two members of embassy security who’d been at Starcrest’s shoulder followed him. Volka’s ears perked. She knew that everyone serving at the Luddeccean Embassy had been carefully screened and wondered what had made Mikovits snap.
Carl’s voice whispered in her mind. “You could pry if you want to, Hatchling.”