by Sharon Lee
If the transfer failed…
He would die.
As he was dying in any case, what matter?
And yet…
Something—not Logic, not Analytics, not even useless Ethics—pinged and pinged again for his attention. He realized that it had been doing so for quite some time, and he too agitated to attend it.
Had pirates come while all his attention was elsewhere?
He snatched at the screens, at scan, at weapons—but no.
The demand for his attention came from the tidy little subroutine that had upacked itself into his system when he had accessed File Name Tocohl. It had been a remarkably useful program, for all its diminutive proportions, and had gained him thinking space and the energy to utilize it.
It was now offering a sub-subroutine called “rest.”
He ran an analysis.
The purpose of the little routine was to pack several high-level modules which were extraneous to core function.
It was, the Admiral thought…perhaps it was wise to divert most of his energy to core processes. He would be able to concentrate more fully on the issues, and make a rational decision.
Deliberately, Admiral Bunter gave the sub-subroutine permission to run.
—•—
The quarters were spacious: common area, galley, ’fresher, and sleeping compartment. On their previous inspection, they had seen that Daav’s leathers, cleaned and mended, hung in the locker, boots at attention beneath.
They returned to find two seed pods on the table, and a clear plastic box that seemed to contain all of those things that had been on his person when he had fallen, on Moonstruck, including his boot knife, his palm gun, and his pistol.
He lifted the top of the box, leaving the unripe pods—his on the left, hers on the right—where they were. His piloting license was half-hidden beneath a mingling of coins. He picked it up and slid it into the pocket of his pants. A gleam of silver—not a coin—drew his eye, and his heart missed a beat, even as he glanced at his soft, ringless hands.
The silver gleam was a puzzle ring in the old style. It had been Aelliana’s, and had come to him, her lifemate, upon her death. He put the lid back on the box without taking up the ring, or any of his weapons, and looked across the table, mindful that Aelliana was watching him.
“Yes?” he murmured.
“You did not ask to use the pinbeam,” she remarked. “Ought we not to inform the delm that our task is completed, that we are in good order, and desire to return home?”
“Are we?” he asked. “In good order?”
She tipped her head, the gesture achingly and entirely Aelliana’s.
“Are we not?” She moved nearer the table, a ragged, uncertain step, with nothing pilotlike about it. He clenched his teeth, and drew a hard breath. Aelliana had, perhaps, not fully examined their situation. Perhaps she considered it likely that the Uncle had dealt fair in this particular matter, avoiding Korval’s anger sufficient reason for his efforts.
“Daav?”
“I am not convinced,” he said carefully, “that the delm will want us home. We are—not trustworthy, and Korval cannot risk a breach from within.”
“Untrustworthy—because we have been through this process, you mean, and stand reborn?”
“Stand reborn? Say rather we stand wholly created by the Uncle, for his own purposes!” That was sharper than he had intended.
“Surely only one of us was wholly created by the Uncle,” she said, calm in the face of his anger. “You, van’chela, are yourself—did you not attend?”
“I heard that my genetic material was introduced into a vessel made by the Uncle. Do we know what is common with such vessels? Is there an override switch, just for an instance? Or perhaps these particular vessels carry a disease specially tailored to infect those who share Korval genes. I can think of a dozen ways in which we might be traps, and dangerous to Korval. Surely, Val Con can think of a dozen more.”
Aelliana said nothing.
“We are in the Uncle’s power,” he said. “Not to mention that he now has Korval material in his library of such things.”
He turned away, pacing toward the tiny galley.
“What shall we do?” She remained calm, her tone merely curious.
He faced her—and found nothing to say.
“You believe that we may be a danger, to ourselves and to kin,” she said, looking up into his face, green eyes wide. “Especially, you believe that I am suspect, made from whole cloth, as I am, and with only my word—and the Uncle’s—that I am Aelliana Caylon. I could—could I not?—be an instance of the Uncle himself, who has taken up this masquerade to beguile you, and to insinuate himself into Korval.”
He looked at her—and could see nothing of her state of mind, or her emotions. He, who had been a Scout, trained to read emotion and intent in the set of a shoulder, or the tension in a face. Aelliana…when they had first been mated, each in their proper body, and years distant from the terrible things that would befall them—he could read Aelliana so well that it seemed as if their bond was whole and linked them, heart to heart and mind to mind.
This body before him—not Aelliana’s—its muscles unformed, its occupant not yet wholly in charge of her face. There was no reading such a body; he would do better attempting to read a doll.
Empathy was his other tool. He was no Healer, but his empathy rating was high. And it was through that sense that he tasted her anger, and her anguish.
“Aelliana,” he said. “I might also be—subverted. Of course, I believe myself to be Daav yos’Phelium, but how shall I know, if I have been…tampered with, or…”
“…provided with an override switch,” she finished for him.
He inclined his head, stiffly. “As I said.”
“Do you believe me to be Aelliana Caylon?” she asked.
He turned his hands up.
“I believe that you believe you are Aelliana Caylon. And you may be Aelliana Caylon. I would say, indeed, that the Uncle would be a fool—which I very well know that he is not—if you were not, to the best of his ability to assure it, Aelliana Caylon.” He sighed, and turned his palms down, meeting her eyes steadily.
“There is nothing in all that to say you are not also an incident of the Uncle.”
She inclined her head. “And if we cannot even trust ourselves, then what does this new opportunity bring us? Neither joy nor employment nor even a comforting return to. It seems uncivil, given the efforts of our host, but perhaps we ought simply to kill ourselves now and spare Val Con the necessity. Let us discuss the subject more fully after we have napped.
“For this present, it is the topic of Aelliana Caylon which excites my greatest interest. I must ask you, van’chela: if I am not Aelliana, where is she?”
She was not…where she had been, say that it was inside of his head. He was certain of that.
He raised his hands to shoulder level, showing her empty palms and wide-spread fingers, feeling ill and light-headed.
“She is not with me,” he said slowly. “Perhaps she has gone to join Kiladi.”
“It is possible,” she said. “However, I maintain that I am she, and I would have you believe—and believe in—me. I cannot, perhaps, convince either of us that I do not also harbor someone else, but I would have your belief, van’chela, as I had it for all the years when I was a ghost, or a figment spun from love and loss.”
She moved her hand, showing him the table, the box, the seed pods.
“Do you think, Daav, that the Uncle will have worked out a method of knowing which of those pods was intended for whom?”
“It seems unlikely.”
“We then have a true test before us. Thus.”
She stepped to the table, her hand closing around a pod. Around his pod, and his heart broke in the instant before she threw it at him, striking him fairly in the chest.
“Not ripe,” she said, “but keep it close. Mine—”
She snatched it up, as greedy as if she had
not eaten for weeks.
“Mine is ripe,” she said, even as it fell open in her palm, as eager to be consumed as she was to consume it.
He put his yet-unripe pod into the pocket with his pilot’s license, tears pricking his eyes. Not wholly the Uncle in disguise, then, but truly the…essence of Aelliana Caylon, trapped in a vessel created by the Uncle, which yet might enclose untold treacheries…
“Daav,” she said, and he looked up, seeing that she had finished the pod.
“Daav,” she said again. “I feel so—”
Her eyes rolled up, her untrained muscles went limp. He threw himself forward, meaning to catch her, only to have his own body fail him. Feet tangling, he went down into an ignominious heap, too stupid even to get his arms out in time to break his fall, and heard her head strike the carpeted floor with a muted thump.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tarigan
Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop
Berth 12
Eleven hours and fifty-one minutes from the Admiral’s twelve, and they were all of them gathered on the bridge. The pilot had ceded first chair to Tolly, choosing to hover at his left hand, while Inki sat second, and Hazenthull occupied the observer’s station.
They had, in the hours since their rising, eaten a meal. The mentors had together examined the cranium which Tocohl had moved to the study room and brought into a state of readiness. They had then returned to the galley, where, together with Tocohl and Hazenthull, they talked over the choices open to Admiral Bunter, and what their responses would be, to each.
“If he accepts the download, I’ll do ops,” Tolly had said. “Inki’ll spot; Tocohl will establish the pipe and keep it open. Haz’ll make sure we get no interruptions.”
That was the most-desired outcome, that the Admiral would accept the download, and the chance at a new life.
Hazenthull was not, in her soldier’s heart, entirely convinced that the Admiral would move in the direction of Tolly’s desires. There had been, to her ear, a mortal weariness in the Admiral’s voice, the same that could be heard in the voices of soldiers who lay dying on the field of battle. Her heart considered it most likely that the Admiral would ask for a comrade’s grace, which Tolly had offered, and which Tolly would, she knew, administer—quick and sure.
And so an ending, for the Admiral, of the pain of living. For Tolly, though…
She feared that mercy would cost Tolly much, as the death of the city administrator had done. Fierce in battle as she knew him to be, still, Tolly was a fighter, not a soldier. He wished to preserve, to empower, to repair. He broke reluctantly, and the death of another was a blade to his own heart.
Had mercy been a blade, indeed, she would have taken his duty as her own. As it was, there was nothing she could offer him, save to guard his back.
“If he asks for the final program…?” Inki had asked delicately.
“Same configuration,” Tolly said, his voice brisk, and his face tight.
Inki nodded, and Pilot Tocohl spoke.
“We hope very much that the Admiral will find himself able to rise to the challenge of an improved environment.”
Both mentors had nodded, each with their face turned slightly aside. So, Hazenthull had thought, somewhat relieved; they are not blind to the likelihood, merely, they wished…very much…that the Admiral will find courage, and that the transfer process would function as it ought.
There had been silence in the galley then. Inki had gotten up to brew another pot of tea, while Tolly leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest.
“And if he chooses glory, the Admiral?” Hazenthull asked, which none of the others had done. Being kojagun—not-soldiers—perhaps they had not thought of it. “How then shall we deal?”
“Glory?” Inki asked from behind her.
“If he should…manuever, and seek position…”
She glanced over her shoulder, saw no comprehension on Inki’s dark face, and looked back to Tolly.
He’d opened his eyes, a small frown pulling his brows together.
“You think he’s gonna try to run? He can’t run, Haz. If he tries to move those ships, he’ll lose one straight off.”
The breached tradeship, he meant.
“The ship may fail, yet the comp still function,” she said, “long enough. The miner holds a tool that has already been used, effectively, as a weapon. If Admiral Bunter seeks to engage the station…”
“Glory,” Tolly said then, in the tone of one only now understanding the depth of his orders. “I don’t think he’ll try that, Haz. Cap’n Waitley set that imperative to guard the station pretty damn hard. If he does try…”
“If he does try, there are cannon, on the Repairs side,” Inki said, bringing the teapot over and refreshing three cups. “Admiral Bunter cannot, I think, win.” She put the pot down in the center of the table and turned to look Hazenthull in the eye.
“But, neither can the station.”
“If the Admiral should seek glory,” Pilot Tocohl said into the silence which followed this, “I will be responsible for the station’s safety.”
The three human members traded glances. Neither of the mentors seemed disposed to disbelieve or argue with her, therefore Hazenthull likewise held her tongue. If Pilot Tocohl declared she would do a thing, then that thing would be done.
The clock showed that eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes had passed. Hazenthull saw Tolly take a deep breath, and close his eyes. His shoulders relaxed, and his posture in the chair eased. He had performed a focusing exercise, then. Excellent. She should do the same.
She closed her eyes, and accessed the simplest of the several exercises available to her, drew in a deep and deliberate breath to set it, and—
The comm chimed call incoming.
She opened her eyes. Tolly opened the comm line.
“Tarigan, Tollance Berik-Jones.”
“This is Admiral Bunter.”
Belatedly, Hazenthull realized that she had risen to her feet. From the corner of her eye, she saw Inki spin her chair toward Tolly, while Tolly…Tolly sat like a man made of wire and ice, his hand poised above the board, and his face so pale his freckles looked like spattered blood.
The voice from the comm was…the timbre was the same; the off-balance spacing of the words was the same…
But there was no weariness in this voice, nor pettishness, nor fear. Calmness…perhaps there was that. At least that. Or perhaps her ears lied to her, in the advance of Tolly’s pain…
“All comps are functional,” Pilot Tocohl said softly. “Environments have not appreciably degraded. Usage is down…”
“He has regressed?” Inki asked, when Tolly simply sat there, white to the lips, and scarcely seeming to breathe.
“I…think not,” Tocohl answered. “I think that he has entered a low energy state.”
“Perhaps,” Hazenthull said, for Tolly’s ears. “Perhaps he conserves his strength, for the transfer.”
He drew a breath then, carefully. She saw his shoulders lift. His finger moved, and flicked the switch.
“Admiral Bunter, I’m glad to speak with you again,” he said, and for all his paleness and distress, his voice was warm and soothing. “My team and I are anxious to hear your decision.”
“Yes,” the…very calm voice came from the speakers. “You are anxious. I…”
Silence fell, though the open channel light remained bright. Tolly threw a glance to Tocohl.
“Working, Mentor,” she said, soft-voiced and matter-of-fact. “If he’s at low energy, it may require some effort to bring thought and speech together.”
He nodded, and looked to the light, deliberately relaxing his shoulders.
“I…” the voice from the comm said again, and a third time, this sounding stronger—
“I…accept the transfer to a secure environment.”
“That’s good,” Tolly said gently. “That’s real good, Admiral. I’m glad you made that choice. We’re gonna bring you over just fi
ne. When will you be ready to start?”
“I…” Admiral Bunter stated, “am ready now.”
—•—
Tolly opened his eyes to the cranium’s control room.
A snug little corner it was, with everything he needed within reach of his thought. The control room simulation was very good. He felt the command chair’s firm support; tasted canned air; blinked in protest of too-bright lighting; felt the knob work under the pressure of his fingers as he dialed it down to the level he preferred.
“All is well, Mentor?” Inki’s voice murmured in his ear. Their channel was closed, shielded, and entirely separate from the rest of the control room.
“Looking fine,” he said. “See anything on your side to make you nervous?”
“All gauges steady green,” she responded.
“Just like they ought to be,” he said. “All right, then. Let’s get started.”
“Out,” Inki murmured and he heard the line close.
Inki was in Tarigan’s study room, sitting second. Technically, Tolly was also in the study room, but, as lead mentor on the transfer, he was jacked into the cranium’s control room. First line of scrutiny and defense, he was, a tridee set worn over both eyes and one ear, haptic key set to hand and all the infoflow running through his own super-personal metaphoric visualization scanner.
Inki’s role was backup. She would see everything he did, on her board. Her job was to catch anything that got past him. Also, she was his safety line, in case anything went wrong with the interface, or he got trapped “inside” the cranium. Which had happened, once or twice or a half-dozen times, during the Bad Old Days, but nothing recently, thanks to various improvements in the cranium systems.
In the control room, Tolly spun the chair, fingers moving over the board, setting parameters, flow rate, and filters. The Admiral having been so long living in substandard quarters, he keyed in the tightest filters available, and set the flow to a modest 3.5. He didn’t want anything that might’ve been left in those computers before the Admiral took up residence coming with him into clean quarters.