Revenant Gun

by Yoon Ha Lee

  What is going on? Jedao wondered, except he still couldn’t come out and ask. “Thank you,” he said, because he didn’t like the fact that the Kel were showing open disrespect to his aide. “I’ll try that.”

  At least the business of chewing meant this line of conversation could die an honorable death. Dhanneth was right. The fishcakes tasted bland, but if you used the sour-sweet dipping sauce judiciously, they became palatable. Jedao tried a little of everything in the hopes of finding something that didn’t trigger the odd aftertaste, with no luck. Oh well, at least he was in no danger of starving.

  Kujen swept in partway through the meal. He was splendid in a necklace of silver wire and agate, a shirt of sleek black silk, and a dark gray coat with a foam-rush of lace at the sleeves. The creases in his pants could have been used for rulers. Jedao hated to think how many closets it took to contain Kujen’s wardrobe. The evidence suggested that he didn’t like to repeat himself.

  The high table didn’t have a seat for the hexarch. Dhanneth rose immediately to offer his. The faces watching Kujen were intent as fire, the eyes of the Kel dark and unfriendly. The exception was the Strategy head, Ahanar, who stared at a far wall in obvious discomfort.

  Jedao attempted to check Dhanneth, disliking the mood in the room. “I’m done,” Jedao said to Kujen. “Take mine instead.”

  The Kel tensed further, except for Meraun, who reached for another roll as she looked at Jedao, Kujen, and Dhanneth with the air of an interested festival-goer, and a captain at a lower table who was compulsively stabbing a recalcitrant cucumber with her chopstick.

  “It’s not necessary, sir,” Dhanneth said. This should have settled the matter. Instead, the tension increased.

  “I’ll judge that,” Jedao said. He had meant to speak mildly. The way Dhanneth’s dark face stilled told him he had failed.

  Kujen intervened. “I won’t make a habit of this,” he said to Jedao, “because high table is high table, but I need to speak to you and it can’t wait.”

  Jedao didn’t believe that in the slightest. He would have liked to stay and fumble his way through the rest of dinner despite the prickly atmosphere, because he couldn’t spend the rest of the voyage avoiding his own officers. On the other hand, he couldn’t refuse the hexarch, either. He excused himself. The hush that followed them was frosty.

  Kujen’s own silence made Jedao edgy all the way back to Kujen’s conference room. Kujen paused in the doorway after it opened. Jedao looked around the room, which was appointed with fantastic models of buildings, all bird-curves and starry angles and tiny glittering windows. Then Kujen stalked into the room and pivoted on his heel. Jedao entered and sank to his knees in the full obeisance to a hexarch.

  Kujen sat on his haunches and laid a hand on Jedao’s shoulder, feather-light. He peered into Jedao’s face. “I had assumed that your lack of research on the topic meant that you remembered after all,” he said.

  “Remembered what?” Jedao said. And what did this have to do with dinner?

  “I was listening in on your idea of light conversation,” Kujen said. “People are afraid that if they upset you, you’ll slaughter them. Get up and let’s sit in actual chairs. My knees are not fond of deep bends anymore.”

  Kujen leaned back in a chair upholstered in violet-black velvet. Jedao took the one across from him. It looked like someone had painted its platinum-colored snowflake-and-bird designs with a one-haired brush. How much luxurious furniture did Kujen own anyway? Jedao hoped he never took it for granted.

  “Fine,” Jedao said, accepting the reprimand for what it was. “I’ll call up some documentaries. Or a book.” Being a general required a lot of paperwork, but he could schedule it in.

  Kujen massaged his temples.

  “All right,” Jedao said, “something I said bothered you. Explain it to me in words of one syllable.”

  “So you don’t remember Hellspin.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “I am not used to this,” Kujen said, “and normally I am better at accounting for variables than this. But there’s a first time for everything.” He sounded displeased with himself. “Jedao, you’re not a blank sheet of paper, even if you can’t remember large chunks of your history. You have skills, you have preferences, you have flaws, a personality. The difference is that people who know their own past have a chance of figuring out their own failure modes and how to avert them, and most of them don’t manage that even so. As far as I can tell, you’re operating on instinct. You have no way to prepare for your own reactions.”

  “You can’t hide the records from me forever,” Jedao said.

  “Let’s start slow,” Kujen said. “You already know about the gloves, which are unavoidable, and the Deuce of Gears. There are also the threshold winnowers.”

  “Threshold winnowers?”

  “They’re bombs,” Kujen said, “that kill living things within the gate radius without damaging nonliving structures. The part that scares all the civilians is all the eyes and mouths that chew up the victims. That’s just cosmetic. Dead is dead.”

  Jedao hid his revulsion. Kujen hadn’t mentioned whether this chewing up happened before or after the victims perished. He had a bad feeling he knew the answer to that one. “Your design?”

  “Yes.”

  Shit. “Are you going to let me have any?” Jedao asked, to gauge Kujen’s reaction.

  Kujen didn’t answer that, which could mean either yes or no. “Next,” he said. “During Hellspin, once the massacre was underway, you went on a rampage on your command moth. You shot a bunch of staff and soldiers and so on with a Patterner 52. That’s—”

  “I know what that is,” Jedao said. “What the hell was someone in the Kel military doing with a Shuos handgun?” Sure, you could print up ammunition for it special, but didn’t that sort of thing annoy Logistics?

  “Special dispensation,” Kujen said, “as a courtesy to the Shuos.” His mouth curled in a sudden smile. “You were a known favorite of the Shuos heptarch.”

  Jedao wasn’t sure he believed that. How could he have achieved that, anyway?

  Kujen hadn’t finished speaking. “Anyway, it figures you’d recognize your signature gun. I’m sorry I couldn’t retrieve it for you, but the Shuos stole your gun collection a few decades ago just to piss off the Kel. I keep wondering if they mean to fence the lot, because the Shuos are notoriously always in danger of going broke. As far as I can tell, the collection is sitting in the Citadel of Eyes gathering dust, and I didn’t want to test Mikodez’s security.”

  “I forgive you,” Jedao said, to cover his additional unhappiness at the idea that he’d have some reflexive attachment to a weapon he’d used to commit a massacre. “Is there anything else about Hellspin Fortress that I have a crushing need to know?”

  “You weren’t sane when Kel Command retrieved you,” Kujen said. “Your memories from that period seemed to be hazy even before Cheris’s interference.”

  Jedao turned his hands over and stared at the back of his gloves. He was used to them already. “Why did they retrieve me instead of executing me on the spot?”

  “They wanted to figure out what had happened,” Kujen said. “You’d been loyal up to that point. It came as a complete surprise. After that, they decided they still had uses for you, so you never received a proper court-martial. It’s hard for people who aren’t familiar with the records to appreciate this. Remember, originally it wasn’t clear that you had been responsible for the slaughter. They thought it had been Lanterner agents, or another traitor.”

  “I appreciate the lesson,” Jedao said. “So when you pulled me out of high table, it was because of the remark I made.” I hear our aim isn’t as good as yours.

  “Yes,” Kujen said. “I advise you to do some more homework before the next high table.”

  “Noted,” Jedao said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “THERE IT IS,” Jedao said from the copilot’s seat. He was peering at the scan subdisplay. “Station Ayong Primary.
”

  In its time with Jedao and 1491625, Hemiola had been given free run of their vehicle, which Jedao called a needlemoth. “Free run” wasn’t saying much. According to 1491625, this moth had been designed for two humans. One human and two servitors still made for a tight squeeze.

  Jedao had provisioned the needlemoth with the kind of supplies one might expect from a former assassin. Ration bars, whose labels declared their Kel origins. (“Some of these are rated for over two centuries,” Jedao said. “I hope never to put that to the test.”) Spare ecoscrubber filters and spare extravehicular suits. A very small box containing personal effects. Hemiola took the liberty of scanning it. 1491625 didn’t interfere. Within the box was an earring and old-fashioned watch decorated with a lot of gold-copper alloy. No explosives in the watch, although it couldn’t rule out the possibility that Jedao was hiding a compound more sophisticated than its outdated sensors could detect.

  And, of course, there was the scaling and rappelling gear. Everything Hemiola knew about those two endeavors came from a drama episode in which the heroine climbed a sheer cliff of frozen methane to rescue her friend-then-enemy-then-friend (or was it the other way around?). It doubted the portrayal bore much resemblance to reality.

  “How often do you deal with this stuff anyway?” Hemiola had asked Jedao while they were bogged down in discussions of the merits of different solvents.

  “You’ll find out,” Jedao said, not reassuringly. Then he squeezed past Hemiola to the back so he could use the commode.

  Life on the needlemoth had settled into a pleasant routine. Hemiola approved of routines. 1491625 piloted. Jedao read and, occasionally, handled inconvenient human necessities like food, sleep, or exercise.

  Hemiola hadn’t been able to focus on Kujen’s papers since the approach to Ayong Primary began, however. Ayong Primary dwarfed Tefos Base. Not surprising. According to Jedao, it housed a population of some 800,000 humans. “Sorry I don’t have servitor figures,” he had added. “I’d have to apply for that information from the local enclaves.”

  Ayong Primary must be crowded. Hemiola had compared the station’s size to its population. Then again, it conceded that not all humans demanded as much space as a hexarch did.

  “Ayong Primary Control,” a bored voice came from the communications panel. “Steady there, Swordfish 2. Another seven degrees ought to do it.”

  Jedao laced his fingers together and stretched first to the left, then to the right, with a popping of vertebrae.

  “Aren’t you going to pay attention to that?” Hemiola demanded. What if they crashed into something? Or, more likely, something crashed into them? Especially since, according to 1491625, the needlemoth was running its stealth system.

  “We’re not Swordfish 2,” Jedao said, “and 1491625 knows its job. You and I, however, have some work to do. Tell me, have you ever done extravehicular?”

  Hemiola was startled into an answer. “There was that one episode of Adventures Among the Glittering Worlds where—”

  “—the villain hopscotched between three different accelerating voidmoths using jet boots? And didn’t flambé his feet or go cartwheeling head over heels in space?” Jedao sighed. “I’ve seen that episode. All right, so that’s a no.”

  “Why are you bringing me along?” Hemiola asked cautiously.

  “Enclave regulations. Humans they leave to human authorities, but you’re not human, so...” Jedao shrugged. “And I’m dealing with the enclaves and not the human authorities for supplies and intel because people will recognize me and panic.”

  “Couldn’t you have switched to another body?” Hemiola said. Neither the hexarch nor Jedao had ever explained how they were able to achieve this. Body modifications were mentioned casually in the hexarch’s notes, though. (Context: a famous actor, fruitlessly courted by the Andan, changing their face according to their role.) “Or switched your face, at least?”

  “That was my question, too,” 1491625 said.

  “Wouldn’t help,” Jedao said. “Not when there are people who can recognize me by my movement patterns alone.”

  “How many Kel Brezans can there be in the successor states anyway?” 1491625 said.

  “There are plenty of people with kinesics recognition training, especially in Security. It’d be a bad gamble. I’d run into one pretty quickly.”

  “Who’s Kel Brezan?” Hemiola said. It had never heard of them.

  “An old friend of mine,” Jedao said, his intonation implying a certain degree of ambivalence. “A good man, if an impetuous one. Not someone you want to mention on Ayong, by the way. Anyway, come with me.”

  After Jedao squeezed past it, Hemiola floated after him. “How do you propose to get onto the station, then?”

  “I have some contacts,” Jedao said. “It’ll be tricky to reach them without getting caught.” He slid a drawer open, pulled out a suit, and began checking it over with the dedication of someone who had witnessed what happened to people who ran out of air mid-mission. “1491625 is maneuvering us to the insertion point. The hard part is that we don’t have the space to carry one of the larger burrowers.”

  “I’m not familiar with those.”

  “They’re bred to tunnel into things,” Jedao said. “Unfortunately, the only burrowers rated to get through this particular station’s carapace are too big for us to haul. We’re not set up for demolitions or construction or mining. So we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

  “The hard way?” Hemiola said faintly.

  Jedao didn’t respond for several moments, attention snagged by some fault in the suit. After fixing it, he inventoried the contents of a substantial utility belt before buckling it on. Once he’d sorted that out, he considered Hemiola. “I’m going to do the maneuvering,” he said, “because I’ve got the training for it. Which means you’re going to be strapped to me. We have spare webbing. Will it offend your dignity too much?”

  Medical servitors had permission to wrangle humans. Of its old comrades, only Rhombus had had that kind of expertise, presumably in case of emergency. Kujen and Jedao had never made use of it, even when they played at knives with each other. Hemiola knew some basic first aid, but that was all. With any luck, none of that would prove necessary.

  “I’ve found the webbing,” Hemiola said, bringing out the spool. Jedao kept a well-organized moth.

  “Good. You’re going to be great at this. I’m the one who has to not fuck up.”

  Hemiola did not find this reassuring, especially since it remembered Jedao in earlier incarnations stumbling about Tefos Station, or banging into corners, or that one time he tripped over the hexarch’s foot and went sprawling. The hexarch had been quite tolerant of this.

  Jedao, not stupid, noticed Hemiola’s hesitation. “You have misgivings. Speak up. Better now than later.”

  “Are you competent to carry out this type of mission?” Not like it could evaluate his fitness, but maybe Jedao would answer honestly.

  Jedao grinned, unoffended. “I’ve done harder.”

  “What else do I need to know?”

  “Once we get in, shadow me. We won’t be hitting the usual thoroughfares, so with luck we won’t run into any of the human locals. The complication here is that Ayong Primary hosts servitors from multiple enclaves. Pyrehawk should have treaties with most of them, but the political situation may be volatile.”

  Hemiola fluttered its lights noncommittally. It didn’t understand why a human was relying on servitors’ treaties for protection. Then again, it came from a tiny backwater enclave of three. Perhaps matters would come clear if it kept quiet and paid close attention.

  “Assuming things haven’t come unglued,” Jedao went on, “I’m familiar with the local treaties. They’ll have questions of their own for you, but as I’m not a servitor I don’t know how that works.”

  Wonderful. “Are you sure I can’t stay?”

  “You might see something I don’t,” Jedao said. “Can you hover yourself up mid-back level, right wher
e the oxygen pack is?”

  Hemiola did so and suffered itself to be webbed to Jedao. Jedao was being careful not to impede the jets of the thrusters or his own limbs. Hemiola stifled its doubts about the setup. In an emergency, Hemiola could hover itself to safety, and it didn’t need to breathe. It could even drag Jedao around if it had to, but short of medical cause, it needed his permission for that.

  “Your needlemoth may have stealth,” Hemiola said, “But I don’t. Station scan will be able to see my power core. And you can’t hide your heat signature, either. And if anyone’s monitoring the number of servitors on the station—”

  “The local enclaves’ representatives will have procedures for that,” Jedao said. “Ready?”

  Hemiola’s misgivings dwindled as Jedao bore it to the airlock. Clumsy as he might have been in his previous bodies, he’d shown no sign of awkwardness this time around. As Jedao cycled the airlock, it said, “Does the choice of body change how dextrous you are?”

  “To an extent, yes.” Some secret amusement lit his voice.

  The hatch opened. Jedao eased out of the needlemoth. Not wanting to distract him, Hemiola shut up. One wrong move and they’d float into the yawning darkness of space.

  At least the vista was spectacular. Even affixed to Jedao’s back, passive sensors showed Hemiola a panorama of far-flung stars, and the distinct chirrup of a local pulsar. Two voidmoths, both of which dwarfed the needlemoth, were departing. Most of the traffic that stopped by Ayong Primary would be trademoths hauling cultural goods or delicacies for the rich. (A particular subplot in A Rose in Three Revolutions turned on trade routes.)

  Jedao activated the thrusters with gesture commands picked up by his augment. After 3.7 seconds of acceleration to bring them to a comfortable traveling velocity, he deactivated them. Since its view of Ayong Primary was blocked by Jedao’s back, Hemiola passed the time refining one of its old compositions. It liked to come up with alternate scores to drama episodes for practice, even if Rhombus had derided the practice as being disrespectful to the human composers.