Paradise Drift

by Sherwood Smith

  In the observation and engineering booth of the art lab, Trance watched on the overhead vid that showed the big arena as the costumed Magog fought the array of humans and other popular sentients. Dylan was nowhere in sight. Trance frowned, wondering what had happened to Captain Hunt. She reached for the comlink to hail Rommie, but stayed her hand when Delta, who had been crouched over, eyes shut, hand pressed against her head, sat up and dropped her hands to her lap.

  “I have come to the conclusion that I have abrogated the right to live,” she said in a thin voice, her tired eyes bleak.

  “Nonsense,” Trance said, but not sharply. She smiled, and dropped down to her knees in front of Delta. “Nonsense. You have every right to live.”

  “I have—” Delta’s mouth worked, and Trance saw her trying to say the words been betrayed. “I have—disappointed those I serve,” she whispered.

  Trance reached for Delta’s thin hand. “Because you didn’t know the real secrets of the labs? Because you did not know Alphyra’s real plans?”

  Delta frowned. “How did you know that? You were not here when your ensign shared that conversation with me.”

  Trance shook her head. “She stored it, and I heard it, when I was flying with your bees.” She rose to her feet, moved to the console, and rested her fingers on the tabs that controlled the bees, then she cocked her head. “I can hear so many things! I can hear your sister talking to a man called Torbal. I do not like his voice. He is laughing, but there is no humor there. And he is hiding secrets, too. Violent ones.” Trance wrinkled her nose. “They are waiting for Captain Hunt to change his mind about taking them aboard the Andromeda”

  “Do they mention me?” Delta asked, hope widening her eyes.

  Trance sighed. “No,” she said gently.

  Delta slumped back, her fingers rising to the datalink in her neck. With a sudden, vicious jerk, she pulled it out, and cast it onto the console. “She does not want me because I have not served well. I exist to serve, that has been the central motive of my entire life. When I serve well, my life is good. I earn trust, and I am given this place— the scope for my art. When I do not, I am as nothing. I should make myself nothing.”

  “No human being is nothing,” Trance said. “Not even those who wish to be. We are all—”

  Delta slashed her hand through the air. “Don’t tell me all humanity is interconnected, or any of that other idiocy mouthed out by so-called philosophers. I have never, ever felt connected to anyone, but then I’m not really human, am I.” A painful attempt at a smile. “I am isolated, and I am nothing.”

  Trance shook her head. “You have worth to Director Vandat. He is talking to one of the Than right now about you. I can hear him. Vandat does not believe you knew of Alphyra’s secret plans, and…yes, the Than in charge of Security is saying that none of your protocols were on the communication sent to the Nietzscheans.”

  Delta just shook her head.

  Trance said, “I want you to consider one thing. You were raised in isolation for the convenience of others: it does not make what they said true.”

  Delta made that gesture of negation again, and said bitterly, “What would you know? You were born human, you take it for granted, and thus grant it without thought to others.”

  Trance did not immediately speak. She just knelt there at Delta’s feet, and smiled up, her gaze wide and steady, her face and form golden, faintly glittering in the muted lighting. Her steady gaze seemed to reflect the light, even to gather it, somehow; as Delta watched, unable to look away, Trance’s eyes seemed to glitter, almost to radiate, not just the dim faux lighting but the spread spectrum rays of a young sun.

  “Who says,” she murmured, still smiling, “that I was born human?”

  Torbal looked from the battered captain to the dust-imprinted ensign. “Well? Time is almost up,” he warned.

  “And then what?” Dylan asked, hands on his knees, aware of the henchmen standing directly behind him.

  Torbal had moved slightly, affording them a view of the arena, where a bloody wreck of a Magog was being carried off.

  Dylan glanced away and then back again, realizing that there was an anomaly here; the way that arm hung, the legs, made it quite clear that someone human had been inside a Magog suit.

  Torbal had moved deliberately. He smiled now, a smug smile of real enjoyment. “It’s so much fun when they discover the safe words don’t work.”

  Silence.

  He went on, “Of course that only happens with those who cross our director. I really do not recommend that choice.”

  Dylan said, “So what’s next?”

  Torbal smiled. “An experiment. With an experiment.” He paused to chuckle, enjoying the moment. “I mentioned that we had two levels of genetic experiments that the Nietzscheans are interested in. You did well among the mere warriors, those intended to go into the field and fight. Now you are going to meet the elite, the ones we call the Seraphim. You might say, the future of humanity, or those who once sprang from humanity. It seems to bolster the Nietzscheans’ images of self to deny their human origins, but they are, in truth, little different from you or I when compared to our Seraphim.” He paused, grinning.

  Dylan said, “What are you waiting for?”

  Torbal’s brows lifted. “Perhaps your earlier experiences were too easy. You do not seem to take me seriously. Your mistake.” He lifted a hand.

  A vicious prod in Dylan’s back sent him off the bench where he’d been sitting, and he nearly fell flat. Every sore muscle sent pangs of fire through him; he gritted his teeth against making a sound.

  The henchminions motioned Rommie through the fresher frame first, and then Dylan. His ridiculous costume, his skin, hair, even his teeth were restored to perfect freshness. That did nothing for his exhaustion.

  The two were forced out the doors, which shut behind them.

  Overhead the glutinous voice of the Announcer was in the middle of crowd control. “… but wait! It seems that Captain Hunt thinks little of our offerings. He’s bored, he’s disgusted. He doesn’t think there are any challengers here worth fighting. Is he right?”

  A roar of sound met this question.

  “Do you think we can entertain him?”

  Another roar of sound.

  Under cover of it, Dylan said, “Can you get control of that sound system, even if just for a short time?”

  Rommie stared straight ahead. “I don’t know—I’m still fighting my way through levels. Why?”

  “Because I’m convinced the only way we’re going to get out of here is to get control of this crowd.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Rommie said. “Meantime, I’ve lifted the specs just now, from Delta’s board. Their biology is enhanced with cyber-ware,” she said. “But with mods—communication nearly telepathy, self-healing abilities, strength, speed, what you can think of is what they got. And all designed and raised by Alphyra Kodos to think of one thing, and one thing only: power.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Politics is war without bloodshed, but real power is politics with bloodshed.

  —MUSEVENI PROVERB SENT TO THE PRIDES

  JUST BEFORE LAUNCH OF THE LONG NIGHT

  “There he is!”

  Cyn pointed. Beka and Harper snapped around, both of them reaching for weapons they did not have as they recognized the long, lazy silhouette lounging in the doorway of the string-sing bontemps, with Than busy burbling and screeling all around them, weaving together strange nettings of colored yarns.

  Harper scanned the yarn dispensers, hanging in cocoonlike clumps all around at shoulder height.

  “Most expensive,” Beka said, and Cyn realized the two had gotten the same idea.

  Harper homed on a gold-colored dispenser. He snapped it open, grabbed the glittering golden contents, and flung them at Ujio, sending almost the entire room full of Than scrabbling after it.

  The three sped in the opposite direction.

  Cyn pounded behind, wondering how long Harper could kee
p up that manic pace. She felt waves of cold shock shudder through her muscles, and she tightened her throat against a sob.

  No chance to talk, to negotiate. Her plans had splintered, her dream of staking her life to bring a leader back to Earth was going to die in a welter of poisoned bone marrow, alongside that of the hero, Seamus Harper, who, she knew it viscerally—as deeply as the poison dismantling her cell structure—that she’d always loved him, ever since they were young teens. Seamus Harper, despite years of subsequent lovers and thousands of light-years of experience, had formed her standard. His laugh, his wit, his grace, had never been matched. She’d been furiously angry that Brendan had sent her to Brazil when Harper appeared so briefly on Earth, and by the time she’d come back, he was gone. Betrayer of Earth, she’d said, but she knew the truth: betrayer of me.

  But it wasn’t even betrayal—he’d never made promises.

  It was she who’d betrayed herself by imposing on him her own expectations.

  And as a result? He would die right next to her, loathing her, with reason, until his last agonized breath.

  That thought was so horrific, timing itself with yet another wave of cold nausea, that she faltered and stopped, ready to give up.

  Hands closed around her arms, and she looked blearily up at Harper on one side, Beka the other.

  “Come on,” Beka said, giving her a tug. “Left foot. Right foot. You can do it.”

  The three of them ran on.

  Neither Rommie or Dylan had known what to expect: she had been thinking of smooth, robotic cyber features, he of monsters.

  Neither expected the Seraphim to be beautiful.

  The crowd had almost quieted, and they could feel the expectancy as the Seraphim—twelve of them—ran out into the arena. They were about the height and mass of teenagers, slim in form, with fine features, large pale eyes, and floating hair the color of pale lemon.

  There was no expression at all in those fair faces until they attacked. With feral grins, they came on, just using vibrating knives, but they moved with unnerving speed, their strikes so powerful that in blocking one of them Dylan staggered back, and a score mark appeared on his force lance.

  He looked over at Rommie, just in time to see what appeared to be a female Seraph strike her, and knock her back about five paces. Rommie rolled and stood, her black silken hair flying, her eyes wide.

  And then two of them came at Dylan. He whirled, tried to block—and lightning flared across his vision as the knife scored deliberately across his arm.

  Then the Seraph turned his head, obviously in silent communication, and five others closed in around Dylan.

  “Plasma beam,” Rommie said.

  They both swept their lances out; Dylan triggered the energy bolt, though that would drain the power cell faster. But it was either that or die right here and now.

  A greenish white charge flared and its target staggered back, light flaring around her. Smoke arose from her back, as though some device had burned out, but Dylan knew it made no difference: both their lances were now exhausted.

  The Seraph grinned, and shook her fair pale hair back. Then attacked.

  She and her mates took turns; it was a ballet of humiliation, cheered by the crowd, as they swatted Dylan back and forth between them with their easy strength, their lightning speed.

  Once he managed to roll near Rommie, who was engaged with another squad.

  “This is going to be bad,” Dylan said.

  “Run,” Rommie answered.

  They did.

  Onboard the Andromeda, Tyr sat in the captain’s chair, watching the displays, and thinking ahead—

  “Bushido has just launched a flight of slip-fighters,” said Rommie, breaking in on Tyr’s thoughts. “Eight, with Manta mods.”

  Windows dilated on the screens before him: points of light moving through a grid, weapon estimates, projected tactics.

  “They appear to all be vectored on us,” said Tyr.

  “They are,” said Rommie. “They seem to be taking the Drift’s neutrality for granted.”

  Tyr snorted. “They’re taking nothing for granted. They’re just announcing that they don’t consider the Drift worth worrying about.” He gestured at the Than commander of Drift Defense, hissing and popping with increasing vigor on a side screen, demanding in vain a response from the Nietzschean fleet. “They’re right, and the Than knows it. The Drift is too vulnerable.”

  “They’ll still have to watch their flanks,” insisted Rommie.

  “I’m counting on it,” said Tyr.

  The slip-fighters sprinted across the intervening distance, their angular geometry slowly emerging from swelling points of light, slowly spreading out.

  “I’m having trouble getting anything more than conditional locks on all of them,” said Rommie. “Their stealth systems are surprisingly good.”

  “We’ve got lots more weight of fire than they do,” said Tyr. “Let’s use it.” He tapped at his console, moved his finger across the tactical display.

  Rommie took his gesture and translated it into missile strikes against the slip-fighters. Bright streaks blazed out from the ships; the fighters began jinking, and Tyr sank into the hot pleasure of battle. Time seemed to dilate, measured by the pounding of his pulse and the savage detonation of missile and countermissile. He felt the vast warship shudder as her shields bled off impacts that would vaporize a fragile construct like the Drift, even as a slip-fighter vanished in a ball of plasma, smearing out across the face of the planet below.

  “The Bushido has just launched another pod of slip-fighters.”

  Tyr cursed. “They’re flanking us.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Rommie. “Their vector is dead on for the Drift, which is suboptimal for joining our attackers, and their signatures indicate boarding mods.”

  “Looks like those warbots would have come in useful in more ways than one,” said Tyr as he triggered another wave of missiles, this time following up with plasma beams to further confuse the sensors of the slip-fighters.

  “Given all the claims on my attention and the distance we are from the Drift,” said Rommie, “I doubt they’d be worth much.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can even the odds up a bit, then.” He tapped again, and several waves of missiles veered out of the aft tubes and streaked away towards the second flight of slip-fighters. Without waiting to see the results, Tyr plunged back into the battle.

  Onboard Tokugawa Odin-Thor’s flagship Bushido, Takauji and Ashikaga watched from Ashikaga’s cabin, which—he was fairly certain—was free of spyware. Unlike the Observation Deck.

  “Moto is a fool,” Takauji exclaimed as they watched the Bushi snarling around the vast warship Andromeda Ascendant. “Why doesn’t he exploit their position? The Drift can’t help defend their planetward aspect, and they’re obviously reluctant to fire towards the planet.”

  Ashikaga popped another potsticker in his mouth, then gave a crack of laughter. “As if you could do better, Taka.”

  Takauji turned on his twin. “And you, Kaga?” he asked dangerously.

  Ashikaga waved his chopsticks languidly. “I didn’t say I could do any better. I don’t want to do any better.”

  Taka glared at his brother. “You’ll never get wives at this rate.”

  Kaga shrugged. “Who cares? I get plenty of fun down in the kludge caves, which is all I care about. Seems to me children aren’t worth the effort. All they do is bicker and fight. I mean, look at us!”

  Taka gave another crack of laughter.

  Ashikaga waved a hand at the screen. “Otomo is going to kill Moto, Pimiko will gut them both if they look at her wrong—and all three of them will only unite if they think they can get Father cornered and killed.”

  “It’s the Nietzschean way,” Taka began portentiously.

  “Oh, save it for the spies. If I have to I’ll fight, but I like my fights one-on-one, and then I like my luxuries afterward.” Kaga stretched on his black satin pillows, flexing his bone bla
des. “Conducting a running battle with ferrets like Otomo is not my idea of the good life.”

  “You’d make a great Pride Alpha,” Taka scoffed.

  “I don’t want to be an Alpha,” Kaga said, shrugging. He grinned. “You’re the most likely to be Alpha, once Otomo kills off Father and Minamoto, and Pimiko kills him. Just remember: all I want is plenty of good food and wine, an occasional fight that I can win, and enough beautiful women to keep me busy for a lifetime.”

  “You’re not likely to have anything past your next breath, talking like that,” Taka said, looking around his brother’s luxurious cabin.

  Kaga shrugged. “Who spies on us except for Otomo? And he’s gone.” He laughed. “So is his spyware. I ran a scan when we emerged from the Slipstream.”

  Takauji sank down. “You sure of that?”

  Kaga smiled lazily. Despite the fact that Otomo was the lurking, spying ferret in the family, somehow Ashikaga always seemed to know what was going on.

  Taka leaped to his feet, rubbing his hands. “Then that means Brigga is all alone. And bored.”

  Kaga thought of Otomo’s first wife, jealously guarded—surrounded by nothing but women—and laughed as his brother rushed away.

  While out in space, Otomo spoke a steady series of commands to his fighters, then cut his corns.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Truth lies within a narrow compass, but error is immemse.

  —PROVERBS FROM THE ANGLISH NOBILITY,

  FROM THE PRIVATE COLLECTION OF

  PRINCESS HATHMA OF NEW ANGLE-SAXONY,

  CY 6767

  Beka stopped so fast Harper almost stumbled into her.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, catching himself. “I’m all for closeness, but this is not the time.” He looked around at the emporium they were passing—something featuring snakes. “Nor is it the place. B-r-r-r.”

  Beka paid no attention. “Rommie?” She frowned.

  Harper sighed. “Why am I not hearing it?” He reached for his comlink, then his hand dropped when Beka sighed. “Something bad, all right. She shorted out, but I got the gist of it. Listen. You and Cyn need to go help Trance.”