by Ann Leckie
In the very brief time we were beside Athoek Station, Ship had collected as much data as it could. The view of the station from where we were, data from the station news channels, anything it could pull in. Ekalu was, this moment, looking at an image of Athoek Station. It wasn’t a view we could have seen from where we’d gated in—Ship must have pulled it from somewhere else. From where we’d just been, we couldn’t have seen the Gardens. We’d deliberately avoided that, in fact, because we didn’t want anyone in the Gardens to be able to look up at the right moment and notice us.
But it turned out we needn’t have troubled ourselves—there was no one in the Gardens. Last week Seivarden and her Amaats had cut a hole in the dome, so that they could pull me and Tisarwat and Basnaaid and Bo Nine out before we asphyxiated. That hole had been patched, but of course it had needed a more complete repair. Now, it seemed, that patch had failed. The seam where it had been sealed to the dome had split. Everything under the dome was faded and dead. Something must have rammed hard into the dome, right at its weakest point.
Ekalu looked at me. “What happened?” Still stunned and horrified.
“At a guess,” I said, “the missing shuttle happened.” Incomprehension. “From the schedule Station sent us the other day? You recall, we determined that it was missing a passenger shuttle.”
“Oh.” Realization dawned. For a moment I considered getting up, so that Ekalu could have the seat. “Oh, sir. Oh, no, sir. Sword of Gurat got the passenger shuttle schedule from Station, but it didn’t check to see if the shuttles were actually where they ought to be before they gated. Did they… if the shuttle was in their path as they came out of gate-space, sir… if they ran into it…”
“That particular shuttle is late about half the time. Which of course neither Sword of Gurat nor its captain had any reason to know.” Ekalu closed her eyes. Opened them again, remembering, I thought, that she was technically in charge here, that she had to get ahold of herself. “Fortunately,” I continued, “or sort of fortunately, the Gardens will have been closed to the public.” And it was a good thing I’d demanded that the Undergarden section doors be fixed. Level one of the Undergarden was very possibly depressurized right now, but the sections around it, and the levels below it, ought to be all right, kept safe when those section doors had automatically slammed shut when the pressure dropped. As things stood, it was entirely possible some Horticulture workers had died. Not Basnaaid, because otherwise there would have been no point in putting her on the list of those ordered to relocate downwell. “The shuttle crews I saw all seemed to be following safety regulations.” If they hadn’t, I’d have said something to their superiors. “It’s entirely possible not everyone aboard that shuttle died.” Not a thought to make Ekalu any happier—the shuttle could carry more than five hundred people. “But now we know why nobody seemed to have said anything to the tyrant about the Gardens, or the Undergarden. Not until they absolutely had to. She sails in claiming to be the true authority, who every citizen knows has that authority by virtue of her just and proper interest in the well-being and benefit of all her citizens and, what, accidentally kills a shuttle full of people.” Would have killed quite a lot of citizens enjoying the Gardens, if not for the havoc I and my crew had wrought there last week.
No wonder Anaander had been nervous about that line of residents on the concourse. No wonder no one wanted to remind her of the catastrophe she’d caused merely by arriving at the station. No wonder not even a hint of this had reached the official news channels.
“But why haven’t they repaired the dome?” asked Ekalu. “It looks like they haven’t even started.”
“Because of the curfew,” I said. “Only essential personnel. Remember?” And repair crews would have families they’d likely talk to about what they’d seen, about what had happened, and those families had friends and acquaintances they would talk to, even if only while fetching skel from the common refectories.
“That’s not all, Fleet Captain,” said Etrepa Four. Said Ship. “Take a look at what is on the official news channels.”
When we’d gated away from the Ghost System, the news channels had been that nonstop flood of warnings about me, of condemnations of me and my supporters. But apparently Station had returned to feeding surveillance data to its residents. We had only the smallest sample, barely more than a minute of visuals of the station’s main concourse. Which ought to have been empty, given the curfew, but instead ranks of citizens sat right in the middle of the open space. Probably two hundred people, just sitting. Many of them were Ychana, some Undergarden residents, some not. But there were also Xhai there, including the hierophant of the Mysteries. And also there, Horticulturist Basnaaid. And Citizen Uran.
And, doubtless the reason for Station’s hijacking of the official news, around the ranks of sitting citizens stood twenty ancillaries. Armor shining silver, guns in their hands.
I had seen this sort of thing before. I was suddenly struck by the memory of humid heat. The smell of swamp water, and blood. I found I had stood without realizing it. “Of course they did. Of course.” Station’s residents had not sat quietly waiting for Mercy of Kalr to rescue them. And Station had to have helped them assemble, helped them work around Security’s patrols, around the Sword of Gurat ancillaries enforcing the tyrant’s curfew. They couldn’t have done it otherwise. Not this many people.
It was, obviously, an organized protest. And Sword of Gurat had drawn its guns, and Station had done the one thing it could do to defend its residents, the one thing that had worked, or seemed to, just a few days ago—make sure everyone knew just exactly what was happening.
None of it was calculated to ease the mind of an already angry and anxious Anaander Mianaai. What had she done in response? What was happening, this very moment, to the people on the concourse? But we couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t even know, until we gated back into Athoek System.
We wouldn’t know how long it would take either Seivarden or Tisarwat to do—or try to do—what she had gone to the station for. Mercy of Kalr could leave gate-space again, so that we could receive messages. But we might be detected, and we wanted everyone on Athoek Station—everyone in the system—to think that we were gone. The lives of Seivarden and her Amaats, Tisarwat and Bo Nine, might depend on it. So it was the next few days in gate-space, for us.
There was no reason for me to stay in Command. There was nothing I could do, from where I was, that would make any difference whatsoever. I seriously considered going back to my quarters and getting some sleep, but I didn’t think I could be still for long, knowing that five of my crew were gone, that reach as I might, I wouldn’t be able to find them. So I walked to the decade room instead.
The fragments of that gold-and-glass Notai tea set were spread out on the table, and Sphene and Kalr Five sat across from each other, an array of tools and adhesives laid out to one side. What looked to be the curving rim of one bowl had already been pieced together. Five started guiltily as I came in. “No, continue what you’re doing,” I said. “So after all you think it might go together again?”
“Maybe,” said Sphene, and picked up one blue glass fragment, put it next to another one. Considered them.
“What was her name?” I asked. “The captain whose tea set this was?”
“Minask,” said Sphene. “Minask Nenkur.”
Five looked up from the pieces she was fitting together. “Nenkur!”
“Few older names in all the Radch,” Sphene said. “You know the name, of course, from the execrable entertainment that purports to be a faithful account of the battle of Iait Il. The Arit Nenkur that travesty slandered was Captain Minask’s mother. This”—it gestured toward the scatter of blue and green glass, and bits of gold—“was her gift, when Captain Minask was promoted.”
“And given command of you,” I guessed.
“Yes,” said Sphene.
“No wonder you removed the name,” I said.
“What happened?” asked Five.
> “It was a battle, of course.” Sphene’s tone was perhaps just the slightest bit sarcastic, as though Five had asked a laughably foolish question. If Five heard it, she was unperturbed by it. Probably used to Sphene by now. “Captain Minask had surrendered. I was badly damaged. All but my captain and one of my lieutenants were dead. We couldn’t fight anymore. But when the Usurper’s forces boarded, they brought an AI core with them.”
“Oh!” Five. Horrified. “No!”
“Oh, yes,” said Sphene. “As a ship I was valuable. But not as myself—they preferred their own, more biddable AI. You promised we’d be spared, said Captain Minask. And so you will be, said the Usurper’s lackey. But you can’t imagine we’d let a ship go to waste.” It set down the fragments it was holding. “She was very brave. Stupidly so, that day. I sometimes wish she hadn’t resolved to fight for me, so that she might have lived longer. But then I wonder if they ever meant to let her live, or if they always meant to shoot her, and just said they’d spare us so that Captain Minask would surrender before I was damaged beyond usefulness.”
“How did you get away?” I asked. Didn’t ask how it had rid itself of the tyrant’s soldiers. Offhand I could think of several ways Sphene could have done it, all of them easier if Sphene didn’t care who aboard it lived or died. Foolish, to shoot the captain while they were still aboard, before they were sure of the ship.
“It was a battlefield,” Sphene replied. “Ships were gating in and out, all over the place. And my engines still sort of worked, I just couldn’t make a gate of my own. But I thought maybe I could stay in gate-space, if I could manage to get there. I moved, and by God’s grace a gate opened near me—I hope I damaged the Usurper’s ship that came out of it very badly—and I took it. I had no chance to calculate my route, though, and very little control over where I might emerge.”
“And you ended up here,” I finished for it.
“And I ended up here,” it agreed. “I could have ended up in many a worse place. No doubt some of my sibling ships did.” Silence. Kalr Five got up, went to the counter where there was already a flask of tea, poured a bowl. Brought it to Sphene, set it down by its right elbow. Took her seat again. Sphene looked at the tea for a moment. Picked it up and drank. Set it back down. Picked up another two blue glass fragments and considered them.
“Fleet Captain!” Translator Zeiat came into the decade room. Looked at the table. “Oh! Our game looks very different today!”
“It’s still packed away, Translator,” said Sphene. “This is a tea set.”
“Ah!” Dismissing that, the translator turned again to me. “Fleet Captain, I hope there’s fish sauce where we’re going.”
“I must confess, Translator,” I said, “that as much as I would like to gratify your desire, just now we’re involved in a war. An opposing force is currently in control of Athoek Station, and until that changes, I’m afraid I have no access to fish sauce.”
“Well, Fleet Captain, I must say, this war of yours is very inconvenient.”
“It is,” I agreed. “Translator, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Fleet Captain!” She sat down in the seat beside Sphene.
“These are not for eating,” Sphene said.
Translator Zeiat made a brief moue and then turned her attention to me. “You wanted to know?”
“Translator, there are rumors…” I reconsidered my phrasing. “There are quite a few people who sincerely believe that the Presger have infiltrated the Lord of the Radch. That they have gained control of parts of her, in order to destroy the Radch. Or destroy humanity.”
“Oh, goodness, no, Fleet Captain. No, that wouldn’t be the least bit amusing. It would break the treaty, for one thing.” She frowned. “Wait! So, if I understand you correctly—there are, sadly, no guarantees that I understand you correctly—you think the treaty may have been broken?”
“I don’t, personally. But some people do think so. Would you like some tea?” Five began to rise, but I put my hand on her shoulder. “No, I’ll get it. It’s already made.”
Translator Zeiat heaved a sigh. “I suppose, since there isn’t any fish sauce.”
I poured a bowl, gave it to the translator, and sat down across from her, next to Kalr Five. “So would I be correct in guessing that the Presger have not… interfered with Anaander Mianaai?”
“Goodness no,” replied Translator Zeiat. “There’d be no fun in it, for one thing. And one of the reasons there’d be no fun in it is because what you’ve just said, interfered with Anaander Mianaai, that would make very little sense to them. I’m not sure how I could possibly convey it, if I were to find it necessary. I’m not even sure I understand what you mean myself. Besides, if there was any real intention of breaking the treaty, any real desire to destroy the Radch, or Humans in general—you see? I know those aren’t the same thing, but they don’t. But as I said, if they wanted to destroy the Radch, even not considering the treaty, it would be done in the most amusing and satisfying manner possible. And I suspect I don’t have to tell you at least some of the sort of thing that generally amuses and satisfies in that quarter, do I? Or at least how it tends to affect the Humans involved?”
“No, Translator, you don’t.”
“And while I did indeed say not even considering the treaty, the fact remains that the treaty is very much an issue. No, they won’t break the treaty. To be entirely honest, I’m much more worried about Humans breaking the treaty.”
“If you would, Cousin,” said Sphene. It and Five had pieced several fragments together, held the assemblage over the middle of the table. “That piece there, do you see where it fits? Inside that curl there?”
I picked up a tiny brush, a capsule of adhesive. Brushed around the inside edge of the curl, slid the shard of glass into place. “You should probably stop there,” I suggested, “and let the adhesive cure, and build onto it later.” I rose, took a cloth from a cabinet under the counter, and rolled it up for a form, and Sphene and Five put their carefully assembled bit of teabowl over it, and we lowered the whole thing onto the table. “This would probably be easier if we had the right tools.”
“The story of my life for the past three thousand years,” said Sphene. “Speaking of which. When Lieutenant Seivarden fails to kill the Usurper, will you let me try?”
“I’ll consider it.”
“I suppose, Cousin, that I can’t reasonably ask for any more than that.”
14
In gate-space as we were, we couldn’t receive data from Seivarden or Tisarwat, or from Amaat Two and Four, or Bo Nine. And there was no guarantee they would be reachable when we returned. So each of them had been given a tiny external archive to hide on the outside of the station’s hull. Those archives would receive and store the data for us to retrieve when we returned. Assuming they worked right, which they didn’t always. Assuming nothing damaged them. Assuming no one had found them and disabled them or otherwise disposed of them.
This is what happened while Mercy of Kalr was out of the universe:
Seivarden and her two Amaats walked cautiously through a dusty access corridor. Armed and armored, their vacuum suits left behind at the airlock they’d come in through. Station had let them in, was even now displaying a map in their visions, though they’d studied what diagrams of the station’s layout we’d already had. The diagrams, the few terse words they exchanged, said they were on their way to the governor’s residence. They had seen the news channels. Noticed people they knew, among the citizens sitting on the concourse, noticed the armored ancillaries, the drawn guns. Amaat Two said, quietly, as they walked, “Do you think Lieutenant Ti—”
“Quiet,” said Seivarden. Everyone on Mercy of Kalr knew about Tisarwat’s crush on Basnaaid.
Four said, very softly, “Fleet Captain and Lieutenant Tisarwat seem close lately.”
“Not surprised,” replied Seivarden. Angry. Anxious. Knowing now was not the time to show it. “I suspect Fleet Captain’s always had a thing for hapless baby li
eutenants.”
“Can’t imagine you hapless, sir.” Four, still very softly.
“I never looked it,” said Seivarden. Surprising me by, it seemed, having found at least one source of her anxiety and not pretended it was something else, or that it didn’t exist. Maybe because she was still enjoying the familiarity of this situation, the knife-edge of adrenaline before the gunfire started. “And Justice of Toren never liked me much.”
“Huh,” said Four. Honestly surprised. Trying hard not to think too much about what was ahead.
“Our Bo lieutenant isn’t as hapless as she seemed at first,” remarked Two.
“She isn’t,” agreed Seivarden. “She’ll be fine.” Not at all certain of that, unhappy at not knowing what Tisarwat and Nine were up to. “Now cut the chatter.”
“Sir,” acknowledged Two and Four, together.
Tisarwat and Bo Nine pulled their way across the station’s hull. Not speaking. The news channels in their vision, those rows of seated citizens. The armed and armored soldiers. The citizens sat, quiet, and the soldiers stood, weapons ready.
“Turn it off, sir,” Nine said to Tisarwat, on the hull. “There’s no point watching, and you won’t pay attention to where you’re going if it’s on.”
“You’re right.” Tisarwat cut off the feed.
Twenty minutes later, moving handhold by handhold over the outside of Athoek Station, slowly and laboriously, she said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You can’t be sick in your helmet, sir.” Nine almost managed to keep the terror that had struck her at Tisarwat’s words out of her voice. “That would be bad.”