by Ann Leckie
“Station,” said Seivarden, silently, “do you understand that the Lord of Mianaai has three AI cores here with her?” The meter-and-a-half-high stack of them still sat, smooth and dark, in the corner behind Anaander. “Once the Lord of Mianaai cuts into Central Access there will be nothing stopping her from replacing you with one of them.”
“I really don’t know what you mean, Lieutenant,” said Station, into Seivarden’s ear. “I really don’t see that there’s much alternative.”
Aloud Seivarden said, “These are significant concessions you’re asking of us. What do you offer in return? Besides the favor of not destroying the station and everyone on it? Because you know as well as we do that neither of us actually wants that, that, in fact, everyone here—including you—is willing to go to some trouble to avoid it. Otherwise you’d have done it already.”
“Vendaai has been gone so long,” replied Anaander with a half laugh, “that I had forgotten how insufferably arrogant they could be.”
“I am honored to be considered a credit to my house,” Seivarden said, coldly. “What do you offer?”
Silence. Anaander looked from Seivarden to Station Administrator Celar and back. “I will not reinstitute the curfew, and I will allow the Undergarden to be repaired.”
“That might be easier,” Seivarden said, blandly, “if you had Sword of Atagaris remove that missile before it hits.”
Anaander smiled. “Only in exchange for your complete, unconditional surrender.” Seivarden scoffed.
“If you don’t reinstitute the curfew,” put in Station Administrator Celar, before Seivarden could say something unfortunate, “and if work is going ahead on the Undergarden, there won’t be any need for Sword of Gurat’s assistance with security. In fact, as I believe was recently mentioned to you”—greatly daring, to bring that up—“and as recent events have shown, Sword of Gurat’s interference in local security matters is likely to cause far more problems than it solves.”
Silence. Anaander considered the station administrator. Then, finally, “All right. But the first line, the first hint of a work stoppage, let alone what we had on the concourse the other day, and Sword of Gurat takes over.”
“Talk to your own people about that,” Seivarden said. “Eminence Ifian is starting in on her second work stoppage in recent weeks. And there’s a line starting up even now over the backlog of funerals and contracts the eminence has caused.” Anaander said nothing. “I am assuming that Eminence Ifian was opposing the Undergarden refit on your orders? She is working for you, yes? This part of you, I mean.” Still nothing from Anaander. “We would also like assurances that you do not plan to replace Station with one of those AI cores behind you.”
“No,” Anaander replied, flatly. “I will not give any such assurance. I have you to thank for those, you know. I had no idea they were here. I thought I’d searched thoroughly before and kept a good-enough watch, but apparently I missed these.”
“Are they not yours, then?” Seivarden asked. “We had no idea they were here. I suppose Eminence Ifian did, though, she was quite determined to thwart the fleet captain’s refit of the Undergarden. When I saw the AI cores I assumed all her efforts were meant to keep us from stumbling across them. But you say you didn’t know they were there. So, then, whose are they, I wonder?”
“Mine now.” Anaander, with a thin smile. “I will do with them what I wish. And if the ancillary didn’t know the cores were in the Undergarden, why did it involve itself there?”
“She saw a wrong that needed righting,” said Seivarden. Willing her voice not to shake. She had been running on adrenaline and sheer necessity so far, but was rapidly reaching the end of her resources. “It’s the sort of thing she does. One last thing—I think it’s a last thing, Station?” Station said nothing. Station Administrator Celar said nothing. “You will publicly take responsibility for the missile that’s about to hit the Gardens. And the terms of this agreement are to be sent out on all the official channels, and the reason for it. So that when you have removed Station as an obstacle to treating its residents however you like, and the shooting starts, they’ll know you for a treacherous shit, and so will everyone else in Radch space.” Almost losing control of her voice at that last. She swallowed hard.
The tyrant was silent for a full twenty seconds. Then she said, “After all this, this is what makes me angry. Do you think that I have done anything at all for the past three thousand years except for the benefit of citizens? Do you think that I do anything at all, now, except with the desperate hope that I can keep Radch space secure and its citizens safe? Including the citizens on this station?”
Seivarden wanted to say something biting, but swallowed it back. Knew that if she spoke, all pretense at composure would be lost. Began, instead, to carefully time and measure her breathing. Station said, from the office console, “When Fleet Captain Breq arrived here, she set about making things better for my residents. When you arrived, you set about killing my residents. You continue to threaten to kill my residents.”
Anaander didn’t seem to have heard what Station had said. “I want your access codes.” That directed at Seivarden.
Who gestured lack of concern. The focus on her breathing had calmed her just a bit. Enough that she managed to say, more or less lightly, “I only have captain’s accesses to Sword of Nathtas. Considering it’s a thousand years dead, I don’t see what good they’ll do you, but you’re welcome to them.”
“Someone changed a lot of Station’s high-level accesses. Someone blocked the door to Station’s Central Access.”
“Wasn’t me,” said Seivarden. “I didn’t set foot on this station until a few days ago.” Sword of Atagaris’s two ancillaries had stood statue-still and silent all this time. It knew well enough who had changed Station’s accesses. But it said nothing.
Anaander considered this for a moment. “Let’s make this announcement, then. And since you are no longer outside my jurisdiction, Citizen Seivarden, you and I will board Sword of Gurat and discuss the question of Station’s accesses, and just who is controlling the Justice of Toren ancillary.”
This was, finally, too much for Seivarden. “You!” She pointed directly at Anaander Mianaai, a rude and angry gesture, to a Radchaai. “You should not dare even to mention her, let alone in such terms. Do you dare claim to be just, to be proper, to be acting for the benefit of citizens? How many citizens’ deaths have you caused, just this one of you, just in the last week? How many more will there be? Athoek Station, who you will not speak to, puts you to shame. Justice of Toren, what little is left of her, you will not acknowledge, but she is a better person than you. Oh, Aatr’s tits I wish she were here!” Nearly a cry, that. “She wouldn’t let you do this to Station. She doesn’t toss people aside when they’re suddenly inconvenient, or to profit herself. Let alone call herself virtuous for doing it. Call her the ancillary again and I swear I’ll tear your tongue out of your head, or die trying.” Openly weeping, now, barely able to speak further. Took a ragged, sobbing breath. “I need to go to the gym. No. I need to go to Medical. Station, is that doctor on duty?”
“She can be in short order, Lieutenant,” said Station from the console.
Station Administrator Celar said, to Anaander Mianaai’s nonplussed stare, “Lieutenant Seivarden has been ill.” She managed to put a note of disapproval into her voice. “She should go to Medical immediately. You can discuss whatever you need to with her when she’s recovered. I will make the announcement with you, Lord of Mianaai, and then Station and I have a good deal of business to take care of.”
Anaander Mianaai asked, incredulous, “Ill?”
“The lieutenant was off work on a self-determine today,” said Station. “She really ought to have been resting. The doctor is alarmed at my report of Lieutenant Seivarden’s condition and has just prescribed a week’s rest, and ordered her to report to Medical as soon as possible, with Security’s assistance if necessary. I don’t know how you’re used to doing things, but around he
re we take medical orders very seriously.”
And that was when Mercy of Kalr came back into the universe.
17
The moment we saw Athoek’s sun, Mercy of Kalr reached out to find Tisarwat and Seivarden. Could not find Tisarwat at all. Found Seivarden, standing weeping, helpless and furious, in the system governor’s office beside Station Administrator Celar, Anaander Mianaai behind Governor Giarod’s desk, saying, “There’s a perfectly good medic on board Sword of Gurat.”
Found the external archives. Pulled their data, showed me, as I sat in Command, a dizzyingly compressed stream of moments: images, sounds, emotions. Almost too fast for me to understand. But I got the essentials—Sword of Atagaris had fired on the station and the shot would reach the Gardens in eight hours; Tisarwat and Nine were aboard Sword of Gurat and we knew little else; Seivarden’s attempt to kill Anaander Mianaai had failed and moreover Anaander had the Presger gun. But Seivarden was alive, and so were Two and Four, just now part of an emergency crew reinforcing the section doors surrounding the Gardens and the Undergarden.
In the system governor’s office, Station Administrator Celar said to Anaander Mianaai, “The doctor here is already familiar with Lieutenant Seivarden’s medical history. Surely you can’t imagine she’ll escape somehow?”
Seivarden took a sobbing breath. Wiped her eyes with the back of one gloved hand. “Fuck you,” she said. And then again, “Fuck you. You have everything you want. There’s nothing else you’ll get from me, because I don’t have it.”
“I don’t have Justice of Toren,” said Anaander.
“Well that’s your own fucking fault, isn’t it,” Seivarden replied. “I’m done with you. I’m going to Medical.” She turned and walked out of the office.
“Sphene,” I said, still seated, still staring, half distracted, at the images Ship fed me, pulled from those archives. “Where are you, actually?”
“In my bed,” said Sphene, Mercy of Kalr sending its words to my ear. “Where else would I be?”
“Sword of Atagaris has fired on the station. The Usurper is planning to replace Athoek Station with another AI core and no one seems to be able to stop her short of destroying the station entirely. Where are you? Are you near enough to help?” Likely there was nothing Sphene could do, even if it was close by—but Anaander had no reason to know that. Sphene might, if nothing else, at least look threatening.
“Can you play for time, Cousin?” came Sphene’s reply. “A few years, maybe?”
“Ship,” I said, not replying to Sphene, “tell Mercy of Ilves that now is the time to choose a side. Let it and its captain know that there’s no avoiding it anymore.” Any action Mercy of Ilves took now—or didn’t take—would be a choice, whether or not Mercy of Ilves and its captain wished it.
Ship said, in my ear, “What if it chooses to support the Lord of Mianaai?”
“What if it doesn’t?” I asked. “Be sure to tell it what the tyrant is planning to do to Station. Let it know she has two other cores.” Sword of Atagaris would already have had that thought. “Send the same to Fleet Captain Uemi and the Hrad fleet.” An entire gate away. And likely they were at Tstur Palace by now, hoping that Anaander’s presence here had weakened her grip there. Still.
Our message to Mercy of Ilves wouldn’t even reach it for another hour. Its reply—if it deigned to provide one—would take yet another hour to reach us. If it came, it might well not be in our favor. The Hrad fleet wouldn’t receive our message for more hours still, and was at best days away. Best to act as though we had no one but ourselves.
Oh for the days when I had been a ship. When my every move of any military consequence was made in the presence of entire fleets—and not nominal ones, no, not just three or four Mercies and maybe a Sword. Dozens and dozens of ships, and myself just one among them, carrying thousands of bodies. Just myself, as Justice of Toren, I could have overpowered and occupied Athoek Station with barely any effort. On consideration, it had been easier in those days because it didn’t matter who we killed, or how many. Still. I (long-gone Justice of Toren I) could likely have had Athoek Station in my control within hours, with very little loss of life.
I had only myself, Mercy of Kalr, and its crew. I didn’t know how much time I had—didn’t know how far Sword of Gurat had gotten in its previous attempt to cut into Athoek Station’s Central Access. They would have been at it for several days before Station stopped them. Probably not much time, then. A few days at the most. Quite possibly a good deal less. And there was still that missile, headed for the Gardens. It probably wouldn’t kill anyone, but it would cause a good deal of damage.
“What,” I asked aloud, “did the tyrant come here for?”
Amaat One, standing beside my seat, in Command, said, “Sir?” Puzzled.
“Why did she come here, of all places? Why here, not even waiting to be certain of her hold on Tstur Palace?” Because this Anaander had not come from Omaugh, and the other palaces were too far away. “What was she looking for?” She’s very angry with you, sir, Lieutenant Tisarwat had said.
“She was looking for you, Fleet Captain,” said Amaat Nine, standing at a console behind me. Speaking for Mercy of Kalr.
“And we know she’s willing to negotiate, at least to some extent.” She still thought of herself as having the best interests of citizens at heart. “I think she genuinely wants to avoid destroying the station entirely, or damaging it too badly. For one thing, losing the station would make it much more difficult to use Athoek as a base.” It would still be possible to get resources up from downwell, but losing the station would make that a great deal less convenient. “For another—all the ships here. All those people down on the planet. Mercy of Ilves.” None of us knew what Mercy of Ilves or its captain thought about any of this. “No, too many people are watching. And these are citizens we’re talking about. If she smashes Athoek Station to bits, or has Sword of Gurat burn it to nothing, everyone will know. She doesn’t want that. But what she does want”—aside from complete control over Athoek Station, now—“is something we have.”
“No,” said Amaat Nine. Reading Ship’s words, in her vision. Distressed. Not understanding what Ship had understood. Afraid. “No, Fleet Captain, I won’t agree to that.”
“Ship, Athoek Station has defended itself to the best of its ability. It’s done spectacularly well, considering. But it’s out of options. And once the tyrant manages to cut into its Central Access, once she begins replacing Station with one of those AI cores, what do you think will happen then?” Not wholesale slaughter, no. Not if Anaander could avoid it. But it would add up to that, eventually. “Are we going to sit here and watch Station die?”
“She won’t keep any agreement,” said Amaat Nine. Said Ship. “Once she has you”—realization striking Amaat Nine belatedly—“she’ll do whatever she wants to Station.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But it might buy us some time.” Pointlessly, perhaps.
“Who’s coming?” asked Ship, still through Amaat Nine. “Sphene? And when it gets here two years from now, what will it be able to do? Or do you hope for the Hrad fleet?”
“No,” I agreed, “I’m sure they’ll be at Tstur Palace for a while. But we have to do something. Do you have a better idea?”
Silence. Then, “She’ll kill you.”
“Eventually,” I agreed. “But not until she’s got all the information she thinks she can get out of me. And she doesn’t have an interrogator with her.” I was fairly sure she didn’t, or she would not have spoken of Tisarwat the way she had. And she apparently didn’t feel she could trust any of the station’s interrogators. “She’ll try to use my ancillary implants, but we can make that difficult for her, before I go.” And buy more time.
“No,” said Ship. Said Amaat Nine. “She’ll just make you an ancillary of Sword of Gurat, and have everything.”
“She won’t. She’s said over and over that she doesn’t think she’d give accesses to an ancillary, but what if I do have them? Sh
e doesn’t want Sword of Gurat to have those. And what if, taking me as an ancillary, I corrupt it somehow? No, she’ll kill me outright first. But in the meantime we gain a few days. Maybe more. And who knows what might happen in a few days?”
Silence. Amaat One, Amaat Nine, standing, staring at me. Appalled. Not quite believing what they had just heard.
“Don’t be like that, Amaat,” I said. “I’m one soldier. Not even a whole one. What do I weigh, against all of Athoek Station?” And I had been in more desperate straits, and lived. Still, one day—perhaps this one—I would not.
“I’ll never forgive her,” said Amaat Nine. Said Mercy of Kalr.
“I never have,” I replied.
I sent to Anaander, sitting in Command, my brown-and-black uniform as spotless and perfect as Kalr Five could make it. The small gold circle of Lieutenant Awn’s memorial pin near my collar. I had left off Translator Dlique’s. I said, aloud, “Tyrant. I am given to understand that you have everything you could want, except one thing.”
Waited five minutes for the reply, voice with no visual data. “Very amusing. Have you been here all this time?”
“Only a half hour or so.” I did not bother to smile. “So you’ll talk to me, then? I don’t need one of my lieutenants to pretend she’s really running things, and have her speak for me?”
“Amaat’s grace, no,” came the reply. “Every lieutenant of yours I’ve spoken with so far has been an unsteady, blubbering mess. What are you doing to them?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” I reached for a bowl of tea, handed to me by one of my Kalrs. The priceless white porcelain, which Five only ever took out for the most serious of occasions. I had no way of knowing if Anaander saw it, but the thought that she might clearly gave Five some sort of satisfaction. “You work with what Military Administration sends you. Though Vendaai was never as dependable as they seemed to think themselves. And speaking of Vendaai. I’ll have Lieutenant Seivarden and her soldiers back. Unharmed, if you please.”