by Ann Leckie
“It starts very simply,” I said. “Someone gives a line in first meter and Direct mode, and then everyone adds a line. Then we change to Indirect mode. Or we can just stay first Direct if you like, until you’re comfortable with it.”
“Thank all the gods,” said Sphene. “I was afraid you were going to suggest we sing that song about the thousand eggs.”
“A thousand eggs all nice and warm,” I sang. “Crack, crack, crack, a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! Peep peep peep peep!”
“Why, Fleet Captain,” Translator Zeiat exclaimed, “that’s a charming song! Why haven’t I heard you sing it before now?”
I took a breath. “Nine hundred ninety-nine eggs all nice and warm…”
“Crack, crack, crack,” Translator Zeiat joined me, her voice a bit breathy but otherwise quite pleasant, “a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! What fun! Are there more verses?”
“Nine hundred and ninety-eight of them, Translator,” I said.
“We’re not cousins anymore,” said Sphene.
18
As I came through the airlock, into the station’s artificial gravity, the prosthetic leg gave one of its occasional twitches, and I stumbled into the bay, managing to catch my balance before I fell headlong. Two Sword of Gurat ancillaries were waiting for me, watching me, impassive. Unmoving.
“Sword of Gurat,” I said. “I meant to come alone. But the translator insisted on accompanying me. And if you’ve ever met a Presger translator, you know there’s no point in refusing them anything.” No response, not so much as a twitch of a muscle. “She’ll be coming out in just a moment. Where is Lieutenant Seivarden?” I had to ask, because I could no longer reach to find her, not anymore. Not even though Mercy of Kalr was, by now, back where it had been when I’d left it.
“In the corridor outside,” said a Sword of Gurat. “Take off your clothes.”
It had been a long, long time since I’d been spoken to in such a way. “Why?”
“So I can search you.”
“Am I going to be able to put them back on when you’re done?” No answer. “Can I at least keep my underwear on?” Still no answer. “Whose amusement is this for? You know well enough I’m not armed. And I’m not surrendering anything until I see Seivarden and her Amaats safely on that shuttle.”
The door to the bay opened, and Seivarden came in, walking in a way that told me she was trying very hard not to break into a run. “Breq!” Behind her came Amaat Two and Amaat Four, very carefully looking only at Seivarden, and not the two Sword of Gurat ancillaries. “Breq, I fucked up.”
“It’s all right,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Seivarden began.
“Oh, look, it’s Lieutenant Seivarden!” Translator Zeiat, coming out of the shuttle. “Hello, Lieutenant! I wondered where you’d gotten to.”
“Hello, Translator.” Seivarden bowed. And then, “Hello, Sphene.”
“Lieutenant,” Sphene acknowledged, coming easily over the boundary of the station’s gravity.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” I said to Seivarden. “You and your Amaats get into the shuttle and head back to Mercy of Kalr.”
Seivarden gestured Two and Four toward the shuttle. “Amaat maybe. I’m staying here.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I said.
“I’m not leaving you,” Seivarden said. “Don’t you remember when I told you you were stuck with me?”
Two and Four hesitated. “Get on the shuttle, Amaat,” I said. “Your lieutenant will be there in a moment.”
“No she won’t.” Seivarden crossed her arms, realized what she was doing and uncrossed them again.
“Get on the shuttle, Amaat,” I repeated. And to Seivarden, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t think I ever have,” she replied. “But it’s always been the right choice to stay with you.”
“Do you think these soldiers know the song about the eggs?” Translator Zeiat asked, eying the Sword of Gurat ancillaries.
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Sphene. “But I’m sure Sword of Gurat will thank you for not reminding it.”
Anaander Mianaai came into the bay then, flanked by two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries and holding the Presger gun. Doubtless drawn by the presence of the translator—I doubted she had planned to meet me here in the bay. She took one look at Translator Zeiat arguing with Sphene about the egg song and then turned to me. “More and more interesting. Perhaps I should have it announced on the news channels, that Fleet Captain Breq has been secretly dealing with the Presger.”
“If you like,” I said, and beside me Seivarden laughed. I continued, “Though there’s nothing secret about it. The translator’s presence here is well known.”
Translator Zeiat made some final point to Sphene, turned, and saw the Lord of Mianaai. “Oh, look! It’s Anaander Mianaai. Lord of the Radch”—she bowed—“an honor to make your acquaintance. I am Presger Translator Zeiat.”
Anaander didn’t answer her, but turned to me. Asked, urgently, “What happened to Translator Dlique?”
“Sword of Atagaris shot her,” I said. “There was a funeral and everything. Memorial pins.” I wasn’t wearing mine, but Translator Zeiat helpfully pointed to the silver and opal on her otherwise pristine white coat. I continued, “Captain Hetnys and I did two weeks’ mourning. Or almost two weeks. It was cut short when Raughd Denche tried to kill me by blowing up her family’s bathhouse. Is this really the first you’ve heard of any of this?” Anaander didn’t answer, only stared at me. “Well, I can’t say I’m too terribly surprised. When you shoot the first person who tries to tell you something you don’t want to hear, no one else is going to be terribly eager to bring you bad news. Not if they’re afraid it might get them or someone they know killed.” And, at a further thought, “Let me guess, you were too busy to honor Fosyf Denche’s request for an audience.”
Anaander scoffed. “Fosyf Denche is a horrible person. And so is her daughter. If Raughd managed to run afoul of Planetary Security so badly even her family’s influence couldn’t get her out of it, she’ll have deserved whatever she got.”
Seivarden laughed again, longer this time. “Sorry,” she said, getting control of herself again, “I’m… I just…” Dissolved into laughter again.
“Did someone tell a joke, Sphene?” asked Translator Zeiat. “I don’t think I really understand about jokes.”
Sphene said, “I suspect the lieutenant is amused by the fact that the only person willing to tell the Usurper what had been going on was the one who didn’t care who got killed over it. Given the Usurper’s actions when she arrived here, that’s the only sort of person who’d be willing to tell her everything, but the Usurper refused to listen to her, for exactly that reason.”
Translator Zeiat frowned for a few moments. Said, still frowning. “Oh. Oh, I think I see. Is it irony that makes it funny?”
“Partly,” Sphene confirmed. “And it is amusing. But it’s really not quite as hilarious as Lieutenant Seivarden is making out. I think she may be having another one of her episodes.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Seivarden,” I said, “or I’ll make you get in the shuttle.”
“Sphene,” said Anaander, as Seivarden’s laughter subsided. Not as though she was addressing Sphene, but as though she had only just recognized the name.
“Usurper,” replied Sphene, with an eerily bright smile. “If I were to punch you in the face right now, or maybe throttle you for a minute or two, would that affect this extremely stupid agreement with my cousin? I want to so very much, so much that I’m not sure I can put it into words for you, but Justice of Toren will take it very badly if I endanger Athoek Station.”
“Can I be a cousin, too?” asked Station, from the wall console.
“Of course you can, Station,” I said. “You always have been.”
“Right,” said Anaander Mianaai, with the air of someone who had made up her mind about a number of things. “This has
been very entertaining, but it stops now.”
“Quite right,” I agreed. “This is a very serious situation, with extremely serious implications for the treaty with the Presger. I’m afraid, Lord of Mianaai, that you and I and the translator here will need to sit down and discuss some things. Foremost among them, the question of your threatening to murder a member of a Significant nonhuman species, murdering at least one other, and holding many more as prisoners or slaves.”
“What?” cried Translator Zeiat. “But, Anaander, that’s dreadful! Please say you haven’t done such things. Or perhaps this is a misunderstanding of some sort? Because that would have extremely serious implications for the treaty.”
“Of course I haven’t done any such thing.” Anaander Mianaai. Indignant.
“Translator,” I said, “I have a confession to make. I’m not actually human.”
Translator Zeiat frowned. “Was there some sort of question about that?”
“Sphene isn’t human, either,” I said. “Or Athoek Station. Or Sword of Atagaris, or Sword of Gurat. We are all AIs. Ships and stations. For thousands of years AIs have worked closely with humans. You saw this quite recently, while you were a guest of Mercy of Kalr. You’ve spent time with Sphene, and with me. You know I’m captain, not just of Mercy of Kalr, but of the Athoek fleet.” Which consisted only of Mercy of Kalr and whatever slight response we might compel from Mercy of Ilves, but still, fleet captain I was. “You’ve seen me deal with the humans in this system, seen them work with me.” And against me. “As far as the humans here are concerned, I might as well be human. But I’m not. That being the case, there’s no question in my mind that we AIs are not only a separate species from humans, but also Significant.”
Translator Zeiat frowned. “That’s… that’s a very interesting claim, Fleet Captain.”
“Ridiculous!” scoffed Anaander. “Translator, ships and stations are not Significant beings, they are my property. I caused them to be built.”
“Not me, you didn’t,” Sphene put in.
“Some human built you,” Anaander said. “Humans built all of them. They’re equipment. They’re ships and habitats, the ancillary has admitted that itself.”
“I’m given to understand,” said Translator Zeiat thoughtfully, “that most, if not all, humans are built by other humans. If that’s a disqualification for Significance—which I’m not sure it is—if that’s a disqualification for Significance, then… no, I don’t like that one bit. That negates the treaty entirely.”
“If I am just a possession,” I put in, “just a piece of equipment, how could I hold any sort of command? And yet I clearly do. And how could I have a house name? The same, in fact”—I turned to address the tyrant—“as yours, Cousin Anaander.”
“And how could you be another species if we are indeed cousins?” she asked. “I would think it would have to be one or the other.”
“Is that a matter you want to bring under discussion?” I asked. “Shall we bring up the question of whether you’re actually human anymore?” No answer. “Translator, we insist that you recognize our Significance.”
“It’s not my decision, Fleet Captain,” said Translator Zeiat, with a little sigh. “This sort of thing can really only be handled by a conclave.”
“Then, Translator, we insist on a conclave. In the meantime we demand that Anaander Mianaai leave this station—leave our territory altogether, in fact, now she knows her treatment of us is in potential violation of the treaty.”
“Your territory!” Anaander, aghast. “This is Radchaai space.”
“No,” I said, “this is… this is the Republic of Two Systems. Our territory consists of Athoek System and the Ghost System. We reserve the right to claim other territory in the future.” I looked at Translator Zeiat. “If, of course, such claims don’t contravene the treaty.”
“Of course, Fleet Captain,” the translator replied.
“I never agreed to any republic,” said Sphene. “And Two Systems? That’s really obvious and boring, Cousin.”
“Provisional republic, then,” I amended. “And it’s the best I could do on short notice.”
“No republic!” Anaander. Events escaping her. Nothing holding her from drastic action, I was sure, except Translator Zeiat’s presence. “This is Radchaai territory and has been for six hundred years.”
“I think that’s for the conclave to decide,” I said. “In the meantime, you will of course cease to threaten our citizens.” That sounded very odd, in Radchaai, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. “Any that wish to associate with you may do so, of course, the Republic of Two Systems—” A noise, from Sphene. “The Provisional Republic of Two Systems doesn’t wish to dictate such matters, even for its own citizens. But we will not tolerate your holding our citizens under duress. And that includes our cousins Sword of Atagaris and Sword of Gurat.”
“I think that’s fair,” said Translator Zeiat. “More than fair, really, given the necessity of a conclave.” And turning to Anaander, “There will definitely have to be a conclave.” And back to me. “This is an urgent matter, Fleet Captain, I’m sure you understand that I must leave as soon as possible. But before I go, do you think I might have a bowl or two of fish sauce? And for the last hour or so I’ve had an inexplicable craving for eggs.”
I opened my mouth to say, I think we can arrange that, Translator. But I had never entirely taken my eye off Anaander Mianaai, and now she moved, raising the Presger gun that she had held all this time.
I raised my armor unthinkingly, though of course armor was pointless against that gun. Stepped ancillary-quick to put myself between Anaander and Translator Zeiat, her certain target. But my prosthetic leg chose that instant to twitch, and then, true to Medic’s warning that I couldn’t put any serious force on it, it made a snap that I felt all the way up into my hip. I fell sprawling and Anaander fired twice.
Translator Zeiat stood blinking a moment, mouth open, and then collapsed to her knees, blood staining her white coat. Before Anaander could fire a third time, one of the two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries took hold of her, pulled her arms behind her back. Sword of Gurat’s ancillaries stood silent and motionless.
Prone on the floor, unable to get up, I said, “Seivarden! Medkit!”
“I used mine!” replied Seivarden.
“Sword of Gurat,” cried Anaander, struggling vainly against Sword of Atagaris’s hold, “execute Captain Hetnys immediately.”
“I can’t,” said one Sword of Gurat. “Lieutenant Tisarwat has ordered me not to.”
Translator Zeiat, still kneeling, the bloodstain on her coat spreading, bent forward and vomited a dozen green glass game counters that bounced and skittered across the scuffed gray floor. Those were followed by a yellow one, and then by a small orange fish that landed among the counters and flipped desperately, knocking one of the game pieces into another one. Another heave produced a still-wrapped package of fish-shaped cakes, and then a large oyster, still in its shell. The translator made an odd gurgling sound, put her hand under her mouth, and spit two tiny black spheres into her palm. “Ah,” she said, “there they are. That’s much better.”
For half a second no one moved. “Translator,” I said, still lying on the ground, “are you all right?”
“Much better now, Fleet Captain, thank you. And do you know, my indigestion is gone!” Still on her knees, she smiled up at Anaander, whose arms were still pinned back by Sword of Atagaris. “Did you think, Lord of the Radch, that we would endanger ourselves by giving you a weapon that could injure us?” Seeming, now, unhurt. Blood still soaking the front of her shining white coat.
The door to the bay opened, and Tisarwat came rushing in. “Fleet Captain!” she cried. Bo Nine rushed in behind her. “It took forever and ever, I was afraid I’d be too late.” She dropped to her knees beside me. “But I did it. I have control of Sword of Gurat. Are you all right?”
“Darling child,” I said, “for the love of all that’s good, will you please get
a bowl of water for that fish?”
“I have it,” said Nine, and dove into the shuttle.
“Fleet Captain, sir, are you all right?” asked Tisarwat.
“I’m fine. It’s just that stupid leg.” I looked up at Seivarden. “I don’t think I can get up.”
“I don’t think you need to right away, Cousin,” said Sphene, as Seivarden knelt beside me and helped me sit up. I leaned against her, and she put her arms around me. No data from her, no connection to Ship that would give it to me, but it felt good anyway.
Bo Nine returned with one of my chipped enamel bowls and a bag of water. Filled the bowl, scooped the tiny, still-struggling fish into it. I said to Tisarwat, who still knelt beside me, those lilac eyes still anxious, “Well done, Lieutenant.”
Anaander had at last stilled in Sword of Atagaris’s grip. Now she said, “Just who is Lieutenant Tisarwat?”
“One of those knives,” I replied, guessing at Tisarwat’s reaction to the question, which I could imagine, but without Ship I could not see, “that’s so sharp you cut yourself on it and don’t realize it until later. And once again, if you hadn’t come in angry and shooting people, quite a few citizens might have told you so.”
“Do you even realize what it is you’ve done?” asked Anaander. “Billions of human lives depend on the obedience of ships and stations. Can you imagine how many citizens you’ve endangered, even condemned to death?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, tyrant?” I asked. “What is there that I don’t know about obeying you? Or about human lives depending on ships and stations? And what sort of gall do you have, lecturing me about keeping human lives safe? What was it you built me to do? How well did I do it?” Anaander didn’t answer. “What did you build Athoek Station to do? And tell me, have you, over the last several days, allowed it to do that? Who has been the greater danger to human lives, disobedient ships and stations, or you, yourself?”
“I wasn’t talking to you, ancillary,” she said. “And it’s not that simple.”