In the Black

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  It was far from ideal, but with any luck, Mattu’s little sleight of hand would have the enemy believing their web was a lot tighter than the threadbare, moth-eaten lacework it actually presented.

  “Has that skip courier come back from fleet HQ yet?” Susan said as she slipped her feet into sandals and pointed herself toward the showers.

  “Just did,” Miguel replied. “Packers won the Super Bowl. Again.”

  Susan shrugged. “No surprise there. The Dervishes were good, but no expansion team has any business being in the big game their first year in the league. Anything else?”

  “No change in our orders. We’re to remain on station and monitor the system for a follow-up incursion.”

  “And our reinforcements?”

  Miguel shook his head. “No such luck.”

  “God dammit. Admiralty House couldn’t shake a frigate loose—really?”

  “They’re tightening defense and increasing patrols of the core systems. Grendel is too underdeveloped to be a priority.”

  “Well, the Xre consider it enough of a priority to actually come here. Did anyone consider that?”

  “I’m sure it came up.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you have any good news for me, or did you just come down here to ruin my endorphin-enhanced mood?”

  “They strapped a couple of replacement recon drones and a decoy onto the courier to cover our losses. It’s matching orbit with us right now. Another hour and we can start the transfer.”

  “I’ll take it,” Susan said. “Maybe we can even plug a couple of holes in our web once we get them through engineering inspection and worked up.”

  “Frankly, mum, I’d feel better if we kept them in the barn to give us some reserve capacity.”

  Susan pursed her lips. “Yeah, okay. Get them onboard and integrated with our network, but leave them in the tubes.”

  “Yes’m.”

  The chime for the 1MC sounded from the ceiling. “Captain Kamala, please call the bridge.”

  Susan looked up. “The hell? They know I have a com implant, too, right?”

  “You were in the pool, mum,” Miguel chided with a smirk.

  Susan slapped her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Right, excuse me.” She padded over to the nearest bulkhead and grabbed a hardline handset from behind a small panel. “Go for Ansari Actual.”

  “Captain,” a hurried voice said through the handset. One of the com officers that usually worked an opposite shift from her whose name she could never remember. “The Governor of Grendel is demanding a meeting.”

  “She’s calling herself ‘Governor’ now? That’s adorable. Tell her we’re preparing for a material transfer. She’ll have to call back.”

  “That’s just it, mum. Her shuttle is already inbound.”

  Susan’s eyes rolled so fast and hard, for a bright moment she thought she could see the future. “You’re kidding.”

  “Sorry, mum.”

  “How long?”

  “They’re already out of the gravity well and burning for our altitude. It’ll take three orbits to match our velocity.”

  Two hours, Susan thought. “Understood. Thanks for the heads-up, Com.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Oh, and Com—find Mr. Nesbit. He’ll want to sit in on this.”

  “Understood.”

  “Actual out.” Susan hung up the handset and closed the panel.

  “XO,” she called over to Miguel. “How long to cut those drones loose from the courier and secure them once it gets here?”

  “An hour after it matches velocity, ninety minutes, tops.”

  “Put a rush order on it. Tell the boat bay we’re expecting company in two hours. We’ll need something to eat. And tell the galley to break out the good china.”

  * * *

  Her hair still damp under its top cover, Susan watched through the boat bay’s observation gallery windows as the small civilian shuttle maneuvered through the opening in the Ansari’s hull. There was space for it among a small fleet of auxiliary vehicles, maintenance and inspection drones, and marine assault shuttles, but only just.

  The approach hadn’t been without drama. Susan’s boat bay supervisor had insisted the governor’s shuttle slave its controls over to the Ansari’s traffic control computers, as was standard procedure for any small craft operating within a warship’s gooey zone. The governor’s pilot had refused, insisting that he “… learned to parallel park a shuttle on Proxima Centauri, you [redacted].”

  This led immediately to a dick-measuring contest between the two of them that only ended when Susan herself stepped in and reminded everyone involved that indeed, she had the biggest dick, and politely requested the pilot turn over control to his shuttle for terminal maneuvers, on account that, while he was certainly very talented, he was not accustomed to parking next to high-temp fusion plants and thermonuclear warheads.

  The pilot complied, finally, but ended up with the last laugh anyway, as his shuttle’s navigation system was so far out of date that it couldn’t integrate with the Ansari’s software.

  Which is how Susan and half of her senior staff found themselves standing around the observation gallery crossing fingers and mouthing silent prayers that they weren’t about to bear witness to their ship getting blown in half.

  “How thick is this glass?” Broadchurch asked.

  “They don’t make glass thick enough,” Warner answered.

  “Thanks.”

  Little puffs of steam shot out of the shuttle’s nose like a snorting bull in the vacuum and micrograv of the boat bay, slowing it to a crawl as it approached the capture cradle. Fortunately, the shuttle’s hotheaded pilot proved to be a cool hand at the stick, and it nestled gently into the waiting arms of the cradle without incident.

  “Somebody punch that guy and then buy him a drink,” Susan said idly.

  “Is that an order, Captain?” Miguel asked.

  “I said it out loud, didn’t I?”

  The assembled officers and senior enlisted chuckled, releasing the tension in the gallery even as the universal docking collar extended from the boat bay’s bulkhead like an esophagus to suck onto the shuttle.

  Once all the lights turned green to signal a solid lock and a good seal, the hatch popped and three people crawled out into the accordioned sections of the transfer tube. Governor Honshu led the procession, trying to look as dignified as one could while hunched over in a meter-and-a-half-tall transfer tube.

  They reached the airlock leading into the observation gallery and cycled through the double sets of doors. Nesbit straightened his spine and applied his most polished corporate smile. Honshu had the slight build of her Asian ancestry exacerbated by the extra height of a youth spent on a low-g world. Which, Susan wasn’t sure. The woman’s hair was cropped short and angular in the style of the core systems these days.

  “Margo,” Nesbit said as the governor set foot in the compartment.

  “Javier,” she replied. They leaned in and kissed cheeks in the French tradition that had survived the centuries among a certain set of the faux-cultured before she turned and nodded to Susan. “Commander Kamala.”

  “It’s captain, Administrator Honshu.”

  “It’s actually governor, Captain.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.”

  A flicker of irritation passed over Nesbit’s face, which gave Susan no small amount of satisfaction.

  “I suppose this is the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘Permission to come aboard?’” Honshu said.

  “Yes,” Susan answered. “To both.”

  Honshu giggled. “I’ve always thought it was funny that we ask to board after we’ve already boarded. What a strange tradition.”

  “Well, you can go back outside and try to shout for permission, Governor. I don’t think you’ll have much luck, though.”

  Honshu stared at her. “I don’t think that’s very funny.”

  Nesbit cleared his throat. “You’ll have to forgive my colleagues, Margo. Milita
ry life breeds a more … biting sense of humor than we’re used to in the civilian world.”

  “Of course.” Honshu gave herself a little shake, then held her hand out to the two people standing behind her. “These are my assistants: Kaleb Daily, who, appropriately enough, handles the day-to-day operations down the well, and my niece, Patricia, who manages our orbital installations.”

  “Welcome, and obviously the permission to board applies to all three of you. Will your shuttle need replenishment?”

  “Ah, sorry?” Honshu asked.

  “She’s asking if the shuttle needs to be serviced, Auntie,” Patricia interjected. “And yes, we should probably top off on reactant mass for our maneuvering thrusters at the very least.”

  Susan nodded. “I’ll have my boat bay supervisor coordinate with your pilot during the meeting. I’m sure he’ll have you squared away by the time we’ve finished … whatever it is we’re doing.”

  Honshu put a hand on Patricia’s shoulder. “Ah, my darling niece, always talking in vectors and velocities. Obviously got all that nerdy stuff from her mother’s side.”

  “Obviously,” Broadchurch muttered. Miguel elbowed them in the ribs, but Susan would have to have a word with them later. But really, she needed to have a word with herself. Susan hadn’t signed on to be a diplomat. She had a constitutional dislike for answering to anyone outside of her chain of command that had been beaten into her since basic. But that wasn’t an excuse. A captain set the tone for her crew, and she’d let her personal animosity for this pushy politician leak over into her professional conduct. And that just wasn’t kosher.

  “We’ve set up refreshments in the officers’ mess,” Susan said. “We can have a little privacy there.” She held a hand out to the elevator.

  “Yes. Let’s,” Honshu said.

  EIGHT

  “What in the chasm is this?” Thuk asked, shaking the rolling scroll with the latest encoded dispatches from home.

  “Our song for the rest of this expedition,” the recording alcove attendant said uneasily.

  “We’re to remain in system, without resupply, and test the limits of the eyes of the humans’ new husks and, if possible, antagonize the human cruiser into crossing into free water?” Thuk passed the rolling scroll back to the attendant as if it was covered in something unmentionable. “If they want a war, why not just sing us into attacking the mound on their new world? It would save us all time.”

  “I’m n-not … q-qualified … to…”

  Thuk ignored their stammering. “We’re down three decoys, a predator husk, and a third of our annihilation fuel reserves. If the Chorus is making a joke, I’ll have to dig deeper to find the humor in it.”

  “Yes, Derstu.”

  “Has anyone else seen this dispatch?”

  “No, Derstu. Only the two of us.”

  “So if I threw you out a doubled-portal…”

  The attendant stiffened. “If you’re making a joke, I’ll have to dig deeper to find the humor in it.”

  Thuk sighed, then put a primehand on the attendant’s skullplates. “Forgive me, it’s not you. I’m just reminded of an old fable, and it gives me pause.”

  “Which fable, Derstu?”

  It was late in the day’s timeflow, and the Chusexx was many millions of markers away from immediate danger. The mind cavern was nearly empty as all nonessential attendants had retired to their fugues. Which is where Thuk would have been had he not been called up to read the Chorus’s song. They were alone in the compartment. The recording attendant was young, but sported the vestigial wing covers along the back of their thorax that spoke of lines of nobility that had been left behind with the death of the queens. Most Xre that still carried the trait plucked them off with each successive molt in a sign of contrition. It was rare to encounter one of the fallen nobles. It was rarer still to find one who didn’t hide from what they were. Thuk found himself approving of their choice. He sat down in his chair.

  “Your name is Hurg, isn’t it?” The attendant nodded. “Which mound are you from?”

  “None, actually. I was clutched on the trade spinner above Ukuol. Spent my first half dozen molts there before volunteering to serve in the Dark Ocean Chorus.”

  “Not a big leap, then, going from a spinner to a ship.”

  “There are certainly similarities,” the attendant agreed. “The structure of things is quite different, though. New routines to learn.”

  “Indeed. Did your clutch-mates above Ukuol learn the Parable of the Seven Sacrifices?”

  “I’m afraid that one didn’t make the journey from the homeworld, Derstu.”

  Thuk clicked his mandibles, excited at the chance to tell the story.

  “It’s an old story, from before the Fall of Queens. It’s changed much as it’s floated down the timeflow. But the plates of it are this. Once, when mounds still made war against each other, there was a river valley. One side of the banks held seven mounds in an almost constant state of conflict. On the other bank, there was but a single small mound, half the size of the others. The rock there was close to the surface, so they couldn’t dig very deep. The soil along their bank was also poor, as the river moved too quickly there to bless the land with sediment during the floods.

  “But their queen was wise and far-seeing, and her chorus endured despite their challenges, and the fact no one across the river coveted their patch of land kept them free of the conflicts that frequently erupted between the other mounds. That was, until one summer. The queen had traded with a mound far upriver for new hammers and chisels of an incredibly hard stone that would finally let them dig tunnels into the rock below their mound. But only a moon into their excavations, they struck sun-tears.”

  “Ack,” Hurg said. “And suddenly the other mounds were very interested in their little patch of land.”

  “Not right away. The queen kept the mouths of her people quiet for a year, then two. But eventually rumors from other mounds they traded with up- and downriver reached the other bank. The mounds launched raids individually, but the river was treacherous near their banks and all the raids failed before they set foot in the queen’s mound.

  “The seven mounds eventually reached a truce and agreed to pool their resources to build a bridge across the river, kill the queen, enslave her people, and strip their sun-tears. They began immediately, and the bridge grew with each passing day, along with her people’s despair. They sent boats to set it on fire, floated logs from upriver to break its pylons, but nothing worked.

  “Desperate, the queen hatched a plan. She picked seven of her best traders with her midhands—not for their strength, but for their familiarity with the mounds across the river. She told each to dress up as a warrior from each of the seven mounds, then ordered them to sneak into a different mound on the same night and attempt to assassinate the queen.”

  Hurg’s eyes lit up. “Did they succeed?”

  Thuk waved his primehands balefully. “No. They failed, to the last one. They all fell, and fell short … just as their queen had sang.” Thuk’s face brightened and his tone soared.

  “Enraged at the attempted betrayals, each of the seven queens launched attacks against the mound they believed had tried to kill them even before the sun rose the next morning. By midday, the seven mounds on the other side of the river were engaged in the largest, most bloody war anyone could remember. The bridge forgotten, they wasted themselves against each other until none remained strong enough to carry on. In the end, the queen finished the bridge herself and used her modest army to sweep up the remnants of the seven mounds and claim them for her own. With each passing year, her people grew to fill the new mounds one by one until they were the strongest network anyone had ever seen. The queen decreed the seven mounds renamed, each after the loyal trader that had sacrificed themselves for their people.”

  “That is a lovely story, Derstu. Is it true?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? The best stories contain their own truth, Hurg. Whether they happened or not is th
e least interesting thing about them.”

  “I understand. But why this story? Are you afraid our harmony and the Chusexx are like one of the traders? That we’re meant to be sacrificed?”

  “I don’t know, Hurg. My mind wanders from the path sometimes. Maybe it’s nothing. But I can’t help but wonder why the Chorus is pushing us so hard. We’ve been at peace with the humans for so long. Why now to antagonize them? And why here, in a system they’ve only begun to excavate? There’s nothing here for us to easily take. It’s not even one of the worlds we dually claimed. I struggle to see the sense in it.”

  “Our legs know not where they carry us,” Hurg said mechanically, unconvincingly. But Thuk would play along.

  “Yes, of course you’re right.” Thuk held out a primehand and pointed at the rolling scroll. “We should wake our harmony and get to work carrying out the Chorus’s song, don’t you think?”

  As the mind cavern filled with attendants and the familiar buzz of activity, anticipation, and anxiety that always preceded action, Thuk’s mind wandered to another expression. A human expression he’d heard as a part of a joke once.

  “Don’t poke the bear.”

  He’d never seen a bear. But he had an awful feeling he and the rest of his harmony had already met one and were gearing up to poke it again.

  NINE

  “Thanks for joining us on the show this evening, Mr. Abington.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Ji-eun,” Tyson said to the hostess of Methuselah After the Bell. After his rushed lunch meeting with Sokolov, he’d had half a mind to cancel the appearance, or at least move it to a call-in from his penthouse. He still felt off-balance from not only the conversation, but the discovery of the spy posing as their server, whom Paris had yet to ID or reacquire on the city’s security net.

  Tyson was the unchallenged master of his domain. He wasn’t used to playing catch-up, or feeling like some nebulous, unseen force had gotten something over on him. It left him feeling anxious, a little paranoid, and more than a little vulnerable. None of which were the sorts of things he should be feeling under the hot lights of the local INN studio, especially when sitting across from an interviewer like Ji-eun Park.