Spoils of War

by Terry Mixon

  That was… sobering.

  While she considered that, he continued, leaning forward and whispering almost conspiratorially. “And then there’s tradition. Anyone who goes on one of these missions is viewed as a pirate. As part of the reward for that—and as part of the cover—emperors since the beginning have decreed that each individual must keep one thing seized from the enemy, no matter its legality or value. If it’s something big enough to have other things inside it, those are covered, too. The selection of that item is up to the individual, and not even the emperor may gainsay their right to retain this booty.”

  “Booty?” she asked incredulously. “Isn’t that just another word for stolen property?”

  The older man chuckled. “Don’t get hung up on the peculiarities of language, Grace. By making it so that you get some reward that no one else can control, the emperor is firmly placing you on the side of piracy. Well, privateering, technically.

  “Since it’s against our enemies, the Empire will turn a blind eye, of course. A Letter of Marque will be entered into your confidential record and the secret mission orders that you and the other senior members of the group will have access to. The Empire will never admit that exists, but it grants you the authority to do everything that I’ve said and promises the rewards I’ve specified.”

  She nodded, though it all sounded so strange. It almost felt as if this were happening to someone else.

  “When do we leave?”

  “Immediately,” he said briskly. “Head back to your barracks and get your people in motion. Change into civilian clothes and only take nonmilitary items. Everything you’ll use on this mission will be provided for you. All your other belongings will be secured against your eventual return.”

  His expression turned grave. “Remember, don’t get caught or killed. The Empire is at war with the Singularity, even if no one uses that kind of language. This is your chance to make the bastards pay for what they’ve done to us in the past. I expect you to make them bleed.”

  She rose to her feet and stiffened to attention. “You can count on me and my people, sir. We’ll extract an Imperial kilo of flesh from the Singularity.”

  He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I’d expect nothing less. Good luck, and make sure you find something really sweet to take for yourself, Grace. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I don’t want to see you squander it on something that’s beneath you. I expect nothing short of an epic piece of booty in your bag when I see you next. Dismissed.”

  She spun on her heel and walked out of his office. Pedro wasn’t at his desk, so she made her way out of the building and headed for her platoon’s barracks, her mind swirling with possibilities. There was danger ahead but also a chance for glory against the Empire’s enemies.

  That was more than enough for her. Money be damned. She’d make sure they remembered her incursion for years to come.

  3

  The beating that night was just as bad as One Twenty-Four had expected. She’d stayed awake for as long as she could but dozed off despite knowing what was coming.

  Her crèche mates had thrown a blanket over her and then used bars of soap inside socks to beat her. The blanket had protected her from serious injury but stopped none of the pain. By design, the beating was impersonal. She had no idea how many of her crèche mates had participated, nor which ones.

  Well, with the notable exception of Thirty-One. The girl hated her and made no bones about it.

  The beating seemed to last forever, but it eventually ended, and they left her alone on her bunk, covered by the blanket. They’d stayed away from her face, limiting their blows to her body, where they wouldn’t be visible once she was dressed.

  They knew the rules just as well as she did. This was the crèche’s way of making certain that a wayward member knew exactly how badly they’d failed the Line. Frankly, she understood the process quite well, as she participated in these so-called blanket parties herself.

  That brought her no pride or shame. It was just the way things were. When someone acted against the best interests of the crèche, they were punished. Emotion played no part.

  Well, for anyone other than Thirty-One.

  There was a secondary reason that her crèche mates had left her face unmarked. Today was the day that they’d received their Line tattoos. The same pattern that graced Keeper’s face would be placed upon them today.

  If they’d injured her face, Keeper would have been furious, and that was something to be avoided at all costs.

  One Twenty-Four had no idea what the process was going to be like, but she’d been looking forward to this day for as long as she could remember. The bold stylized bird of prey tattooed across Keeper’s forehead and cheeks identified her as a member of the Andrea Line, part of the ruling caste of the Singularity.

  Even though One Twenty-Four wasn’t yet a member of the Line, she’d take that first unalterable step toward becoming one today.

  Well, perhaps this was the second step. One Twenty-Four’s very creation gave her the genetics of the Andrea Line. Each and every one of them had precisely the same DNA, designed and made into a template millennia ago at the founding of the Singularity. The only difference between her and Keeper was their age.

  And One Twenty-Four’s poor behavior.

  When the dawn chime sounded, she rose stiffly and showered with her crèche mates. Most paid her no mind, as if the bruises covering her torso and legs weren’t even there.

  The exception was, of course, Thirty-One. Her eyes glittered with smug malice as she washed, brazenly staring at One Twenty-Four.

  She had no idea how she’d earned the girl’s ire, but the hatred was real and fierce. And One Twenty-Four had to admit that it didn’t just go one way. If their positions were reversed, she would feel great satisfaction beating her enemy.

  For the rest, the punishment had been delivered, and now the incident was done. It was up to One Twenty-Four to accept the lesson that had been imparted and change her willful ways.

  Or fail to do so and die.

  Sadly, One Twenty-Four wasn’t sure that she could do it. Her view of the world just didn’t mesh with that of her crèche mates. She’d tried her very best to be what Keeper demanded, but that was no easy task.

  The things that she cared about, the things she wanted to learn, were not the things that Keeper wanted the crèche to be thinking about.

  One Twenty-Four was beginning to doubt that she had the focus and fortitude necessary to survive until adulthood under the increasingly strict regime. Perhaps there would be more individuality allowed as things progressed, and that would allow her to find her own path.

  She doubted it. The most likely outcome was her expulsion from the crèche.

  The thought of that made her stomach twist. In the dark, she and her crèche mates had speculated about what happened to those who’d been expelled. Were they killed and their bodies recycled? Were they ejected from an airlock? Something worse?

  The only thing they knew for certain was that if anyone was ejected from the crèche, they were dead within minutes. Keeper had made no bones about that. She wanted the ultimate punishment clearly stated so that there could be no misunderstanding.

  One Twenty-Four cleaned herself, dressed in her uniform, and joined the other girls as they made their way to the classroom.

  Today, they’d be leaving the crèche and visiting another part of the station for the first time. The equipment that would inscribe the tattoos on their faces was specialized and came on a ship. It would not remain at this station once its work had been completed. It had other crèches to visit and other lines to serve.

  No one else was supposed to know that the crèche was aboard the station. The crèche was on an isolated level, and anyone that had to interface with Keeper did so outside its bounds.

  One Twenty-Four had no idea how the crèche was marked on whatever maps the station residents used, but she had no doubt that it would seem innocuous.

  Sin
ce they needed to leave the area around the crèche, Keeper had informed them yesterday that the corridors would be cleared. There would be no witnesses to their passage.

  That was disappointing. She’d always wondered what other lines looked like. Or, even better, the base caste that belonged to no line at all.

  According to Keeper, twelve lines made up the ruling caste of the Singularity. All were grown from the same template as their line sibs. No deviation was possible. Or perhaps all deviants were culled after decanting. She didn’t know.

  Below them were the subservient lines that performed tasks as directed by the ruling caste. Only members of these servant classes were allowed to interface with the ruling caste. Members of those lines performed all tasks from guarding the rulers to seeing to their upkeep.

  Just like the Andrea Line, they were created from specific templates designed for the tasks they’d perform. The guards were large and fast—or so she’d been told—and the administrators had increased intelligence when compared to some of the other lines.

  The ruling caste had that and much more. They were the pinnacle of what was possible in an organic being. Not like the mechanical enhancements that the humans that made up the Empire perverted themselves with.

  Outside the servant lines, there were many more lines of lesser importance. And below those were the base caste. These were unaltered humans that did the most menial and degrading tasks.

  Those humans came from no template. They were created from random combinations of base DNA and gestated inside the female. Keeper had refused to explain the process of creation or decanting of the base caste in any detail, saying such acts were beneath them and would not even bear contemplation.

  The offspring were raised not by a Keeper but by the pair that had spawned them, so long as an examination of the child didn’t reveal any apparent physical or mental defects in their yearly inspections. Any that failed were culled for the good of the Singularity.

  One Twenty-Four took a deep breath and put the thoughts out of her head. She had more pressing matters to think about.

  As they gathered to leave the crèche, she could barely contain her excitement. She’d never seen a spaceship before. She’d been raised in the crèche since the day she’d been created. From her understanding, the nurses that had brought her and her crèche mates to the station had arrived under the same type of concealment as the ship was using now.

  No one had seen them arrive, and One Twenty-Four wasn’t even certain that they hadn’t been created inside the crèche itself. It was possible that a ship like the one they were going to visit now had delivered the necessary equipment and nurses and then taken them away again once they were no longer required.

  Her memories of the nurses themselves were vague, but they’d been members of the Andrea Line as well. One Twenty-Four assumed that when she left the crèche—if she did—then she’d serve that particular capacity herself for a subsequent generation of her line sibs.

  Once Keeper was ready, the girls moved out in a long line, walking one behind another and keeping quiet as they examined the station corridors with wide eyes. Everything looked similar to what was inside the crèche but seemed a little bit shabbier.

  Were the residents less diligent in their cleaning? Keeper allowed no filth inside the crèche. Did no one guide the people out here in the same way?

  Well, she supposed it wasn’t her place to judge. Yet.

  One Twenty-Four thought it was exciting, and now she wanted to see more. She wished she could get out of the crèche and explore the rest of the station. Perhaps even meet some of the people who lived there.

  Of course, that was impossible. Children of a line were never seen by anyone outside their line. Only once they were adults would they emerge into the larger society of the Singularity.

  One Twenty-Four and her crèche mates traveled through a docking port and into a short tube that led into the ship itself. The vessel wasn’t docked inside the station but floated adjacent to it. The interior corridors of the ship were cleaner than those on the station, and once again, there were no people in sight. Obviously, they were not meant to see her and her crèche mates.

  Keeper led them through several twists and turns and even into a shaft with a ladder so that they could climb several levels. The torturous path eventually led them to a large room that held ten machines that were of a size that someone like One Twenty-Four could easily fit inside.

  After they’d gathered into a group around her, Keeper gave them all a stern look. “This process will not be painless. That is to test your resolve.

  “I expect each of you to remain completely and utterly still. If the tattoo is not imprinted perfectly, you will have failed the Line and will be expelled from the crèche.”

  That news quieted everyone. What little murmuring there’d been between the girls ceased. This was one of those moments where one had to persevere—whatever pain was delivered—or they’d pay with their lives.

  One Twenty-Four wondered if she could remain absolutely motionless in the face of intense pain. Even knowing the penalty, she wasn’t sure. Though, after the beating that she’d endured this morning—and other mornings—she might actually be more prepared for this test than many of her crèche mates.

  She firmed her resolve. She’d do whatever needed to be done, suffer whatever needed to be endured.

  Keeper selected the first ten girls at random, with her only criteria being those who were closest to her at the moment she’d decided to pick them. One Twenty-Four was just outside the circle.

  Some of the other girls stepped back, likely because they didn’t want to be selected for the next batch, but she remained right where she was. Delaying the inevitable wouldn’t make this process any easier.

  In fact, she envied those that were already climbing into the machines. No matter what happened now, those girls didn’t need to worry about what they’d see or hear.

  She was working up the temerity to ask Keeper how long the process took when one of the girls inside a pod near her began screaming and thrashing. The top of the pod was semi-translucent, so One Twenty-Four could see the girl moving about but couldn’t tell what was happening.

  Keeper slapped a button on the side of the pod, causing it to open.

  The girl inside was a bloody mess. It seemed as though a madman had splashed black and red ink all across her face and head. Part of that was a mixture of tattoos gone horribly awry, and the other was blood from whatever injuries her thrashing had caused.

  Without saying a word, Keeper pulled the girl—Seventy-Three, her band informed her—out of her pod and dragged her to a door at the side of the room. She opened it and shoved the screaming, sobbing girl through the opening, ignoring her tearful pleas.

  Keeper turned back to the group as soon as the door had closed, forever separating the doomed girl from her former crèche mates. If anything, Keeper’s expression was even grimmer.

  “Seventy-Three is no longer a member of the crèche. I strongly urge you to learn from her failure. No matter the pain you feel or the fear you might experience, you must remain absolutely still. Do not fail this test.”

  Now suitably terrified, One Twenty-Four watched as the remaining nine finished their session in the pods.

  When they came out, they looked dazed and in pain, but they’d obviously followed the instructions. Their tattoos were perfect, though their faces were red and swollen from the imprinting process. They looked exactly like immature replicas of Keeper.

  “You’ve done well,” Keeper told them. “Go into the corridor and wait.”

  With a sweep of her arms, Keeper selected the next ten. One Twenty-Four was among that group and climbed into the pod that Keeper directed her toward.

  Ominously, it was Seventy-Three’s pod. Was that an unsubtle hint of Keeper’s feelings toward her? Or a grim foreshadowing of what was to come?

  No matter.

  Using every ounce of will she possessed, One Twenty-Four forced herself to st
ay completely and utterly still as she willed herself to relax before closing her eyes. The pain would flow through her, leaving her untouched, if she mastered herself.

  The lid came down, and there was a moment of utter calm before it felt as if her face was on fire. The pain grew so intense that she wondered if she was going to pass out or lose control of her bladder. It kept growing until she was finally at the limit of what she could stand.

  Then, moments away from her losing control of herself, it suddenly stopped.

  The lid opened, and Keeper stared down at her. Her expression was somewhat sour as she pulled One Twenty-Four out of the pod and shoved her less than gently toward the corridor without a word.

  She’d passed this particular test.

  One Twenty-Four stared at her crèche mates in the corridor. That was what she looked like now. She could hardly believe it. She’d survived.

  In the end, the crèche lost another six members during the tattooing process. Keeper didn’t seem dismayed, so perhaps she’d expected the number to be larger.

  One Twenty-Four was happy to get back to the dormitory. Even though it had only been a few hours, it felt as if she’d been running all day and simultaneously beating her head against a wall. Her skin was on fire, even with the salve that Keeper had given them.

  Thankfully, nobody else seemed to be in a mood to talk about what had happened. One Twenty-Four lay down on her bunk and let the fire on her face slowly fade until it meshed with the bruises and aches from the beating that she’d endured last night.

  She was in a lot of pain, but so be it. That was what it took to survive in the crèche. Pain was proof that you were still alive. She would survive, no matter how much it hurt to do so.

  4

  Grace made her way back to the barracks and called for everyone to gather in the muster hall. Her platoon was made up of three squads commanded by sergeants, which in turn consisted of three fire teams of four marines, including a corporal to command it. She led the platoon with the assistance of Sergeant Na Fei.