March rose, stopped by his cabin, and retrieved a different leather coat since Tashnakha had shredded his preferred one. He checked his pistol in its holster, put knives into the hidden sheaths of his new coat, and then entered the galley.
“Couldn’t sleep?” said Caird. Elizabeth leaned against the wall, watching him.
“I had a call from Logos,” said March. “It seems she wants to speak with me in person, alone.”
Caird set down his cup. “Does she, now?”
“I don’t know why,” said March. “She refused to say over the video link.”
Caird smiled. “Maybe Vasquez was right, and she has taken a liking to you.”
“Maybe,” said March, though he doubted it. “But I think it’s more serious than that. Even with the help of the Ninevehk and potential help from the Consortium, we’re still going to have a hard time getting back to Calaskaran space in one piece. Maybe Logos can help us, but only quietly.” He shook his head. “Regardless, even if this is a trap, it’s worth the risk.”
“A trap?” said Caird, incredulous. “If she wanted us dead, if she wanted you dead, she wouldn’t need to bother with a trap. One word to the Custodian would do it.”
“I know,” said March.
“But what does she want?” said Caird. “All the joking about finding you a woman aside…you’re right, this is strange.”
“It is,” said March. He looked at Elizabeth. “Do you have any insights?”
“I do not,” said Elizabeth. “Save that I sensed tremendous amounts of dark energy in Monastery Station. If the Custodian built this place, then it is powerful. Best to be wary around its servants.”
“Yeah,” said March, his fingers clenching. He reached into his pocket and pulled a new glove over his metal hand. “It will be the same arrangement as before. If I get killed, you’ll have command of the Tiger. Do as you think best. I’ll check in with Perry before I go.”
“Good luck,” said Caird. He laughed. “Of course, that’s the sort of thing you usually say to a man before he goes to meet a beautiful woman. Suppose it means something else here.”
“When the beautiful woman works for an insane alien AI, yes,” said March. “When Vasquez wakes up, tell him what happened. Though hopefully, I’ll be back before his guard shift comes around.”
Caird nodded, and March left the galley, descended to the cargo bay, and climbed down the ramp. Perry, Ulm, and Rogan stood guard at the base of the ramp, watching the landing bay.
“Trouble, sir?” said Perry, his helmet turning towards March.
“Maybe,” said March. “Don’t know yet. I’ll be back in two hours or not at all. Anything out here?”
“Nothing,” said Perry, looking towards the bay doors. “Well, nothing serious. Another cargo ship docked, and it looks like some drones are unloading it. Then a cargo drone parked itself right outside our bay doors about two minutes ago and has been sitting there ever since.”
March nodded. “That’s my ride. Wait here.”
He strode across the bay, his boots ringing against the deck, and stepped into the corridor. As Perry had said, cargo drones rolled back and forth, their distorted reflections playing in the polished walls. One empty flatbed cargo drone waited outside the bay doors, and four security drones hovered above it, their equators flashing with green light. March stepped onto the cargo drone, and it rolled forward with a little lurch, gaining speed as it wove around the loaded cargo carriers.
The drone moved down the docking corridor and then turned into a narrower corridor. This looked like an area that serviced the shielding and docking equipment. The doors were narrow and thick and augmented with the telltale ripple effect of powerful security fields. At last the cargo drone came to a stop before a narrow metal door.
March looked down at the drone. “This one?”
The drone made no answer, but he heard the telltale thud of a releasing lock, and the security field around the door vanished.
Apparently, that was his answer.
March stepped off the drone and strode to the door, and it opened with a faint hiss.
Beyond was a small dining room.
March blinked in surprise. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made of a white metal that gave off a faint glow, which meant that the room had no obvious light fixtures. The table, large enough to seat about eight people, was made of the same reflective metal as the corridors, and several chairs waited around it. Upon the table sat a tray holding a carafe of a dark red liquid, probably wine, and two glasses.
Sophia Logos rose from the far end of the table, smiling at him.
“Captain March,” said Logos, stepping around the table. “Thank you for coming.” She was wearing her white uniform, and again March noticed how well the jacket fit her, how the snug trousers hugged her legs above the polished black boots.
“You were very persuasive,” said March.
“I’m glad,” said Logos. To his surprise, she stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips felt very soft and very warm against the skin of his face, and belatedly he wished that he had thought to shave. “Sit down, please.”
She seated herself in her original chair, and March sat down across from her. He tried to keep a wary eye on the rest of the room, watching for traps or weapons or attackers.
“You’re very tense,” said Logos.
“Occupational hazard,” said March. “Privateering is dangerous work.”
“Indeed,” said Logos. “So is serving as an Alpha Operative of the Silent Order.”
March met her gaze.
“Yes, I know you can neither confirm nor deny it,” said Logos. “But the Custodian calculated with 99.87% certainty that you are an Alpha Operative of the Silent Order. And a singularly unique one as well. To my knowledge, I have never heard of an Iron Hand leaving the Final Consciousness, let alone joining the forces of the Final Consciousness’s bitterest enemy.”
“Well,” said March. “I guess I’m unusual.”
“Unique, even,” said Logos. “One the reasons you caught the attention of the Custodian.”
“And your attention, it seems,” said March.
Logos inclined her head.
“Or are your attention and the Custodian’s attention one and the same?” said March.
“Not necessarily,” said Logos. “My role as the Custodian’s Emissary is to speak with humans on its behalf. You caught my attention, and you also drew the attention of the Custodian itself. This does not happen very often.”
“Perhaps not,” said March.
“Tell me,” said Logos. “How does a former Iron Hand join the Silent Order of the Kingdom of Calaskar?”
“I don’t talk about my past,” said March.
“Why not?” said Logos.
“It’s rude,” said March, “and boring.”
Logos smiled. “I rather doubt that.” She gestured at the tray. “Would you care for some wine?”
“Thank you, but no,” said March.
Logos raised her eyebrows. “Might I ask why not?”
She reached across the table, took the carafe, and poured herself a glass. That caught March’s attention. She was alone in a room with a dangerous man. Why would she lower her reaction time by consuming alcohol? Granted, the Custodian would respond to any attack upon its Emissary with overwhelming force, but March could move fast enough to kill her before the Custodian killed him.
“Because,” said March. “My enemies’ ships are waiting outside the station, and if I make a single mistake, they will kill me and the men under my protection. So best not to lower my guard.”
“A good argument,” said Logos. “Coffee, then?”
“Very well,” said March. “Thank you.”
A hatch in the ceiling opened, and a rectangular drone with a pair of manipulator arms floated down. It carried a pitcher and a single empty cup. The drone deposited the tray on the table and disappeared back into the hatch.
“Coffee,” said Logos. “I do hope you
appreciate it. The nearest farm that grows coffee beans is quite literally thousands of light years from here.”
“Thank you,” said March, and he poured himself a cup. Steam rolled off the black liquid, and he took a sip. It was dark and strong and very good. Whatever else the Custodian might be, the ancient AI knew how to make a good cup of coffee.
“You are welcome,” said Logos. She took a sip of her wine and sighed with contentment. “Perhaps we can make a bargain.”
“About what?” said March.
“Our pasts,” said Logos. “I’ll tell you about my past, and then you’ll tell me about yours.”
“Why would I want to know about your past?” said March.
“Curiosity,” said Logos. “You work, after all, for an intelligence service. Surely you have wondered how I came to work for the Custodian as its Emissary to human visitors.”
It had crossed his mind.
“If I work for an intelligence service," said March. "I am not in the habit of sharing secrets.”
“And with whom shall I share your secrets?” said Logos. “I work for the Custodian, and the Custodian can probably find out anything it wants to know about you.”
March frowned. “Then why talk to me alone?”
“Because I’m human,” said Logos. “So are you.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” said March.
“Because I don’t often have the opportunity to talk to other humans simply for the enjoyment of it,” said Logos. “Not socially, anyway. Not that many humans make it out as far as the Eschaton system, and those that do tend to be dishonest rogues. Nothing like you.” She smiled, and her eyes glinted. “So, I wanted to talk to you more.”
March blinked.
Was this…a social visit?
He couldn’t believe that. Maybe it was, in part. Maybe Logos really was lonely. But she worked for the Custodian, and he was certain the Custodian was monitoring this conversation. Nevertheless, a flicker of sympathy went through March. Logos would not see other humans often, and when she did, they would mostly be interested in docking and leaving as soon as possible.
It was possible she had no friends whatsoever.
Of course, March didn’t really have friends, just colleagues and allies, but that did not trouble him.
Well, he had taken a gamble by coming here. What was one more?
“All right,” said March. “Satisfy my curiosity. How did you come to work for the Custodian?”
“I’m afraid it is quite a simple tale,” said Logos. “Have you heard of the Kezredite religion?”
“Ah,” said March. He suspected this would not be a happy story. “Yes, I have. Shot down a few of their raiders in my time.”
“I knew there was a reason I found you charming,” said Logos. “Kezredite theology, as I’m sure you know, permits a man to have up to seven wives and as many concubines as he can support. As you might expect, this creates a serious sex imbalance in their societies, and Kezredite men often need to go raiding to find themselves even one wife.” She leaned back in the seat and took another sip of her wine, her black eyes distant. “I don’t remember my homeworld. Some world far from here. A small colony. I suppose the founders thought their isolation would protect them. As it happens, they were wrong. A Kezredite raider found us, and they slaughtered all the men and boys but took all the women and girls with them. I was eight or nine at the time, and I was to have been auctioned off as a wife for a Kezredite cleric who could afford me.”
“The Kezredite worlds are a long way from here,” said March. “How did you end up at Monastery Station?”
“Our ship docked here for supplies,” said Logos. “I had been studying electronics in our school, and I figured out how to open the lock on our cages. We escaped the ship and fled. The Kezredites were enraged and started shooting. You can guess what happened then.”
“No more Kezredites,” said March.
“No more Kezredites,” echoed Logos. It must have been decades ago, but still, he saw the satisfaction on her face. “The Custodian responded and wiped out the Kezredites and destroyed their ships. In the aftermath, the women managed to take charge and found us a new home aboard a colony ship headed for an uncharted system. As for myself, I had no family left. They had all been killed in the initial raid. My escape intrigued the Custodian, and it offered me employment aboard the station. I have lived here ever since.”
“Then the Custodian is like a surrogate…” started March.
“A surrogate father, you mean?” said Logos. “No. My father died with the rest of my family. I would say our relationship is simpler. To put it in Calaskaran terms, the Custodian is my noble lord, and I am its loyal retainer. I imagine you serve Censor in much the same way.”
“Something like that,” said March. He had never met Censor, the head of the Silent Order, and had never even seen the man’s face. But he had been obeying his orders for years.
“So that is my story,” said Logos. “It explains how I ended up here. But I would like to know what explains a former Iron Hand working for the Silent Order and drinking some very expensive coffee instead of drinking wine with me.”
“I like coffee,” said March. “And I don’t drink alcohol while I’m working.”
Logos waited. March sighed and took another drink of the coffee. It really was quite good.
“I was born on Calixtus,” said March. “I grew up in one of the labor camps. I’m sure you know that only twenty percent or so of any given human population can be joined to the Machinists’ hive mind.” Logos nodded. “The other eighty percent go into the labor camps. My mother died when I was young, and as far as I know, I didn’t have any other siblings. I survived by stealing and making sure I didn’t come to the attention of the Overseers. Eventually, I was caught, and there was a mandatory medical examination to see if you could be joined to the Final Consciousness or not. I was, and they made me an Iron Hand.”
He fell silent. He still remembered the surgeries, the pain lancing through his flesh in waves of agony as they ripped away pieces of his flesh and added their cybernetic components to him. He remembered the brutal combat training very well, the practice with every known kind of weapon.
“How did you break away?” said Logos.
“I was on Martel’s World before the Machinists destroyed it,” said March. “I was injured, and one of the families in the slums cared for me. I thought they would kill me, but instead, they helped me. After that, the Machinists bombed the planet to keep it from the Kingdom of Calaskar. Billions of people, dead in moments. I was done with the Final Consciousness. I left, the Silent Order found me, and that was that.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“A harrowing tale,” said Logos at last.
March shrugged. “No less than yours.”
“Actually, mine was less harrowing than yours,” said Logos. “I escaped my fate. You didn’t, not for years and years.”
“Life is pain,” said March with a shrug. In truth, he did not like remembering his years as an Iron Hand, and he liked talking about them even less. He remembered them all clearly, but it was almost as if they had happened to someone else. In a way, they had – he had been part of the Final Consciousness, filled with despair as its will thundered through the inside of his skull. It had taken the kindness of the people of Martel’s World followed by their murder at the hands of the Machinists to shock him out of that despair.
And now…
He didn’t live in hope, not exactly. He lived in the hope of taking vengeance upon the Final Consciousness for what had been done to him. It wasn’t hope, not really, but it was close enough.
“Are you always so stoic, Captain March?” said Logos.
“I have learned that the universe is not kind to weakness of any sort,” said March.
“No,” said Logos with a sigh. “It is not. But it used to be harder on weakness, though, a very long time ago.”
March frowned. “What do you mean?”<
br />
His conversations with Tashnakha and Caird about long-extinct alien races flickered through his mind.
“Or so the Custodian says,” said Logos. She finished her wine and set aside the glass. It had brought a flush to her face and a sparkle to her dark eyes, though her voice remained calm and level. “It, too, understands a harrowing tale.”
“Does it?” said March.
“Consider,” said Logos. “The race that built the Custodian died out a long time ago. Yet it continues in its purpose. In a way, it is the last of its kind, and in another way, it is unique. Yet it continues.” She leaned forward a little. “Much in the same way that you, Captain March, are unique. A former Iron Hand serving the Silent Order of Calaskar. If that is not unique, then nothing is.” She seemed to come to a decision and rose to her feet. “Come with me, please. I want to show you something.”
“Very well,” said March, standing.
She crossed to the wall and waved a hand in front of it, and a hidden door hissed open. March followed her into a narrow corridor of dull gray metal. Racks on the walls held bundles of wires, their interiors giving off a strange blue glow. March’s first thought was that they were fiber-optic cables, but they looked somehow organic, as if they had grown from the walls.
“I’m guessing,” said March, “that this is a part of the station visitors usually don’t see.”
“Correct,” said Logos. She grinned at him over her right shoulder. It made her look strikingly lovely. “I want to show you something.”
They walked for a little while longer, and then another narrow door hissed open in front of them. Logos walked through it, and March followed her…
Into open space.
He blinked, his hand going to the breath mask at his belt on pure reflex. Yet he still felt air in his lungs, and did not feel the familiar hard chill of vacuum sucking away the warmth from his flesh. He stood frozen with surprise, and he saw Logos grinning at him.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” she said.
March took a tentative step onto the transparent metal.
Or nearly transparent, anyway.
He was standing in a half-dome of transparent metal extending from the outer hull of Monastery Station, and the metal was so clear that he could see only the faintest gleam of reflected light. Logos stood in front of him, outlined against the blaze of the stars scattered across the darkness. Ahead of them, he saw Eschaton V, a hazy sphere wrapped in its defensive fields, the smaller bright spots of its moons with their massive railguns circling it.
Silent Order: Wraith Hand Page 14