Supernova

by C. Gockel

  The Luddecceans shifted on their feet, Noa’s directness making them ill at ease. Alaric was the only person who wasn’t restless. Volka saw in his mind that they had one quantum teleportation missile. Only one, though it was larger than the small grenade-sized weapons the Republic had.

  Levelling his gaze on Noa, Alaric said, “We’re listening.”

  6T9 kept his hands behind his back as the holo dimmed, and the meeting’s participants filed from the docking bay. 6T9 wanted to put a hand on Volka’s shoulder or wrap his arm around her waist. Noa’s “ideas” had physical weight. He felt like the Uriel’s gravity had increased. Volka was quiet, her expression drawn, but she hadn’t voiced any objections. Her footsteps were the lightest on the deck, but heavier than normal … she was tired. So was he. A yellow light was on in the periphery of his vision. He was running out of power. Slipping through Sundancer’s hull was murder on his batteries.

  “Sixty, Volka,” Kenji called.

  They stopped, stepped aside, and let the others pass. Slowing, Lieutenant Young and Dr. Patrick glanced at them, and Volka’s ears flicked. Young abruptly looked away and continued down the hall, jerking his head, indicating Dr. Patrick should follow. Had she nudged the lieutenant? He couldn’t get angry about it anymore.

  6T9’s attention switched to Kenji, seated in his wheelchair, without Isssh for once.

  The werfles were going with Darmadi, Noa, James, Young, and a few weere priests, and Luddeccean Officers to, “Hammer out some details,” as Noa called it.

  Clearing his throat, Kenji looked at a point between 6T9 and Volka. “I was hoping … we could talk.”

  “Of course, sir,” Volka said.

  Kenji smiled so slightly 6T9’s algorithms had difficulty processing it. Was it a relieved smile? A sad smile? A little of both?

  “Would you be so kind as to push me?” he asked.

  6T9 began to fear for his battery, but Volka said quickly, “It would be an honor, sir,” and despite her exhausted state, stepped quickly behind him.

  “Do I need to tell you where to go?” Kenji whispered in a tone that 6T9 had heard him use long ago to ask Noa, “Do you think Auntie will notice if we have another piece of carrot cake?” Kenji had been very fond of that recipe. 6T9 wished he could offer to bake him one.

  “I see it,” Volka whispered back, pushing him out of the docking bay. They walked in silence to a lift that Volka operated without asking where they needed to go. They reached the same deck as the stateroom they’d met in before but went to a different door. It opened and 6T9, Volka, and Kenji entered another well-appointed suite, though it was slightly smaller. There was a screen on one of the walls, depicting Luddeccea’s Xinshii Gorge, and, 6T9 noted, emitting full-spectrum light. As if guessing his thoughts, Kenji said, “I find having full-spectrum light during waking hours helps me sleep better.”

  6T9 blinked, surprised Kenji had “read his mind.” Odd that their minds should intersect like that, as different as they were.

  “Would you like to join me for some broth, tea, hot chocolate?” Kenji said, gesturing toward what looked like a desk cabinet, but on closer inspection turned out to be a small refrigerator—another cabinet appeared to be a microwave, and on top of the desk was an electric tea kettle.

  “Only if you’re having some,” Volka demurred. She needed some broth though, and 6T9 could use the power. “I definitely want some,” 6T9 said, going over to the cabinets.

  Kenji protested, “I can do it myself.”

  “I’m already here,” 6T9 said, discovering some mugs, too.

  Kenji was quiet the whole time the tea was steeping. Standing with her hands behind her back, Volka stared at the picture of the Xinshii Gorge. She did not make small talk, either, because it wasn’t in her nature, because as a maid she’d been taught to keep her mouth shut, or because whatever was on Kenji’s mind was dissuading her from doing so. The last kept 6T9 from saying something blithe—though his original programming was begging him to do so.

  It wasn’t until Volka had her broth, Kenji had his tea, and 6T9 had his hot chocolate—extra sugar and cream—that Kenji finally spoke. “Do you know what I wanted to speak of?” he asked.

  “Not precisely,” Volka said. “I know you are worried about Noa, and James, and Sixty, and me, and the mission … but I think there is more than that.”

  Kenji sighed into his tea, and 6T9’s original programming urged him to say, “Let me bake you a carrot cake.” He didn’t offer, but only just.

  Studying his mug, Kenji said, “It would be easier if I didn’t have to say—” He glanced up at 6T9. “But I suppose that would be unfair to you, Sixty.”

  “You need a piece of carrot cake,” 6T9 blurted. His Q-comm briefly went offline and when it came back online, he wanted to bang his head against a wall.

  Kenji stared. Volka stared. And then Kenji smiled and barked out a laugh. “Do you still have that recipe?”

  “Of course I do,” 6T9 said, noting the mild offense that had crept into his tone.

  “Well, that is something to live for,” Kenji said.

  “I like carrot cake,” Volka murmured, and 6T9 blinked at the revelation. Generally, she didn’t like sweets.

  “We’ll have it for our wedding,” 6T9 declared, and wasn’t sure if his Q-comm or original programming had prompted the outburst.

  Volka smiled at him, but then the smile dropped, and her gaze shot to Kenji.

  He was frowning deeply into his mug. 6T9’s Q-comm sparked. Kenji wasn’t the young man who conspired for secret second helpings of cake. He was the spiritual leader of a planetary system that saw intelligent machines as the equivalent of demons and sex as something inherently connected with procreation. No matter how polite Kenji was being in current circumstances, that didn’t mean he would accept the idea of marriage between Volka and 6T9.

  “Am I doing the right thing, 6T9?” Kenji blurted, and 6T9’s Q-comm flashed with disorientation.

  “You know everything I have done.” Kenji’s eyes met 6T9’s. They were full of unshed tears. Kenji quickly looked away. “Am I doing the right thing this time?” he whispered.

  6T9 needed another shot of hot chocolate. His battery was still low, but he went over to Kenji’s chair, his distant server finally piecing together what was wrong.

  “I am the reason Luddeccea was bombed by Time Gate 8,” Kenji said.

  “That was Gate 8’s fault!” Volka protested.

  Kenji coughed. “I attacked it first. I fed its paranoia. And now …” He waved a hand. “Do we understand our enemy? Is there some other way? There are billions of people in System 3. If we bomb Planet Zero, and the Dark begins infecting System 3 in earnest, and the Republic shuts down gates to System 3, they will all die. Slowly. Painfully. Starvation is not a pleasant death.

  “I am—have been—reacting to the Dark in the same way that I did to your kind, Sixty. I was wrong then—and now—am I wrong again? I tell myself the Dark is different, but is it?” He coughed. “I have a poor record when it comes to evaluating motives and goodness.”

  “The Dark is different,” said Volka, her ears forward.

  Kenji looked up at her. Looked away. “I want to believe that.”

  “I can see into its heart,” Volka said. “It just wants.”

  “To bring peace,” Kenji interjected. “According to its own account.”

  “The peace of conformity,” Volka said. “If it robs our free will, isn’t that the same as stealing our souls?”

  Kenji gazed at the screen displaying the Gorge, and 6T9 remembered something Eliza had said about the most vocally religious people being vocal to drown out their own doubts. Kenji had been a programmer. Machines, even intelligent ones, did not have free will. They were products of their programming and their experience; their actions were not a result of any divine spark.

  6T9 didn’t think you could observe humans for a hundred years and come to any conclusion but that they were carbon-based machines. Kenji was a brilliant progr
ammer. He’d discovered that the gates were sentient and guarding that secret jealously. Kenji had ascribed that secrecy to malfeasance, when it had been caution and fear. He’d almost started a war that would have destroyed both their races. Now he was worried that his programming was making him follow the same script. “That you have doubt means that your programming has changed,” 6T9 said.

  Kenji stared up at him, but 6T9 doubted that he saw him.

  “The Dark wants to kill all machines,” Volka said. “It promised to—and it hates Sixty in particular. It’s not the same. It’s not about peace.”

  Kenji looked up at her sharply. “Destroy all machines? Really?”

  Volka nodded, and Kenji’s brows rose. “How was that not brought to my attention?”

  6T9 smiled wryly. “I suspect it isn’t the primary motivation for most Luddecceans in this fight.”

  Kenji coughed. Or laughed. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be.” He looked up at 6T9. “How could anyone hate you, Sixty?”

  Relieved that Kenji’s mood seemed to have passed, 6T9 put his hand to his chest. “I certainly have no idea.”

  Volka rolled her eyes but smiled. And it struck 6T9 that she had known what to say. Humans might be machines, but their programming had evolved over millions of years and was often superior for non-computational thinking. This wasn’t the first time 6T9 had spent precious seconds, minutes, and even days studying a matter when Volka instantly knew the answer.

  Kenji stared at his mug, abruptly somber again. “We don’t know how the Dark will react to this strike. It will likely redouble its efforts.”

  Volka put a hand on his shoulder. “But we know how it will react if we don’t strike.” Her ears curled. “And, sir, it did strike first.”

  Kenji stared at her—or, a point past her. “This weapon is untested though, and—”

  The chime sounded, and whatever Kenji was about to say, he never finished.

  21

  The Only Constant

  Luddeccean System

  Two ships barreled toward the Skimmers; the quantum waves around them twisted inward and backward. Volka barely had time to breathe before twin Infected torpedoes launched from their bays, the stench of them making bile rise in Volka’s throat.

  With a snarl, Volka wrapped her will around the strings that spilled from Young and Rhinehart and launched their Skimmers directly into the torpedoes. The Skimmers’ hulls turned gray on impact, dark veins spread from their bows to their sterns, and then the ships looked like they were in the grip of vicious, black claws. A breath, a heartbeat, and the two Skimmers were Infected; their crews were too, and Volka felt another cold claw around her heart.

  Volka’s eyes bolted open. Her stomach swam. Her body was chilled, even though she wore her envirosuit. A dream. It had only been a dream. She hadn’t really commanded Young and Rhinehart to their deaths, still, heart racing, she reached out and felt Young and Rhinehart and their Skimmers, alive and well, and sleepy. They were just rising. It was time to get up.

  “You’re awake,” Sixty whispered, right on cue, his breath tickling Volka’s ear. She was curled up on his arm, her legs pressed around his body; the air mattress beneath them was surprisingly comfortable. Sundancer’s hull was translucent, but they were in the shadow of Gabriel’s Star, and 6T9’s face was lit only by starlight.

  She trembled, but not in lust, at memory of the dream. Waking up next to Sixty, who didn’t have morning breath, was probably the most handsome man in the galaxy, and smelled like a man should smell based on what was most attractive to the greatest number of women in said galaxy, should make her tremble with desire.

  A snore ripped from a crew member sleeping behind Volka, and her ears flicked madly. At her feet, Carl’s snore whistled in echo. Everyone not on guard in the aft compartments was sharing Sundancer’s bridge, trying to get some shuteye. Sixty and Volka weren’t alone. That might be another reason she wasn’t “in the mood.”

  Gate 5 had donated navigation systems and automatic pilots for drones and fighters—all of which called Sixty “Android General 1”—and yesterday they’d been busy ferrying those here and helping install them. They hadn’t gone back to Odessa; three other Skimmers were stationed there. Like Sundancer’s crew, they would all be sleeping aboard ship in orbit, ready to face any adversary that appeared.

  Her stomach swam thinking about it, or maybe it was the dream, or the hormone suppressants. She felt like throwing up. She pressed a hand to her mouth, and Sixty said, “Here.” He handed her a package of crackers. “Stole it last night from the cafeteria.”

  Stole was too strong a word—they had been invited to the Uriel’s cafeteria, and she very much doubted that the Uriel minded the missing crackers—but Volka just focused on opening the package. Her hands were shaking.

  “You were having a bad dream,” Sixty whispered. There was a line etched between his brows.

  Volka nodded. He touched her cheek. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not here,” she said.

  He slid a hand behind her ear. “The Uriel has asked us to come aboard for breakfast and showers.”

  Carl’s whistling snore ended abruptly. The werfle lifted his bewhiskered snout and exclaimed, “Luddeccean bacon! Let’s go!”

  Volka didn’t think she could stand bacon at the moment, but a shower, even though it would be only three minutes long and wouldn’t be hot enough, sounded divine. Around her, the crew awoke, expressing the same sentiment. Sundancer caught the desire and approached the Uriel’s airlock. Volka blinked and saw Nightwing, Young’s ship, and Dr. Patrick’s following.

  Sixty said, “They’re going to help integrate the Republic systems in the Luddeccean fighters and drones.” He smiled tightly. “I’ll probably go check on TAB and Bracelet’s installs while you eat.”

  Volka’s ears crumpled. The Luddecceans didn’t like sharing food with androids; they saw it as a waste.

  Sixty sighed and spoke as though he’d read her mind. “It is a waste for me to eat, Volka. I can drink power from their reactor, and I don’t utilize calories as well as you do.”

  Her ears flicked. She knew that, but she also knew that he liked to eat.

  “I prefer lab grown bacon anyway,” he said, rising from the air mattress.

  Following him, she frowned. He loved Luddeccean clotted cream, bornut jam, and maple syrup. She didn’t say anything, though; mostly she thought the effort would make her woozy. She focused instead on getting their gear stowed away.

  A few minutes later, they met up with Dr. Patrick and Young on the Uriel’s dock. They were greeted there by a few Luddecceans. One of them looked up at Nightwing and said good-naturedly, “Is that Bubbles?”

  Nightwing flashed in annoyance.

  The Luddecceans chuckled, and so did Young. It was a big joke to the Luddecceans that Ramirez’s ship’s name was Bubbles. Admittedly, it wasn’t a name you’d typically associate with a warship.

  Sixty smiled thinly. “Not every ship can be the light of God.” He made the translation of Uriel’s name sound pretentious, which maybe it was a little. Maybe God didn’t like his ethereal archangel’s name used for something as worldly as a starship—even one as beautiful as this. There were a few whistles at Sixty’s response. One of the Luddecceans said, “You only dare to say it like that ‘cause you got a werfle around your neck!” and someone else said boastfully, “Sure can’t be more than one!” Still, the mood was happy and relaxed. For a few minutes, Volka’s steps were light. And then one of the Luddecceans said to Young, “The way you all flew above Planet Zero, the coordination you had without comms, it was amazing!”

  Young shrugged and said, “It’s the ships.”

  But it wasn’t just the ships. They didn’t have the instincts of a killer. Suddenly, Volka’s stomach was churning again.

  “Easy, Hatchling,” said Carl. “You’ll—”

  Trembling, Volka touched Sixty’s arm. “I’ll be just a minute.” She turned away and ducked into a small, cramped,
stainless steel lavatory. She remembered commanding Young on his suicide mission in her dream and didn’t even have time to kneel before she threw up. It didn’t bring relief.

  She wasn’t surprised to see Sixty waiting for her outside the lavatory. She was only slightly surprised to see Carl on his shoulders, whiskers sagging—he wasn’t one to skip bacon, but Sixty was his ride. She was surprised to see Young and Patrick, looking very serious.

  “Do you need to see a doctor?” Young asked.

  She glanced and saw Sixty’s lips pressed together. He wouldn’t say anything. Galacticans didn’t believe in revealing medical information without direct authorization.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Volka said.

  “Volka, if you’re sick,” Young said, his voice not unkind. “We really need to know.”

  Her ears began to flick madly. Dr. Patrick was thinking that the whole incident made him believe there might be a god after all, and that God had a twisted sense of humor. Their lives depended on a genetic mutant from a backworld who was weak in mind and apparently in body. Volka’s ears went back. She wasn’t weak minded—not like he thought, but she did only have the experience she had with the Marines, and the training she’d gotten from Noa. She wasn’t fit to—

  “Oh, Lizzar snot!” Carl declared. He twisted on Sixty’s shoulder and flicked a paw at a camera set into a corner down the hall. It exploded in a shower of sparks, and Young, Patrick, and Sixty jumped. Volka’s hair rose.

  Twisting to face her, Carl put four little middle paws on, well, not precisely his hips, but on his sides, and shook a forepaw at her. “It wasn’t the hormone suppressants you are taking that made you throw up—” He lowered his ears and hissed at Young and Patrick, “which she is taking for valid medical reasons.” He turned his nose to her. “It was your dream that made you throw up.” He looked at Young. “She dreamed that she controlled your mind and killed you with a suicide mission.”

  Young’s brow furrowed.