A Problem of Proportion

by John Scalzi

  “If we tell her where to show up, she’ll be there,” Rigney said. “We just need to get you there.”

  “And make sure that no one else knows you’re coming,” said Egan.

  “We’re not attacking any of your ships,” Abumwe said, to Sorvalh.

  “Curious,” Sorvalh said. “Because in the past several of your months, we have had twenty ships up and disappear.”

  “Conclave military ships?” Abumwe asked.

  “No,” Sorvalh said. “Mostly merchant ships and a few repurposed ships.”

  “Go on,” Abumwe said.

  “There’s not much more to say,” Sorvalh said. “All of them were lost in territory that borders Colonial Union space. All of them disappeared without evidence. Ships, gone. Crews, gone. Cargo, gone. Too few ships to constitute an action which merited a response. Too many to just chalk up to chance or fate.”

  “And you’ve had none of these ships reappear,” Abumwe asked.

  “There is one,” Sorvalh said. “It’s the Urse Damay.”

  “You’re joking,” Wilson said.

  “No, Lieutenant Wilson,” Sorvalh said, turning to him. “The Urse Damay was one of the first on the list to go, and one that gave us the greatest amount of worry. It’s a diplomatic ship, or was, and its disappearance was a possible act of war as far as we were concerned. But we didn’t pick up any chatter in our usual channels about it, and for something like this, we would.”

  “Yet you still think we’re behind this,” Abumwe said.

  “If we were certain, then you would have heard from us already, and not through a diplomatic back channel,” Sorvalh said. “We have our suspicions, but we also have no interest in starting a war with the Colonial Union over suspicions. Just as, obviously, you have no desire to start a war with us over your suspicions, either.”

  “The Urse Damay being here should convince you that it’s not us who took it,” Coloma said. “It fired on us.”

  “It fired on both of our ships,” Captain Fotew said. “And on ours first. We arrived here just before you did. It was here when we arrived.”

  “If we had arrived first, we would have seen it as a Conclave diplomatic ship,” Coloma said. “It’s obvious that it was meant to lure the Clarke and then attack us.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” Sorvalh said. “Another way is to have your tame, captured Conclave ship fake an attack on an unarmed diplomatic ship and use that as a propaganda tool. It’s not as if the Colonial Union is not above sacrificing a ship or a colony to whip up some righteous anger.”

  Coloma stiffened at this; Abumwe reached over and took her arm to calm and caution her. “You’re not actually suggesting this is the case here.”

  “I am not,” Sorvalh agreed. “I am pointing out that we both have more questions than answers at the moment. Our ship went missing. It’s shown up here. It’s attacked both of our ships. Who was the intended target is, at the moment, a trivial question because we both ended up as targets. The question we should be asking is, who is targeting us both? How did they know we would be here? And are they the same people who have caused your ships to disappear?”

  Wilson turned back to Fotew. “You say that the Urse Damay is dead.”

  “Incapacitated at the very least,” Fotew said. “And not a threat in any event.”

  “Then I have a suggestion,” Wilson said.

  “Please,” Sorvalh said.

  “I think it might be time for a joint field trip,” Wilson said.

  “Don’t do anything fancy,” Hart Schmidt said to Wilson. The two of them were in the Clarke shuttle bay. The Nurimal’s shuttle, with its pilot and two Conclave military, was waiting for Wilson to board. “Look around, see what you can find out, get out of there.”

  “I want to know when it was you became my mother,” Wilson said.

  “You keep doing crazy things,” Schmidt said. “And then you keep roping me into them with you.”

  “Someone else can monitor me if you want,” Wilson said.

  “Don’t be stupid, Harry,” Schmidt said. He checked Wilson’s combat suit a second time. “You’ve checked your oxygen supply.”

  “It’s being constantly monitored by my BrainPal,” Wilson said. “Plus the combat suit is configured for a vacuum environment. Plus I can hold my breath for ten minutes at a time. Please, Hart. You’re my friend, but I’m going to have to kill you.”

  “All right. Sorry,” Schmidt said. “I’ll be following you from the bridge. Keep your audio and visual circuits open. Coloma and Abumwe will be there, too, if you have any questions for them and vice versa.”

  “Just who I want in my head,” Wilson said.

  One of the Conclave soldiers, a Lalan, poked his head out of the shuttle and motioned to Wilson. “That’s my ride,” he said.

  Schmidt peered at the soldier. “Watch out for these guys,” he said.

  “They’re not going to kill me, Hart,” Wilson said. “That would look bad.”

  “One day you’re going to be wrong about these things,” Schmidt said.

  “When I am, hope that I’m very far away from you,” Wilson said. Schmidt grinned at this and headed back to the shuttle bay control room.

  Wilson entered the shuttle. The pilot and one of the soldiers were Lalan, like Sorvalh and Captain Fotew. The other was a Fflict, a squat, hairy race. It motioned to Wilson to have a seat. He did and stowed his MP-35 beneath his feet.

  “We have translation circuits built into our suits,” the Fflict said, in its own language, while a translation came through a speaker on its belt. “You can speak your language and we’ll get a translation through our audio feed.”

  “Likewise,” Wilson said, and pointed to the speaker. “You can turn that off if you like. I’ll still be able to understand you just fine.”

  “Good,” the Fflict said, and turned off the speaker. “I hate the way that thing makes me sound.” It held up a hand and contracted the appendages twice, in a greeting. “I’m Lieutenant Navill Werd.” It pointed toward the Lalans. “Pilot Urgrn Howel, Corporal Lesl Carn.”

  “Lieutenant Harry Wilson,” Wilson said.

  “Have you been in a vacuum environment before?” Werd asked.

  “Once or twice,” Wilson said.

  “Good,” Werd said. “Now, listen. This is a joint mission, but someone has to be in charge, and I’m going to propose that it’s me, on account that I’m already supposed to be in charge of these two, and it’s my shuttle besides. Any objection?”

  Wilson grinned. “No, sir.”

  “Wrong gender,” Werd said. “But your ‘ma’am’ doesn’t exactly work either, so you might as well keep calling me ‘sir.’ No need to make things complicated.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilson said.

  “Right, let’s get this thing moving,” Werd said, then turned to nod at his pilot. The pilot zipped up the shuttle and signaled to the Clarke that they were ready to depart; the Clarke started the purge cycle for the bay. Corporal Carn eased himself into the co-pilot’s seat.

  “This is my first time working with a human,” Werd said, to Wilson.

  “How’s it going so far?” Wilson asked.

  “Not bad,” Werd said. “You’re kind of ugly, though.”

  “I get that a lot,” Wilson said.

  “I bet you do,” Werd said. “I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Thanks,” Wilson said.

  “But if you smell, I’m pushing you out an airlock,” Werd said.

  “Got it,” Wilson said.

  “Glad we’ve come to this understanding,” Werd said.

  “The lieutenant is like this with everyone,” Corporal Carn said, looking back at Wilson. “It’s not just you.”

  “It’s not my fault everyone else is hideous to look at,” Werd said. “You can’t all be gorgeous like me.”

  “How do you even get through the day being as gorgeous as you are, sir?” Wilson asked.

  “I really don’t know,” Werd said. “Jus
t by being a beacon of hope and good looks, I suppose.”

  “You see what I’m saying here,” Carn said.

  “He’s just jealous,” Werd said. “And ugly.”

  “You guys are a hoot,” Wilson said. “And here my friend Hart thought you might try to kill me.”

  “Of course not,” Werd said. “We save that for the second mission.”

  The shuttle backed out of the bay and headed to the Urse Damay.

  “All right, who wants to tell me the weird thing about this ship?” Werd said, to no one in particular. The lieutenant’s voice came in through Wilson’s BrainPal; he, Werd and Carn were all in separate parts of the ship.

  “The fact there’s not a single living thing on it?” Carn said.

  “Close, but no,” Werd said.

  “That’s not the weird thing?” Carn said. “If that’s not the weird thing, Lieutenant, what is?”

  “The fact there’s no evidence that a single living thing was ever on it,” Wilson said.

  “The human gets it,” Werd said. “This is the strangest damn thing I have ever seen.”

  The three soldiers had carefully navigated themselves over to the tumbling front end of the Urse Damay. The shuttle pilot had matched the spin and rotation of the ship fragment, and the three traversed across by way of a guide line attached to a magnetic harpoon. Once they were over, the shuttle backed off to a less dangerous distance while continuing to match the tumble.

  Inside, the tumble was enough to stick Wilson, Werd and Carn to the bulkheads at crazy angles to the ship’s internal layout. The three of them had to be careful when they walked; the open communication channel was occasionally punctuated by the very tall Corporal Carn cursing as he bumped into something.

  The front end of the Urse Damay had been severed from its prime power source, but emergency power was still being drawn from local batteries; emergency lighting flooded the corridors with a dim but serviceable glow. The glow showed no indication that anyone had walked the corridors in the recent past. Wilson pulled open doors to living quarters, conference rooms and what appeared to be a mess hall, judging from the benches and what looked to be food preparation areas.

  They were all empty and sterile.

  “Is this ship programmed?” asked Carn. “Like a skip drone?”

  “I saw the video replay of its battle with the Nurimal,” Werd said. “The Urse Damay was using tactics that suggest more than just programming, at least to me.”

  “I agree with that,” Wilson said. “It sure looked like someone was here.”

  “Maybe it’s remotely controlled,” Carn said.

  “We’ve swept the local area,” Wilson said. “We didn’t find any drones or smaller ships. I’m sure Captain Fotew had the Nurimal do the same thing.”

  “Then how did this ship fight with no one on it?” Carn asked.

  “How do we feel about ghosts?” Werd said.

  “I prefer my dead to stay dead,” Wilson said.

  “The human gets it right again,” Werd said. “So we keep looking for something living on the ship.”

  A few minutes later, Carn was on the open channel. He made a noise; after a second, Wilson’s BrainPal translated it to “uh.”

  “What is it?” Werd asked.

  “I think I found something,” Carn said.

  “Is it alive?” Wilson asked.

  “Maybe?” Carn said.

  “Carn, you’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Werd said. Even through the translation, Wilson could hear the exasperation.

  “I’m on the bridge,” Carn said. “There’s no one here. But there’s a screen that’s on.”

  “All right,” Werd said. “So what?”

  “So when I passed by the screen, words came up on it,” Carn said.

  “What did they say?” Wilson asked.

  “‘Come back,’” Carn said.

  “I thought you said there was no one in the room with you,” Werd said.

  “There’s not,” Carn said. “Hold on, there’s something new on the screen now. More words.”

  “What’s it say this time?” Werd asked.

  “‘Help me,’” Carn said.

  “You said you had expertise with technology,” Werd said to Wilson, and pointed to the bridge screen, hovering at an off-kilter angle above them. “Make this thing work.”

  Wilson grimaced and looked at the screen. The words on the screen were in Lalan; a visual overlay from his BrainPal translated the message. There was no keyboard or operating tool that Wilson could see. He reached up and tapped the screen; nothing. “How do you usually work your screens?” Wilson asked Werd. “Does the Conclave have some sort of standard access interface?”

  “I lead people and shoot at things,” Werd said. “Access interfaces aren’t my thing.”

  “We have a standard data transmission band,” Carn said. “Not the voice transmission band, but for other things.”

  “Hart?” Wilson said.

  “Getting that for you now,” Schmidt said, in his head.

  “Look,” Carn said, pointing at the screen. “New words.”

  You don’t need the data band, the words said in Lalan. I can hear you on the audio band. But I only understand the Lalan. My translation module is damaged.

  “What language do you speak?” Wilson said, and ordered his BrainPal to translate in Lalan.

  Easo, the words said.

  Wilson queried his BrainPal, which had the language and began to unpack it. “Is that better?” he asked.

  Yes, thank you, the words said.

  “Who are you?” Wilson asked.

  My name is Rayth Ablant.

  “Are you the captain of the Urse Damay?” Wilson asked.

  In a manner of speaking, yes.

  “Why did you attack the Clarke and Nurimal?” Wilson asked.

  I had no choice in the matter.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Werd, who apparently had Easo as part of his translation database.

  You mean, where is my crew.

  “Yes,” Werd said.

  I have none. It’s just me.

  “Where are you?” Wilson asked.

  That’s an interesting question, the words said.

  “Are you on the ship?” Wilson asked.

  I am the ship.

  “I heard that correctly, right?” Carn said, after a minute. “I didn’t just get a bad translation, did I?”

  “We’re asking the same question over here,” Schimdt said to Wilson, although he was the only one on the Urse Damay who could hear him.

  “You are the ship,” Wilson repeated.

  Yes.

  “That’s not possible,” Werd said.

  I wish you were right about that.

  “Lieutenant Werd is right,” Wilson said. “None of us have been able to create truly intelligent machines.”

  I never said I was a machine.

  “This guy is making me irritated,” Werd said, to Wilson. “He’s speaking in riddles.”

  “And he can hear you,” Wilson said, making a chopping motion: Werd, shut up. “Rayth Ablant, you’re going to need to explain yourself better for us. I don’t think any of us understand what you’re saying.”

  It’s easier to show you.

  “All right,” Wilson said. “Show me.”

  Look behind you.

  Wilson did. Behind him was a line of displays and a large, black cabinet. He turned back to the display.

  Open it. Carefully.

  Wilson did.

  Hello.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Wilson said.

  “He’s a brain in a box,” Wilson said. “Literally a brain in a box. I opened up the cabinet and there’s a container in there with an Easo brain and nervous system laid out and connected to non-organic data fibers. There’s some sort of liquid surrounding the brain, which I suspect is keeping it oxygenated and fed. There’s an outtake tube that connects to what looks like a filtering mechanism, with another tube coming out the other
end. It all gets recycled. It’s pretty impressive, as long as you forget that there’s an actual sentient being trapped in there.”

  Wilson sat once more in the Clarke shuttle bay with Abumwe, Sorvalh, Muhtal Worl and Hart Schmidt. Captains Coloma and Fotew had returned to their posts. Abumwe and Coloma had seen Rayth Ablant from Wilson’s own point of view through his BrainPal feed, but Sorvalh wanted a report as well. Wilson offered her his BrainPal feed, but she refused, preferring, as she said, “a live recounting.”

  “Who was this Ablant?” Sorvalh asked. “He had a life before…this.”

  “He was a pilot on the Urse Damay, or so he says,” Wilson said. “You would be able to check that better than I would, Councillor.”

  Sorvalh nodded to Worl, who made a note on his tablet computer. “He was part of a crew,” Sorvalh said. “The Urse Damay had a core crew of fifty and a diplomatic mission party of a dozen. What happened to them?”

  “He says he doesn’t know,” Wilson said. “He says he had been asleep when the Urse Damay was first boarded and that he was knocked unconscious during the invasion. When he woke up he was like this. The people who did this to him didn’t tell him anything about the rest of his crew.”

  “And who are they, the people who did this to him?” Sorvalh asked.

  “He says he doesn’t know that, either,” Wilson said. “He says he’s never even technically spoken with them. They communicate with him through text. When he came to, they explained to him his job was to learn how to operate and navigate the Urse Damay on his own and that when he became proficient enough, he would be given a mission. This was that mission.”

  “Do you believe he doesn’t know who these people are?” Sorvalh asked Wilson.

  “Pardon my French, Councillor, but the guy is a fucking disembodied brain,” Wilson said. “It’s not like he has any powers of observation other than what they gave him. He says they didn’t even give him external inputs until after the ship skipped. He was flying blind for the first half of his mission. It’s entirely possible he knows nothing about these people but what they tell him, which is almost nothing.”

  “You trust him,” Sorvalh said.

  “I pity him,” Wilson said. “But I also think he’s credible. If he was a willing participant in this, they wouldn’t need to put his brain in a box to get him to do what they want him to do.”