by Ann Leckie
“All the same,” I said, and gestured at Five, who left. I turned again to Captain Hetnys. “So Sword of Atagaris is running Security in the Undergarden.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Captain Hetnys.
“Does it—or you, for that matter—have any experience running civilian security?”
“No, sir, but—”
“That hold,” I interrupted, “is not suitable for use on citizens. And it’s entirely possible to suffocate someone by kneeling on their back that way.” Which was fine if you didn’t care whether the person you were dealing with lived or not. “You and your ship will immediately familiarize yourselves with the guidelines for dealing with citizen civilians. And you will follow them.”
“Begging the fleet captain’s indulgence, sir. You don’t understand. These people are…” She stopped. Lowered her voice. “These people are barely civilized. And they could be writing anything on these walls. At a time like this, painting on the walls like that, they could be spreading rumors, or passing secret messages, or inflammatory slogans, working people up…” She stopped again, momentarily at a loss. “And Station can’t see here, sir. There could be all sorts of unauthorized people here. Or even aliens!”
For a moment the phrase unauthorized people puzzled me. According to Captain Hetnys, everyone here was unauthorized—no one had permission to be here. Then I realized she meant people whose very existence was unauthorized. People who had been born here without Station’s knowledge, and without having trackers implanted. People who were not in Station’s view in any way.
I could imagine—maybe—one or two such people. But enough to be a real problem? “Unauthorized people?” I leaned into my antique accent, put an edge of skepticism into my voice. “Aliens? Really, Captain.”
“Begging the fleet captain’s indulgence. I imagine you’re used to places where everyone is civilized. Where everyone has been fully assimilated to Radchaai life. This isn’t that sort of place.”
“Captain Hetnys,” I said. “You and your crew will use no violence against citizens on this station unless it is absolutely necessary. And,” I continued over her obvious desire to protest, “in the event it does become necessary, you will follow the same regulations Station Security does. Do I make myself clear?”
She blinked. Swallowed back whatever it was she really wanted to say. “Yes, sir.”
I turned to the ancillary. “Sword of Atagaris? Am I clear?”
The ancillary hesitated. Surprised, I didn’t doubt, at my addressing it directly. “Yes, Fleet Captain.”
“Good. Let’s have the rest of this conversation in private.”
7
With Station’s advice and assistance, I had claimed an empty suite of rooms on level four. The air there was stagnant, and I suspected the few light panels that leaned against the walls had been appropriated from the corridors on the way here, given shops probably weren’t open today and station stores might or might not be staffed. Even in the dim lighting, the walls and floors looked unpleasantly dusty and grimy. Besides our own luggage, a few fragments of wood and shards of glass suggested whoever had lived here before the Undergarden was damaged hadn’t taken everything, but anything useful had been scavenged over the years.
“No water, sir,” said Lieutenant Tisarwat. “Which means the nearest baths are… you don’t want to see the nearest baths, sir. Even though there’s no water, people have been using them for… well. Anyway. I’ve sent Nine for buckets, and cleaning supplies if she can find them.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. Is there somewhere Captain Hetnys and I can have a meeting? Preferably with something we can sit on?”
Lieutenant Tisarwat’s lilac eyes showed alarm. “Sir. There’s nothing to sit on, sir, except the floor. Or the luggage.”
Which would delay unpacking. “We’ll sit on the floor, then.” Mercy of Kalr showed me a wave of indignation from every Kalr present, but none of them said anything or even changed expression, except Lieutenant Tisarwat, who did her best to conceal her dismay. “Is there anyone near us?”
“Station says not, sir,” replied Lieutenant Tisarwat. She gestured toward a doorway. “This is probably the best place.”
Captain Hetnys followed me into the room Tisarwat indicated. I squatted on the dirty floor and waved an invitation for her to join me. With some hesitation she squatted in front of me, her ancillary remaining standing behind. “Captain, are you or your ship sending any data to Station?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “No, sir.”
A brief check told me my own ship wasn’t. “So. If I understand correctly, you believe the Presger are likely to attack this system. That they have perhaps already infiltrated this station.” The Radch knew of—had contact with—three species of aliens: the Geck, the Rrrrrr, and the Presger. The Geck rarely left their own home world. Relations with the Rrrrrr were tense, because the first encounter with them had been disastrous. Because of the way our treaty with the Presger had been structured, war with the Rrrrrr had the potential to break that treaty.
And before that treaty, relations with the Presger had been impossible. Invariably fatal, in fact. Before the treaty, the Presger had been implacable enemies of humanity. Or not enemies so much as predators. “Your Amaat lieutenant thought, I take it, that Mercy of Kalr might be a Presger ship in disguise.”
“Yes, sir.” She seemed almost relieved.
“Do you have any reason to think the Presger have broken the treaty? Do you have any hint that they might have even the remotest interest in Athoek?”
Something. Some expression flashed across her face. “Sir, I’ve had no official communications for nearly a month. We lost contact with Omaugh twenty-six days ago, this whole part of the province has. I sent Mercy of Phey to Omaugh to find out what happened, but even if it arrived and turned right back around I won’t hear from it for several days.” It must have arrived at Omaugh shortly after I’d departed. “The system governor has the official news channels reporting ‘unanticipated difficulties’ and not much more, but people are nervous.”
“Understandably.”
“And then ten days ago we lost all communications with Tstur Palace.” That would be about the time the information from Omaugh reached Tstur, plus the distance from here to there. “And the Presger were never our friends, sir, and… I’ve heard things.”
“From Captain Vel,” I guessed. “Things about the Presger undermining the Radch.”
“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged. “But you say Captain Vel is a traitor.”
“The Presger have nothing to do with this. The Lord of the Radch is having a disagreement with herself. She’s split into at least two factions, with opposing aims. Opposing ideas about the future of the Radch. They’ve both been recruiting ships to their causes.” I looked up, to where the attending ancillary stood, expressionless. Apparently uncaring. That appearance was deceptive, I knew. “Sword of Atagaris. You’ve been in this system for some two hundred years.”
“Yes, Fleet Captain.” Its voice was flat, toneless. It would betray none of the surprise I was sure it felt at my addressing it directly this way for a second time.
“The Lord of the Radch has visited during that time. Did she have a private conversation with you? Here in the Undergarden, perhaps?”
“I am at a loss to understand what the fleet captain is asking,” said Sword of Atagaris, in the person of this ancillary.
“I am asking,” I replied, knowing the evasion for precisely what it was, “if you had a private conversation with Anaander Mianaai, one no one could overhear. But perhaps you have already answered me. Was it the one that claims the Presger have infiltrated the Radch, or the other one?” The other one being the one that had given me command of Mercy of Kalr. And sent me Tisarwat.
Or, gods help us all, was there even a third part of Mianaai, with yet another justification of whatever it was she was doing?
“Begging the fleet captain’s indulgence,” interjected Captain Hetnys into the brief si
lence that followed my question, “that I might speak frankly.”
“By all means, Captain.”
“Sir.” She swallowed. “Begging your very great pardon, I am familiar with the fleet captains in the province. Your name isn’t among them.” Sword of Atagaris had no doubt shown her my service record by now—or as much of it as was made available to her—and she’d seen that I’d been made fleet captain only a few weeks ago. The same time I’d joined the military. There were several conclusions one might draw from such information, and it appeared she’d chosen one—that I had been hastily appointed to this position for some reason, with no military background. Saying so aloud, to me, was potentially as much as her life was worth.
“My appointment is a recent one.” That alone raised several questions. In an officer like Captain Hetnys, I expected one of them to be why she hadn’t been appointed fleet captain herself. Possibly this question would occur to her before any others.
“Sir, are there doubts about my loyalty?” Realized then that her career was hardly the most pressing issue. “You said my lord was… divided. That this is all a result of a disagreement with herself. I’m not sure I understand how that’s possible.”
“She’s become too large to continue to be one entity, Captain. If she ever was just one.”
“Of course she was, sir. Is. Begging the fleet captain’s pardon, perhaps you don’t have much experience with ancillary-crewed ships. It’s not exactly the same, sir, but it’s very similar.”
“Beg to inform the captain,” I said, making my voice cold and ironic, “that my entire service record is not available to her. I am quite well acquainted with ancillaries.”
“Even so, sir. If what you say is true, and this is my lord split in two and fighting herself, if they’re both the Lord of the Radch and not… not counterfeit, then how do we know which one is the right one?”
I reminded myself that this was a new idea to Captain Hetnys. That up until now, no Radchaai had ever questioned the identity of Anaander Mianaai, or wondered about the basis of her claim to rule. It had all been mere evident fact. “They both are, Captain.” She showed no sign of comprehension. “If the ‘right’ Anaander had no concern for the lives of citizens so long as she won her struggle with herself, would you still follow her orders?”
She was silent for a good three seconds. “I think I’d need to know more.” Fair enough. “But, your very great pardon, Fleet Captain, I’ve heard things about alien infiltration.”
“From Captain Vel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She was mistaken.” Manipulated, more likely, easier for the one Anaander to gain her sympathies—and perhaps belief—by accusing an outside enemy, one nearly all Radchaai feared and hated.
But I couldn’t say truly that the Presger were not involved at all. It was the Presger who had made the gun I wore under my jacket, invisible to any scanner, its bullets capable of piercing any material in the universe. The Presger who had sold those guns, twenty-five of them, to the Garseddai, to use to resist annexation by the Radch.
And it was the destruction of the Garseddai as a result, the complete and utter obliteration of every living thing in that system, that had triggered Anaander’s crisis, a personal conflict so extreme that she could only resolve it by going to war with herself.
But it had been a crisis waiting to happen. Thousands of bodies distributed over all of Radch space, twelve different headquarters, all in constant communication but time-lagged. Radch space—and Anaander herself—had been steadily expanding for three thousand years, and by now it could take weeks for a thought to reach all the way across herself. It was always, from the beginning, going to fall apart at some point.
Obvious, in retrospect. Obvious before, you’d think. But it’s so easy to just not see the obvious, even long past when it ought to be reasonable.
“Captain,” I said, “my orders are to keep this system safe and stable. If that means defending it from the Lord of the Radch herself, then that is what I will do. If you have orders to support one side or the other, or if you have strong political ideas, then take your ship and go. As far away from Athoek as possible, by my preference.”
She had to think about that just a shade longer than I liked. “Sir, it’s not my job to have any political ideas at all.” I wasn’t sure how honest an answer that was. “It’s my job to follow orders.”
“Which up till now have been to assist the system governor in maintaining order here. From now, they are to assist me in securing and maintaining the safety of this system.”
“Sir. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. But…”
“Yes?”
“With no aspersions cast on the fleet captain’s intelligence and ability…” She trailed off, having, I thought, chosen a beginning to her sentence that would lead to an awkward ending.
“You are concerned at my apparent lack of military experience.” It was potentially worth Captain Hetnys’s life to bring it up. I gave her a small, pleasant smile. “Granted, Administration makes some fucked-up appointments.” She made a tiny, amused sound. Every soldier had complaints about how Military Administration arranged things. “But it wasn’t Administration that appointed me. It was Anaander Mianaai herself.” Strictly true, but not much of an endorsement, and not one I was particularly pleased about claiming. “And you may say to yourself, she’s Mianaai, she’s the Lord of the Radch’s cousin.” A quick twitch of her facial muscles told me she’d had that thought. “And you’ve had experiences with people promoted because they were someone’s cousin. I don’t blame you, I have, too. But despite what you see in the available version of my service record, I am not a new recruit.”
She thought about that. Another moment more and she would conclude that I had spent my career up till now with Special Missions, everything I had done far too secret to admit any of it had ever happened. “Fleet Captain, sir. My apologies.” I gestured away the need for any. “But, sir, Special Missions is accustomed to operate with some amount of… irregularity and…”
Astonishing, coming from someone who had not blinked at ancillaries under her orders injuring citizens. “As it happens, I’ve had some experience with situations that went badly wrong when someone was operating with too much irregularity. And also when someone was operating with far too narrow an idea of the regular. And even if Athoek were completely problem-free, all of Radch space is in the midst of an irregular situation.”
She drew breath to ask more, seemed to reconsider. “Yes, sir.”
I looked up at the Sword of Atagaris ancillary standing still and silent behind her. “And you, Sword of Atagaris?”
“I do as my captain commands me, Fleet Captain.” Toneless. To all appearances emotionless. But almost certainly taken aback by my question.
“Well.” No point in pushing too hard. I stood. “It’s been a difficult day for all of us. Let’s start fresh, shall we? And you have a supper invitation, Captain, unless I misremember.”
“As does the fleet captain,” Captain Hetnys reminded me. “It’s sure to be very good food. And some of the people you’ll want to meet with will be there.” She tried to suppress a glance at the dim, dingy surroundings. No furniture. No water, even. “The governor will certainly be there, sir.”
“Then I suppose,” I said to Captain Hetnys, “I ought to go to supper.”
8
Citizen Fosyf Denche’s apartment boasted a dining room, all glass on one side, looking out over the still-crowded concourse below. Four meters by eight, walls painted ocher. A row of plants sat on a high shelf, long, thick stems hanging down nearly to the floor, with sharp spines and thick, round, bright green leaves. Large as the dining room was by station-dwelling standards, it wouldn’t have been large enough to seat all of a wealthy Radchaai’s composite household—cousins, clients, servants, and their children—and to judge by the half dozen or so small children in various stages of undress and stickiness sleeping on cushions in the nearby sitting room, this was at least the second
round of holiday supper.
“The fleet captain,” said Fosyf in her seat at one end of the table of pale, gilded wood, “is a collector just like you, Administrator Celar!” Fosyf was clearly pleased at having discovered that. Enough to almost completely conceal her disappointment at my not offering any information on the loss of communication with the nearest palaces, or her inability to politely ask me for it.
Station Administrator Celar ventured an expression of cautious interest. “A collector, Fleet Captain? Of songs? What sort?” She was a wide, bulky person in a vividly pink coat and trousers and yellow-green sash. Dark-skinned, dark-eyed, voluminous tightly curled hair pulled up and bound to tower above her head. She was very beautiful and, I thought, aware of that fact, though not off-puttingly so. Her daughter Piat sat beside her, silent and oddly indrawn. She was not so large nor quite so beautiful, but young yet and likely to equal her mother on both counts someday.
“My taste is broad-ranging rather than discriminating, Administrator.” I gestured refusal of another serving of smoked eggs. Captain Hetnys sat silent beside me, intent on her own second helping. Across the table from me, beside the station administrator, System Governor Giarod sat, tall and broad shouldered, in a soft, flowing green coat. Something about the particular shade of her skin suggested she’d had it darkened. From the moment she’d entered, she’d been as collected as though this were a routine supper, nothing out of the ordinary.
“I have a particular interest in Ghaonish music,” confessed Administrator Celar. Fosyf beamed. Fosyf’s daughter Raughd smiled insincerely, fairly competently concealing her boredom. When I’d arrived she’d been just slightly too attentive, too respectful, and I’d seen so many young people of her class, so intimately, for so long, that even without an AI to tell me so, I knew she’d been nursing a hangover. Knew, now, that the hangover med she’d taken had started working.
“I grew up only a few gates from Ghaon, you understand,” Station Administrator Celar continued, “and served as assistant administrator at the station there for twenty years. So fascinating! And so very difficult to find the real, authentic thing.” She picked up a small piece of dredgefruit with her utensil, but instead of putting it in her mouth, moved it toward her lap, under the table. Beside her, her daughter Piat smiled, just slightly, for the first time since I’d seen her.