A Matter of Oaths
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A Matter of Oaths
Helen S. Wright
For Barbara Burford, who made this book – and the world – so much better than it would have been without her.
Introduction
I didn’t read A Matter of Oaths when I should have. Granted, when the book first hit shelves in 1988, I couldn’t have read it. I had other pressing concerns: learning to write my name, velcroing my shoes, trying to understand how, exactly, Geordi La Forge and the host of Reading Rainbow were the same person. Starships, you see, were very real to me then. (They still are, though in a different sort of way.)
No, I needed this book a decade later, when I was devouring the written side of science fiction like I’d been starving my whole life prior. But by then, A Matter of Oaths was out of print. If it was present on a school bookshelf or in the public library, no one steered me toward it. I wish they had. I wish I could’ve sat down on the floor in front of the stacks, and told them what I was searching for.
Hi, I’d say to the stacks.
Welcome back, the stacks would say. Tell us where you’re at.
I’ve memorized the Bene Gesserit litany against fear, I’d say.
All right.
I’m kind of obsessed with the idea of Gethenian kemmer.
Why?
I won’t be able to articulate this for another fifteen years or so, but I’m struggling with my sexuality and the understanding of gender in ways my immediate social environment isn’t allowing for.
Gotcha.
Like, at all.
We hear you, kid. What else?
I like Ellie Arroway. I like Captain Janeway. I’d close my eyes with sincerity. And I like spaceships. I like spaceships so, so much.
What we’re hearing, the stacks would say, is that you go for strange, brainy space opera. You like imaginings of genetics and mental skill so extreme, they feel like magic. You want smart women who do science and lead battles and see wonders. You want real sex, not the gruel they’re feeding you in health class. And you don’t want to just cram yourself in an orbital capsule for a few days. You want to live out there. You want awe. Transcendence. You’re down to go a little bonkers in the process. You’d be willing to die for it.
Yeah, I’d say, leaning forward, salivating. Yes, that. All of that.
There’d be a rustling in the stacks then, a low papery sound as they shifted something forward. A book would fall at my feet.
A Matter of Oaths, the stacks would announce. Helen S. Wright. You’ll love this.
I’d eye the cover dubiously.
Ignore the whitewashing, the stacks would sigh.
I haven’t learned that term yet.
You know, like Earthsea?
Oh, I’d say. I’d pause. That’s stupid.
It really is. Trust us, though. This is what you want.
But that’s not how things went. Instead, I went through the next ten years ever increasingly ride-or-die for futures set in space, and ever increasingly frustrated that those futures so rarely included people resembling me or my friends. And when I did the easy, unremarkable thing of writing a galactic future that did have me and my friends in it, the response I got was one of novelty. We have a short memory, we humans. It’s a definite trait in the science fiction community, and a particular irony, since we revel in thinking as far out as we can. Let me give you an easy example of how this goes: Young folks living their fandoms on Tumblr and Ao3 don’t often remember those of us who flourished in webrings, just as we didn’t remember the people who hauled freshly-stapled zines to the post office, just as the zinesters didn’t remember the Sherlock Holmes fans of the early 1900s whenever they used the term ‘canon.’ Every generation thinks it’s invented the wheel.
In the same vein, when I do interviews, I’m asked—again and again and again—what it’s like to be a woman writing science fiction, why variations in race and sexuality are important things to include alongside fast ships and cool tech, where I think these new trends are headed. Every time, I want to tug my hair and shout from way down in my toes: We’ve always written science fiction! These stories have always been told! Female leads, queer characters, characters of colour—these did not spring forth from the 2010s, Athena-like, a stunning new dawn in the realm of fiction. It’s not that these stories were absent. It’s that we didn’t showcase them as much as the others. They’re harder to find. They went out of print. Their covers lied to us.
So, it’s with genuine delight that I invite you to tuck into this reborn book you’ve got in your hands. (Feel free to flip back to the cover real quick. It’s an honest one, now.) Welcome to the future. Here, you’ll find massive interstellar fleets controlled by collective neural will. You’ll find noble families and ‘near-humans’ and immortal rulers who may as well be gods. You’ll find conspiracy and deception, memories without anchor, stars without end.
Welcome, too, to the past. Here, you’ll find women of war, sex without shame, people of every hue, and love that dances freely among genders. Timeless pieces of our species’ existence. Realities that have been here since before we started writing things down. Yet it is in writing that we reflect, and celebrate. It’s in writing that we remember.
Welcome to the Twin Empires. You’ve come to the right place.
Becky Chambers 2017
From introductory material for new members of the Guild of Webbers:
The web is based on a simple concept: a direct link between mind and machine. The systems of a ship become an extension of the webber’s body. But this simplicity is deceptive, and will vanish the first time you enter the shub. Breathing a liquid does not come naturally, and is only the first step…
When you have mastered survival in the shub, you will be ready to take the next step. Through sockets at your neck and wrists, your nervous system will be linked to the ship, and to the other men and women who share the web with you. Through the sockets at your wrists, you will communicate with your web-mates. Through the socket at your neck, you will help to control and monitor the ship. It will take several months to learn this use of your nervous system, and several years before you can claim to have mastered the techniques…
Having a web is a privilege and a responsibility. You must never forget that your web-mates’ lives depend on your self-control. Leave all other concerns behind you when you step into the shub. Forget your body. Focus only on control on the web…
The Oaths between the Guild of Webbers, its Members, and the Emperors Julur and Ayvar
The Member’s Oath to the Guild
I solemnly dedicate myself to the Guild of Webbers. On my honour, on my life and on any lives I have to come, by all that is sacred to me, I swear:
That my loyalty is to the Guild before all others, and then to those to whom the Guild owes loyalty.
That my obedience is to the law of the Guild before all other laws, and then to the laws to which the Guild gives obedience.
That I will serve the Guild to the best of my ability, and in every way that I am able to serve.
That I will cherish each member of the Guild, respecting their beliefs and taking responsibility for their well-being.
That I will keep this oath so long as I shall live.
The Guild’s Oath to the Emperors
We solemnly dedicate ourselves to the worlds that bore us and to the people of those worlds. On our honour, on our lives and on any lives we have to come, by all that is sacred to us, we swear:
That our loyalty is to our people before all others, and then to the Emperors who govern our people.
That our obedience is to the law of the Guild before all other laws, and then to the just laws to which our people give obedience.
That we will serve our people to the best of our ability, in
every way that we are able to serve, respecting their beliefs and taking responsibility for their well-being.
That we will cherish each member of the Guild, respecting their beliefs and taking responsibility for their well-being.
That we will keep this oath so long as one of us lives.
The Emperors’ Oaths to the Guild
I, the Emperor Julur, solemnly dedicate myself to the worlds of the Old Empire and to the people of those worlds. On my honour and on my immortality, I swear:
That my loyalty will be to my people before all others.
That my laws will be just.
That I will serve my people to the best of my ability, in every way that I am able to serve, respecting their beliefs and taking responsibility for their well-being, and causing no harm to any unless for the protection of the Old Empire.
That I will cherish the Guild of Webbers, and each member of the Guild, respecting their beliefs and taking responsibility for their well-being, causing harm to no member of the Guild unless for the protection of the Twin Empires.
That I will keep this oath forever, or forfeit the loyalty of the Guild of Webbers.
I, the Emperor Ayvar, solemnly dedicate myself to the worlds of the New Empire and to the people of those worlds. On my honour and on my immortality, I swear:
That my loyalty will be to my people before all others.
That my laws will be just.
That I will serve my people to the best of my ability, in every way that I am able to serve, respecting their beliefs and taking responsibility for their well-being, and causing no harm to any unless for the protection of the New Empire.
That I will cherish the Guild of Webbers, and each member of the Guild, respecting their beliefs and taking responsibility for their well-being, causing harm to no member of the Guild unless for the protection of the Twin Empires.
That I will keep this oath forever, or forfeit the loyalty of the Guild of Webbers.
Ship Identification
OE-S32176040-8 Bhattya Patrolship class 89/F
Commissioned 240/5003, Keruil Zone
Assigned 089/5043, Achil Zone (refitting)
Specification
Web Standard 20+4
Drive Samansa(High Performance Option)
Armament Class 2 weaponry
Class 2 shielding
Crew
6 senior; 30 junior; 2 apprentices
Commander OE-P3987-49596 Rallya
Captain OE-P2143-95277 Vidar
Webmaster OE-P5971-17529 Joshim
First Officer Vacancy
Second Officer OE-P7921-58712 Jualla
Third Officer OE-P6417-75249 Lilimya
Juniors …
(No vacancies)
Apprentices …
(No vacancies)
172/5043
ACHIL ZONE, OLD EMPIRE
“Now, there’s pretty,” Rallya said appreciatively, seeing the young webber who had paused just inside the entrance to the Guildhall rec-room. He must be recently arrived in the zone; otherwise she would have noticed him before, with his distinctive curly hair, contrasting shades of grey and brown, and that short, svelte figure.
“He is, isn’t he,” Vidar agreed, turning to look. “Young for you though, Rallya,” he added, grinning at her with the immunity of ten years of close friendship.
“Looking isn’t touching,” Rallya defended herself. She leaned back, tipping her seat onto two legs, to get a better view. The stranger was looking around as if a familiar face would be welcome but unexpected. He noticed her continued scrutiny and nodded a courtesy to her rank, the cocky little scut, before moving out of sight behind a group of juniors.
“Anybody else notice his insignia?” Joshim asked.
Rallya nodded. The stranger wore them on his upper left arm, the only distinguishing marks on his plain grey tunic. He had a Second’s badge and two Oath markers but no ship’s patch: a shipless Second who had crossed the Disputed Zone once.
“Looks young for a Second,” Vidar commented. “Probably just made it before he came across and that wasn’t so long ago.”
Joshim shook his head. “That second Oath marker isn’t new, nor is the Second’s badge,” he pointed out. “It might be worth talking to him.”
Rallya looked at him in tolerant amusement. “We need a qualified First, remember? Not a pretty Second to feast our eyes on.”
“We’ve eliminated all the available Firsts and most of the unavailable ones,” Joshim argued. “Unless we want to sit in dock for the foreseeable future, we’ll have to find a Second ready to be bumped up.”
“We haven’t talked to Chennya’s First yet,” Rallya objected.
“Now who’s looking for pretty?” Vidar teased. “Anyway, she’ll be on patrol for another six days.”
“And Vasir’s Three are courting her,” Joshim added. “Their First accepted the Captain’s berth on Hashil.”
Rallya frowned. She wanted Lina, Chennya’s First, a skilful webber with the reputation for being a steady influence in the web-room, and with the potential for command rank in a few years’ time. However, if she was being courted openly, etiquette prevented Bhattya’s Three from making an approach. At least until she was settled with Vasir, Rallya corrected herself, and Bhattya could not wait that long. They would have to let her know, discreetly, that they were waiting to make an offer if she turned Vasir away. There was no doubt that she would welcome such an offer; a berth with Bhattya was a considerable prize. The problem would be getting Joshim to agree to the theft.
“It won’t cost us anything to talk to the stranger,” Vidar was saying. “Until we broadcast the fact that we’re considering Seconds for promotion, we’ll have nobody else to talk to.”
“And if we do, we’ll be inundated,” Rallya predicted sourly. “Every Second in the zone will be haunting the Guildhall trying to catch our eye. Or crowding us out of our own web-room, visiting their long-lost acquaintances and being boot-licking polite in the hope of impressing us.”
“Nobody who knows your reputation will be licking your boots, Rallya,” Vidar promised her. “Not unless they’ve finished with their teeth.”
Rallya snorted unwillingly. “I’d still be happier with a qualified First,” she insisted. “We haven’t explored all the possibilities yet.”
Joshim sighed and gave her the look that meant: I know what you’re thinking and the answer is no.
Rallya scowled and shrugged unrepentantly. “You didn’t have so many principles when I stole you from Samchaya,” she accused him. “Go on, then, ask the pretty boy if we can talk to him.” As Bhattya’s Webmaster, it was Joshim’s right to make the first approach to any webber they chose to court. “Anything rather than spend the evening being bullied by you two.
“Now I know I’m getting old,” she muttered as Joshim left the table. “Ten years ago I’d never have given in so easily.”
“You’re only trying to lull us into thinking you’ve given up on Lina,” Vidar said cheerfully.
“She’s still the best prospect we have,” Rallya muttered rebelliously. “Better than a over-pretty Second.” She hooked one foot around a spare seat at a neighbouring table and pulled it into position next to her. “Emperors, the child can’t be more than twenty-five.”
“Thirty,” the stranger said, arriving behind her in time to hear. He spoke Empire Standard with a soft accent and a tinge of amusement, as if his age had been mistaken before and he was used to it.
“Commander Rallya, Captain Vidar, this is Second Officer Rafell. Rafe.” As Joshim made the introductions, Rafe nodded the appropriate greetings.
“We’re glad you could join us. Sit down, please,” Vidar invited. “May we buy you a drink?”
“Thank you, but no.” Rafe took the seat that Rallya had procured for him and waited with a hint of wariness for the next move. A webber being courted by a Three was temporarily their equal, although most webbers were cautious enough not to take advantage of that fact. Still, to refuse a
drink was unusually cautious.
“Do you drink?” Rallya asked curiously.
“Yes, ma’am, but not when I’m hoping for some web-time in the near future,” he explained.
“On the station waiting list?” Joshim asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take the drink,” Joshim advised. “Half the station’s web is out of action—current leakage into the monitor circuits. The rest is fully occupied running the station. Every shipless webber in the zone is on the waiting list. The average wait is five days.”
“Then a glass of veyu will do no harm,” Rafe conceded.
“May I have a word, Joshim?” The interruption came from Amsur, the Guildhall Webmaster.
“Can it wait?” Joshim asked.
“No. It will only take a few minutes. I’m sure Second Officer Rafell will excuse you,” Amsur insisted.
“Of course.” Rafe tilted his head in polite permission for Joshim to leave. “Webmaster Amsur would not interrupt without good reason.”
As Amsur led Joshim out of hearing, Rafe took the veyu that Vidar passed to him and set it down untouched. Rallya studied his wrists and neck. His web-bands were grey tarket hide, which was a good sign: any webber worth the name bought the best bands they could afford. Tarket was expensive: a set of bands like that cost fifty days’ pay for a Second; but it was comfortable, long-lasting and the best protection there was.
“Whose work?” she asked, indicating the pattern tooled into the bands.
“Mosir.” Rafe shrugged dismissively. “A conceit.”
“An expensive conceit,” Rallya commented sharply, doubling her estimate of how much the bands had cost. “Aristo?” she guessed.
Rafe shrugged again. “Maybe,” he said carelessly, glancing across to where Amsur and Joshim were parting. “Shall we wait for the Webmaster?”
Nobody could accuse this one of boot-licking, Rallya thought in slight amusement. He must be an aristo, she decided, or he would have denied it. Very few of them became webbers; they had too many ties to family and Empire, too much to lose by swearing the Guild Oath. If they were not content with being decorative members of their Emperor’s court, they joined his personal guard or bought a commission in his army. They might end up dead that way, but for an aristo, anything was preferable to serving the wrong Emperor in the wrong Empire. She remembered the second Oath marker on Rafe’s sleeve and wondered which high-bred family in the New Empire had suffered the dishonour of a son’s defection.