Aggressor Six

by Wil McCarthy

  Ken thought about that for a moment. “What happens now? Where do I go?”

  The nurse shrugged. “We're taking you all to Mercy Station for full-body scan. After that I couldn't say.”

  “Back to the meat grinder,” Ken said softly.

  “Well I hope not,” one of the nurses told him. “You'd think they'd make you an instructor or something.”

  “Or something,” Ken agreed sourly. Death and misery were to be his companions from now on. That was what the marines had told him at his induction, and so far, their prediction was dead on. A thought occurred to him. “Nurse, you said something about radiation damage. Was there radiation in there?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, though by the time of the boarding action it was all just secondary and tertiary stuff leaking out of the walls. Structure absorbed a lot of rays in the initial flash.”

  “Flash?”

  “Flash. You don't..? All I know about this are rumors, but supposedly there was a big gamma-ray burst when the drive motor died. Really cooked the Waister crew.”

  “Cooked?” Ken asked, like a moronic human-interface panel that could only echo back the words spoken to it.

  “Yep,” the first nurse agreed. “Advanced radiation sickness, all of them. No hope of survival. They're all up near the hub of the ship, packed in suspended animation.”

  Radiation sickness? We need prisoners, the X.O. had said. The survival of the human race depends on this. Ken felt a deep, visceral nausea, as if he might literally puke up his guts. His lips quivered. “Did... we die for nothing?”

  “No,” The nurse said firmly, putting a hand on Ken's shoulder. “Those bodies are giving up all kinds of data. Two brains! Four sexes! The exobiologists are delirious.”

  “Oh...”

  The nurse moved his hand along Ken's shoulder to the base of his neck, softly. “Corporal. I know this must be hard for you. If you would like to be alone, Lu and I have other duties.”

  Ken shook his head again. No, he did not want to be alone.

  The nurse smiled at him a little, caressed his shoulder again. “I could sit with you, if you like.”

  “Yes,” Ken said softly, feeling awkward and strange. Then: “Take your hand off me, please.”

  “Of course,” the nurse said. “Lu, maybe you could finish rounds without me.”

  “Sure,” said the other man. Scooping up the flatscreen, he turned and strode out of the room.

  The nurse who remained looked down at Ken with gentle eyes. “I can get your dinner,” he offered.

  “Just sit with me, okay?” Ken's voice was strangely plaintive. “I don't want to be alone right now.”

  “I understand,” the nurse said, then frowned and shook his head. “No, I don't. I'm sorry. I can't even imagine what you've been through. Do you want, you know, to talk about it or something?”

  That stopped Ken. Talk about it?

  He imagined the nurse flashing out like a cinder in the lonely depths of space.

  Collapsing into dust.

  Coming apart in a storm of tungsten fiber.

  Do you want to talk about it, Nurse?

  Albuquerque: he imagined the face of his mother, looking up from her patch panel just in time to see the flash.

  Talk about it?

  Skin peeling back from the face of Shiele Tomas.

  “Hey,” the voice distant. “Hey, take it easy.”

  The sound a man made as he choked on his own blood. Should he talk about that? Or the screaming of burst-open Waisters?

  “They sound a lot like babies,” he said, then suddenly barked out a laugh. “If a tree falls and nobody hears it, does it scream like a baby?”

  “Corporal, try to relax.”

  Ken laughed again. “If a million men die in space with their radios off, do they crash like trees? Oh. Oh. Do you think God will let them into Heaven?”

  That thought struck him as hideously funny, and his laughter deepened. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and trickled slowly down his cheeks.

  “Oh God,” he nearly shrieked. “Will he let them into Heaven? Will he?”

  Ken had a good, solid laugh over that one, emptying his lungs with it and rolling, painfully, onto his side. Tears rained down onto his mattress.

  “Will?” He asked, with breath that wouldn't come. “Let...”

  So many dead. So many ways to be dead. Surely God had made Paradise big enough for all?

  His laughter and his tears continued for a long time.

  ~~~

  Sensing movement nearby, Ken opened his eyes. Darkness. Weight and warmth easing in over the side of his bed.

  For a moment he was simply filled with fear. And then, groggily, he remembered where he was. Remembered, too, the lingering touch of the nurse. Had he returned to visit Ken in the night? Muscles tensed.

  The heat of bare skin settled next to his body.

  “I don't—” He whispered urgently.

  “Hush,” a voice whispered back. Female.

  His hand moved up against a curve of soft flesh. Female.

  “Who...”

  “Hush. It doesn't matter.”

  The space between her heat and his own seemed to shimmer and vanish. Flesh melted into flesh. She writhed against him in the darkness.

  Who was this woman? Nurse? Doctor? Captain of the ship? It doesn't matter, she had told him. As if any woman could be here in her place.

  The heat was unbearable, the contours of her body maddening in the darkness. Ken rolled over on top of her, and she moaned a little as he entered. This moment we are at our most human. The thought rose in his mind and then dissolved. The inside of her was slick, oiled. His strokes were deep.

  Awareness drifted for a while, and there was nothing but the tug of pleasure at his loins. Then he tensed, suddenly feeling the sweat that slicked her thighs and stomach, the smooth, downy hairs on the back of her neck where his fingers twined. His body jerked, pumped, the sensation sharp and prolonged. And then, like a marionette with its power cut, he slumped.

  For a time, he lay atop her, thinking of nothing.

  Later, his hands began to explore. Trim body. Smooth skin. Her breasts were high and soft, the nipples firm. She shuddered and hissed as he ran his tongue along them, tasting the salt of their mingled sweat.

  And then she was squirming beneath him, in impatience rather than pleasure. He shifted his weight, and she slipped out from under him. The bed seemed to rise a little as her heat withdrew.

  “What's wrong?” he asked, bewildered by her sudden retreat.

  “Nothing,” she whispered back at him. “I have to go. I've been here too long already.”

  There were sounds of cloth against flesh, cloth against cloth.

  “What's your name?”

  Hot fingers brushed against his lips. “Hush, baby. Please. It doesn't matter.”

  He wanted to say more, but could think of nothing. The scent of her was strong in his nostrils.

  Light blinded him as the door slid open. A silhouette stood out briefly against the glare, and then the door closed again, leaving only afterimages.

  Perhaps she has other heroes to visit this night, a spiteful voice suggested.

  Uh.

  Other heroes. Perhaps, yes.

  The thought filled Ken with sadness.

  Chapter Eight

  “...#most root-ward cause of not-do-well when all voices speak simultaneously#...” The thick Waister syllables trailed off, and Josev pulled the voder mask off his mouth and looked up perplexedly. “Marshe, this is out the lock.”

  Ken looked at the flatscreen in his hands. The text on it, which Josev had been trying to translate, read: The fundamental drawback of democracy is the assumption That the populace is both well-informed and rational enough to choose its leaders wisely. Overspending and bankruptcy are typical results. Conversely, in autocratic societies the government exists solely for its own benefit, and indeed the populace also exists for the benefit of the autocrats. Thus, in times of stress
such governments may be unable to call upon their citizens for support. In Postclementine senocratic societies, appointed officials meet goals and criteria set by the populace, with their performance rated both objectively by the Chang-Watt Tensor and subjectively by popular vote. While rife with minor difficulties, this system has proved remarkably stable in the face of both internal and external perturbations. Quite a paragraph. Not exactly Waister doctrine.

  “Maybe so,” Marshe said. “I just wanted to see. Jonson, would you like to give it a try?”

  Not really, Ken wanted to say. Instead: “Uh... Hmm.” He tensed, pushed a part of his mind back into the spongy resistance of the Broca web. He keyed the voder.

  “#How can Drones tell Queens what-to-do when Drones not-know? How can Queens tell Drones what-to-do when Drones not-listen? Best is Drones do what-to-do of Queen desire, and yell when Queen mistakes them. If Queen is-stupid they can always get a divorce.#

  Beneath her voder mask, Marshe's face split into a grin. Josev snorted. Shenna's tail thwanged against the metal floor. Even Sipho Yeng looked amused.

  “Not accurate, but clever,” Marshe said, nodding with approval. Then her face took on a thoughtful look. “Huh. Why would they have a word like that? That's very interesting.”

  “And very helpful, too,” Josev observed, with heavy sarcasm. “We can split up their happy marriages, and then attack while they're crying about it.”

  “It is interesting,” Sipho said. “We haven't given much thought to internal frictions among the Waisters, though they must exist. As Jonson's comment illustrates. I think you're right, though, Ranes; there doesn't seem to be any direct application for us.”

  “Jonson?” Marshe said.

  Ken paused for a moment. There was a distinct, almost physical sensation as his mind decoupled from the web. “Uh...” he said. “What was the question?”

  Marshe glared. “Do you have any thoughts for us? Would you care to elaborate on your translation?”

  “Huh? No. I mean, not really. I just said what came into my mind. I wasn't trying to be funny or anything.”

  Marshe's glare deepened, her brow furrowing. “Will you join the rest of us in the real world, please? You used the word Ww#hw”—the sound growled from her voder—”as though it equated to a dissolution of marriage. Do you think that context is accurate?”

  “Yes,” Ken replied carefully. The question seemed strange to him. Why would he offer an incorrect translation? Or, if his understanding of the word Ww#hw were wrong, how could he know? He knew only what the Broca web told him.

  “Then,” Marshe continued, “Would you say that Waister Sixes are analogous to human marriages? Not necessarily permanent?”

  “Sure,” Ken said, unsure where this was leading. “There are Fives and Sevens also, aren't there?”

  “And Fours,” she agreed. “But the Sixes are far more common. And a 'Seven' only results when a Queen or Dog gives birth. The offspring is kept for a few months, then transferred to a nursery unit. Or so we believe.”

  Ken grunted.

  “Do you think the Waisters really have such a thing as divorce?” Marshe asked.

  “Uh, well, yeah I think so. Like a no-confidence vote for the Queen or something. But it would have to be pretty complex. I have no idea how they would handle it.”

  “Maybe not so tricky,” Josev said, making an unpleasant face beneath his voder mask. “Marshe, you're a bitch. I'm leaving you, and I'm taking the family with me.”

  The captain looked blank for a moment, then cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head, an expression of interest. “Hmm. Okay, let's go with that. I hate you, too, and if you walk out of here you take the uniform you're wearing and nothing else.”

  Josev pulled his mask off and smiled broadly. “Bitch. The Dog is mine. You love me, don't you, Shenna?”

  Shenna stood up, her face unhappy, tail wagging uncertainly. “#Not-do.# She said, looking from Josev to Marshe. Her voice was the thick, fluted hiss of a Waister, and Ken felt an uneasiness down in his guts somewhere. Thanks to him, the Dog understood Standard, but was no longer capable of speaking it. She'd been a little odd these past few days, as if she sensed something was different, but wasn't quite sure what it was. What would she think if she understood what had happened? What would she think, if she knew it was Ken's idea?

  “#Not-do,#” The Dog repeated. “#Big not-do. Dog everybody stay-with-does.#”

  “Good Dog,” Josev said, leaning over toward her. “Nothing bad is happening here. But if we had to split up this group, would you rather go with me, or with Queen?”

  Shenna's tail stopped wagging, and her face took on an even sadder look. “#Dog Worker stay-with-does.#”

  “No, no, Shennie, I'm a Drone, not a Worker.”

  “#Dog Worker stay-with-does,#” the animal repeated.

  Josev blinked, and silence reigned for several seconds. Ken looked around at the data panels, gloss black consoles speckled with amber lights. The displays were mostly dark right now, not showing the sterilization of Lalande system, not showing the impending doom of the planet Astaroth. Ken was glad for this.

  “Well, so much for your simplicity,” Marshe told Josev. Then, to Shenna: “You're a good dog, Shenna. A very good dog. Nobody's going to leave you.”

  The Dog wagged her tail again, and her mouth stretched in a way that made Ken think she might actually be smiling. Then, sensing that her input was no longer required, she sat back down between Roland Hanlin and Sipho Yeng. A tension seemed to lift from the room.

  “Actually,” Marshe said, “This leads right in to our next project. A kind of, uh,

  poem or something has been made available to us. Hang on a minute.”

  The captain twiddled with her flatscreen, tapping at various points on its surface. Ken noticed the display in his own hands changing. Now, it read:

  # Whshkhh visited water | # Her Dog was drowned

  # In | #

  # Place-of-water where | # Her Workers were broken

  # Water | # On rocks

  # Known-to-be always-is | # were broken

  # | # On water

  # Her Drones visited water | #

  # In | #

  # Under-air where | # Her drones ate sea creatures

  # She begged them not to do | # and died

  Ken stared at the text. The words were in Standard, but the letter font was odd, filled with strange points and angles. Where had this come from? What was it supposed to mean?

  “What is this stuff?” Josev asked.

  “Neural downloads,” said Marshe. “This fragment was found in the brains of three different individuals: two Queens and a Worker.”

  “We can read dead brains?” Asked Josev, skeptically. “Dead, alien brains?”

  Marshe smiled a little. “Yes, actually we can, a little bit. I helped design the equipment for that, so I'm sort of proud of the fact. But really, the answer to your question is no. All the useful information we've extracted has been from the brains of living Waisters. Unfortunately, we only get a taste of what's in there, and we destroy the brains in the process.”

  Josev scowled deeply, as if Marshe were lying to him and everyone knew it. “How can we read them at all? They're not like us, right? Different chemistry, different morphology... Wouldn't it take years of study to even understand their brains?”

  “No,” Marshe told him. “Not at all. The neural network is a deeply optimal structure for data processing and motor control. Evolution loves to optimize, so brains are about the same on every planet we've seen. Different chemistry, yes, but the mechanisms are directly related. Like writing the same language with a different character set.”

  “Sounds like a load of sludge,” Josev said. “I've seen octopus brains and such. They don't look anything like human brains.”

  “Not on the macroscopic level, no. But down inside... Think about ship navigation for a minute. You can crunch the same data five different ways, but the final trajectory solution comes out the same in e
ach case, right? The best solution is the best solution, no matter how you arrive at it. Same thing with biology. In fact, octopus brains are very easy to read.

  “Anyway, you don't have to act so surprised. The linguistic data in your Broca web comes from the same sources.”

  “I thought that was extracted from the Waister computer networks,” Sipho Yeng said.

  “No. I don't know where you heard that, but there are no Waister computer networks that we can find.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “How's that work?” Muttered Josev.

  Marshe shrugged. “Maybe they're too small to see. Maybe the Waisters don't use computers. Maybe the scoutship is is one giant computer, with its data processing and storage elements integrated with the structure so we can't detect them. Right now we just don't know.”

  Josev still looked unconvinced. “Don't Waisters have two brains?”

  “All except the Dogs, yes. Actually, the... poem on your flatscreen there comes in two parts. The left column was read from the cranial assembly, the ah, head brain, and the right one came from the dorsal ganglion. They come up linked on a free-association, so we know they go together. The, ah, structure and punctuation of the poem were put in by technicians. I wanted to get the whole thing in raw, untranslated form, but this was all they had to send me. Stupid. They called the actual download 'intermediate data' and threw it away.”

  “It makes more sense if you read the whole left column, and then put the right one underneath it,” Ken cut in. He'd been eyeing the “poem”, and he'd decided that the one way it was an actual little story, where the other it was a jumble of disconnected thoughts. Maybe the thoughts of Waisters really were disconnected and jumbled, but he thought it unlikely. They were much too efficient for that.

  “Yes,” Sipho Yeng said slowly. “Yes, I believe you're right.”

  “What can we determine from this fragment?” Marshe asked, looking around the circle. “Roland. Speak to us.”