0316246689 (S)
Authors: Ann Leckie
Tags: #Fiction / Science Fiction / Space Opera, #Fiction / Science Fiction / Action & Adventure
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The Lazarus War: Artefact
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One moment asleep. Awake the next, to the familiar small noises of someone making tea. But it was six minutes earlier than I’d intended. Why? I reached.
Lieutenant Ekalu was on watch. Indignant about something. A little angry, even. Before her the wall displayed a view of Athoek Station, the ships surrounding it. The dome over its gardens barely visible from this angle. Athoek itself half shadowed, half shining blue and white. The background chatter of communications revealed nothing amiss.
I opened my eyes. The walls of my quarters displayed the same view of the space around us that Lieutenant Ekalu watched, in Command—Athoek Station, ships, Athoek itself. The beacons of the system’s four intersystem gates. I didn’t need the walls to display that view. It was one I could see anywhere, at any time, merely by wishing to. But I had never commanded its actual use here. Ship must have done it.
At the counter at the end of the three-by-four-meter room, Seivarden stood, making tea. With the old enamel set, only two bowls, one of them chipped, a casualty of Seivarden’s early,
inept attempts to be useful, more than a year ago. It had been more than a month since she’d last acted as my servant, but her presence was so familiar that I had, on waking, accepted it without thinking much about it. “Seivarden,” I said.
“Ship, actually.” She tilted her head toward me just slightly, her attention still on the tea.
Mercy of Kalr
mostly communicated with its crew via auditory or visual implants, speaking directly into our ears or placing words or images in our visions. It was doing this now, I could see, Seivarden reading words that Ship was giving her. “I’m Ship just now. And two messages came in for you while you slept, but there’s nothing immediately wrong, Fleet Captain.”
I sat up, pushed the blanket away. Three days before, my shoulder had been encased in a corrective, numbing and immobilizing that arm. I was still appreciating the restored freedom of movement.
Seivarden continued, “I think Lieutenant Seivarden misses this sometimes.” The data Ship read from her—which I could see merely by reaching for it—showed some apprehension, mild embarrassment. But Ship was right—she was enjoying this small return to our old roles, even if, I found, I wasn’t. “Three hours ago, Fleet Captain Uemi messaged.” Fleet Captain Uemi was my counterpart one gate away, in Hrad System. In command over any Radchaai military ships stationed there. For whatever that was worth: Radch space was currently embroiled in a civil war, and Fleet Captain Uemi’s authority, like mine, came from the part of Anaander Mianaai that currently held Omaugh Palace. “Tstur Palace has fallen.”
“Dare I ask to whom?”
Seivarden turned from the counter, bowl of tea in one gloved hand. Came over to where I sat on my bed. After all this time she was too familiar with me to be surprised at my
response, or discomfited by the fact my own hands were still bare. “The Lord of Mianaai, who else?” she replied, with a faint smile. Handed me the bowl of tea. “The one, so Fleet Captain Uemi said, that has very little love for you, Fleet Captain. Or for Fleet Captain Uemi herself.”
“Right.” To my mind there was very little difference between any of the parts of Anaander Mianaai, Lord of the Radch, and none of her had any real reason to be pleased with me. But I knew which side Fleet Captain Uemi supported. Possibly even was. Anaander was many-bodied, used to being in dozens, if not hundreds, of places at the same time. Now she was reduced and fragmented, many of her cloned bodies lost in the struggle against herself. I strongly suspected that Captain Uemi was herself a fragment of the Lord of the Radch.
“Fleet Captain Uemi added,” continued Seivarden, “that the Anaander who has taken over Tstur has also managed to sever her connection with herself outside of Tstur System, so the rest of her doesn’t know what she intends. But if Fleet Captain Uemi were Anaander Mianaai, she says, she would devote most of her resources to securing that system, now she’s taken the palace itself. But she would also be sorely tempted to send someone after
you
, Fleet Captain, if she possibly could. The captain of the Hrad fleet also begs to point out that the news reached her by way of a ship from Omaugh Palace, so the information is weeks old.”
I took a drink of my tea. “If the tyrant was foolish enough to send ships here the moment she gained control of Tstur, the soonest they could possibly arrive would be…”
Mercy of Kalr
showed me numbers. “In about a week.”
“That part of the Lord of the Radch has reason to be extremely angry with you,” Seivarden pointed out, for Ship. “And she has a history of reacting drastically to those who
anger her sufficiently. She’ll have come after us sooner, if she could manage it.” She frowned at the words that appeared in her vision next, but of course I could see them myself, and knew what they were. “The second message is from System Governor Giarod.”
I didn’t reply immediately. Governor Giarod was the appointed authority over all of Athoek System. She was also, more or less indirectly, the cause of the injuries that I had only just recovered from. I had, in fact, nearly died sustaining them. Because of who and what I was, I already knew the contents of her message to me. There was no need for Seivarden to say it aloud.
But
Mercy of Kalr
had once had ancillaries—human bodies slaved to its artificial intelligence, hands and feet, eyes and ears for the ship. Those ancillaries were gone, stripped away, and now Ship had an entirely human crew. I knew that the common soldiers aboard sometimes acted for Ship, speaking for it, doing things Ship could no longer do, as though they were the ancillaries it had lost. Generally not in front of me—I myself was an ancillary, the last remaining fragment of the troop carrier
Justice of Toren
, destroyed twenty years ago. I was not amused or comforted by my soldiers’ attempts to imitate what I had once been. Still, I hadn’t forbidden it. Until very recently, my soldiers hadn’t known about my past. And they seemed to find in it a way to shield themselves from the inescapable intimacy of life on a small ship.
But Seivarden had no need for such playacting. She would be doing this because Ship wanted it. Why would Ship want such a thing? “Governor Giarod requests that you return to the station at your earliest convenience,” Seivarden said. Ship said. That request, the barely polite gloss of
at your convenience
or not, was more peremptory than was strictly proper.
Seivarden wasn’t as indignant at it as Lieutenant Ekalu had been, but she was definitely wondering how I would respond. “The governor didn’t explain her request. Though Kalr Five noticed a commotion just outside the Undergarden last night. Security arrested someone, and they’ve been nervous since.” Briefly Ship showed me bits of what Five, still on the station, had seen and heard.
“Wasn’t the Undergarden evacuated?” I asked. Aloud, since obviously Ship wanted to have this conversation this way, no matter how I felt about it. “It ought to be empty.”
“Exactly,” Seivarden replied. Ship.
The majority of Undergarden residents had been Ychana—despised by the Xhai, another Athoeki ethnic group, one that had done better in the annexation than others. Theoretically, when the Radchaai annexed a world, ethnic distinctions became irrelevant. Reality was messier. And some of Governor Giarod’s less reasonable fears centered around the Ychana in the Undergarden. “Wonderful. Wake Lieutenant Tisarwat, will you, Ship?” Tisarwat had spent time since we’d arrived here making connections in the Undergarden, and also among the staff of Station Administration.
“I already have,” replied Seivarden for
Mercy of Kalr
. “Your shuttle will be ready by the time you’ve dressed and have eaten.”
“Thank you.” Found I didn’t want to say
Thank you, Ship
, or
Thank you, Seivarden
, either one.
“Fleet Captain, I hope I’m not presuming too much,” said Ship, through Seivarden. Disquiet joined Seivarden’s mild apprehension—she had agreed to act for Ship, but was suddenly worried, maybe suspecting Ship was coming to the point of it.
“I can’t imagine you ever presuming too much, Ship.” But of course it could see nearly everything about me—every breath, every twitch of every muscle. More, since I was still
wired like an ancillary, even if I wasn’t Ship’s ancillary. It knew, surely, that its using an officer as a pretend ancillary disturbed me.
“I wanted to ask you, Fleet Captain. Back at Omaugh, you said I could be my own captain. Did you mean that?”
I felt, for an instant, as though the ship’s gravity had failed. There was no point in trying not to show my reaction to Ship’s words, it could see every detail of my physical responses. Seivarden had never been particularly good at faking impassivity, and her own dismay showed on her aristocratic face. She must not have known that this was what Ship wanted to say. She opened her mouth as though to speak, blinked, and then closed it again. Frowned.
“Yes, I meant it,” I replied. Ships weren’t people, to Radchaai. We were equipment. Weapons. Tools that functioned as ordered, when required.
“I’ve been thinking about it, since you said it,” said Seivarden. No, said
Mercy of Kalr
. “And I’ve concluded that I don’t want to be a captain. But I find I like the thought that I
could
be.” Seivarden clearly wasn’t sure if she should be relieved at that or not. She knew what I was, possibly even knew why I had said what I had said, that day at Omaugh Palace, but she was well-born Radchaai, and as used as any other Radchaai officer to expecting her ship would always do exactly as it was told. Would always be there for her.
I had been a ship myself. Ships could feel very, very intensely about their captains, or their lieutenants. I knew that from personal experience. Oh, I did. For most of my two-thousand-year life I hadn’t thought there was any reason to want anything else. And the irrevocable loss of my own crew was a gaping hole in myself that I had learned not to look at. Mostly. At the same time, in the last twenty years I had grown accustomed
to making my own decisions, without reference to anyone else. To having authority over my own life.
Had I thought that my ship would feel about me the way I had felt about my own captains? Impossible that it would. Ships didn’t feel that way about other ships. Had I thought that? Why would I ever think that?
