Chapter Nine
OUTER SYSTEM, BD+56 2966
Nezdeh Perekmeres waved her hand over the beltcom on her night table. The paging tone terminated in mid peal. She rolled toward the unit, grabbed it, murmured, “Here.”
“Nezdeh,” said her distant cousin Brenlor’s voice, “the Slaasriithi shift-carrier is moving further in-system.”
“In response to the new radio activity on Turkh’saar?”
“Very possibly so.” In his excitement, Brenlor’s dialect slipped out of High Ktoran, slurred down into the street-speech of his youth. “The scenario is unfolding as I predicted; the tactical communications of the low-breeds from Earth are drawing in trespassers.”
“Yes, but are they the right trespassers? We need a response from the Terrans, not the Slaasriithi.”
“We may have both. Sensors have confirmed our earlier suspicions: the Slaasriithi ship’s thrust signature is a match for the one we drove off eight months ago at BD +02 4076, and she might still be carrying human diplomats.”
“The same ship?” Nezdeh sat up, rolled to her feet, padded away from the motionless form lying on the other side of her bunk. “It is not possible.” She immediately regretted the implicit weakness of indulging in hyperbole; the Progenitors rightly taught the Elevated that “clarity in every moment is the foundation of mastery in every moment.”
Brenlor used her slip to reemphasize his marginally superior position. “Are you suggesting that I am in error?”
“I am suggesting that the odds of it being the same ship are far smaller than the odds of a sensor error,” she replied, congratulating herself on recontextualizing her surprised disbelief into a genuine, prudent doubt. Because to admit that her personal mastery had slipped, even for one second, was out of the question.
If Brenlor detected her subtle redirection he gave no sign of it. “I had Sehtrek replace the Aboriginal sensor officer who first discovered the matching drive signatures. Sehtrek confirmed the finding, ran a diagnostic and recalibrated the instruments, then scanned again. Again, a match. It is the same ship.” A pause. “They cannot have tracked us here.” It was a statement of the obvious, but Nezdeh knew that Brenlor’s assertion was also an indirect request for reassurance.
Which Nezdeh provided. “That is not possible. There was never any sign of pursuit after we shifted out from BD +02 4076 and left no spoor along our path to this system.” Where they had mostly lain doggo for nearly six months, occasionally harvesting volatiles, but primarily training and bringing the six new huscarles up to readiness.
There hadn’t been time to do so during their retreat—well, rout—from BD +02 4076 and its main world, Disparity. They had lost two shuttles, half a platoon of Aboriginal clone-soldiers, two reasonably skilled Aspirants to Elevation and an irreplaceable Intendant even before the Slaasriithi reinforcements arrived to rescue the Terran delegation. Worse yet, all those losses had been incurred planetside, meaning that they had left the Terran Aboriginals and the Slaasriithi a rich, if confusing and inconsistent, forensic trail. Unfortunately, being but one shift away from the Slaasriithi homeworld, it would have been unmitigated suicide to remain in the system any longer than absolutely necessary. They had out-shifted as soon as possible, their plans more thoroughly ruined than the Wolfe-class corvette—the UCS Puller—that had been instrumental in preventing the slaughter of the delegation’s survivors.
A long string of hurried shifts followed. There had been no time to do anything other than approach each system’s most congenial source of volatiles—usually a gas giant—and begin harvesting and converting them to antimatter as quickly as possible. Since the largest of their three ships was a laughably “state-of-the-art” shift-carrier that had been the pride of the humans’ megacorporate fleet, this meant that fuel skimming and initial processing proceeded at a glacial pace. Accordingly, they spent the first month of their “strategic withdrawal” figuratively staring over their shoulders, painfully aware that if they were caught in the midst of refueling operations, they were all as good as dead.
Yet Nezdeh recalled that fearsome period with gladness, and with an additional emotion she knew the Breedmothers would decry as not merely foolish and contrary to the imperative of dominion, but dangerous. According to their wisdom and that of the Progenitors, it was an emotion that might cloud her judgment, her ability to retain the self-interested utilitarian edge that was the guarantor of success as a Ktor.
Yet the glance she cast over her shoulder was not one of fear, but fondness. The broad back of Idrem’s blanketed silhouette cycled slowly through the expansion and contractions of deep sleep. He would, when the time came to declare it, be acclaimed a wise choice in a mate. Brenlor was too close to her own genecode and was not merely obsessed with dominion, but delighted in pursuing it with unnecessary brutishness. He no doubt conceived that as a sign of his strength. Nezdeh, having listened to the Breedmothers’ wise words about men of his type, recognized it for what it was: a weakness, a need to reassure himself of his dominion. That did not make a man—or woman—their own master; it committed them to posturing, rather than true power and efficacy. And nothing was more important than power and efficacy.
The early weeks of their small band’s flight had been tense, but she and Idrem had spent and exhausted their tension upon each others’ bodies. And had shared more, besides. They had not addressed the growing bond between them—the words for it were all but forbidden—but they knew it, could feel it. And sharing it as an unspoken, growing secret somehow made it both more exciting and more precious, even as it blossomed in the shadow of possible destruction.
Ultimately, throughout those eight weeks, the Progenitors had smiled upon them (according to those who believed in such mythical nonsense), and they had reached their next objective: Turkh’saar. Where, it was now confirmed, the same Slaasriithi ship they had attacked at Disparity emerged from shift just three days ago. The oldest Autarchs often declaimed, from their lofty peaks of many centuries, that the universe was a surprisingly small place, and that the older one became, the more it seemed to shrink. Well, perhaps they were right. She said as much to Brenlor.
He uttered the snarling coughs that were his equivalent of a laugh. “Let us hope our House is restored so that we may say the same thing from the heights of our own Autarchal chairs.”
“Indeed,” Nezdeh said, but she thought, The day I must consign myself to the near-dotage of a seat on the Autarchy is the day I shall purposely overreach in one last great act of dominion. I shall not be a slave to anything, including the customary ambitions of my own race, nor the decline of my own body. “Are the Slaasriithi making for Turkh’saar?”
“They are. They are crossing our orbital track now.”
All three ships of their ragged flotilla—the Aboriginal shift-carrier Arbitrage, the small but lethal patrol hunter Red Lurker, and a two-century-old Ktoran shift-tug that they had dubbed Uzhmarek, or “Lord of Loads”—were following along in the sensor shadow of the sixth planet of the system. The Slaasriithi craft would cross its orbit almost a quarter of an AU in front of them: an excellent place from which to maneuver in behind it. “So, we will allow her to pass and then enter the asteroid belt between us and Turkh’saar to avoid her sensors.”
“As discussed,” Brenlor confirmed. He paused. “I must now inconvenience you in one further way. There is an urgent matter with which I require your assistance.”
“And what is this urgent matter?”
“I need you on the bridge of Arbitrage to ensure that our chief collaborator Kozakowski remains alive.”
Well, so much for returning to my bunk. And to Idrem. “Kozakowski? He is in danger?”
“Yes.”
“What from?”
A pause. “From me. Hurry.”
* * *
Escorted by one of the indoctrinated Optigene clones, Nezdeh entered Arbitrage’s bridge. Her appraising glance at Brenlor—who was standing off to one side, ostensibly studying the sensor returns—shifted over to Kozakowski. The somewhat pudgy Aboriginal was in a stooped, cringe-ready posture; he seemed ready to wring his hands.
He nodded at her. “Srina Perekmeres, Brenlor was good enough to inform me that you would soon be on duty here and might answer a—a question of mine.”
“To what does it pertain, Kozakowski?”
“The morale of my—eh, of the original crew of this vessel.”
He still thinks of them as his crew? “An appropriate change of description, Kozakowski.” And it is probably just such egoistic slips of the tongue that has Brenlor ready to cut yours out. Right along with your heart. “You were wise not to trouble Brenlor with this matter. Explain how morale among Aboriginals should necessitate a question to him, or to me. You are to oversee and report on them, as you have done since we commandeered this ship. None of us Evolved are to be troubled with such mundane matters unless you have detected mutiny. Have you?”
“No, Srina Perekmeres. Not yet.”
Ah. And there is the ham-handed attempt to inveigle my concern, and so, manipulate me. The ploy was as pathetically obvious as it was devious. “Well, since you clearly foresee a possible mutiny, you have my leave to retain the services of half a dozen of the clones, in combat gear, so that you may eliminate the crewpersons you suspect of being traitors. Does that answer your questions?”
“It is an answer, Srina Perekmeres, but I hope my more humble query makes it unnecessary to employ such extreme measures, and thereby preserve your resources.”
An appropriately obeisant entreaty, but without the genuine humility that should give rise to it. Small wonder that Brenlor had been ready to kill the unctuous rodent. “Ask swiftly.”
Kozakowski spread his hands in a gesture of self-deprecating supplication she associated with helot merchants. “The crew of the Arbitrage knows we are lying in wait for an enemy craft, that we mean to ambush it.” Seeing her stern look, he hastily added, “Since they perform half the bridge functions, how could they not be aware of this? They also believe that if they are obedient and helpful in achieving this objective, they may hope to remain in your service. But they become restless over one particular: they do not know why you wish to ambush this craft, or whose it might be.”
Nezdeh allowed herself a slow smile that was not in the least amused or amicable. “I do not think this makes the crew restless, Kozakowski. I think it makes you restless. And attempting to wheedle such information out of me again could earn you a reward you do not expect—such as an unsuited stroll out the airlock.”
The Aboriginal’s hands stretched wider, more desperately. “Nezdeh Srina Perekmeres, I ask your indulgence. I admit that I too am curious regarding our mission here, but please understand: I have learned your ways well enough, even before I came aboard this ship, to know the danger of asking questions. But the rest of the Arbitrage’s crew still does not understand how your methods and expectations of dominion differ from analogous terrestrial customs.”
“Then teach them the distinctions.”
“I endeavor to do so, Srina Perekmeres. And I know that if you are pleased by their behavior, that signifies that you are satisfied with my efforts to educate them in your ways. But since we have, at your behest, minimized the contact between your people and the human crew, there are few opportunities for practical observation or correction. I labor to explain the variances between your dominative actions and their interpretations of them to the best of my still-imperfect understanding. But it is a slow process. Far slower, at any rate, than the mounting curiosity about their future prospects for survival and for service with you.”
“And for profit too, no doubt.”
Kozakowski shrugged. “They do not understand that even having the presumption to entertain hopes of profit is an affront to your dominion.”
Well, at least Kozakowski himself seemed to be starting to understand the rudiments of interacting with Ktor. But that did not mean his query about morale was genuine. Indeed, Nezdeh was relatively certain that it was merely a back-handed attempt to worry her about the dependability of the Arbitrage’s crew, and thereby, to reinforce his position as the indispensable liaison to them. Of which it was time to disabuse him. “Kozakowski, you have understood much of us, but have not understood as deeply as you must if you hope to survive in our service. Firstly, if you ever again attempt to make yourself important in my eyes, as somehow holding any measure of power over the other Aboriginals of which you were once master, I will kill you on the spot. And do not deny that this was your intent in raising this topic. That would be lying: another transgression which will earn you instant death. Do you understand that my words are not a threat, but a promise?”
Kozakowski, eyes bulging, nodded. His lips tried to form words, but he did not manage to speak.
Unconcerned—Kozakowski was least offensive when he was silent—Nezdeh continued. “We owe no person an explanation, and shall execute any who are disgruntled over being denied one, much less protest it openly. Communicate this to the other Aboriginals in the same words I have used. They should know who their masters are and that we will destroy an asset rather than stoop to negotiate or compromise with it. Do you believe you can remember those words, and convince the other Aboriginals that these, too, are not threats but promises?”
He nodded again.
“Of course, if you, and they, serve us well, we may ultimately return you to Earth.” She saw an eager light in his eyes. “No, not as a free agent. You are our creature and shall remain so in perpetuity. Or until you become a liability.”
He frowned. “I do not understand.”
Nezdeh stepped closer to him; he seemed to shrink into himself. “Think, low-breed. Our influence upon your megacorporations back on Earth has been almost completely exposed. What will we need to do, therefore, in the years and decades to come?”
“Reinfiltrate?”
“Yes—happily for you. You have been recorded as lost with this ship, presumed dead. So, with appropriate ‘modifications,’ you could be reintroduced to Earth. Perhaps many of this crew can be retained as operatives; their service and yours will determine that. However, suffice it to say that once there, the depth of your involvement with us shall grow with each passing day, making it increasingly suicidal for you to ever confess your betrayal to your own peoples.
“And lest you entertain the hope that you can somehow purchase their forgiveness by revealing what you know of us, be warned: your actions on Earth will be completely compartmentalized, so you will never be aware of enough of our operations to be useful to your planet’s intelligence services. If you are discovered, you will have nothing with which to bargain. Do you understand?”
Kozakowski’s reply was a parched croak. “Completely, Srina Perekmeres.”
“Excellent. Begone.”
Kozakowski left the bridge so swiftly that he stumbled over the lower rim of the main hatchway’s coaming.
The only other person on watch was one of the clones who had shown an aptitude for piloting, and, through a rigorous program of both positive and negative reinforcement, had attained the qualifications necessary for normative station-keeping. “Summon the first pilot to the bridge,” Nezdeh ordered, “and report to your quarters; you are given the remainder of this shift to rest.”
“Yes, Srina Perekmeres.”
When the clone was gone, Brenlor turned toward her and away from the sensors that he hadn’t been studying at all. “Is that obsequious Aboriginal serious? Does he actually think he can extort, however subtly, higher regard from us by indirectly calling our attention to his greater knowledge of the systems and personnel of this wretched ship?”
Nezdeh shrugged. “In truth, I do not fault him his instincts to seek power and dominion however he might. Those are the instincts the Progenitors teach us, after all.”
“Agreed, but to see that will to power in an Aboriginal with the intellect of a substandard Intendant and to the cowering self-abasement of the lowest helot: it is akin to beholding a hideous deformity.”
Nezdeh nodded. “I do not disagree. But in this matter, let us concede that although Kozakowski overreaches, he is merely mistaken in his actions, not deficient in his intellect. He does have valuable familiarities that we lack.”
“Such as?”
“Brenlor, I know you contemn him, but let us be frank. Even though we have spent months familiarizing ourselves with this hull and its primitive technologies, Kozakowski has access and common context with all the original crew, and has overseen the revivification and indoctrination of the additional personnel we have chosen to awaken. Similarly, he is far more familiar with the capabilities and limits of this ship’s four landers, remaining tanker/tender, fuel scoopers, locker contents, and manifest. To say nothing of his knowledge of the training and oddities of its nearly two battalions of clones. And let us not forget that we unavoidably emboldened him when we asked him to brief us on the best ways to minimize the security risks intrinsic to this hull, particularly its reconfigurable torus.”
Brenlor snorted in disgust. “A ring of flexibly linked modules that can rotate so we are feet-down when under thrust, and feet-out when the ring is in rotation? An imbecilic design. One significant hit by a tactical weapon and the whole structure will come apart.”
Nezdeh nodded. “But it was Kozakowski who saved us much time, and possibly error, in choosing which modules to shut down, which to guard, and how to emplace monitors—both overt and covert—to ensure that there were no places hidden from our eyes and ears, places where mutinous conversations might begin.”
Brenlor nodded. “Do you think he suspects, though?”
“That House Perekmeres has been Extirpated, and that we are alone, without family, patrons, or power behind us?” Brenlor merely nodded and glowered as Nezdeh catalogued their dire circumstances. She shrugged. “Our choice is between silence and lies. If Kozakowski is clever, he will have already begun to wonder why our discussions are devoid of any references to what power we wield beyond these ships. Logically, he would expect us to openly mention those resources as de facto evidence of the full depth of our mastery, and so, further reinforce the Aboriginals’ submission to us. That is another reason why we must keep him from presuming to ask questions: so that we need never give evasive and weak answers. If Kozakowski ever suspects that we are not answering his questions frankly, he is likely to wonder if that is because we dare not do so. Consequently, we must make certain that he continues to construe our dismissal of his queries as a sign of our indifference to his concerns, of our assured dominion.”
Brenlor leaned upon the sensor panel, rested his blunt chin on his fist as he stared out the small cockpit window, frowning at the bright orange speck that was the system’s primary. “It is a demeaning path we are upon,” he muttered.
“It is a prudent path, and only a leader of great self-mastery could have accepted our short-term subterfuges as the price to be paid for the long-term glory of our House’s resurgence.” Brenlor’s frown retreated. Nezdeh congratulated herself on soothing him yet again, on keeping both his faith and focus fixed upon his own false-flag scheme. “But we must still exercise great caution. Being only one shift from the Arat Kur homeworld and the Accord’s Convocation station at EV Lacertae, we are carrying out this ploy upon the very doorstep of those who would slay us.”
Brenlor frowned again, this time in perplexity. “I understand your concern with EV Lacertae. The Custodians, and possibly the entirety of the Dornaani Collective, would exult in our destruction. But the Arat Kur? After their defeat by the Aboriginals, they are all but crippled.”
“Although I refer to their home system, Sigma Draconis, my concern is not with the Arat Kur themselves.”
“Ah. So you believe that the Aboriginal conquest fleet is still there, hovering above their planet?”
“Since we have no way to ascertain that they are not, we must presume that they still are. And if the Aboriginals are still orbiting the Arat Kur homeworld, it is because the peace treaty has not been signed. In which case, Tlerek Srin Shethkador and Ferocious Monolith are still there as well, meaning that the elect of the Ktoran Sphere’s Autarchs and the favorite son of the House that most hungered for our Extirpation is near at hand with a ship that could obliterate us effortlessly.”
Brenlor nodded. “As you say, we must be cautious.”
“And prudent.” Nezdeh waved at the navplot. The archaic Aboriginal display, a faux 3-D flatscreen, flickered to life. The orange mote that denoted the Slaasriithi shift-carrier was still making for the belt.
Brenlor stared at it fixedly. “Once the trespassers are engaged on Turkh’saar, events may evolve rapidly. We must be close, lest we miss a pivotal opportunity to destroy the Aboriginals and thus indebt the Patrijuridicate to us for having protected their interests.”
“Agreed.” Nezdeh studied the concentric rings of the planetary orbits, the current trajectory of the target, the courses they might use to intercept, trail, or evade its notice, respectively. “It will be at least a day before we can follow. More before we can deploy our own forces.”
“Yes, but the enemy’s course and actions will tell us much about what they intend, and how best to lay our trap for them.”
Nezdeh nodded, added, “And to carefully consider the timing of it, for if we move too soon, we may ruin our chance to achieve the best possible outcome.”
“To destroy the Slaasriithi and any humans with them?”
Nezdeh shook her head. “Better yet, to catch them embroiled with the locals on Turkh’saar. And timed so that the Hkh’Rkh will need us—ask us—to aid them by delivering a final, unexpected blow.”