“I know!” Tisarwat stopped herself, didn’t reach ahead for the next handhold. Took a few shallow breaths. “I know, but I can’t help it.”
“You did take the anti-nausea, sir, I saw you.” And then, “Don’t stop, sir. We just have to do this, that’s all. And that’s why. That’s why we have to do this.” Referring, I was sure, to what was happening on the concourse. “And if Fleet Captain were here, she’d be giving you such a look right now.”
Two more shallow breaths. Then, weakly, “Hah. At least we’d have music to listen to.” Tisarwat swallowed hard. Took another breath. Propelled herself forward to the next handhold.
“If you call that music.” Relieved—as relieved as she could be, under the circumstances—Nine followed. “I agree with you, sir, about being used to her voice, but some of those songs she sings. They’re just weird.”
“My heart is a fish.” Tisarwat’s voice thin and breathy. A shallow gasp. “Hiding in the water-grass.” Another. “In the green.”
“Well, that one’s all right,” Nine admitted. “Though it does get stuck in my head something fierce.”
Sword of Gurat was at the very end of the docks, the two bays nearest it empty, no doubt not just because of Sword of Gurat’s size. No obvious damage from the collision with the passenger shuttle—but then, there wouldn’t be. Possibly Sword of Gurat hadn’t ended up with anything more than some scratches or dents.
“Right,” said Tisarwat, taking a gulping breath, nausea returning. Exhausted and sore from the hours-long trip around the station hull. “Let’s go.” And she and Nine began pulling themselves toward Sword of Gurat.
So far Tisarwat had relied on Station’s declining to report her and Nine’s presence. But now, in sight of Sword of Gurat, that wouldn’t protect them. It was only a matter of time—and not very much time, if Sword of Gurat was paying any attention at all—before they were noticed. Still, Tisarwat and Nine moved quite slowly. Very cautiously. Very carefully chose a spot on Sword of Gurat’s hull, tethered themselves, and opened the container they’d all this time been hauling with them. Nine pulled out an explosive charge. Handed it to Tisarwat, who carefully, slowly, fixed it to Sword of Gurat’s hull.
At about this point, Seivarden and her two Amaats had made it into a cramped and dim access corridor behind the governor’s residence. It had probably at one point been meant for servants to use to go unobtrusively back and forth, but hadn’t been used in years; the floor was dusty and trackless. This wasn’t, then, the back way Governor Giarod had used to bring Translator Dlique to the residence.
Station had not spoken a word to Seivarden, or either of her Amaats. It had displayed information—maps and directions, mostly—and unlocked doors for them. Now it had brought them to a locked door in this dusty corridor, and shown them all what lay behind it: the governor’s office. The cream-and-green silk hangings were pulled nearly all the way around the walls, covering the window that looked down on the concourse, and also, helpfully, the door Seivarden and her Amaats stood behind. Empty, now, except for those few chairs, the desk. Beside the desk, a meter-and-a-half-high stack of what looked very much like suspension pods but probably were not. There were three of them in the stack, and Seivarden couldn’t help but notice them. Puzzled a moment over what they might be. The words Returning, with two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries, approx eight minutes flashed in Seivarden’s vision. Two additional Sword of Atagaris ancillaries outside the main door now.
Seivarden whispered, “Station, what are those things?”
I don’t know what you mean, came the reply, in her vision.
“Those… at first I thought they were suspension pods. But they’re not. Are they?”
I really don’t know what you mean. Approximately six minutes.
Seivarden knew enough, by now, to understand Station’s answer. “Oh, fuck,” she said, softly.
Amaat Two, behind her, seeing the same image but not having reached the same conclusion, asked, “What are they?”
“They’re fucking AI cores,” Seivarden told her. “And Station can’t talk about them.”
Two and Four stared at her, confused. Approximately five minutes, Station said.
“Right,” Seivarden said. There was no time to worry about the AI cores. No time to be afraid of three humans facing four ancillaries in five minutes’ time. Seivarden had the Presger gun and there was, in the end, only one condition that needed to be met, only one truly necessary thing. And they had planned for this, Seivarden and her Amaats, had hoped Anaander would have taken over the governor’s office, hoped they would have just such an opportunity. “Time to move.” She reached for the door’s manual release, and it obligingly slid open to reveal the back of a hanging, heavy enough that it barely trembled as the air currents shifted. Her two Amaats behind her, she stepped into the room.
There were two dozen explosive charges in the container Tisarwat and Bo Nine had brought. Tisarwat managed to attach three of them before half a dozen Sword of Gurat ancillaries came out an airlock after them.
Tisarwat and Nine surrendered immediately, went docile into the airlock. Stood silent while Sword of Gurat stripped them of their vacuum suits, stripped them to their underwear, and searched them. Neither of them, of course, had anything dangerous or suspicious. Not counting that container of charges, at any rate. The ancillaries bound Tisarwat’s and Nine’s hands behind them, and then pushed them to kneel on the corridor floor. Nine frightened but stoic, Tisarwat light-headed, hyperventilating just a bit. Terrified. And also, behind that, a tiny bit relieved. Anticipating.
The captain of Sword of Gurat arrived. Stared at Tisarwat and Nine. Examined the explosive charge Sword of Gurat’s ancillary showed her. Looked, then, at Tisarwat. “What in the name of all that’s beneficial were you trying to do?” Tisarwat said nothing, but her gasping intensified. “These weren’t even armed,” the captain of Sword of Gurat said.
Tisarwat closed her eyes. “Oh, for the love of Amaat just shoot me! Please, I beg you. I’m not even supposed to be here.” Gasping every few words now, as her breathing escaped her control entirely. “I was supposed to be in Administration, I wasn’t supposed to be on any ship at all. But I have to do what she tells me, she’s the captain. I have to do what she tells me or she’ll kill me.” Tears started. She opened those ridiculous lilac-colored eyes, looked pitifully up at the captain of Sword of Gurat. “But I can’t do it anymore, I couldn’t do what she told me, just shoot me!”
“Well,” said the captain. “A desk pilot. That explains a lot.”
Nine’s expression had been impassive through all this, but now anxiety showed on her face. “Please, sir, begging the captain’s indulgence, these past few weeks have been so awful, and she’s just a baby.”
“Not a very bright one,” said the captain. “Nor steady. Ship, get these two to Medical.”
Sword of Gurat grabbed Tisarwat’s arm to haul her up. Tisarwat cried out and, “Aatr’s tits,” swore the captain of Sword of Gurat, grimacing in disgust. “She’s pissed herself!” And if Tisarwat didn’t let up on the breathing, she’d faint in about half a minute. “At least try to act like a civilized human being, Lieutenant! Gods greater and lesser! Not even a desk pilot should act like this.”
“S… s… sir,” gasped Tisarwat. “P… please don’t make me go back there. I can’t go back to Mercy of Kalr, I’d rather die.”
“You’re not going back to Mercy of Kalr, Lieutenant. Ship.” This to the waiting ancillaries. “Take Lieutenant…”
“T… Tisarwat,” supplied Tisarwat.
“Take Lieutenant Tisarwat to the bath and get her cleaned up. Get some clean clothes on her before you take her to Medical. Take this other one to Medical now. Get them both disconnected from Mercy of Kalr.” And then, at another thought, “And Mercy of Kalr, if you’re watching, I hope you’re proud of this.”
Two Sword of Gurat ancillaries hauled Tisarwat to her feet, and half dragged, half walked her down the corridor. “Nine!” Tis
arwat wailed.
“It’s all right, Lieutenant,” said Sword of Gurat’s ancillary. “She’s just going to Medical.”
Tisarwat, tearful, opened her mouth to reply, but sobbed instead. Collapsed into Sword of Gurat Gurat Eleven’s arms, clutched its uniform jacket and wept harder.
They were real tears. Sword of Gurat could hardly have mistaken false ones. And Nine’s cry of concern and struggle to reach Tisarwat were genuine as well. “You’ll see her again soon,” Gurat Eleven said, just maybe the slightest bit more gently, and guided her off to the bath, where it would be just Tisarwat and Sword of Gurat, alone. Which had been the whole point of the exercise, of course.
And Nine found herself escorted toward Medical. The next dangerous moment—the whole plan had been predicated on the assumption that Sword of Gurat didn’t have a competent interrogator aboard. A Justice almost certainly would have, but interrogators were much rarer on Swords. If Sword of Gurat had one, the next step would be drugging Nine, and the game would be up.
Almost as soon as Nine walked into Sword of Gurat’s Medical section, her archive data ended, and not long after so did Lieutenant Tisarwat’s.
And meanwhile, on Athoek Station, Anaander Mianaai came into the system governor’s office. Two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries behind her, and behind those, System Governor Giarod and Eminence Ifian. “My lord,” Ifian was saying, “of your mercy, I beg to inform… remind my lord that Station Administrator Celar is very popular. Her… her removal would be taken very badly, and not just by the troublesome elements on the station.”
That young Anaander didn’t reply, but seated herself behind the desk. The two ancillaries stationed themselves in front of it, so that Governor Giarod and Eminence Ifian found themselves at some distance from where the tyrant sat. “And you yourself, Eminence, have no influence with the residents of this station?”
The eminence opened her mouth, and for an instant I wondered if she would admit that not long ago she had staged her own sit-down on the concourse, so that she could hardly speak convincingly in condemnation of this one. But she closed her mouth again. “I had thought, my lord, that I did have some influence here. If my lord wishes, I will try to speak to them.”
“Try?” asked Anaander, with obvious contempt.
Governor Giarod spoke up. “My lord, they aren’t doing any harm where they are. Perhaps we could just… let them sit.”
“Not doing any harm yet.” The tyrant’s voice was acid. “Did you just let the ancillary walk onto the station and upend everything? Agitate the station’s dregs, suborn the AI?”
“We did question her… it, my lord,” Governor Giarod insisted. “But she always had such reasonable answers, and events nearly always seemed to bear her out. And she had orders direct from you, my lord. And your name as well.” Behind the desk, Anaander Mianaai did not respond. Did not move. “My lord, perhaps we could… perhaps we could use Fl… the ancillary’s methods. Send the soldiers away, let the people sit on the concourse if they like. So long as they’re peaceable.”
“Do you not understand,” Anaander said, “the purpose behind the ancillary’s methods? What’s happening down there”—she gestured toward the wide window, still covered by that heavy silk hanging—“is a threat. It is this station—and an alarming number of this station’s residents—refusing to accept my authority. If I allow them to do this, then what will they do next?”
“My lord,” offered Governor Giarod, “what if you were to treat this as though it were a refusal of my authority? You could say that I gave the order for the curfew, and the soldiers, and even—though it was Celar’s fault—even the transportation orders. And I would resign, and then, my lord, you would be the one responsible for restoring propriety.”
Anaander laughed, tense and bitter, and Giarod and Ifian flinched. “I’m glad to see, Governor, that after all your brain isn’t a complete waste of organic material. Believe me, if I thought that would do the least bit of good I’d have done it by now. And maybe if you hadn’t let a half-crazed ancillary run you in circles for a month, maybe if you hadn’t let that ancillary escape, and somehow manage to destroy two of the ships I brought with me, including a fucking troop carrier that would have been very helpful right now, and maybe if your gods-cursed passenger shuttles would run on time like they do everywhere else in Radch space, and maybe if your station was not obviously in the power of an enemy of the Radch, then yes, maybe it would do some good.”
Two ships. Destroyed. No wonder this Anaander was frightened. And, at a guess, exhausted. Angry and frustrated, not used to being in just one body, cut off from Tstur Palace.
Anaander continued. “No, what I need is to regain control of Station.” She stopped. Blinked. “Tisarwat?” Looked at Governor Giarod and Eminence Ifian. “That’s a familiar name. You said the ancillary brought a Lieutenant Tisarwat to the station.”
“Yes, my lord.” Giarod and Ifian, more or less in unison.
“A Lieutenant Tisarwat was just caught trying to plant explosive charges on Sword of Gurat’s hull. None of which were armed. She was captured immediately. And she is…” Anaander blinked at something in her vision. “Not exactly the sharpest knife in the set, is she.”
It was Giarod and Ifian’s turn to blink, trying, I supposed, to reconcile that description with the Tisarwat they themselves had met. I thought for a moment Ifian would say something, but she didn’t. More to the point, and very interestingly, Sword of Atagaris said nothing. “Oh, get out of here,” Anaander said, irritably.
Governor Giarod and Eminence Ifian bowed, deeply, and left so quickly as to be barely proper. When they were gone, Anaander put her head on her wrists, hands outstretched, her elbows on the desk. “I need to sleep,” she said, to no one in particular, it seemed. Maybe to the two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries. “I need to sleep, and I need to eat, and I need…” She trailed off. “Why can’t I just get a couple hours’ sleep without some kind of crisis appearing?” If she was talking to Sword of Atagaris, it didn’t answer.
Seivarden, behind the hanging, heard this with a sudden dismaying, disorienting sense of wrongness. She had known all this time what we had been doing here at Athoek, had defied Anaander herself, when we had been at Omaugh Palace. But Anaander Mianaai was still the only ruler of the Radch Seivarden had ever known, and neither she nor any other Radchaai had ever expected even the possibility that things might be different. And on top of that, here this Anaander was, alone and tired and frustrated. As though she were just an ordinary person. But Seivarden had enough experience to know that stopping to think too long about it would be fatal. She signaled her Amaats to move.
Amaat Two and Amaat Four, armor up, guns leveled, came out from behind the hanging first, one to each side of where Anaander sat behind the desk. Instantly each Sword of Atagaris ancillary drew its weapon and turned to fire at an Amaat, and two more ancillaries came swiftly into the room, guns raised.
Seivarden had positioned herself opposite Anaander, so that when the ancillaries were distracted, she might have a clear shot at the tyrant. But Seivarden was not ancillary-fast, and lifting the hanging slowed her even more, just the smallest bit, but enough for one of Sword of Atagaris to put itself between Seivarden and Anaander, just as Seivarden fired. It dropped, and before Seivarden could fire again, the other ancillary charged into her, shoving her backward so that they both fell against the hanging.
Behind the hanging was that wide window overlooking the concourse. Of course it was not easily breakable, but Sword of Atagaris’s impact had been fast and forceful. When Seivarden and Sword of Atagaris fell against it, the window popped free of its housing and fell toward the floor of the concourse, some six meters below. Seivarden and Sword of Atagaris followed.
The citizens below scrambled back out of the way, some shouting in alarm. The glass slammed into the ground, a loud and sharp report, and Seivarden hit the glass, on her back, Sword of Atagaris on top of her, the Presger gun in its grip that it had wrested from Seivard
en on the way down.
The pop of gunfire, and more screams, and then, painfully loud, an alarm sounded. Bright-red stripes suddenly glowed to life on the scuffed white of the concourse floor, each of them four meters from the next. “Hull breach,” announced Station. “Clear all section doors immediately.”
At the sound of that alarm, every single person on the concourse—including Sword of Atagaris, and Seivarden, who hadn’t had even an instant to recover from her six-meter drop—immediately, unthinkingly, rolled or stepped or crawled away from those glowing red lines, and the concourse section doors came flashing down, crunching into the rectangle of window glass where it was in the way.
For a moment everyone in that section of the concourse was silent, stunned. Then someone began to whimper. “Who’s hurt?” asked Seivarden. On her hands and knees, quite possibly not aware of how she’d gotten there, the back of her armor still warm from absorbing the force of hitting the floor.
“Don’t move, Lieutenant.” Sword of Atagaris, the Presger gun aimed at Seivarden.
“Someone might be hurt,” Seivarden said, looking up at the ancillary. She dropped her armor. “Do you have a medkit this time, or are you still a miserable excuse for a soldier?” Raised her voice. “Is anybody hurt?” And then to Sword of Atagaris, who had not moved, “Come on, Ship, you know I’m not going anywhere with the section doors down like this.”
“I have a medkit,” replied Sword of Atagaris.
“So do I. Give me yours.” And as Sword of Atagaris tossed the medkit to the ground in front of her, “Aatr’s tits, what’s wrong with you?” She took both kits and went to see to the injured.
Fortunately there appeared to be only one severe injury, a person whose leg had been caught by the falling slab of glass. Seivarden medkitted her, and when she found only bruises and sprains among the other nine people trapped in the section, she tossed the remaining medkit at Sword of Atagaris’s feet. “I know you have to do what the Lord of the Radch tells you to.” Seivarden didn’t know that Tisarwat had made Sword of Atagaris as much of a free agent as possible. “But didn’t the fleet captain give you back your precious officers? That ought to count for something.”