In the dining room I rose, not responding to Tisarwat’s reply to my words, and went out to the antechamber. “Citizen Sirix,” I said, as she turned toward me. “How can I assist you?”
“Fleet Captain,” said Sirix, with a small, tight nod of her head. Uncomfortable. After our conversation three days ago, and the strangeness of her errand, entirely unsurprising. “Horticulturist Basnaaid wishes very much to speak with you in person on what I understand is a private matter. She’d have come herself but she is, as I was saying, unavoidably detained in the Gardens.”
“Citizen,” I replied. “You’ll recall that when last I spoke to the horticulturist, she quite understandably said she never wanted to see me again. Should she have changed her mind I am, of course, at her service, but I must admit to some surprise. And I am at a loss to imagine what might be so urgent that it could not have waited until an hour more convenient for herself.”
Sirix froze for just an instant, a sudden tension that, in someone else, I would have taken for anger. “I did, Fleet Captain, suggest as much. She said only, it’s like the poet said: The touch of sour and cold regret, like pickled fish.”
That poet had been Basnaaid Elming, aged nine and three quarters. It would have been difficult to imagine a more carefully calculated tug at my emotions, knowing as she did that Lieutenant Awn had shared her poetry with me.
When I didn’t reply, Sirix made an ambivalent gesture. “She said you’d recognize it.”
“I do.”
“Please tell me that’s not some beloved classic.”
“You don’t like pickled fish?” I asked, calm and serious. She blinked in uncomfortable surprise. “It is not a classic, but one she knew that I would recognize, as you say. A work with personal associations.”
“I had hoped as much,” Sirix said, wryly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, Fleet Captain, it’s been a long day and I’m late for my own supper.” She bowed and left.
I stood in the antechamber, Eight standing still and curious behind me. “Station,” I said aloud. “How are things in the Gardens right now?”
Station’s reply seemed just the smallest bit delayed. “Fine, Fleet Captain. As always.”
At age nine and three quarters, Basnaaid Elming had been an ambitious poet, without a particularly delicate sense of language, but an abundance of melodrama and overwrought emotion. The bit Sirix had quoted was part of a long narrative of betrayed friendship. It had also been incomplete. The entire couplet was, The touch of sour and cold regret, like pickled fish / ran down her back. Oh, how had she believed the awful lies?
She said you’d recognize it, Sirix had said. “Has Sirix gone home, Station? Or has she gone back to the Gardens?”
“Citizen Sirix is on her way home, Fleet Captain.” No hesitation that time.
I went to my room, took out the gun that was invisible to Station, invisible to any sensors but human eyes. Put the gun under my jacket, where I could reach it quickly. Said to Eight, as I passed her in the antechamber, “Tell Lieutenant Tisarwat and Citizen Uran to finish their supper.”
“Sir,” Eight replied, puzzled but not worried. Good.
Perhaps I was overreacting. Perhaps Basnaaid had merely changed her mind about wanting to never speak to me again. Perhaps her anxiety about the supports under the lake had grown strong enough to overcome her misgivings about me. And she had misremembered her own poetry, or remembered only part of it, meaning to remind me (as though I needed reminding) of my old association with her long-dead sister. Maybe she truly, urgently needed to speak to me now, at an hour when many citizens were at supper, and she truly could not leave work. Didn’t want to be so rude as to summon me via Station, and sent Sirix with her message instead. Surely she knew that I would come if she asked, when she asked.
Surely Sirix knew it, too. And Sirix had been talking to Captain Hetnys.
I considered—briefly—bringing my Kalrs with me, and even Lieutenant Tisarwat. I was not particularly concerned about being wrong. If I was wrong, I would send them back to the Undergarden and have whatever conversation Horticulturist Basnaaid wished. But what if I wasn’t wrong?
Captain Hetnys had two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries with her, here on the station. None of them would have guns, unless they had disobeyed my order to disarm. Which was a possibility. But even so, I was confident I could deal with Captain Hetnys and so few of Sword of Atagaris. No need to trouble anyone else.
And if it was more than just Captain Hetnys? If Governor Giarod had also been deceiving me, or Station Administrator Celar, if Station Security was waiting for me in the Gardens? I would not be able to deal with that by myself. But I would not be able to deal with that even with the assistance of Lieutenant Tisarwat and all four of my Mercy of Kalrs. Best to leave them clear, in that case.
Mercy of Kalr was another matter. “Yes,” Ship said, without my having to say anything at all. “Lieutenant Seivarden is in Command and the crew is clearing for action.”
There was little else I could do for Mercy of Kalr, and so I focused on the matter at hand.
It would have been easiest for me to enter the Gardens the same way I had when I had first arrived at Athoek. It might not make a difference—there were two entrances to the Gardens that I knew of, and two ancillaries to watch them. But on the off chance that someone was waiting for me and assuming that I would come by the most convenient way, and on the off chance that Station might take its favorite course of resistance and just not mention the fact, I thought it worth taking the long way.
The entrance gave onto the rocky ledge overlooking the lake. Off to my right, the waterfall gushed and foamed its way down the rocks. The path led to my left, down to the water, past a thick stand of ornamental grass nearly two meters tall. I would not walk past that without a great deal of caution.
Ahead, a waist-high railing guarded the drop to the water, rocks jutting up just below and here and there in the lake. On the tiny island with its fluted stone, Captain Hetnys stood, her hand tight on Basnaaid’s arm, a knife held to her throat, the sort of thing you might use to bone a fish. Small enough, but sufficient for the purpose. Also on the island, at the head of the bridge, stood Sword of Atagaris—one of it—armored, gun drawn. “Oh, Station,” I said, quietly. It didn’t answer. I could easily imagine its reasons for not warning me, or calling for help. Doubtless it valued Basnaaid’s life more than mine. This was suppertime for many on the station, and so there were no bystanders. Possibly Station had been turning people away on some pretext.
On the ledge, the grass trembled. Unthinking, I pulled my gun out of my jacket, raised my armor. The bang of a gun firing, a blow to my body—whoever was in that stand of grass had taken aim at precisely that part of me that was covered first. I was entirely enclosed before any second shot could be fired.
A silver-armored ancillary rushed out of the grass, inhumanly quick, reached to grapple with me, thinking, no doubt, that the gun I held was no threat, armored as it was. We ought to have been equally matched hand to hand, but my back was to empty air and it had momentum on its side. I fired, just as it shoved me over the rail.
Radchaai armor is essentially impenetrable. The energy of the bullet Sword of Atagaris had fired at me had been bled off, mostly as heat. Not all of it, of course, I’d still felt its impact. So when my shoulder hit the jagged stone at the foot of that seven-and-a-half-meter-high rock wall, the actual impact wasn’t particularly painful. However, the top of the stone was narrow, and while my shoulder stopped, the rest of me kept going. My shoulder bent backward, painfully, definitely not in any way it was meant to, and then I slid off the stone into the water. Which fortunately was only a little over a meter deep where I was, about four meters from the island.
I got to my feet in the waist-deep water, the pain of my left shoulder making me catch my breath. Something had happened during my fall, I didn’t have time to ask Mercy of Kalr exactly what, but Lieutenant Tisarwat had apparently followed me, and I had been too absorbed in my own th
oughts to notice. She stood at the shore end of the bridge, armor up, gun raised. Sword of Atagaris faced her, its gun also raised. Why hadn’t Ship warned me that Tisarwat had followed me?
Captain Hetnys faced me, also now silver-armored. She likely knew the ancillary on the ledge was injured or even dead but didn’t realize, I was sure, that her armor would do her no good against my gun. Though perhaps the Presger hadn’t bothered to make the gun waterproof.
“Well, Fleet Captain,” said Captain Hetnys, voice distorted by her armor, “you do have human feelings after all.”
“You fish-witted fuck,” cried Lieutenant Tisarwat, vehemence clear in her voice even through the warping of her armor. “If you weren’t such an easily manipulated ass you’d never have been given a ship.”
“Hush, Tisarwat,” I said. If Lieutenant Tisarwat was here, depend on it, so was Bo Nine. If my shoulder didn’t hurt so much I’d be able to think clearly enough to know where she was.
“But, sir! She has no fucking idea…”
“Lieutenant!” I didn’t need Tisarwat thinking in those terms. Didn’t need her here. Mercy of Kalr wasn’t telling me what was wrong with my shoulder, whether it was dislocated or broken. Mercy of Kalr wasn’t telling me what Tisarwat was feeling, or where Bo Nine was. I reached, but could not find Seivarden, whom I had last seen in Command, who had said, to Sword of Atagaris’s Amaat lieutenant, days and days ago, the next time you threaten this ship you’d best be able to make good on it. Sword of Atagaris must have made its move when I fell off the rock wall. At least Ship would not have been caught entirely by surprise. But Swords were faster, and better armed, and if Mercy of Kalr was gone, I would make Seivarden’s warning good, if I possibly could.
Captain Hetnys stood facing me on the island, still gripping Basnaaid, who stood rigid, eyes wide. “Who did you sell them to, Captain?” I asked. “Who did you sell the transportees to?” Captain Hetnys didn’t answer. She was a fool, or desperate, or both, to threaten Basnaaid. “That is what precipitated this rather hasty action, is it not?” Governor Giarod had let something slip, or outright told Captain Hetnys. I had never told the governor who I suspected, or perhaps she would have been more cautious. “You had a confederate at the storage facility, you loaded up Sword of Atagaris with suspension pods, and you took them through the Ghost Gate. Who did you sell them to?” She had sold them. That Notai tea set. And Sirix had never heard the story of how Captain Hetnys had sold it to Fosyf. She hadn’t been able to make that connection. But Captain Hetnys had realized that I had made it. Had needed to know where I might be vulnerable, and after two weeks in the same house, even never speaking to her, she had known what Sirix would respond to best. Or perhaps Sword of Atagaris had suggested such an approach to its captain.
“I did what I did out of loyalty,” asserted Captain Hetnys. “Which is apparently something you know little of.” If my shoulder hadn’t hurt so badly, if this situation hadn’t been so serious, I might have laughed. Oblivious, Captain Hetnys continued. “The real Lord of the Radch would never strip her ships of ancillaries, would never dismantle the fleet that protects the Radch.”
“The Lord of the Radch,” I pointed out, “would never be stupid enough to give you a tea set like that as a payment supposedly more discreet than cash.” A plashing, bubbling sound came from the middle of the lake, where, I assumed, the water was deeper. For an instant I thought someone had thrown something in, or a fish had surfaced. I stood there in the water, gun aimed at Captain Hetnys, my other shoulder hurting ferociously, and then on the edges of my vision, it happened again—a bubble rising and collapsing on the surface of the water. It took me a fraction of a second to realize what it was I had seen.
I could see by the increased panic on Basnaaid’s face that she had realized it, too. Realized that air bubbling up from the bottom of the lake could really only be coming from one place—from the Undergarden itself. And if air was coming up, water was surely going down.
The game was over. Captain Hetnys just hadn’t realized it yet. Station would remain silent to save Basnaaid’s life, and even block calls to Security from here. But it would not do so at the cost of the entire Undergarden. The only question remaining was whether Basnaaid—or anyone else here—would come out of this alive.
“Station,” I said, aloud. “Evacuate the Undergarden immediately.” Level one was in the most immediate danger, and only some of the consoles there had been repaired by now. But I didn’t have time to worry how many residents would hear an evacuation order, or would be able to spread the message. “And tell my household the Undergarden is about to be flooded, and they’re to help evacuate.” Mercy of Kalr ought to have told them by now, but Mercy of Kalr was gone. Oh, Captain Hetnys would regret that, and so would Sword of Atagaris. Once I got Basnaaid clear of that knife at her throat.
“What are you talking about?” asked Captain Hetnys. “Station, don’t do any such thing.” Basnaaid gasped as Captain Hetnys gripped her tighter, shook her just a bit to emphasize the threat.
Stupid Captain Hetnys. “Captain, are you really going to make Station choose between Basnaaid and the residents of the Undergarden? Is it possible you don’t understand the consequences of that?” Tisarwat’s fish-witted had been about right. “Let me guess, you intended to kill me, imprison my soldiers, destroy Mercy of Kalr, and claim to the governor that I’d been a traitor all along.” The water bubbled again—twice, in quick succession, larger bubbles than before. Captain Hetnys might not have yet realized that she’d lost, but when she did, she would likely take the most desperate action available. Time to end this. “Basnaaid,” I said. She was staring ahead, blank, terrified. “As the poet said: Like ice. Like stone.” The same poem she had quoted, that had brought me here. I had understood her message. I could only hope that now she would understand mine. Whatever you do, don’t move a muscle. My finger tightened on the trigger.
I should have been paying more attention to Lieutenant Tisarwat. Tisarwat had been watching Captain Hetnys, and the ancillary at the head of the bridge. Had been moving slowly, carefully closer to the island, by millimeters, with neither myself nor Captain Hetnys nor, apparently, Sword of Atagaris noticing. And when I had spoken to Basnaaid, Tisarwat had clearly understood my intention, knowing as she did that my gun would defeat Captain Hetnys’s armor. But she also understood that Sword of Atagaris might still pose a danger to Citizen Basnaaid. The instant before I fired, Tisarwat dropped her own armor and charged, shouting, at the Sword of Atagaris ancillary.
Bo Nine, it turned out, had been crouching behind the rail at the top of the rocky ledge. Seeing her lieutenant behave so suicidally, Bo Nine cried out, raised her own gun, but could do nothing.
Captain Hetnys heard Bo Nine cry out. Looked up to see her standing on the ledge, gun raised. And the captain flinched, and ducked low, just as I fired.
The Presger gun, it turned out, was waterproof, and of course my aim was good. But the shot went over Captain Hetnys, over Basnaaid. Traveled on, to hit the barrier between us and hard vacuum.
The dome over the Gardens was built to withstand impacts. Had Bo Nine fired, or Sword of Atagaris, it would not have even been scratched. But the bullets in the Presger gun would burn through anything in the universe for 1.11 meters. The barrier wasn’t even half a meter thick.
Instantly, alarms sounded. Every entrance to the Gardens slammed shut. We were all now trapped, while the atmosphere blew out of the bullet hole in the dome. At least it would take a while to empty such a large space, and now Security was certainly paying attention to us. But the water flowing out of the lake meant that there was no real barrier between the Gardens (with their hull breach) and the Undergarden. It was entirely possible that the section doors there (the ones that worked, at any rate, all of which were on level one, immediately below us) would close, trapping residents who hadn’t managed to get out. And if the lake collapsed, those residents would drown.
It was Station’s problem. I waded toward the island. Bo Nine ra
n down the path to the water. Sword of Atagaris had pinned Tisarwat easily, was raising its weapon to fire at Basnaaid, who had wrenched free of Captain Hetnys’s grip and scrambled away toward the bridge. I shot Sword of Atagaris in the wrist, forcing it to drop its gun.
Sword of Atagaris realized, then, that I posed an immediate danger to its captain. Ancillary-quick, it rushed me, thinking, no doubt, that I was only human and it would be able to easily take the gun from me, even injured as it was. It barreled into me, jarring my shoulder. I saw black for an instant, but did not let go of the gun.
At that moment, Station solved the problem of water pouring into the Undergarden by turning off the gravity.
Up and down disappeared. Sword of Atagaris clung to me, still trying to pry the gun out of my hand. The ancillary’s impact had pushed us away from the ground, and we spun, grappling, moving toward the waterfall. The water was not falling, now, but accumulating at the dome-edge of the rocks in a growing, wobbling mass as it was pumped out of the lake.
In the background, behind the pain of my shoulder and my effort to keep hold of the gun, I heard Station saying something about the self-repair function of the dome not working properly, and that it would take an hour to assemble a repair crew and shuttle them to the spot to patch it.
An hour was too long. All of us here would either drown, unable, without gravity, to escape the wobbling, growing globs of water the waterfall pump kept sending out, or asphyxiate well before the dome could be repressurized. I had failed to save Basnaaid. Had betrayed and killed her sister, and now, coming here to try, in the smallest, most inadequate way, to make that up, I had caused her death. I didn’t see her. Didn’t see much, beyond the pain of my injured shoulder, and Sword of Atagaris, and the black and silver flash of water as we drew closer to it.
I was going to die here. Mercy of Kalr, and Seivarden and Ekalu and Medic and all the crew, were gone. I was sure of it. Ship would never leave me unanswered, not by its own choice.