This is Sven Tveskoeg, lieutenant with the Death’s Head, Obsidian Cross second class. Half an hour ago a ship commanded by General Duza sank six sister vessels carrying Octovian prisoners on their way to Bhose. I am a soldier, an ex-legionnaire; we expect death. But this was not an act of war, it was not even judicial execution, it was the murder of five thousand disarmed men and women.”
I double the figure on instinct.
“A simple check of overhead hiSats will reveal the truth. Unless, of course, these have mysteriously malfunctioned…I want to add something else. With me are fifteen survivors, the last living witnesses to this atrocity. We’ve broken out and armed ourselves. And this bit of the message is for the crew of the Winter Wind. Arm yourselves, because we’re going to kill every last one of you. And the least you gutless bastards can do is die with a weapon in your hands. Something you didn’t allow the bulk of your prisoners…”
Neen is staring at me wide-eyed; Shil has her hand over her mouth. Neither is concentrating on the corridor ahead.
“Do your fucking jobs,” I tell the two of them.
Their nods are the last thing I see before I vanish.
White light and static, molecules dance like smoke, and colors collapse into each other until all I’ve got is darkness. This was never going to be easy. Haze is like an echo in my mind and I realize he’s shielding me again.
You’re there, he says.
“I’m here,” I say.
The eleven-braid turns, her jaw dropping with shock. She’s tall, older than I expected, with flesh like weathered oak. This woman radiates power, and she’s fast.
She’s gone before I realize it, a blow from the side knocking me into a wall. She should have used a knife, not her fist, and the wall is gone, somewhere behind me, because I’m outside for the split second it takes me to be somewhere else.
Duza spins, glares at me.
Pulling the trigger, I unleash a blast that rips a wall out of the command center, revealing night winds and rain. As I turn, my SW SIG-37 clears the room of anything that might be human. It’s not even intentional.
I’m looking for Duza.
“Behind you,” says my gun.
A blast incinerates where I was standing. Only I’m not there, either, because I’m behind Duza nursing a burned hip.
Too slow, I hear my gun say.
Move faster.
As Duza turns at the voice I grab the first of her eleven braids. Electricity sears flesh and glistening bone is revealed where the skin of my palm should be. Swapping hands makes me drop the SW SIG-37, which swears viciously as it hits the floor. But changing hands is instinctive and so is wrapping Duza’s braid around my fingers. In the end she simply reaches up and rips the steel plait from her own head.
White light and static.
She’s waiting for me when I step through a wall, her pistol already raised. Several things happen simultaneously.
Duza says, “It finishes here.” But that’s the least of them.
When her finger tightens on the trigger, I hurl my dagger as hard as possible, straight into her face, and she really is as good a shot as people say. I know this because she vaporizes the blade midthrow. Carbon, chromium, cobalt, manganese, molybdenum, silicon, and vanadium.
I taste it happen.
And I see it also, only I see it from behind her, which is where I’m now standing. And Duza is right: This is where the thing ends. Wrapping my fingers into a handful of braids, I yank back her head and feel the general flicker frantically as she tries to switch dimensions. Fear, pain, and my grip lock her into place for the few seconds it takes me to hack off her head with her own blade.
And it’s true: Her flesh really is hard as old oak.
“This thing you’ve got for knives,” says the gun when I pick it up again. “We need to talk about it sometime.”
“SIR?” the shout comes from Neen.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s me.”
“You can stop firing, sir,” he says. “We’ve done it.”
The Aux take one look at the severed head hanging from my hand and glance at one another. “You might want to lose that, sir,” says Neen.
I’m expecting a battle report, numbers lost and injured, what the Aux are doing to lock down any remaining guards or crew, but it’s obvious Neen’s mind is on other things. As are all their minds.
“Why?” I demand.
“Because,” says Haze, “we’re about to have visitors.”
Shil begins to straighten my uniform, then takes a look at my face and decides to leave it as it is. “Take the gun,” she suggests. “Although I’d keep it pointed at the floor.”
By now I know who is out there.
“How do I look?”
“Like shit.”
“That’s Like shit, sir… ”
She snaps a half-mocking salute, then lets her gaze flick to my burned hip. “You want me to battle-dress that first?”
“No,” I say. “It’ll keep.”
We go out together. Not just me and the Aux, but the whole crowd of us, right down to the girls originally chosen to keep the crew amused on their journey to Bhose. We carry a motley collection of daggers, pulse rifles, and pistols, although everyone is careful to keep their blades sheathed and their fingers well away from any firing buttons or triggers.
The one thing you can say for the United Free is that their stick is so unbelievably big, they can afford to speak very softly indeed. You don’t need to raise your voice when you can swat whole planets as easily as children can brush away a fly.
Lights illuminate the decks of the Winter Wind, although none of us can pinpoint their origin. Some form of force shield is holding back the storm so that rain trickles down invisible walls in the distance. Above the slow waves hovers a vast black oval that shifts slightly until it hangs unsupported next to our ruined deck.
“Attention,” shouts Neen.
And as we watch, a sliver of the oval disappears. It doesn’t open or slide back or nictitate, it simply vanishes, and a young woman steps onto our deck. She’s wearing a simple jacket, ordinary black trousers, and light-colored shoes; somehow the effect is far more elegant than she has the right to expect.
I recognize her immediately.
“Paper Osamu,” she says, introducing herself.
We all know that citizens in the Free can replace their bodies and hold back the years, so there’s a chance Ms. Osamu is really older than we are, perhaps by centuries. But she looks about Neen’s age, which I find disconcerting in someone who goes on to announce herself as newly promoted U/Free ambassador to this section of the outer spiral.
“Which one of you is Sven Tveskoeg?”
I step forward, aware that my injured hip makes me limp.
Readouts in my head tell me we’ll be on lenz from the moment the ship arrives until the moment it leaves. So I try to keep my shoulders straight and my chin up, but tiredness makes me stumble and when Paper Osamu shakes my hand it’s impossible for me not to wince.
She turns my ruined hand in hers so the burned flesh is visible against the black leather of her glove. “You’re injured.”
“There’s been a battle.”
Her mouth twists, which could be the beginnings of a smile. “We heard,” she says. “We also piggybacked the local spy sats and you’re right, all appear to have suffered the same simultaneous malfunction. However…” She pauses, like someone used to public speaking, and that’s when I know she’s older than she looks.
“We have identified wreckage, also bodies. A U/Free team is collecting evidence as I speak and if what you say is true…” She hesitates, for real this time. “And I tend to believe it is, then I will be filing a galactic crime report. Third-degree genocide. You may be called to give evidence.”
“You got here fast.”
The words leave my mouth before I can catch them.
Paper Osamu smiles. “We have fast ships.”
What she means is, We have ships that rip holes in space and post themselves through nonexistent slots. Her tone is smug, and her gaze as it scans the deck in front of her is a little too neutral. Any minute now she’s going to offer us all the U/Free equivalent of beads and I’m going to lose my temper.
This is not a good idea.
“We’ve got injured,” I say. “Can you spare medical supplies?”
“Are you asking for help?”
Something about Paper Osamu’s tone worries me. It’s formal. We’ve entered a negotiation to which only she, and half a trillion others, knows the rules. Unfortunately, we’re not among that number.
“Yes,” I say, not giving myself a chance to change my mind. “I’m asking for your help.”
Slots open in the side of her craft and what exits is dust. Only this is dust that moves under its own power and folds itself around my hand and hip before I can object. Others behind me are also enveloped.
“Stand still,” says Paper Osamu. “You’ll find it makes things easier.”
We’re being treated to a full-on presentation of U/Free power. That’s when I realize this little scene is being relayed to the Uplifted as well as to Farlight and OctoV’s other cities. At the gates of Ilseville, the Enlightened issued a challenge to the Free while making it sound as if the challenge was to OctoV.
This is the reply.
And there’s an elegant symmetry in the U/Free using us to warn the Uplifted, just as the Uplifted used us to challenge the U/Free. Something else about politics falls into place for me: Presentation matters.
“Thank you,” I say, holding up my newly healed hand. “That’s really very impressive.”
Paper Osamu’s mouth twitches. “Glad you like it,” she says. “Is there any other way in which we can help?”
My glance takes in the others, the ruined ship on which we all stand, and the dark swell of a sullen ocean around us. I’ve had enough of this world. My guess is that we all have.
“If it’s okay with you,” I say, “we’d quite like a lift off planet.”