Guardian of Night Read online

  Regulation must give way to Mutualism, or we’re doomed.

  Hear me, you dry-gilled strugglers! Wet your gills with my words.

  Hear me, you children of the broken promise! Learn a new way of giving. The galactic economy is no zero-sum heat exchange. The calling of the symbiot is not for domination, but to aid. The symbiot creates; the symbiot is not a distributor, but a maker. The symbiot does not regulate, but trusts in plurality, the profligate creativity of the universe.

  The symbiot is our only way home.

  So, down with Regulation!

  I do not speak as a warrior. Nor as one who wishes to coerce. What I give you is words, only words. But words that point to the new, the old that has been forgotten or overlooked, the extravagant universe!

  Give me your feet, you dry-gilled strugglers. Wet your gills. Drink it up!

  Down with the Administration!

  Thrive the symbiosis!

  And then the Poet’s tone changed, and he would begin reading his poems or songs or whatever they were. Japps tended to side with the faction that thought the Poet was a kind of pirate-radio DJ among the sceeve beta operators, broadcasting his thoughts into the ether for anyone listening at the right time to hear. In any case, he seemed to be knowledgeable enough about beta signals to avoid detection—a very difficult feat. Japps wasn’t even sure she could figure out how to do that.

  Usually the beginning of any message was filled with the Poet’s political cant, kind of the sceeve version of a Peepsie protest rally. It was only with a careful listen—and after you’d heard a bunch of normal sceeve broadcasts—that you figured out the Poet was having fun with the usual sceeve catchphrases, that he was delivering an opening monolog before he started the main event: reading his poetry. Or songs. Or whatever you wanted to call it. Some of his material was either original or at least from an unknown source. It wasn’t in any of the captured databases, that was for sure. But then there would be some of the poems that matched up with known sceeve works, usually from some ancient, pre-Administration writer.

  And then there were the poems that were by human writers. “Gleaned,” as the sceeve termed it.

  Fucking thieves.

  Fucking sceeve.

  The poems were famous ones. Marvell, Rimbaud, Lorca, Emily Dickinson. There seemed to be no connecting theme and method for when a human poem got dropped in a broadcast. Japps’s own opinion was that the choice was down to whatever happened to tickle the Poet’s fancy.

  She remembered when she’d first seen the translation on a Dickinson:

  Safe in their alabaster chambers,

  Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,

  Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,

  Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.

  And had gone back to the original sceeve signal and figured out how sceeve rhymes worked. It was always the aromatic portion of the chemistry that was duplicated. The fucking scum-crawling murdering sceeve did have some cool aspects about them, Japps had to admit. Which took nothing away from the fact that she wanted to see them all dead, dead, dead. And killed in horrible ways, too.

  Bink.

  Over the SIGINT loudspeakers, the crackle of more incoming signal.

  What the heck? Another Poet show? She called up a visual on her chroma monitor, checked.

  The Poet never broadcasted back-to-back. HQ figured randomness was an important part of the method he used to avoid detection.

  She checked a portion of the feed. There was the thirty-two spike.

  It was the Poet again.

  Didn’t he realize he was exposing himself to discovery? If she could figure out how to identify him, then so could the other sceeve. And two broadcasts from the same source was bad form. Japps shuddered to think what the sceeve might do to a captured traitor.

  What was going on? It had to be important.

  Whatever it was, Japps had a gut feeling that she was tuning in to the Poet’s final broadcast.

  And then LARK delivered the translation prelim. And for the second time in her young life, Japps’s world changed yet again forever.

  The Poet was calling out to the humans.

  Directly.

  It was a cry for help.

  And then there was one scream that went on for a very long time.

  ONE

  1 December 2075

  Vicinity of Beta Geminorum, aka Pollux

  Shiro Portal

  Captain Sub-receptor Arid Ricimer stood stiff-backed in the vacuum of space and breathed in the silence absolute. He’d long made it a habit to ride out of harbor on a new command while standing on the exterior observation deck of his vessel. The deck was a feature built into all Administration vessels larger than a skirmish pod. Its electro-weak pseudogravity and silver-plated brightwork were wholly unnecessary features in a starcraft in these times, but for now he was glad of the inflexibility in Sporata design. He loved to face the naked stars at least once during a mission, to smell the universe bare, and this was the perfect place to do it.

  The experience reminded him of his boyhood and the dangerous trips he and his friends had made onto the hull of the habitat in which they lived. His friends had gotten over the urge, learned to stay inside where it was safe.

  Ricimer had never learned that lesson.

  “Captain Ricimer, your presence is requested on the bridge.”

  The fruit-scented voice of Governess, part of the vessel computer, whispered in his mind. He’d have to answer eventually, but he could afford to ignore it a little longer.

  The naked stars. Space. Emptiness. A hush beyond hush. He loved it almost more than life itself. Perhaps too much. His adoration of space had kept him away from home for many cycles, away and always promising to return, to sell his command to a youngster, take a half-depletion allowance, settle down.

  Make love to his beautiful wife every day for an entire cycle. Carefully transfer his important memories to his children.

  He had not retired, of course. Not after twenty-five cycles a sailor.

  Too late for any of that now. Del and the children were gone.

  Gone, gone, echoed the ancestral voices within Ricimer, almost as real to him as his own thoughts. We are cut off. Our purpose destroyed. Lost.

  But he was not destroyed. Not quite. He would not let himself be. And he had been dealing with emptiness for his entire adult life. The vacuum. The stars.

  So he was going back to them. His stars.

  Again the other interior voice, the more insistent, far less welcome voice than that of the ancestors, spoke.

  “Captain, it is most urgent that you return to the bridge.” Governess’s interiorized communication channel again, a mental wave of gagging perfume. “Receptor Milt requests your presence to resolve a logistics discrepancy before the vessel clears Shiro Portal.”

  Will you please shut up? The thought was fully articulated, but he had long practice at not allowing the computer to pick up his thoughts. The ability to shut out Governess was one of the privileges of rank in the Sporata.

  He leaned forward onto the rail, stretched to his full height, arms out, palms up. Soaring.

  Almost.

  Ricimer was tall for his species, nearly two meters. His was humanoid, bilaterally symmetric, but with a facial muzzle of folded membranes similar to the multiple crenellations of a fruit bat’s nose. He had no mouth. His eyes were irisless, black, with gaping pupils that were double the size of a human’s. They were protected by a clear membrane that cycled through a momentary opaque phase every few seconds—a protective mechanism against the universal background gamma radiation of the vacuum. Ricimer’s species had evolved in space.

  His wife before she’d died had often called him craggy and told him he was handsome for an old male getting close to one hundred cycles. He accepted that she might have been right. None of that had ever mattered much to him, and it mattered even less now that she was gone.

  He wore the sleeveless black tunic of an offi
cer. The fabric was silver-rimmed and gathered at the waist by a supple cord of pure silver. From the cord his ceremonial captain’s knife dangled in its silver scabbard. The knife was generally a useless trinket, but it was required adornment for generations of Guardian officers. Sporata traditions changed exceedingly slowly.

  With the expert eyes of his species, its built-in astral sense of balance, he scanned the constellations of the Shiro’s current position, quickly picked out the points of light nearest to his destination.

  Tau Ceti. Epsilon Eridani.

  He squinted hard, and the motion upped the magnification of his eyes nearly ten times normal. He zoomed in with his scleral muscles.

  He was returning to old battlegrounds.

  The Cygni system, with its twin red dwarves in a mad dash about one another. Bright young Sirius. The Centauris.

  Sol.

  He was going back, but to think them his stars? Foolish.

  Ricimer laughed out his nose, as his species did, and his humorous esters, propelled by their own momentum, floated away into the darkness.

  No, the stars didn’t give a damn if an individual named Ricimer lived, died, or had never existed in the first place. How could you not respect such obliviousness, such complete lack of purpose? It was as if the stars were spitting in the eyes of the Administration and its Regulators. It was as the ancient pre-civil-war ode “Star Song” put it:

  We serve no cause.

  We are neither cruel nor kind.

  You will die. We shine on.

  Yet here I am, among you, Ricimer thought—as always he was careful not to emit his thoughts for Governess’s consumption. Among you stars for a while longer at least. And I’m going to go out blazing if I have anything to say about it. Because there is one advantage I very definitely possess over my enemies at the moment.

  This vessel.

  He stood upon the command of a lifetime. Despite the anachronistic observation deck, this starcraft was new-minted, advanced, equipped with the latest conquest technology. Even—wonder of wonders for an Administration craft—innovative. She was a world-destroyer, and she was his. As soon as he got her out of port, that is.

  “Captain, I’m afraid Receptor Milt insists on your presence. Please make your way to the bridge,” said Governess.

  He would have to go below very soon now. Under normal circumstances, he’d take over from the harbormaster, see the transfer craft away, and finally bring the quantum engines on line. For the first time ever, A.S.C. Guardian of Night would truly come to life. Although the star drive made not the slightest perceptible vibration itself, the vessel’s containing fields would have to readjust on a quantum level to a new presence of force and would produce a subtle signal. They would pop and crackle ever so slightly, leaving the bracing scent of sulfide in the interior atmospheric mix, the Guardian ester for “victory over high odds and long distances.” And then he’d order her throttle forward and she would experience her first superluminal speeds.

  c.

  100 c.

  900 c.

  He’d take her to the full nine hundred times the speed of light, the limit of propulsion technology, the current speed limit of the known galaxy. Why not? He was the captain. He needed to experience how his vessel operated at maximum velocity.

  Away from the Shiro, the enormous habitat that was the Administration’s governing hub. Away from the knotted heart of the Administration and its Regulation. Its parasitism. Its killing grip on his soul.

  Ricimer turned his back to the stars and made his way to the vessel’s entrance hatch. Ricimer met the invisible barrier of the airlock’s quantum bottle and stepped through, into the craft’s atmosphere and onto the bridge, where his officers awaited him.

  The atmosphere was oxygen-based and similar to Earth’s mix, with helium taking the place of nitrogen. The pressure was considerably higher than Earth normal, however.

  The phenol-laced ester of imperative and command suffused the air as Lieutenant Commander Hadria Talid, Ricimer’s executive officer, made her customary announcement. “Captain on the bridge.”

  The officers locked their knees and brought shoulders to attention. The rates could only acknowledge their captain’s presence by lowering their heads respectfully. Each was physically attached to a bulkhead, his or her hands plunged into individually marked stations. Ricimer and his species did not have fingers but made do with a single flexible metacarpal palm curtained with gripping membranes that looked like the underside of a toadstool mushroom. The edges of the manual membranes were rimmed with nerves—nerves which provided direct access to the rate’s nervous systems for the Guardian of Night’s computers.

  Ricimer touched his chest then stretched out his hand palm-up. A Sporata commanding officer’s salute to those who served under him.

  “Thrive the Administration,” Ricimer said with full phenol blast. “Now, as you were.”

  He took his command spot on the circular captain’s atrium in center-bridge. Stowed to one side was the red-handled emergency manual-override control stick. Ancient Sporata tradition had one in every vessel, although Ricimer had used the stick only in exercises and drills. The atrium depression was floored with a grill that enabled Ricimer’s feet, membraned in a manner similar to his hands, to curl anemone-like through its slots and lock him firmly in place.

  A side hatch opened and Receptor Milt crossed the bridge to Ricimer’s atrium. Milt was short by Guardian standards, at least three hands shorter than Ricimer. But what Milt lacked in height, he made up for in girth. Yet he carried his bulk with surprising energy.

  A fat clump of malevolence, Ricimer sometimes thought of him.

  “Thrive the Administration,” Milt said. Milt’s political status as the Directorate of Disambiguation of Codes and Mandates’ chief officer on the vessel was counted as two grades above Ricimer’s.

  Outranked on my own craft, Ricimer thought. It had bothered him since he’d made captain, although he was adept at keeping his displeasure to himself. Usually. Milt was equally skilled at pushing Ricimer’s buttons. In his way, Milt was also quite the professional.

  “Yes, Receptor, what can I do for you?” Ricimer replied. “I’m somewhat occupied at the moment.”

  Milt nodded and flared his muzzle in a Guardian smile. “Of course, Companion Arid. I completely understand,” he said. Milt used Ricimer’s first name—as was his status right. But most craft receptors asked permission of their captains first. Ricimer had never given anyone consent to call him by his first name but his wife. “This will only take a few vitias to clear up, I’m certain.”

  “What is the problem, Receptor?” He knew Milt’s first name was Crossgrain, but he disliked any show that he was on intimate terms with Milt and loathed using it.

  “Before we begin, I would like to say I was very sorry to hear about your family.” Milt dropped the smile-flare and emitted the bergamot ester of sadness and regret. “A tragic mistake.”

  “An avoidable mistake,” said Ricimer. He was not giving any ground on that claim. Not only was it true, it was necessary that he show a spark of anti-Administration fire when it came to a topic so personally devastating. If he didn’t, Milt and his superiors might begin to suspect the good Captain Ricimer was hiding even more. He couldn’t let that happen. “Nevertheless, I thank you for the condolences,” Ricimer continued.

  “Your daughter would have made a fine Sporata officer. We all knew she was Academy-bound.”

  “Yes.” This was too much. He felt a carbolic tang rising in his nostril, his whole body readying itself to spew forth rancor.

  Not yet. Hold on. A while longer.

  “Of course, if you had moved your family to the Officer’s Arm instead of continuing to reside in Agaric,” Milt continued, “this would have been avoided.”

  Milt had a point, and Ricimer hated him for it. He’d known his neighborhood was rife with Mutualist sentiment. Curse it all, he and Del had chosen it partially for that reason. They’d moved in as newlyweds, ma
ny cycles before his first child’s birth. Agaric was one of the old and beautiful original structures of the Shiro. Its apartments had the curved contours of pre-Regulation architecture, not to mention twenty-five-hand-tall ceilings. Del had loved the place immediately. She’d argued that it was so much better to raise the children in Agaric than in one of the drab little prefabricated units of the Officer’s Arm. He’d replied that they were less likely to attract attention in the Arm, but as he did with all things related to shore life, Ricimer had given in when he saw his wife was set on her course.

  She was the one who had to live in the habitat full-time, after all. Ricimer of necessity spent most of his professional life away from the Shiro.

  And she had been the one who died there, along with their two children, during the Agaric Pogrom.

  “Maybe you’re right, Receptor,” Ricimer said. And maybe you had something to do with her death, you son-of-a-hyphaless-horde. The pogrom had been a classic DDCM internal operation—that much was clear. “Now to the matter at hand, please.”

  “Of course.” The nostril-flare smile returned. “I was working through the approvals on your supply requisitions, and I noticed a rather large order for gypsum.”

  “Really?”

  “An entire variado’s supply, as a matter of fact. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of halving the order.”

  “Of course, Receptor,” Ricimer replied. “You were right, of course. There must have been some sort of mistake. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Already taken care of,” said Milt. “A permanent mark on your quartermaster’s record. I don’t imagine she’ll be receiving her promotion to master storekeeper during next cycle’s petty officer round.” Milt waved his head from side to side in the Guardian version of a shrug. “And she’ll need to undergo a physical shriving immediately. A full epidermal surfaction is warranted. I’ll be happy to supervise this, if it proves too much of a burden to you.”

  Curse it. The mark against Storekeep Susten wouldn’t matter soon enough. But the loss of that much gypsum? He’d have to ration and hope that the wasting disease did not put many of his crew out of action.