“I know, I know.” Albrecht could see where sitting on something like this would give a man a case of the gray gumps. “Ship types are sort of a hobby of mine. The dictators were decommissioned for a lot of reasons, cost not the least of them, but sheer disarmament was a big one too. There’s no one to fight but each other, why make it too easy? I get it. But what does this have to do with me?”
Dillon’s face darkened. “There’s some who want to bring her into a yard. Do some work on her. ‘Insurance,’ they call it.”
“Who’s got a shipyard big enough for that monster?”
“Us. God help us, we built one that big, just in case.”
Albrecht slapped the table, propelling himself upward. Why had he thought for a moment that these folk might have a better future in mind, with their sweaty kids and crowded station? They were as violent and venal as anyone else, parking death and destruction out in the Deep Dark to await another day. “You people are idiots.”
Dillon tugged Albrecht back down. “We’re human, Ser Albrecht. We disagree with one another. We make choices. We make mistakes. We learn.”
“And now you want to learn how to get rid of it.” The light bloomed in Albrecht’s thoughts. “You want me to find it, do something, so you don’t have to go through a Naval Oversight investigation into why you’ve been hiding a battleship all these decades.” His voice pitched up. “So I can patsy it into the open, turn the thing over to Lieutenant Bourne or those Church goons who are chasing me. Then somebody bigger and badder shows up, sweeps the mess under the rug, and goes away. That works for you, doesn’t it? Otherwise that damned ship gets found some other way, sooner or later. Then everybody’s staring at the belters of The Necklace, asking what the hell your plans were anyway!”
“Yes,” said Dillon simply. “I’m sorry, but that’s all true. We need you to help us lose it into plain sight. You followed me down here, through the core of Shorty’s Surprise. You’ve seen our people. Our children. We’ve created too much here in the last century to trip over an old idea about mounting some pointless rebellion.”
That was certainly true. “Then who built the damned shipyard!?”
“People with other ideas, Ser Albrecht. People with other ideas.”
“You know,” Albrecht began quietly. He stopped, sipped from his sugar water. “All I ever wanted was get out of here.”
“You’re far too late to avoid taking some kind of fall. Everyone in the system knows your name, the Navy and the Church are both after you, and the Imperial Resident’s in line behind them waiting for his turn. We’re just asking that you steer that fall to land somewhere that doesn’t point right back toward us. And take that battleship with you on the way.”
“Yeah, well.” He was back to having no future at all. He had been a dead main sailing, these last few days. “I guess that means I need to find my way out there.”
“Soon, Ser Albrecht. You must leave before the superior firepower arrives.”
“Am I on my own?”
“No.” Dillon smiled. “We’ll take my rock hopper. And I think we’ll have a third set of hands along.”
Some of his anger bled away at the thought of Dillon coming along. Albrecht didn’t know the monstrous man, not in any way that made sense, but if Dillon were coming, he meant what he was saying.
Trust had been a rare commodity in Albrecht’s life of late, ever since his abrupt departure from Princess Janivera. But there was something in Dillon that he wanted to trust. “Fine. I need some data off Jenny’s Little Pearl. I locked the systems from the console. We have to go back on board so I can override.” And Christ, he thought, that damned newt was still out there.
“Are you willing to pass the boat’s codes to me? I have people who might be able to hack that out while we’re preparing. If not, well, we start our journey there.”
Albrecht sighed. He popped the codelock key out of his thigh pack. “Here you go. It’s bearer-driven, no biometrics or encoding. They didn’t want complications, when they set this up. Idiots.”
“Humans.”
“Whatever. I’d like that back, in working order please.”
“Certainly.” Dillon grabbed one edge of the table, preparing to shove off. “I’ll be back shortly. This is as safe as anywhere on Shorty’s Surprise for you right now. Stay here. Anyone comes to see you, they’ve been cleared.”
“Whatever.”
Dillon launched himself across a chord of the arc of the dodecahedron, heading for the hatch to the chaos outside. Albrecht nursed his sugar water and tried to figure out if he had any path through this that didn’t end badly.
Hell, he’d been living on borrowed time since Novy Petrograd showed up. He was days ahead at this point. And maybe there was still hope after all.
‡
Some time later, after Albrecht had given in to something distilled and far too high proof for his own good, a near-twin of Dillon, but with drifting red hair – a clone clutch, like he’d first thought? – popped through the bar’s hatch towing a stubby, stocky priest dressed in a helmetless skinsuit. The newcomer looked something between angry and frightened. The Dillon-clone pointed Albrecht out to the priest, gave the short man a good hard toss, and dropped back through the hatch.
To Albrecht’s surprise, the priest managed his way through the arc without spinning out of control, and hooked into the table unassisted.
“Father,” Albrecht said neutrally.
“It’s Chor Episcopos, actually,” the priest snapped. “The reverend Chor Episcopos Jonah Menard.”
Of course. “You’ve been looking for me, I believe.”
Menard’s face opened. “Ah. Please forgive my surliness. The past hours have not been easy, even for a forgiving heart. You are Micah Albrecht? Of Jenny’s Diamond Bright?”
“Not exactly, but close. The same man you laid a Writ of Attainder on. Your Reverence.”
“It kept you alive,” Menard pointed out. “I wasn’t ready to lose you to Novy Petrograd.”
“Who am I to you? Why’d they dump you on me? Or vice-versa.”
“Why’d they put us together? Maybe because I didn’t try to kill anyone on arrival.” The priest gripped the table, his knuckles pale. “As to who you are...you’re the man who knows about Jenny D. Are you going out to the ship? They said I was to go with you.”
Albrecht had to laugh. He had no idea the Church had an angle on insurance fraud. Or conspiracy to rebellion, whichever this really was. “Oh no, it’s much worse than that, Chor Episcopos. I thought I knew where Jenny D was, but we seem to have hooked a far bigger fish here.”
“I’m hunting the biggest fish of all, Ser Albrecht.”
“I doubt it. I’ve seen this fish, and with all respect, Your Reverence, I don’t think it’s what you are looking for.”
“What have you seen, my son?”
“Ah...” Albrecht closed his eyes a moment. This place, he’d seen this place. The distances a man could pass in moments, after standing still for most of a lifetime. “The past. The future. I’m not sure, truthfully. If you’re coming with me, you’ll find out soon enough. If you’re not coming with me, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
Menard frowned. He’d obviously played this game before. “I seem to be missing my angel. I cannot abandon a servant of the Patriarch.”
“Your...angel?”
“My, ah, enforcer. Sword and hand of the Lord. It has been injured.”
“I don’t know about any angels, Chor Episcopos, but this will probably be worth the ride.” Albrecht took a deep breath, then: “I hope to God it is.” For the sake of a lot of people.
“Strangely, so do I.”
‡
Menard: Halfsummer Solar Space, The Necklace, Shorty’s Surprise
Micah Albrecht wasn’t what he’d expected. For one, the man seemed almost depressingly normal. Menard had spent his career among the highly driven, and occasionally the highly desperate. He’d assumed Albrecht was one or both of those, simply based on th
e situation here in Halfsummer.
No, Ser Albrecht could have been an average parishioner in an average community anywhere in the Empire. Of middling height, ordinary looks, nothing exceptional about him at all.
Except for the facts of the situation, of course, and that Albrecht had hooked a big fish of some kind.
Menard wondered if he was close to a breakthrough on the Xenic Question. To what degree were they really among the human race? Was Albrecht involved with xenics? Sister Pelias’ K-M curves had led Menard here to Halfsummer, further into the question than he’d ever been able to go before.
But as always, he wondered who was playing whom.
Albrecht had gone silent, sullen, unwilling to divulge more about whatever his end of the secret was. Having come this far, Menard was willing to be patient.
He worried about the angel, though, with a rippling sense of guilt. Bishop Russe had charged him with the creature, and the angel with him. Would Captain Yee and her creature have killed Menard out of hand if the angel hadn’t been there? It had moved first, but for a reason....what?
Ser Albrecht certainly wouldn’t know that. Who would? Angels didn’t, well...talk.
He needed to know why the angel had attacked. And whether it could continue onward with him. Unfortunately for Menard, he was the leading authority on angels in localspace. No one else could help him.
Oh, Lord, prayed Menard silently, Your humble servant begs Your guidance in this hour of my need. I am troubled by the fate of Your angel, and my duty tells me to stay by it and seek to heal it. At the same time my heart tells me I must follow the path of this Micah Albrecht, as he may lead me toward my life’s work. I do not know whether You have set the xenics in the path of man as a steppingstone or a stumbling block, but I know You will reveal Your will to me when the time is right. But in this moment, oh my Creator, Your will is not clear. What path shall I choose? Please, Lord, I beg of You a sign.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.
He looked up to see Albrecht staring at him. “I’m a priest, my son,” Menard said gently. “I pray. It’s what we do.”
“Does God answer?”
“Generally, yes, if I have but the wisdom to hear it.”
A near-twin of the red-headed woman, but male and bald, took that moment to pop through the hatch and propel himself across the bar straight toward them, two helmets dangling from one hand. “Now would be an excellent time to leave, gentlemen,” he said in a gear-crushing voice as he tossed them both their headgear.
“Nice to see you, too, Dillon,” said Albrecht. “Have you met Chor Episcopos Menard?”
Dillon nodded briefly, agitated. The man was sweating, even, which was odd in the perpetually chill environment of a station. “I know who he is. Ser Albrecht, there’s been an internal disagreement here on Shorty’s Surprise. I have lost the codelock key. Irretrievable. We should exit quickly, before we become irretrievably lost as well.”
And here, thought Menard with a surge of guilty relief with respect to the fate of the angel, is God’s sign. Thank you, Lord. Forgive me my ill feelings toward Your fellow servant. But the Captain and her bione were under his protection. “I cannot go–” he began, when he was interrupted.
“Did you get the damned ephemeris?” Albrecht snapped, his face flushing with anger. Or was it fear?
Dillon looked back and forth at the two of them. “No time to argue. We’ve got the data, the key is gone from us.” The big man coiled to spring back toward the hatch. “Now, Albrecht.”
“Coming, Chor Episcopos?” Albrecht asked.
“I do not have a choice.” Crossing himself, Menard launched after the other two men in an eddy of their fear-scent and anger. He needed to follow this lead to xenics even more than he needed to maintain his “prisoners.” From whom he had been separated.
Surely the belters of Shorty’s Surprise would take care of them.
He promised himself they would. On his word.
Please, God.
‡
Golliwog: Halfsummer Solar Space, The Necklace, Shorty’s Surprise
Thirty-two minutes and seventeen point four four zero one seconds after the priest had departed, the hatch cycled open. Golliwog held himself in check in a far corner of the storeroom. His legs were folded, ready to spring, and he had his dead left arm bound to his aching side, out of harm’s way. He would not attack without reason or orders, even if he had to give himself the reasons and the orders.
That was a novel thought. He stored it with the other tokens of his rebellion as someone tossed a heavy package through the hatch then cycled it shut again.
Bomb!
Golliwog hurled himself across the space. If there was timer, he might be able to stop it. If not, he could shield Yee and the angel from the blast.
He splayed himself to land over the target, forgetting his lashed arm. Off point, Golliwog wound up taking weight on his left shoulder and smacking into package. It was hard, unyielding, painful against his already distressed ribs and gut. It was not, however, explosive.
Yet.
He curled around it, his back to Yee and the package in the curve of his body. Steadying it with one foot, he touched it lightly with his right hand. Vacuum rated utility cloth, folded and secured with a molecular clamp. No code on the clamp, just a release button.
Another arming option, of course. Press the release button, go boom. But he wouldn’t get at any interior wiring any other way. He clenched his bowels and pressed.
The cloth package popped open. Tools, three smaller bags with carry straps. No bomb. Or if it was a bomb, it was a rather baroque approach to bomb-making.
Inventory, Golliwog told himself.
One: Bladed hand tool he didn’t recognize, with a chemical dispenser built in and a reservoir clipped to the butt end. Cutter for the angel’s web restraints, perhaps? Certainly a decent weapon in a fight.
Two: Field-grade surgical spidersilk applicator. Used for wound closure. Someone expected him to get hurt.
Three: A battered civilian-grade codelock key, for access to equipment with manual lockdowns. In this context, either a station segment or a boat outside in the deep ark. Golliwog had a good idea which boat that might be. And that was a positive development, because it wasn’t possible to fit both Yee and the angel into the little black boat he and Yee had arrived in.
Four: A small flechette pistol. Almost no butt. Less accurate but much easier to carry unnoticed. He spared it a closer glance. Bioplastics. Depending on the materials used to make the pressurized valvework and control circuits, this might even walk through a passive security scan without setting off alarms. Dangerous, in more ways than the obvious.
Two of the smaller bags turned out to be life bubbles – inflatable pods designed to allow low-competence or unrated users to survive in vacuum. These were extremely low-end, toys really, with twenty-minute safety ratings and ten-minute margins beyond that.
Not at all to his surprise, the last bag contained a disposable skinsuit with a baggie-style helmet. About the same utility value as the life bubbles, except for the zero value of breathing vacuum as an alternative.
Someone wanted him to leave, and to tow his two wounded with him. Golliwog would have bet his good arm that the codelock key gave him access to Jenny’s Little Pearl. His unknown benefactors wanted him off Shorty’s Surprise.
Another bet Golliwog would make was that his time window was critically short.
He wondered briefly about the priest. They had taken Chor Episcopos Menard away, just when Golliwog thought he might have found...what? Interest? Attention? Focus from a human being who was neither motivated by fear nor by their role in the command chain. It didn’t matter. He owed Menard nothing.
The angel was another matter. Made things had nothing, were nothing. He didn’t know if he was saving or condemning it, but he would set it free. If it died, it died on its own terms, not glued to a crate somewhere.
>
Golliwog worked his way over to the angel. His guess was right, the cutting tool worked on the restraint webbing. The blade cut into the semisolid dynamic polymer, while the chemical slime behind it dissolved the bonds that otherwise reset instantly. He cut the angel free, not trying to deal with the web strands clinging to its red armor and dead-white skin. Those weird, gossamer wings that had hurt him so badly were gone, folded back to whatever virtual space inside the angel’s body – or head – from which they had come. He dragged it into one of the life bubbles. He waited to pop the seals. After all, it would be beyond stupid to use up the reserves while still inside the station.
Dr. Yee was next. Golliwog launched the bagged-up angel on a slow arc toward the hatch, then made his way to the board where she was still strapped. He wondered how she would feel if he began cutting into her, to see how she worked, what she was made of.
But the station medics had been cutting into her, spraying little repairs into place to hold her guts together, reinflating her lungs, setting her hips back where she belonged. What would he achieve?
“If I take you now,” he told the unconscious Yee, “we are even. You do not own me any more. Setting you free, I set myself free.”
Her eyes flickered at his voice. “Kill it now,” she whispered, though she still didn’t seem to be conscious.
“Not yet,” he said. “But soon. That’s a promise.”
Golliwog used the webbing cutter to slice through Yee’s straps, then slid her into the other life bubble. He sliced some tie-downs loose from nearby crates and lashed the two life bubbles together. After that, he stripped off his old skinsuit – they had taken the helmet away when they’d imprisoned him here – and pulled on the disposable unit. Stuffing the tools into one of the utility bags, he towed his charges to the hatch and slapped the button.
It slid open. He found himself completely unsurprised.