Daros, page 16
She ran her brush over her back. The bristles scraped and scoured at her skin. It was dry, and the bristles felt good. She felt a few scales flaking off, but she was too weary to tidy them up now. There would be time later. If she even remained on the ship. And if she even lived. Perhaps she could leave that task to the next navigator, a parting gift of sorts, from one officer to the next.
The brush caught on something as she ran it across her shoulder. She bent her arm back and felt. Another bud. Of all the times for that. She pinched it off and went out to the hallway where a hatchery chute waited. This was a small bud. Perhaps she’d taken it off too soon, and it wouldn’t thrive. That made her sad for a moment, an unusual emotion, one she rarely experienced in the mixture of tumult and tedium of shipboard life. She really was tired. She lifted the flap and sent the bud down to its destiny, whether that was recycling into nutrients or a new life.
As she returned to her quarters, her thoughts only on the stasis chamber, she heard someone in the corridor behind her. She turned. It was Rin. Rin was off duty now as well, although she could be summoned back if needed. Captains kept their regenerations short, as a rule, and often worked over ninety percent of both shifts. It was a demanding role.
“Navigator,” said Rin. She spun her head to look back and forth down the hall. “Frim.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Might I speak with you?” Rin looked worried. Her face was creased, and the corners of her oral opening bent downward.
“Certainly, Captain. Is there something wrong?”
“In your chamber?”
That was unusual. The crew chambers were intended to be solitary, and fraternization was officially limited to scheduled times at the Gathering Chamber, although conversations in the corridors and workspaces were common. But the Captain made the rules, and to deny such a request would be a serious violation of protocol. Not that Frim feared discipline or culling. If that was Rin’s goal, Frim would already have been dead long ago. “As you wish, Captain.”
“Call me Rin. Captain still feels strange, and Garrison Commander is wrong.”
“Yes, Rin.” Frim tapped her chamber control, and the door slid open. She stepped aside and let Rin enter first. That seemed right, although there was no real protocol here. She couldn’t remember ever having a visitor in her chamber or being a visitor in someone else’s. It just wasn’t done.
Frim followed Rin in. The chamber seemed much smaller with two, but there was enough room for both, and there were two seating areas, a workstation with a console, and a softer padded bench for relaxation. Frim motioned toward the more comfortable seat for Rin, and Rin put a hand over her chest in gratitude.
Frim waited for Rin to speak. This could go many ways, some of them very poorly for Frim, and she didn’t want to tempt any of them into reality. Rin sat and looked at Frim for a moment, her eye seemingly full of emotion but unreadable. Frim turned the seat at her workstation to face Rin, and she sat. She met Rin’s gaze for a time, but then looked down. She felt an acute sense of nervousness, as if she were off-balance. She didn’t know what to say, or how to approach this unusual meeting.
At last, Rin spoke. “Frim. May I take your hand in mine?” Asking this time, not grabbing. A request, not a command. Frim nodded once in assent and held out her hand.
“You and I. We do not know each other well. But I deduce that you are true of spirit. You have joined this effort to fight for a better world, at risk to yourself. Your disdain for Torlo’s tactics was obvious despite your masking.” Rin paused, then took Frim’s hand. “I cannot sense your emotions, but if I were to guess at them, I would say that you are uncertain about what may happen, but resolute that you will try to make it better. To fight against those whom you find cruel, and to raise up that which is good in us.”
“Captain. Rin. You honor me.”
Rin looked at Frim again in silence. “I found something in the Captain’s chamber. Something disheartening.” Rin reached into a pocket of her uniform and pulled out a small metallic object. “I did not know what this was, but when I experimented with it, I found that it can disable my masking implant. The one that blocks my emotions. The shift when it activated was so strong, so jarring. It was as if I could hear myself again, all my questions and my doubt. My Steward even asked if I was healthy. She sensed the change in my broadcast. The shift from a lie to the truth. That’s how I determined what the object did.”
Frim had forgotten that the captain had a Steward, a dedicated assistant. The Steward only rarely came to the bridge, instead focusing on administering the more mundane aspects of the ship – the provision of protein and rations, routine maintenance, monitoring the crew’s health and morale. She was one of the largely invisible part of the crew with whom Frim rarely interacted, yet who were just as important in ensuring the ship and the crew functioned efficiently. “Why do you think the captain had such an instrument?” Frim had a horrifying thought. “Was Torlo part of the resistance?”
“No, that cannot be. Torlo is what we resist. But this suggests that either the technology that protects us isn’t special, and that captains make use of it as well, or something worse.”
“What kind of worse?”
“That the Captain knew that there were shielded crew members. And, if she did, that could mean that she knew of the resistance. And if Torlo knew, then others might as well.”
Frim thought on this revelation. “But she didn’t act. You said you could tell when it was active, when you were no longer shielded.”
“I could, in the quiet and solitude of my chamber. But I might not have on the bridge, with all the other emotions active. Perhaps Torlo was using it to spy on us, to see what we really thought.”
That was possible, Frim realized. Torlo had gone out of her way to criticize Frim before the culling, and she’d perceived that Frim stood against her, even if she did not name the resistance. Maybe she’d disabled Frim’s implant, and all of Frim’s private thoughts had made it out into the bridge. And to the receptors of all of her crewmates. “That would be worse. No question. But the other crew haven’t said anything. They haven’t indicated they know.”
“Yes,” said Rin. “And that gives me some hope. Perhaps I’m wrong, and the Captain never used the object. If she had, I suspect I would have sensed your true emotions. Or perhaps it was just that Torlo’s broadcast was so strong that it overwhelmed ours, even when she canceled the masking. The Captain had very powerful emotions, and she emitted them strongly. You and I, we do not.”
That was true. Especially with the masking. It was impossible to know what Torlo was doing, or what Torlo knew. Unless. “Do you have access to Torlo’s personal files? Logs? Could you check those for clues? Notes about the object, or about us?”
“They were deleted with Torlo’s death. And that itself is a violation of protocol. She must have programmed them that way. Or somebody superior to her did.”
That, too, would be worse. “Rin, I don’t know what to say. It seems possible we are compromised. Even likely. I don’t know where this leaves us. What we should do.”
“I don’t either. But I did have one idea, one request.” Finally, Rin took Frim’s outstretched hand. Frim could sense Rin’s emotions now, but she knew that whatever she received was merely a mask, generated by Rin’s implant, a mask behind which the true Rin was disguised. “With your permission,” Rin continued, “I would like to disable our implants, only for a short time. That we might know each other better and develop trust between us. Perhaps… that we might become friends.”
Friends. That had become an almost alien concept to Frim. She had not had anyone she’d considered a friend since her first ship, back under Captain Norel, back when she loved her job and her role, and everyone around her wasn’t being murdered all the time. After Norel died, and then again on this ship, most of the bridge crew was so short-lived that there was little point in becoming attached to any of them. It would only lead to anger and sorrow and hurt, and there was enough else to worry about without wasting time forming connections that likely wouldn’t last. And with her clandestine role on this voyage, the fewer people who knew her well, who paid attention to her, the better.
But Rin was with her in that role, she now knew. A fellow outcast, a rebel. Frim found she trusted Rin. The simplicity and humility of her offer added to that trust. Frim looked up at Rin, at her big eye, her well-formed shoulders and face, her graceful arms. She felt a small surge of warmth, of—was it joy? “I’ll do it. Please. Proceed, Rin.”
“Thank you. I hope that you are comfortable, and that this is not unpleasant for you.” Rin tapped the side of the metal object, and Frim could not help but twitch. She could almost not remember the feeling of having unfettered emotions. It was as if a loud but unobtrusive noise were suddenly shut off. She could feel, and feel clearly. Her receptors picked up on fine details of her own body and mind, her analytical thinking echoed by her personality into a resonance of mind and purpose. She felt whole again.
And then Rin’s emotions came spilling over, connected through their clasped hands. Frim felt in Rin many colliding emotions - weariness, duty, resolve, an underlying craftiness and attentiveness. Wisdom, compassion. A strength of spirit she had not ever encountered. Rin would make this situation work, or she would die in the effort. Frim had no doubt.
And then another feeling, subtler, came through. It was small and dark and warm, a flavor Frim had never picked up, one that she let her receptors savor as she felt it wash over from Rin. As she focused on it, she could feel its strength, running fast below the transient emotions at the surface, even overwhelming Rin’s base personality, although that remained clear and constant. This new feeling was—what was it? It was friendly, but hot; caring, but aching. What was this? It was new, different, strange. But pleasant.
Rin’s nasal openings spread wide. “You. You feel it too.” Her voice was soft.
“I do. But what is it?”
Rin’s oral opening bent upward. “I forget you are young, and that you have done nothing but serve on ships.”
“I’m only a few Orbits younger than you, Rin.” Frim let a glimmer of playful disrespect show in her voice. That went against all her training, her conditioning. And it was inappropriate. But Frim sensed it would be all right. “And all of us were massively accelerated in the hatchery. Who knows how old we really should be? None of us get to be young anymore.” She’d read histories, of times before the hatchery system, when Zeelin hatchlings took many Orbits to reach maturity, and learned from experience rather than from implanted knowledge. The new system was unquestionably efficient, and it provided valuable and immediate training and conditioning. And of course it followed the Principle, and allowed the Principle to work, and for the Zeelin to develop much more fitness much more rapidly. But still, there were costs to pay for the benefits.
“You are, I know,” said Rin. Rin moved her other hand onto Frim’s, clasping hers between both. “But between my first assignment and my assignment here, I was sent to a training facility, to gain knowledge not available at my hatching.” Frim had heard of such retraining, although she’d never experienced it. “And there, I met some people, not soldiers, who had detached themselves from the Principle. Who followed the old ways.”
Frim was a little horrified. “But surely they were outcasts? Hunted down? Forced to retrain, or culled?”
“The world wasn’t run that way. It was a remote world, Tyrin, far from Enzok, far from the strictures of government. And from its enforcement. Nobody much cared, and the leaders of the training facility had made peace with it.” Rin paused. “Those people – they’re the ones that recruited me. The ones who showed me that we can live better lives. Apart from the Principle. Our devotion to it – the rules, the culling, the hatcheries – they rob us of our identity, and force us into short, meaningless lives of servitude and loss.”
Frim squeezed her eye shut. This was near heresy. But she found truth in what Rin said. Frim, too, had come to hate the way the fleet ran. The way her society ran. With a constant tide of death and failure, loss and replacement, with the only path to survival to work efficiently without question, and never to care much for anyone else. With everyone starting life as merely an echo of some past person who’d been deemed a success and been mapped into the training algorithm. An echo lacking context, experience, judgment, and compassion. People could live outside all of this? And find joy and purpose?
Frim’s mind swirled with confusion and emotion, and she realized Rin could feel all of it through their shared contact. She was suddenly ashamed. Rin looked on, content, warm. Solid. Then she spoke. “I know it’s hard. It took me a while to accept. We’re trained to revile freedom and choice and independence. It’s unnatural.”
Frim took a breath. “You said… before… that I feel it too. What is it that you think I feel? What do you sense in me?”
Rin snorted, her nasal flaps blaring. “I am sorry. You probably could not recognize it. But I care for you. And I think, if I do not presume, you care for me.”
“What?”
“Another thing I learned on Tyrin. That we used not to be forced into hybridization. To be born with gametes already implanted before we were even conscious, our partners chosen by the hatchery. We used to choose with whom we shared gametes. Who caused us to bud. We chose from affinity, from companionship, sometimes from necessity. It certainly muddled the Principle, made it less efficient, sometimes with no logic or planning at all. But it was pure freedom. It allowed us to choose the traits we valued. Not to have them decided for us.”
“So this feeling… it is freedom?”
“No, Frim. It is what freedom allows. Affection. I think you might like me, unless I am mistaken. If so, I apologize.” Rin paused, then bent her head low, resting it on Frim’s shoulder. “I am sorry, this is all new to you. I do not want to push you.”
Frim’s whole body felt warm. She could feel, as Rin spoke, the echoes of emotions of long ago, the memory of a touch, an embrace, a caress. Frim had never been so close to anyone, either physically or emotionally. She had not known that this was anything that people still did. Academically, she knew that it used to happen, long ago in the distant past, but she’d never been more than idly curious about this dead practice. But here she was, feeling the reverberations of it in Rin. It was both terrifying and exciting. “Rin… I…” Frim had no words.
“There is no need to speak. I can feel your spirit. It tells me truer than any words could.” Rin squeezed Frim’s hand between hers. They were quiet for a time. Then Rin pulled her hands away, slowly, breaking the contact. “We need to turn the implants back on. These are emotions that we really must not share. We are fortunate that the two of us do not broadcast well, even without the masking.”
Frim’s hand was trembling. She pulled it back, then put her hands together and squeezed. Rin tapped the side of Torlo’s object again, and the deadening drone of blandness sprung up again, like a widening distance between them. Frim felt colder, more alone. But the memory of what she’d just felt was a source of comfort. And of curiosity. She hoped she could explore it later. But she had some thinking to do.
Rin looked at her. “Are you all right? I’m sorry. That was a lot to put upon your shoulders.”
“It is all right. I am just… confused.”
“I know. And you have something new and dangerous to do. The first of the security passes should be back here in not too long – the passes that allow access to the Old Ones’ site. I need to get one to you, and I need you to depart the ship. To get down there and see what all of this is, before I have to get a landing party to break in. With Torlo’s logs deleted, and without the training from the hatchery that a captain would normally receive, I am somewhat adrift. We were not supposed to be able to lose the fleet commander without replacement, after all.” Rin’s nasal passages flapped shut. A sign of stress, Frim was learning. Rin continued. “But the mission briefing is still clear about our goals. We are supposed to take control of the site of the Old Ones, and we are to use it to defeat our enemies and help spread the Zeelin across the stars. But I do not know how or why the site here will help us do this. I suspect someone does – someone who will not obey my orders, and who will pursue the mission even if I hinder it or forbid it. I will hold off sending in ground teams as long as I can, but the crew will start to wonder if I delay too long. You’ll have to accomplish your mission quickly. Get down there, get in, determine what is there and if it can be disabled, or whether you need to destroy it to keep it from the fleet. A big task.”
“I’m ready. I have a way down. A bit of subterfuge. A secret drop pod built into a cargo bay, with protein, salt, water, and weapons. Those who trained me had it put there and stocked. It shouldn’t even register when it departs, especially if I mask it using the Navigation station’s console. And now we know where to send it.”
“I’ll make up an assignment for you to explain your absence. Or an illness, or something.”
“Thank you, Captain. Rin, I mean.” Frim reached out her hand again and put it on Rin’s. Rin’s skin was still warm, perhaps from of their prior contact. With the implants turned back on, nothing crossed between them other than the blanket of muffled emotions recycled from the rest of the ship. Still, the touch was comforting. “Thanks, Rin. For your help, and for this… experience. I am grateful, even if I still need to think on it.”
“I am grateful too, Frim. I am.”
42
Captive Audience
The beast stopped and bent its head to graze on a scrubby plant. The beast made more wet smacking noises than Brecca thought necessary. They had halted in a clearing. The sky was obscured by the fluffy trees she’d seen from the drone and at the crash site. They seemed to be common on Daros, at least in this climate. The smaller plants had less of the fuzz than the bigger trees, but they were still fluffy. Must be how their photosynthesis had evolved here, or maybe they were pulling moisture from the air, or something. She wished she’d spent a little more time reading up on the planet, but she had no way to know she’d be exploring the wilderness. On a massive slurping beast. That she was tied to.
