0316246689 (S) (6 page)

Sphene
said, a trace of ice in its voice, “I’m not
your
ship.”

“Citizen, then,” I said, though I knew that was no better. I gestured toward our little territory. “You may as well come in. If you are coming in.”

It walked past Five as if she weren’t there, ignored Lieutenant Tisarwat, who had stood up halfway through the exchange. It walked all the way to a rear corner, and sat down with its back to the wall and its arms around its knees, staring forward.

Five affected to ignore it. Tisarwat stared at it for five seconds, and then said, “It can have my supper, I’m not hungry. I’m
going out.” She looked at me. “With the fleet captain’s permission, of course.” Voice on the very edge of acid. She was still angry with me.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” I said equably.

Four hours later I met with Head of Security Lusulun, to all appearances a social call, given the hour and the place (the head of Security’s favorite tea shop, on Station’s advice, well off the main concourse, just slightly dingy, with soft, comfortable chairs and walls muffled with gold and dark-blue hangings). Except among friends, most Radchaai considered last-minute invitations to be quite rude. But my rank, and the current situation, mitigated some of that. And the fact that I’d ordered a bottle of a local, sorghum-based spirit Station had told me Head of Security Lusulun favored, and had it ready to pour her a cup of it when she arrived.

She bowed as I rose to meet her. “Fleet Captain. I apologize for the late hour.” She had clearly come straight from her office, she was still in uniform. “Things have been a bit hectic lately!”

“That they have.” We sat, and I handed her a cup of liquor. Picked up my own.

“I confess I’ve been wishing to meet with you for the last few days, but there’s never been the time.” And for the last few days I’d been absent, on my own ship. “Forgive me, Fleet Captain, I fear my mind is still on business.”

“Your business is important.” I took a sip of the liquor. It burned going down, with an aftertaste like rusting iron. “I’ve run civilian security a time or two myself. It’s a difficult job.”

She blinked, trying to conceal her surprise. It was not the usual attitude of military toward civilian security. “I’m pleased to hear that you appreciate that, Fleet Captain.”

“Would I be right in assuming you’ve got your people doing extra shifts, trying to keep citizens out of the Undergarden?”

“Right enough. Though even the Ychana are sharp enough to realize it’s dangerous to go there just now, before it’s been fully inspected. Most of them, anyway. There’s always a few.” She took a taste of her drink. “Ah, that’s just what I needed.” I sent a silent thanks to Station. “No, Fleet Captain, it’s true I’ve got my people patrolling there just now, and our lives would be a sight easier without that, but if I had a say in these things I’d have whatever structural damage there might be repaired as quickly as possible, and have these people back where they came from. Now I’ve heard you’ve run civilian security before, I don’t wonder you didn’t hesitate to move in with them. You’ll have been at annexations, I don’t doubt, and I’m sure you don’t blink at uncivilized behavior. And there’s a good deal more room for you in the Undergarden than anywhere else on the station!”

I put a genial smile on my face. “Indeed.” Taking issue just now with
these people
and
uncivilized
wouldn’t be helpful. “Considering the present situation, I’m… taken aback at the insistence in some quarters that we should delay allowing residents to return to the Undergarden while we reconsider station housing assignments.”
Some quarters
being the head priest of Amaat. “Let alone the suggestion that any but the most necessary repairs be delayed until those assignments are…
reconsidered
.”

Head of Security Lusulun took another long drink. “Well, I suppose how places are assigned will affect just what those repairs should be, yes? Of course, it’s quicker and easier to leave assignments as they are, as you’ve suggested yourself, Fleet Captain. And work was already going forward even before the lake sprung its leak. Might as well continue on
as we were. But.” She glanced around. Lowered her voice, though there was no one in earshot besides me and Kalr Five, standing behind my chair. “The Xhais, sir, can be quite unreasonable on the topic of the Ychana. Not to say I blame them entirely. They’re a dirty lot, and it’s a shame, the difference between what the Undergarden was meant to be and what it is now, after they’ve been living there.” Fortunately it was easy for me to keep a neutral expression on my face. “Still,” Lusulun continued, “let them have it, I say. It would make my life easier. Since the Undergarden has been evacuated we’ve had twice the disturbances. Fistfights, accusations of theft. Though most of those turn out to be nothing.” She sighed. “But not all of them. I’ll rest easier when they’re back in the Undergarden, I don’t deny it. And so will the Xhais, truth be told, but let them get the idea that any Ychana has somehow ended up with something she doesn’t deserve…” She gestured her disgust.

Most station officials who weren’t outsystem Radchaai were Xhai, here. The same was true of the wealthiest families. “Is Eminence Ifian a Xhai?” I asked, blandly.

Head of Security Lusulun gave an amused snort. “No indeed. She’s outsystem Radchaai, and wouldn’t thank you for suspecting she might be Athoeki. But she’s pious, and if Amaat put the Xhais over the Ychana, well, that’s what’s proper.”

It went without saying that in Radch space, a head priest of Amaat had a great deal of influence. But there were nearly always other religious figures with influence of their own. “And the head priest of the Mysteries?”

Lusulun raised her cup, a kind of salute. “That’s right, you arrived in time for the Genitalia Festival, and you saw how popular that was. Yes. She
is
Xhai, but she’s one of the few reasonable ones.”

“Are you an initiate of the Mysteries?”

Cup still in hand, she gestured dismissal of the very idea. “No, no, Fleet Captain. It’s a Xhai thing.”

Station said, quietly in my ear, “The head of Security is half Sahut, Fleet Captain.” Yet another group of Athoeki. One I knew very little about. In truth, sometimes such distinctions seemed invisible to me, but I knew from long experience they were anything but to the people who lived here.

“Or really,” continued Lusulun, unaware that Station had spoken to me, “these days it’s a thing for outsystem Radchaai with a taste for…” She hesitated, looking for the right word. “Exotic spirituality.” With an ironic edge. Whether that edge was meant for the outsystem initiates, or the Mysteries themselves, or both, I couldn’t tell. “Officially the Mysteries are open to anyone who’s able to complete the initiation. In reality, well.” She took another long drink, held out her cup when I lifted the bottle to offer a refill. “In reality, certain kinds of people have always been… discouraged from attempting it.”

“Ychana, for instance,” I suggested, pouring generously. “Among others, no doubt.”

“Just so. Now, about four, five years ago an Ychana applied. And not your half-civilized Undergarden variety, no, she was entirely assimilated, well-educated, well-spoken. A minor Station Administration official.” I realized, from just that much description, that she referred to someone whose daughter Lieutenant Tisarwat had been at pains to cultivate. “The furor over that! But the hierophant stood her ground. Everyone meant everyone, not
everyone but
.” She snorted again. “Everyone who can afford it, anyway. There was all sorts of pissing and moaning—your pardon, sir—about how no decent person would become an initiate now, and the ancient Mysteries would be debased and destroyed. But
you know, I think the hierophant knew well enough she was safe. More than half of initiates these days are outsystem, and Radchaai are used to provincials becoming civilized and stepping inside the circle, as it were. I daresay if you look at the genealogies of most of the outsystem Radchaai on this station you’d find quite a few of those. And really, the Mysteries seem to be going on the same as always.” She gestured unconcern. “They’re not really as ancient as all that, and by actually refusing to join they’d be cutting themselves off from the most exclusive social club on the station.”

“So actually”—I took a sip of liquor, much smaller than the ones the head of Security had been taking—“the Xhais on this station aren’t unanimous in hating the Ychana. It’s just a vocal few.”

“Oh, more than just a few.” And then, showing me just how strong this liquor was, or perhaps how quickly she’d been drinking it, she said, “Unless I miss my guess, Fleet Captain, you weren’t born a Mianaai. No offense, you understand. You’ve got the manner and the accent, but you don’t have the looks. And I have trouble believing anyone born that high cares so much about a humble horticulturist.”

She meant Horticulturist Basnaaid Elming. “I served with her sister.” I had been the ship her sister had served on. I had killed her sister.

“So I understand.” She glanced at the bottle. I obliged her. “On
Justice of Toren
, I gather. No offense, like I said, but the horticulturist’s family isn’t the most elevated.”

“No,” I agreed.

Head of Security Lusulun laughed, as though I’d confirmed something. “
Justice of Toren
. The ship with all the songs! No wonder Station Administrator Celar likes you so much, you must have brought her dozens of new ones.” She
sighed. “I’d give my left arm to bring her a gift like that!” Governor Giarod might be the higher authority, but Administrator Celar reigned over Athoek Station’s daily routine. She was wide and heavy, and quite beautiful. No few of the residents of Athoek Station were half in love with her. “Well.
Justice of Toren
. There was a tragedy. Did they ever find out what happened?”

“Not that I know of,” I lied. “Tell me—I know it isn’t strictly proper, but”—I glanced around, though I knew Five had intimidated anyone out of sitting anywhere near us—“I was wondering about Sirix Odela.” It had been Sirix who had told Captain Hetnys that threatening Lieutenant Awn’s sister, Basnaaid Elming, would be a good way to strike at me. Who had lured me to the Gardens so that Captain Hetnys could make that threat while I was in as vulnerable a position as possible.

Lusulun sighed. “Well, now, Fleet Captain. Citizen Sirix…”

“She had been through Security before,” I acknowledged. Sirix had already been re-educated once. More than one re-education was (in theory at least) rare, and potentially dangerous.

Head of Security Lusulun winced. “We took that into consideration, in fact.” An inquisitive look at me, to see how I felt about that. “And she was genuinely remorseful. It was ultimately decided that she should be reassigned to one of the outstations. Without further, ah, involvement.” Without further re-education, that meant. “One of the outstations will be needing a new horticulturist, and the departure window is in the next few days.”

“Good.” I was unsurprised to hear Sirix was remorseful. “I can’t condone what she did, of course. But I know she was in a difficult position. I’m glad she’ll be spared
further unpleasantness.” Lusulun made a sympathetic noise. “Have you eaten?” I asked. “I could order something.” She acquiesced, and we spent the rest of the evening talking of inconsequential things.

As I walked back to our corridor-end, pleased with the outcome of my talk with the head of Security, trying to think what might wash the taste of the sorghum liquor out of my mouth, Kalr Five walking behind me,
Mercy of Kalr
showed me Seivarden, near the end of her watch. Alarmed. “Breq,” she said, and it was a measure of her distress that even sitting in Command, with two of her Amaats close by, she addressed me in personal, not official, terms. “Breq, we have a problem.”

I could see that we did. A small one-person courier had just come out of the Ghost Gate, beyond which was, supposedly, a dead-end system with no other gates and no inhabitants. We knew that
Sphene
was there, of course, but
Sphene
was a Notai ship, it was old, and it hadn’t been near any sort of refit or repair facility in some three thousand years. This courier wasn’t Notai, and its small, boxy hull was a shining white so pristine it might have come new from a shipyard moments before.

“Fleet Captain,” said Seivarden, from her seat in Command aboard
Mercy of Kalr
. In better control of herself now, but no less frightened. “The Presger are here.”

4

As I said, space is big. When the Presger courier came out of the Ghost Gate—shortly afterward sending a message identifying itself as a Presger ship, citing a subsection of the treaty and asking, on the basis of that, for permission to dock at Athoek Station—we had a good three days to prepare for its arrival. Time enough for Lieutenant Tisarwat to become at least outwardly resigned to the fact that Undergarden residents wanted to direct their own affairs.

Time enough for me to meet with Basnaaid Elming. Who had only recently learned that I had killed her sister. Whose life I had saved, days before. Of course, I was the reason her life had been in danger in the first place. She had, unaccountably, decided to continue to speak to me. I didn’t question it, or consider too closely the profound ambivalence that almost certainly lay behind her courtesy. “Thank you for the tea,” she said, sitting on a crate at the corridor-end. Tisarwat was out, drinking with friends.
Sphene
was wherever
Sphene
went when it grew tired of sitting in the corner and staring. Station would tell me if it got itself into trouble.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” I replied. “I know you’re busy.” Basnaaid was one of the horticulturists in charge of the Gardens, five acres of open space full of water and trees and flowers. The Gardens were currently closed to the public while the support structures that kept the lake from collapsing into the Undergarden were being repaired—they had needed work for quite some time, but had chosen an inconvenient moment to fail, just days ago. Now the beautiful Gardens were a mess of mud, and plants that might or might not recover from that eventful day.