Chapter 33
“That which is morally obligatory, though not praiseworthy, may seem to conflict with the Honor Code. Only time can prove otherwise.”
Legacy Mandate by Emperor Yung I
With her cloak wrapped about her, pouches loaded with food bars, and weapons latched into place beneath the cloak, Inga Maru leaned against the infirmary bulkhead, her eyes flickering constantly. Not far away Saef sprawled, corpse-like, on the suspension cot, his vital signs barely registering, the techmedico apparatus purring gently beside him. The deck beneath Inga’s boots shuddered slightly, evidence of Tanager’s contortions.
Of course Inga needed no evidence. Watch on watch, hour after hour, navigating the world of Loki’s making, she felt every footfall on board Tanager’s decks. She no longer needed system alerts or trigger gates. She lived the Tanager now, just as Loki did, intermingled with Loki’s perceptions every waking moment.
As Lieutenant Ruprecht made his way down the narrow companionway, Inga knew his destination long before the infirmary door slid open. The heavyworld lieutenant stepped uncertainly into the infirmary, looking from Saef, sprawled on the suspension cot, to Inga leaning against the bulkhead.
“Lieutenant,” Inga greeted.
“How is he?” Ruprecht stared at Saef.
Inga shrugged. “Find out soon enough, likely.”
Ruprecht looked at the techmedico screen and reached a large hand toward the suspension cot. Perhaps he subconsciously detected Inga’s rising, coiling readiness. His hand fell away.
“What, uh, what happened to him?”
Inga shrugged again. She knew, just as Loki knew, that rumors ran wild through Tanager. “Not sure, Lieutenant.”
Some connected the death of the ship services rating to the captain’s current state, while others focused upon the movements of Susan Roush. Surely, at least one other member of the crew knew that a flat gray package crammed full of advanced micros had been placed in Saef’s cabin before their transition to Delta Three. That person—that spy—should reasonably believe that Saef’s condition resulted from the micros, even if the effect varied from what they had expected.
Lieutenant Ruprecht shuffled his feet uncomfortably in the silence, the purr and chirp of the techmedico underscoring Inga’s unwavering gaze. Is Ruprecht the spy?
“Hope the captain recovers,” Ruprecht said at last.
Inga nodded. “We all do.”
Ruprecht turned and retreated, leaving Inga to immerse back within the nervous system of the Tanager. Now the flow of communication between Loki’s inquisitive, childish core and Inga became a continual string. Like any semi-rational entity, Loki felt the desire to share, to interact, and decades of pent-up dissatisfaction now created an endless flood. Loki became an attention-starved child, determined to share every pretty seashell on an eternal beach.
In the first days Inga had communicated audibly or with line-of-sight text messages, then gradually, through nothing more than a stream of subconscious data enabled by her advanced Shaper implant and UI. Never, since that first explosive encounter, had she linked with the “dumb” mech’s systems to sift through the inner workings of Loki’s world. There was no need. In much the way that Inga’s top-secret Shaper implant directed numerous biotech modifications almost at an autonomic level, it now meshed with Loki’s own nervous system.
This overfilled the empty hours and taxed Inga’s resources to the breaking point. Loki’s attention to some antic among the fish equaled his interest in a squabble among crew members, and Inga struggled to focus on matters of importance while at the same time engaging in a separate crusade that felt strangely vital to her. She labored valiantly through thousands of communication cycles with Loki to impart the one ingredient any sentient being needed to truly relate to any other being: empathy. Without this ingredient, Loki would still represent an astonishing evolution in synthetic Intelligence, but he could only be called the most technologically advanced sociopath in human space.
In the midst of her continual labors, Inga rode the flickering infatuations possessing Loki from moment to moment. Fish, plants, more fish, angry interactions between crew, fish again, a flutter in a fuel valve assembly, some interstellar phenomena, still more fish.
She responded, she properly admired, she inquired—all as needed, all in flashes of microseconds. And yet her ear attuned to the hesitant pulse of the techmedico throughout the unceasing stream pouring into her mind. In brief breaks she felt regret, embarrassment, chagrined for having shared feelings with Saef. Those old things were far better locked away in the box with all the pain and shame of childhood. Had he even heard her words, the moment of her weakness as his consciousness faded?
Two motions within Tanager prompted only mild interest from Loki, as more and more of his cycles filled with observations on the approaching planet, Delta Three, but Inga took note.
Loki scooped up Nets traffic from Delta Three, ogled planetside weather activity through optical scopes and continued a blow-by-blow of a fishbowl romance, while Inga observed Chief Amos Cray ambling down the companionway.
The engineering chief shuffled into the infirmary, whistling through his teeth, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his stained uniform.
“Chief,” Inga greeted.
“Chief,” Amos nodded back. He glanced without great interest at Saef’s form. “Things gettin’ a bit fun, looks like.”
“Oh?” Inga said.
Amos Cray scratched his stubbly cheek. “Yep. Marines all in a state, seems. Bridge actin’ all shifty. Engines pushin’ twenty gees.” He shrugged. “You good?”
“Oh, wonderful,” Inga said.
Amos stared at her musingly. He shrugged again. “Alrighty, then.” He glanced at the captain’s suspension cot again. “I better git back to it then. Watch yo’self, missy.”
Cray exited the infirmary hatch, heading back toward Engineering in his relaxed shuffle. Could Amos Cray be a secret enemy? Inga did not dismiss the possibility.
Only a few moments passed after Cray’s departure before the infirmary hatch opened again. Karl Grund, the ship services chief, stepped in bearing a tray. His jovial face wore a wide-eyed expression of solicitude and he almost tiptoed into the infirmary.
“Chief Maru?” Grund whispered. “Chief, you must eat, no?”
“Thank you,” Inga said, but she made no move to take the tray.
Grund stood uncertainly for a moment, then placed the tray of food on an empty suspension cot. “How’s the captain?”
Inga regarded Chief Grund without expression. “Not good.”
Grund shook his head sadly. “What happened to him?”
“No one seems to know.”
“But the ship geist?”
“No one seems to know,” Inga repeated.
Chief Karl Grund made a sympathetic sound and shook his head again. “But what can we do for him, then?”
“Nothing. Unless we can get help.”
“Oh,” Grund said, nodding wisely. “Help. I see.” He backed toward the infirmary hatch. “Eat, Chief. Keep your strength up.”
Inga nodded, her eyes focused unwaveringly upon Chief Karl Grund until the hatch slid shut behind him.
Loki’s senses, his attention focused more and more upon Delta Three planetside as Tanager sped ever nearer. He noted weather patterns, the presence of their scant satellites, variations between historical archives and the actual surface unfolding beneath his optical scan. Despite his incessant rain of data into her mind, Inga managed to ponder several things disconnected from Loki’s interests.
She had followed their plan. She had set the hooks, but it gave her little satisfaction.
The techmedico purred and chirped. Inga leaned against the bulkhead, feeling the faint quivers through Tanager’s hull. Saef continued in comatose stillness.
Three visitors: Ruprecht, Grund, Cray…and certainly an enemy among them. Or all three?
Inga smelled the scent of food rising enticingly from the tray Grund had left behind. She stirred, moving to the tray, and dumped it down the disposal chute.
As she fished a food bar from one of her pouches Loki exclaimed, “Ooh! Meteorological phenomenon planetside! Look!”
Through Loki’s optical scopes she saw a vast storm sweeping across the Delta Three surface, occluding the lights of the capital city. Chewing her food bar, she wondered if the Marines preparing to drop down the well greeted the storm with approval or frustration.
Loved or hated, the storm gathered force.