“Yes. Comms, what are they saying?”
“There’s quite a lot of it, sir; I’ve patched it through. But it boils down to them telling us not to attack the Ronte.”
“I bet it does. I’ll take a look shortly. You have followed my earlier orders and not acknowledged?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. S/T?”
“Sir,” the Sensors/Targeting officer said.
“How long until we have the Ronte fleet in range?”
“A fraction over two hours at current velocities and courses, sir.”
“Two hours? I thought we expected to have them in range forty minutes after contact.”
“Their drive signatures are messier than anticipated, sir, plus the Culture ship with them appears to be hurrying them on; hard to tell from this far away — only about fifteen per cent certain — but it looks like it’s encased them in its own field enclosure, highly extended, and is acting like a sort of high-speed tug.”
“I see. Engineering?”
“Sir?”
“Can you give us a little more power?”
“Negative, sir. Another step-up from here would imply a seventy per cent chance of serious engine malfunction, probably in one or both of the two Jubunde-class ships.”
“Hmm. Very well. Continue to close at current velocity. Combat?”
“Sir?”
“Go to full readiness in one hour, ship-wide. I’ll rejoin the bridge then.”
“Sir.”
“Proceed, all,” he said. He cut off the chorus of acknowledgements and resumed his compositional task with a watery sigh.
The insectile drone Jonsker Ap-Candrechenat, representative of the Culture ship Beats Working, floated in front of the Swarmprince Ossebri 17 Haldesib, in the command space of the Ronte Interstitial/Exploratory vessel Melancholia Enshrines All Triumph.
“This need not be your fight, machine,” Haldesib told the drone.
“It feels like it is, Swarmprince. I led you into danger. I thought I might help you escape it, but it would appear we are discovered, so now the least I can do is try to make amends by coming between you and the enemies into whose reach I so foolishly delivered you.”
Haldesib flicked one leg in a dismissive gesture. “For ourselves, we do not seek our end; but the hive, the swarm, the race will go on, no matter. You need not presume to share our fate through misplaced guilt.”
“I feel I have no honourable choice, Swarmprince.”
“You intend to attack the Liseiden ships?”
“I intend to engage with them.”
“The distinction might be lost on them. We have dealt with the Liseiden before. They will interpret any ‘engagement’ as an attack. Or at least claim to, afterwards. Be warned.”
“Thank you. I am.”
“This is the decision of your human crew?”
“No. It is mine. I intend to get my human crew to safety before matters become critical.”
“They concur with this?”
“They have come to accept it. Two wanted to be heroes, and stay aboard. I argued them out of this course.”
The Swarmprince flexed his wing plates. In a human, the equivalent might have been a shake of the head. “We may all die out here, machine, but — of all of us — you have some choice. Must you be a hero? Can you not argue yourself out of this course?”
“I probably could, Swarmprince, but I’d regret it subsequently. I believe this is the right thing to do and so I am doing it.”
“You may steal some of our glory.” The Swarmprince’s legs flexed as he said this, dipping his body briefly to indicate that it was said humorously, not aggressively.
“I shall engage with them first, independently, Swarmprince, before any action between them and you. If I may, I’ll transmit to you whatever I can discover of their ships’ abilities, strengths and weaknesses. It may help, if I am unable to stop them.”
“We are pleased to accept this kind offer. But what if you prevail? We shall be denied all chance to prove ourselves!”
“Then you will have the benefit of my most profuse apologies, I shall accept any amount of inferred alien cachet value (negative), honorary, you care to bestow, and I shall be grateful subsequently for even the most demeaning and/or minor role in any ship dance within which you care to include me.”
Leg-clicks indicated the Swarmprince was laughing. A few other Ronte in the command space joined in quietly. “It has been gratifying to us to witness the knowledge of and respect for our ways you have displayed, ship,” the Swarmprince said. “We can only wish you well with your ‘engagement’. Fight well. Live if you can, die well if you must.”
“Thank you, Swarmprince. It’s been a pleasure.”
“You look tired, Septame,” Chekwri told him as she entered his office in the parliament building.
“I feel tired, Marshal.”
“Never mind; not long to go now. You chosen your last outfit?”
“What?”
“Your clothing; whatever you’re going to wear for the Instigation. Have you decided how you’ll be dressed when you meet your glorious translation into the Enfolded?”
“I… I think that’s all pre-decided for me. Ceremonial… Solbli. Yes, Solbli; she’ll be taking care of all that. Umm. You?”
“Oh, I shall be resplendent in all my finery, Septame, medals gleaming,” Chekwri said, folding herself into a seat across from the septame. Banstegeyn had noticed that the marshal didn’t ask whether she might disturb him these days, or wait to be invited to sit. Before, he might have made some frosty comment and insisted on protocols being followed, but no more. People were going quietly crazy in these last couple of days — in fact some people were going noisily, boisterously, even dangerously crazy. Meanwhile, all across the Gzilt domain, those who had been Stored, some for less than a year, some for a couple of decades or more, were waking up for final reunions, last goodbyes, leaving parties and fare-thee-wells-in-what-comes-next…
“I have buffed and polished my medals for decades of steady, dedicated watchfulness,” the marshal continued, clasping her hands behind her head as she leaned back and relaxed, legs crossed, “counted and re-counted my medals for outstanding work in simulations and exercises, carefully arranged my medals for heroic bravery under virtual fire, and even found room for my many, many medals for exemplary valour in the face of fellow officers coveting the same promotions as I.” She smiled at him without humour. “Shame we haven’t had time to strike any medals commemorating our latest exploits: jumping unarmed ships, wasting our own and setting naive aliens on each other. Still, one can have too much of a good thing, eh, Septame? And they do say there’s no guilt in the Sublime.”
“You seem positively energised by the whole process, Chekwri.” He looked pointedly round the room. “And very confident that my office isn’t bugged.”
“I had my own people make quite sure of that some time ago, Septame,” Chekwri said, smiling.
“While planting your own?”
The marshal’s smile broadened. “Have you always been so suspicious, Banstegeyn?”
He looked at her, unsmiling. “No, I stumbled into a position of great power quite by accident.”
Chekwri grinned, then shrugged. “Our troubles will soon be over, Septame,” she said, then frowned. “What?” she asked. Banstegeyn had just twitched and glanced to one side, like he’d seen something alarming from the corner of one eye.
The septame shook his head and bent back to his desk, where he was signing documents on his desk screen. “Nothing,” he muttered, scrawling his signature. “Have you only come to discuss matters of ceremonial attire or is there some actual point to this visit?”