Galactic Empires (11 page)

"No, I don't feel much better, Societal Ass Longshank," she replied.

What had once been a humorous exchange now contained a hint of bitterness.

The inner ring of the spin section was the bridge. It was without a ceiling, and while working at any of the consoles it was possible to see one's fellows upside down overhead. Kelly, being a ship's engineer, had been quite accustomed to this sort of thing, but it had taken some getting used to for the other escapees, and the vomit vacuums had seen plenty of work.

"How are we doing?" she asked Traviss, who in the low grav sat strapped into his chair at the center of a horseshoe of navigation consoles before the projection cylinder.

Traviss was a young hyperactive man who had been in the Collective military until he showed a talent with computers and spatial calculus and was reclassified as a "societal asset." Like them all, he had resented the resultant scrutiny from the Doctrinaires. He touched a control and the projection cylinder filled with stars.

"Our slingshot around Phaeton is taking us nicely out of the system's gravity sink and we'll be able to U-jump in sixteen hours." One of the stars flashed red, and, a little way out, flashed the blue spinning-top icon of the
Breznev.
Between the two lay three icons representing the Collective pursuit vessels from Handel. They weren't the problem. The problem was a green icon accelerating out from the nearest star to Phaeton. The
Lenin,
though not as close to them as the other ships, would now easily be able to intersect their course. It was also faster, so there would be no outrunning it.

Traviss continued, "I calculate that the
Lenin
will be able to knock us back into the real in three days if we continue along our present course."

The others were gathering around now: Slome Terl, astrophysicist and their paternal figurehead; Olsen Marcos, who was a geneticist and an amateur historian, though that was a pursuit now strictly controlled in the Collective; and Elizabeth Terl, Slome's daughter and plain physicist in her own right. Of the fifty people aboard, everyone was an expert of some kind, and everyone had been reclassified as a "societal asset" and come under doctrinal scrutiny and control. To say the Collective was ruled would be to deny what it claimed to be, but it
was
ruled, by those who did all they could to skew reality to fit doctrine. The Doctrinaires knew that anyone above a certain intelligence level was a danger, yet also essential for a space-faring civilization, so such people had to be
managed.

"Space has, by definition, three dimensions," said Slome. He was old, bald, and running to fat, and possessed a mind that sliced through problems like a microtome.

"Somewhat more than that, I would suggest," said Elizabeth, young, arrogant, and, though intelligent, more intent on displaying that intelligence than using it.

"Shut the fuck up, Liz," said Kelly distractedly.

The girl gave Kelly a superior look, then reached up to flick a lock of her bright ginger hair aside. She was pretty, too, which Kelly also found annoying.

"Our options are limited," said Traviss. He touched another control and areas of the cylinder were shaded in different colors. Their ship was within a blue hemisphere that disappeared off-cylinder-the Collective. A red area impinged from above and other discrete red areas were scattered below, with one large red hemisphere filling the lower right of the cylinder.

"If you would run through those options," said Slome, and Kelly got the suspicion that Slome and Traviss had already done so, and that a decision had already been made.

Traviss touched controls and numbers appeared in each of the colored areas. "Red signifies danger," he said needlessly. "Area One is what's left of the Grazen Empire. If we head that way, we'll either run straight into their defenses or their wormships will catch up with us." He glanced around. "And if we're lucky, they'll blow us out of space rather than capture us." They all knew what happened to humans caught by the Grazen.

"Area Two?" Slome prompted.

"Areas Two, Three, and Five are asteroid fields," Traviss explained. "We would have to drop out of U-space to navigate them." He highlighted some stars in the Collective adjacent to Area Three. "Even if we tried to get through Three, which is the smallest, the Collective could send ships from the bases indicated and intercept us."

"Six?"

"Grazen outposts scattered in an asteroid field and extended dust cloud."

"You surprise me," said Slome.

Kelly interjected, "Collective problems at home ended that mission. In my opinion, the area wasn't worth taking-nothing there remotely human-habitable and it would have taken years at the cost of many ships. But the Doctrinaires don't let facts get in the way of ideology-there'll be another attack on it."

Slome nodded, then pointed a gnarled finger at the hemisphere of red. "And that?"

Traviss hesitated for a moment and Kelly knew precisely why. She also knew that Slome's prompting and Traviss's hesitation were just a performance. They both knew where this was leading. Kelly wondered what it was they were yet to reveal.

"That's been under Interdict since before the Markovians," Traviss replied. "I can't really find out much about it."

"But you've found something," said Slome.

"Yes," Traviss said. He appeared distinctly uncomfortable with the act. "That area is classified as Owner Space."

After a brief, almost embarrassed silence, Elizabeth laughed knowingly, then said, "The Markovians were not noted for their rationality."

Kelly felt the need to defend Traviss, despite the fact that he and Slome were playing some game. "Yes, which is why they were slaughtered by our oh-so-rational Collective."

Elizabeth shot back, "The Collective is a doomed ideology, but their rationality is superior to the myth-making and religions of the Markovians."

"Well, I can always drop you in one of the escape pods if you want to go back," said Kelly. "That's supposing the Doctrinaire aboard the
Lenin
thinks you a valuable enough asset to pick up."

Elizabeth began to bristle until Olsen interrupted heavily, "The Owner is no myth, though some people's conception of him may stray into the territory of religion."

Holding up a finger to silence his daughter, Slome turned to the geneticist and sometime historian. "I heard something about all this when I was a student under the Markovians. Perhaps you could elaborate?"

Olsen shrugged. "Highlight the Sabalist System, would you, Traviss?"

Traviss complied, picking out a star sitting just on the Grazen side of the border between the Grazen Empire and the Collective.

"Owner Space extended to here. The Owner apparently ceded the area to us in the pre-Markovian era. The Markovians lost it to the Grazen over a century ago, but we still have a lot of data and biological samples from Sabal itself. Those samples indicate a great deal of adaptation from ancient Terran forms." "That was almost certainly our work," said Elizabeth. "We aren't in that league," Olsen replied. "But perhaps we were?" Olsen shook his head.

"Though I know some of the details, this is the first I've heard about the Sabal connection," said Slome.

"It's in some very old data files—I did some research," Olsen replied. "Those same files were secured by the Collective, and I came under the scrutiny of Doctrinaires long before they invented the concept of 'societal assets.' Some of my fellows weren't so lucky."

"So we are now to believe in immortal superbeings?" enquired Elizabeth.

"We don't have to," said Kelly. They all turned to look at her.

She continued. "The Grazen avoid that place. When I was engineer aboard the
Mao,
a Grazen scoutship faced us down rather than enter there. We tore it apart. Grazen ships get destroyed if they try to enter that area, and Collective ships get flung out—their drive systems wrecked."

"This was when you were fighting for the Collective," said Elizabeth.

"This was when I was an engineer groveling in radioactive sludge below the Mao's engines."

Elizabeth did not have much more to say about that—they could all see the shiny scar tissue down the side of Kelly's face, her neck, and disappearing under her jacket.

After an embarrassed silence, Slome said, "Well, as you say, Traviss, 'limited options.' But we must make a decision." He turned to Kelly. "I defer to you on this, since without you we would never have escaped the Commutank, and since you have greater experience in these matters"—Kelly knew that a "however" was due—"however, the Grazen would peel off our skins over a slow fire, while the Collective would peel our minds and we'd soon all become obedient little citizens after they fitted us with strouds." He gestured toward the viewing cylinder. "As I see it, when we drop into U-space, we should run for the edge of the Grazen outpost, where we will be in their territory only briefly before reaching the… Interdict Area."

Hints, rumors, stories—nothing clear and nothing proven—that's all Kelly had ever heard while in the Collective fleet. The whole, however, had left an impression on her, an idea that the Owner was something to be feared, something that even the
Grazen
feared. Perhaps that was just the fear of the unknown.

"We won't be able to enter there," she said-not entirely sure of her facts. "We'll get crippled and flung out, and those aboard the
Lenin
will capture us, if the Grazen don't get to us first."

Slome gave a weak smile. "Yes, that would have been true."

"
Would have
been true?"

Slome gestured to the cylinder. "Show them the message, Traviss."

Traviss cleared the cylinder. Then, after a moment, he brought up a brief text message: "Escapees from the Collective, Owner Space is open to you. Welcome."

Traviss said, "Its source was deep inside Owner Space."

"Very well," said Kelly, her spine crawling. "Owner Space it is."

*

Clinging to the handholds, Doctrinaire Shrad gazed at flecked void through the thick portholes of the
Lenin
and ground his teeth. A stupid waste of resources, he felt, specifically himself. He should have been back with the Central Committee, planning the coming attack on the Grazen Empire, not out here chasing after a few assets gone bad. It was the other Doctrinaires in the Committee who had driven him out-fools whose ideology was unsound, who did not understand precisely how things should run in the Collective. They called his leadership of the previous campaign "disastrous" and did not understand how working with the old Markovian command structures in the fleet had hindered him. Well, he would bring these assets back, strouded and subservient, then return to his place in the Committee and bring to fruition his vision of the New Deal. Meanwhile-he turned from the viewing window—he would have to see about correcting the ideological aberrations he had found aboard this vessel.

The engineer, his hands bound behind his back, was being held between two of the Guard. Shrad pushed himself over and caught hold of some of the masses of pipe work running from the reactor cylinder. Then, with an exclamation, he snatched his hand away and had to stop himself by grabbing the shoulder of one of the Guard, who, as ever, just silently maintained his position.

"Those pipes are hot, Doctrinaire Shrad," observed the engineer. "If you must grab pipes, I suggest you grab the ones painted white."

"Thank you, Citizen Rand." Shrad took hold of a white pipe and hauled himself back. "Now, Citizen, I expect you are wondering why the Guard have detained you."

"I am overcome with curiosity, Doctrinaire Shrad." Shrad could feel his rage growing but, as usual, kept it locked inside. "I am presuming you understand the ideological concept behind graywear?"

"I do: it being doctrine that all people are equal, all people must also appear so."

"Yet here you are wearing Markovian overalls!" It was an unusual contrast: a citizen of the Collective dressed in Markovian overalls, held between two of Shrad's own unit of graywear-clad Guard—men who had once been Markovians.

"I don graywear when I go off-shift. Unfortunately, it is not practical in the engineering environment."

"Are you saying that Committee instructions are wrong?" "No, Doctrinaire Shrad, I am saying that in the engineering environment, I would soil and destroy my graywear, which perhaps the Committee would consider an insult, though, of course, I don't presume to know what the Committee would think. I just try to do my best for the good of the Collective."

The words were as correct as they could be under the circumstances, but Shrad could detect a note of forbidden Irony and perhaps Sarcasm. He knew that it would be necessary to modify the behavior of this man.

"Doctrinaire Shrad."

Shrad turned. "Citizen Astanger," he said, feeling an immediate increase in his annoyance. Astanger was a societal asset—a synthesist who, under the Markovians, would have been called captain of the
Lenin.

"Is there a problem?" asked Astanger.

Shrad gazed at the man. He was gray-haired, tall and thin, possessed piercing blue eyes, and what, in another time, would have been called a noble face. Shrad had his suspicions that Astanger's ancestry was, in fact, Markovian—he possessed a similarity of facial structure to those in Shrad's Guard unit—and that his outer appearance stemmed from the genetic tweaks those rulers had made to their line. It further annoyed Shrad that though Astanger's hair and graywear were utterly correct, he always looked sartorially impeccable.

"This engineer is incorrectly dressed," said Shrad.

Astanger turned his cold gaze on the man. "Rand, why are you wearing those overalls?"

"Graywear doesn't give enough freedom of movement, Ca… Citizen."

Ah,
thought Shrad, smirking. As he had supposed, this ship being without doctrinal supervision throughout the last five years of the conflict with the Grazen, archaic and politically incorrect behavior had flourished. Rand had nearly called Citizen Astanger
Captain.