Radiant (9 page)

In time, she turned away from my face. That's when she saw the blood pricks on my feet. "Oh fuck," she said—not angrily, just a whisper. "Are those Balrog bites? Is that why your partner went after you with the knife?"

"Yes."

When the word came out of my mouth, I was just as surprised as Ramos. For a terrifying moment, I thought I was still paralyzed, and the Balrog was speaking through me as if I were a ventriloquist's dummy. But somehow I'd regained control of my muscles, with none of the staggering nausea that usually follows a stunner blast. I sat up... spent a moment straightening my chemise, until I was flooded with embarrassment by my ridiculous attempt at modesty... then scrambled to my knees in front of the kneeling Ramos and saluted. "Explorer Third Class Ma Youn Suu, Admiral."

We were almost nose to nose... like little girls kneeling together, getting ready to play some game. Ramos swallowed hard and edged away. She didn't return my salute. "You, uhh, you did get bitten, didn't you? That's why you got shot by... uhh..."

"He calls himself Tut."

"Appropriate name. Anyway, if you can shrug off a stun-charge that quickly, you're..."

"Infested. Yes, Admiral."

She looked at me. The uneasiness on her face slowly softened. "How do you feel?"

"I don't feel different, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking. How do you feel?"

I looked at her. She was an admiral, yes, but only a few years older than I. Not like a prying mother—just a concerned big sister. Or a friend. "I feel... I don't know..."

That was the moment it caught up with me. Everything. Not just being in my underwear at the top of a pyramid in the center of an alien city, with two bite marks on my feet and extraterrestrial parasites in my blood. Not just the prospect of becoming like Kaisho Namida, a cripple in a wheelchair, solid moss from the waist down, and a brain so overrun with spores that she spoke of the Balrog like a lover. Not just the realization that I would be changed against my will and could never again trust my own body, thoughts, emotions, perceptions, or desires.

What caught up with me was my life. The whole of it. The isolation of a childhood as Ugly Screaming Stink-Girl. The unfairness of being forced into the Explorer Corps. The loneliness of months on a starship with nothing but a lunatic partner, a collection of amateurish figurines, and a crew of thirty-five people who couldn't look me in the face but constantly stole sidelong glances.

I should have been somebody else. Not an Explorer, not a virgin, not an alien parasite's host. I was only nineteen. I should have had a future; I should have had a past; but I had neither.

So I sank to the ground and wept. In anger, sorrow, fear, regret, grief, self-pity, and loneliness.

After a while, I felt Festina Ramos gently stroking my hair. Some time later, she was holding me as I sobbed against her shirt. But when I'd cried myself out, she eased away. She put a handkerchief in my hand; then she stood up and turned her back while I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, mopped my cheek.

I was left holding the handkerchief, wondering if I should give it back to her. It was damp and filthy... but at least my cheek hadn't bled the way it often did when I fell to pieces.

"I'm sorry, Admiral," I mumbled.

"Call me Festina," she said. "I'm sick of formality... especially with fellow Explorers."

I didn't answer. I could easily get past the military convention of addressing people by rank... but I squirmed at the Western rudeness of using no titles at all. Why couldn't I call her Daw Festina? Or if our shared background as Explorers made us "sisters in arms," I could bring myself to call her Ma Festina. But just a plain unadorned Festina? It was like spitting in her face. Still, there was no point explaining proper etiquette to Caucasians. Even if they decided to respect my good manners, they always put an ironic tone in their voices as if they were humoring a simpleton.

I would just have to get used to calling her by name alone. Festina. At least it was pronounceable, unlike many Western names.

"So that's over," Admiral Ramos—Festina—said in a light voice. "Now we set emotion aside and get busy."

"Busy doing what?"

"Immediate practical things. When life goes to shit, do immediate practical things. Like head for a starbase hospital."

"They won't be able to help me."

She gazed down at me with her piercing green eyes. "You're right. But it doesn't matter, because I doubt we'll reach the hospital. You know why?"

I nodded. "Something will come up. The Balrog intends to use you somehow, and I'll have to come for the ride. I'm the carrying case for the spores."

Ramos... Festina... winced. "Yes. Sorry about that."

I shrugged. "If I really am just a carrying case, maybe when this is all over, the Balrog will let me go."

She gave me a look. "Do you really believe that?"

"No. But they still haven't answered the Alvarez question."

Festina allowed herself a little smile. The Alvarez question had arisen at the Explorer Academy decades ago, first asked by a professor named Ricardo Alvarez. The question was this:
Which is more deadly? Despair or false hope?
When, for example, you're possessed by alien spores, is it worse to give up immediately or to let yourself hope some miracle will save you? Both options were undesirable—or, as the Buddha would say, "unskillful." Alvarez had wanted some student to resolve the question through statistical research... but generations of Explorers had preferred to let the question go unanswered. Instead, they used it as a private shorthand for
I'm not dead yet; let's leave it at that.

"When I was at the Academy," Festina said, "the Alvarez question
did
have an answer."

"It still does." We recited in unison, "Fuck off, Ricardo!"

The way past despair and false hope is just letting go. It doesn't improve your odds of survival, but it doesn't waste mental energy.

Festina grinned. I grinned. Our comm implants buzzed in unison, and we both stopped grinning immediately.

"Ready?" Festina asked.

I nodded. "Immortality awaits." Those were the last words an Explorer traditionally spoke before embarking on a mission. No one took the phrase seriously; but if you died, IMMORTALITY AWAITS almost always looked better on a memorial plaque than your real last words... which were far too often "Oh shit." ("Going Oh Shit" was an Explorer euphemism for death.)

Our comm implants buzzed again—a general hail on the standard Explorer Corps channel. Festina said, "I'll take it," and clicked her comm to answer.

I didn't hear much of the conversation. Festina had an old-style Explorer comm—the kind that was embedded in her throat with the audio feed snaking up under the skin to her jaw and making her whole skull resonate. It gave her a noticeable lump on the neck... which I thought would be uncomfortable, though I didn't know for sure. Thanks to Festina's changes in the Explorer Corps, my own comm unit was much less intrusive: subcutaneous audio wires in the pinna of each ear; a primary voice pickup that replaced the roof of my mouth; and a secondary subcutaneous pickup running the length of my sternum. (The secondary pickup could be activated remotely. If I ever got knocked out,
Pistachio
could turn on my chest mike from orbit and track me down by the sound of my heartbeat.)

The new systems were more reliable and practically unnoticeable once you got used to a slight taste of plastic in your soft palate. Festina, however, had never upgraded. Most old Explorers hadn't—diehard holdouts. I activated my comm with my tongue to see if I could pick up the admiral's conversation... but as soon as I did, my ears were blasted with a mechanical voice. "Explorer Youn Suu, come in. Explorer Youn Suu, come in. Explorer Youn Suu, come in..."

Pistachio's
ship-soul on autorepeat. I stepped away from Festina and tongue-switched to transmit. "Youn Suu here," I said. "Go ahead."

There was a pause while the computer notified my caller that I'd finally responded. Five seconds later, Captain Cohen came on. "Glad you're there, Youn Suu. We were worried. Tut's suit sent a signal it was executing an emergency evac, then your suit sent an autodistress call half a second before going no-comm. Everything all right?"

"No, sir. But we don't need assistance."

"You're sure? I could contact the Cashling authorities..."

"They'd just get in the way. We can handle—"

Ambassador Li broke in. "Explorer, where the hell are you? Ubatu and I are ready to go."

"There've been some complications, Ambassador."

"What complications? I told that damned Balrog to leave, and it did. Just goes to show, aliens may act cocky, but they'll knuckle under if you take a hard line. That's what diplomacy
is.
Now I intend to use the same approach on the Cashling government—fly straight to their capital, point out how I saved their city, and demand some juicy trade concessions. If you aren't back to my shuttle in five minutes, you're on your own."

"You might as well leave now, Ambassador. I don't know where Admiral Ramos and I will go next, but it probably won't fit your schedule."

A silence. "Admiral Ramos? Admiral Festina Ramos?"

"Yes, Ambassador."

"She's here?"

"Right in front of me. She's taking a call that will probably lead to work for both of us."

"You and Festina Ramos?"

"Yes, Ambassador."

I could guess what Li was thinking. With Festina on the scene, no one would believe Li and Ubatu had any part in expelling the moss from Zoonau. People would assume Festina had been responsible... though, strange to say, it was actually Tut who'd done the most to make the spores leave.

But if Li had no chance of taking credit for the Balrog's departure, he could still boost his prestige by being seen with the admiral. Any photo op, any joint appearance in front of witnesses, and Li could capitalize on it for months. ("When Admiral Ramos and I were together on Cashleen... I happen to know Admiral Ramos believes... my good friend Festina wants me to say...")

So I wasn't surprised when Li told me, "We aren't in
that
much of a hurry, Explorer. If I or my shuttle can provide any assistance..."

I looked toward Festina. She was still talking, facing away from me. "Ambassador," I said, "Admiral Ramos can't be disturbed right now, but we might need a ride very soon. Probably back to
Pistachio.
Could you come and get us? We're on top of the central ziggurat. I don't know the nearest shuttle pad, but Zoonau's air traffic control can tell you where to land."

"To hell with air traffic control," Li said. "I'll pick you up where you are. Five minutes."

I winced as he cut the transmission. Thirty rope walkways ran at various levels over my head. I doubted Li had the piloting skill to weave his way through all the cat's cradles... and if he broke even a single rope, the Cashling government would howl themselves hoarse over "thoughtless human hooligans" laying waste to "irreplaceable urban transitways."

On the other hand, if Li wanted to create a diplomatic incident, that was his problem. Maybe he
liked
diplomatic incidents. They were his form of job security.

Festina continued to talk on her comm. I kept my distance so she wouldn't think I was eavesdropping. Once she turned in my direction and asked, "I assume you're here with a ship?"

"Yes, admiral. A Model D frigate named
Pistachio."

"No Class One duties?"

"We're strictly Class Five."

"Not anymore."

She turned back to her conversation while I pondered her words. Class One duties were "crucial to the survival of the Technocracy and the Outward Fleet"—which generally meant missions required to placate the League of Peoples. A ship with Class One duties was sacrosanct; nobody could interfere with it until it finished its mission. Furthermore, Class One duties were so vital that the crew had to be informed of exactly what was going on. Less important missions might operate on a need-to-know basis; but with Class One, nobody was kept in the dark for fear that ignorance would lead to mistakes. I was therefore certain we had no Class One jobs in the offing... unless Festina was about to give us one.

Any admiral could commandeer navy ships to carry out Class One jobs at any time... after which, only the High Council could reverse the decision. Since the High Council wouldn't dare overrule the illustrious Festina Ramos, she'd have free rein to make
Pistachio
her own. (Most admirals commanded flagships already, but not Festina; she'd lost hers to a saboteur some years earlier and had never asked for a replacement. According to rumor, she preferred to travel incognito on civilian vessels—usually ones operated by aliens, who were less apt to recognize her famous face.)

Therefore, it came as no surprise when she waved me to her side a few minutes later. "Call your captain, please. Say I'm invoking my Powers of Emergency and making your ship my flag. Class One mission. Verify authorization through Starbase Trillium. Prepare to leave orbit as soon as we're on board."

"What destination, Admiral?"

"A planet called Muta."

I'd never heard of it. She gave me a set of coordinates. Only fifteen light-years from Cashleen, but in an unexpected direction. "Isn't that Greenstrider territory?" I asked.

"Used to be. The Greenstriders sold it to the Unity."

I stared at her. "The Greenstriders
sold
it?" Greenstriders were aliens with extreme territorial instincts—extreme to the point of lunacy. Once Greenstriders took mates, all they wanted was to claim a chunk of property and live there the rest of their lives. They wouldn't travel... not even to move to bigger, more prosperous holdings. Greenstriders bonded with their land for better or worse, and never willingly left their homesteads more than a few hours at a time. I said, "Greenstriders wouldn't sell a square millimeter of ground to their own grandmothers. They'd
never
sell an entire planet to outsiders. Unless the place is utterly uninhabitable..."

"No," Festina said, "Muta is apparently superb—9.7 on the Habitability Index. Perfect for colonization. Nevertheless, the Greenstriders sold it to the Unity ten years ago."