Hidden deep in the interstices of the world, Dust observed secretly as his resurrecter hugged the dusty black Book to her chest.
“I win!” she crowed. “The Good Book, hah! The whole
“Hell is other people,” the Angel said—words that welled like a freshet from the Library inside her to fill her mouth and spill forth into the hearing of her Captain. It was a quotation, and a split second’s archive search told Nova who had written it originally, and in what milieu and circumstances. She transmitted the context to her Captain as part of their continuous information cycle; Perceval was like unto an Angel herself in that she never minded
But now she sat folded small in the Captain’s chair, hugging herself and scowling.
Perceval was no longer the heartbroken girl who had walled herself up on the Bridge after Rien died. At Nova’s voice, she lifted her chin from her knees and forced a brave smile. “You’re telling me. Did I seem to be brooding? I was only taking advice.”
“Your ancestors are not Captain,” Nova said. Once, she would have been hesitant, afraid of offending or alienating Perceval, but that was before fifty years of relativistic travel and working together had worn them into one another’s curves and ridges like a shoe worn into a foot. Now the Captain had adapted to her Angel, accepting Nova in her proper role as a prosthetic, an extension of Perceval’s own capabilities. The Angel could manipulate masses of detail at speeds and with accuracies that even an Exalt could not approach, thus providing Perceval with an ongoing synthesis of the most salient patterns of data.
Which—along with the combination of emotional detachment, ruthlessness, engagement, and compassion that the Captain herself embodied—was what Perceval needed to be good at her job.
Part of Nova’s job was caretaking the awkward, precarious, brittle organic element of her crew. Exalt humans were more robust than Mean ones, but they were still human. Humans were interesting to Nova, and perhaps the most interesting thing about them was their contradictions—so fragile, and so tenacious.
Because it was part of her job, Nova spent a great many of her cycles observing humans. Because Perceval was Nova’s Captain, and because Nova was designed to bond with one particular human, Nova found Perceval the most intriguing human of all. And now Nova’s human was grieving again, and Nova was at a loss for what to do about it besides endure, as they had endured other losses until time wore them numb.
Perceval stood, her tall, lean body enveloped in a casual shift, her brown hair gathered loosely at her nape. “Ariane and Gerald think they have a lot of useful advice. I really should get around to integrating the subordinate personalities one of these days, but I find I kind of like having them all in one place, where I can see them.”
Ariane hadn’t been too much trouble since Perceval had proved that she could master her and, if need be, destroy her utterly. But she was Ariane, and what wasn’t much trouble for her was armed rebellion from another.
“Understandable,” Nova said. “However, the time is due. You must decide how we’re approaching Grail, Captain. Or if we are, in fact, continuing to approach Grail, now that we know it is inhabited.”
Further examination had revealed satellites around the blue-and-violet world, and even a few orbiting the secondary—some xenosynchronous, and some moving at a fair clip relative to the surface. Every sign, in other words, of a thriving spacefaring culture—except for any place for them to live. There was no evidence of cities, of structures, of geoengineering projects—hydroelectrics, canals—or of roadways or air travel.
Perceval pressed her palms together, and the blade-edge of her hands against her chin and lower lip.
“They’ve exhibited no signs of hostility,” she said. “Which is good, because I am not sure how much of a fight we can make of it, if it becomes necessary. The
“No vessel at the top of a gravity well is unarmed,” Nova said. “And there are the symbionts to consider.”
“And the ramjet.” Perceval crossed the Bridge, flowers poking between her toes, and leaned against the screens on the wall, her hands spread as if to embrace the sun and the solar system they descended into. “The whole world is a weapon.”
The humans found it strange to have a
Perceval said, “I’m not suggesting we can’t fight if we have to. I’m suggesting that they are unlikely to view us—limping in, held together with epoxy and string—as much of a threat, and I’d like to encourage that view.”
It was much the comment Nova had expected. Not that her Captain couldn’t still surprise her, but it was not so common an occurrence as it had once been. “If that is your objective, it is my opinion that we should hail them. Have you thought about what you’d like to say?”
Perceval’s smile was patently cosmetic. “I have some ideas. Where are my officers?”
Nova knew without checking. The location of her crew was never far from her awareness. Because her officers were also Conns, they grieved for their sister and plotted vengeance. Also because they were Conns, they spent that grief in work until they could find revenge.
“Tristen is with Mallory.” A frequent occurrence since they had traveled together to bring down Arianrhod, and an association Nova thought generally beneficial to them both. Tristen had been alone so long that the affectionate proximity of another organic chipped at his rough edges, like wear smoothing a rusted bearing, and what was left functioned better than the grief-etched surfaces of before.
“They’re organizing an inventory of potential trade goods and knowledge.”
Nova hesitated—not because she needed to but because it would cue Perceval to brace herself. “They are also generating a list for your consideration.”
“A new Chief Engineer.”
“Yes.”
Perceval sighed, grimacing, but nodded. “That will be useful.”
“Cynric and Benedick are together. They are reviewing data in order to present you with a suite of options if hostilities do commence. Shall I send for any of them?”
“Tristen,” Perceval said, stepping back from the wall. “He must be my hound once more. He and Mallory.”
Nova reached out to her First Mate and felt his affirmation. She passed it to Perceval while Perceval continued.
“Just him for now, unless he feels like Mallory needs to be here. It is he and I who will need to run the contact.” She glanced sidelong at Nova’s avatar. “People expect that if you’re coming to them hat in hand, you do it in person, with dignity appropriate to their station. If the importunings of Captain and First Mate cannot flatter them, we’ll have to reconsider.”
“They may not have much to give,” Nova said.
The Bridge door chimed and irised wide, revealing the pale form of Tristen Conn. Nova’s sensors told her everything about him, but she turned her avatar to acknowledge him anyway. When dealing with evolved rather than designed intelligences, it was good to remember that their behaviors were infiltrated by all the baggage, improvisational solutions, and inconsistencies of millions of years of evolution.
Part of communicating with meat people was managing their behavioral triggers, and the social niceties were a protocol for handling just that. With an elder Conn like Tristen, centuries Exalted, it mattered less. Their endocrine systems were as well managed as one could expect, and they were quite accustomed to dealing with virtual persons. But it still mattered.
Tristen Conn was lean and white. Born a Mean, he had suffered congenital achromia and—once Exalted—had never bothered to repair the cosmetic damage. His colony’s blue marker glowed unchecked through translucent skin, making him appear ethereal and luminescent when Nova adjusted her sensors to approximate human perception. He was tall, even by Conn standards, and he wore his hair long and flowing across his shoulders—a fluffy, cloudlike mass that appeared far softer in texture than it actually was to the touch.
When Nova wasn’t trying to see him as an Exalt might, she observed the way light refracted through the hollow strands, making them seem frosty when in actuality they broke available light into every color of the spectrum. Tristen’s face was angular, his expression concerned. Clad all in white as samite, he made an imposing figure.
