7

“I’m looking after this kid, Mom. I hope I wasn’t ever this much of a pain in the ass,” I muttered, my words slurred.

My mother didn’t answer, which was a good thing, because I was sure she would argue the point. I’d been no end of trouble. From stealing cookies out of the oven before they finished cooking to getting in fights and running from the police.

The room rotated, or seemed too. Whiskey warmed me. The melancholy mood that came from long nights sitting with my family was strange and addictive. I was too familiar with the medical research room that kept my family alive.

I had always been a connoisseur of whiskey, never a hard drinker. Slow sips on the observation deck with a cigar in one hand and good company and conversation to pass the time was more my style. 

“How do you feel, Reaper Cain?” X-37 asked.

“When you’re right, you’re right. This isn’t helping,” I said, looking at my mother’s cryo-pod in the dim light. It was ship night, not that it mattered to anyone in the room.

On my left was my sister’s cryo-pod. I held the cigar but didn’t smoke—this was a medical research bay after all, and I wasn’t a total animal.

“Can you ask Mavis to play some music? Something that might give them good dreams,” I asked.

“Of course, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said. A few moments later, the AI of the Bright Lance caused classical music to come through the public address speakers in this section of the ship.

I couldn’t remember the composer of the slow concerto, but it was something with strings and it seemed right. 

“Strings are a strange way to make music,” I commented without thinking.

“It is a primitive method of causing sound vibrations,” X-37 said. “Would you like me to research the origin of this music?”

“Maybe later,” I said.

Sitting here had become my ritual. I tried not to think, but when I did, the whiskey took me back to Boyer 5. It always started with a happy scene in the kitchen: me teasing my sister while my mother caught up on work at the table—lots of reading, taking notes, and muttering profanities she hadn’t realized I could hear.

The image of her typing and scribbling notes on an old tablet remained vivid. In these memories, it was always my night to cook—a tradition among our family. My sister, who was a good deal younger than me, harassed me as I brought food to the table.

“X, I have a question,” I said.

“I have an answer, Reaper Cain,” my limited artificial intelligence said.

“Why isn’t my father in these memories? I sit here every night thinking about home, but he never shows up,” I said. Again, this was an impulsive question—something that just came out.

“Contrary to what you’ve suggested in our previous discussions, I cannot read your mind; therefore, I have no direct observational data of your imagination,” X-37 said. “Are you angry at your father? Did you have a poor childhood?”

“No, X, I had it pretty good, all things considered. All of my misery was self-induced—running with gangs, not running with gangs, not listening to anyone,” I said.

“You have made contradictory statements unless you are talking about more than one unit of time in your past,” X-37 said. “How can you run with gangs and not run with gangs?”

“They had just as many bullshit rules as school and society and the military and all of it,” I said. “They claimed once you were in, you couldn’t get out without a beating or being killed. And yet, I was kicked out of at least three that I can remember. Always some rule violation.”

“That correlates well with your adult behavior,” X-37 said. “My humor algorithm is alerting me that this is funny or ironic.”

I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. “Run the analysis of the cryo-pods again,” I said. “The more I sit here, the more I think this is ridiculous. Why can’t we just wake them up?”

“Patience, Reaper Cain. We are en route to Macabre where we will obtain the proper codes,” X-37 said. “They have been like this for a long time. A few more days or weeks will have little effect on their health.”

“It’s wrecking my health,” I said.

 “I agree that it has increased your consumption of alcohol and the frequency of your moodiness has become somewhat alarming,” X-37 said. “I recommend that you cut alcohol intake by point 09 percent.”

“So specific,” I said.

“Apologies, Reaper Cain. The actual number is point 0908123457,” X-37 said. “I wasn’t prepared for your sarcastic response.”

“Don’t ever change, X,” I said.

“I won’t,” my limited AI answered.

“You know what, I’m feeling pretty good now,” I said.

“Is this one of your metaphors for inebriation?” X-37 asked.

“No, but maybe that’s part of it.” I considered everything about the moment. “You’re right. My family could be in a lot worse shape. We’ll get to Macabre and get the codes. Doctor Ayers won’t freak out or prove to be a lying psychopath. All good.”

“I can make no promises,” X-37 said.

* * *

I didn’t drink beer in the shower this time. The recycled water relaxed every muscle in my body, especially since X-37 disabled the timer. That wasn’t fair to the rest of the Bright Lance crew, but I was guessing the amenities on the ship were far better than they were accustomed to.

“What’s on the agenda, X? Have we had any more ship repair emergencies or annoying kids floating around inside the slip tunnels?” I asked.

“None, Reaper Cain,” X-37 said. “Captain Younger has requested that you assist her with the Union crew members who have applied for Xad citizenship. Also on your calendar is a training session with Elise and maintenance of your cybernetics.”

“Sounds exciting,” I said. A short time later I was dressed and geared up for the day. Getting ready quickly was a habit I didn’t see any reason to abandon. I kept the stealth cloak and Reaper mask in a slim pack that I wore under my jacket. The chances of using it today were slim, but I’d long since learned that carrying these items concealed was a skill that needed to be practiced as much as possible.

“Captain Younger is waiting for you in the security room of the brig,” X-37 advised.

“Great,” I said, walking briskly toward my destination.

“Your biometrics are exceptionally good today,” X-37 said.

“Thanks, X, you’re not so bad yourself,” I said.

“I was not giving you a compliment,” X-37 said. “I was merely relaying information as is my mandate.”

“Don’t go losing your personality now, X,” I said.

“Understood, Reaper Cain. Adjusting my humor and personality algorithms. Please standby,” X-37 said.

The guards to the brig saluted, which I wasn’t accustomed to even now. I imitated their salutation, raising my hand level with my eyes—palm facing them because I didn’t want to use the Union salute I was taught in basic training.

 In the control room to the section, Captain Younger and one of her aides waited. Her uniform was red today, or mostly red. The striping on her arms was the same as always. The crew was still going through a transformation with the fabrication capabilities of the Bright Lance. Some people were having more fun with the fabric manipulation devices than others—part of a competition they were having to decide on the final design of their uniforms.

 “Thanks for coming, Reaper,” she said.

“No problem,” I said, nodding to her outfit. “You and your crew are looking more squared away every day.”

“Thank you, Reaper,” she said, as dignified and officer-like as ever. “The Bright Lance has an extraordinarily efficient laundry service and uniform repair function. I’m not sure it was meant to redesign and tailor jumpsuits for the entire crew, but so far it seems to be working. We put old clothes in the recycler, adjust some settings, and next thing you know, we are all facing decisions we’ve never had to make—like what to wear.”

I knew all of this but didn’t interrupt.

“Can I ask you something?” I ignored X-37 warning me away from this line of conversation. He chattered in my ear, but I was pretty good at blocking him out.

“Of course,” Captain Younger said.

“Why red? Yesterday it was blue and the day before that black with the same stripes down the arms,” I asked.

“I wasn’t aware that Reapers were so fashion-conscious,” she said.

“Attention to detail. Target description is important in my line of work,” I said.

“Am I your target? That will alarm my security detail,” she said.

“You understand what I’m talking about,” I said, feeling relaxed and non-confrontational. The woman had a certain charisma that was undeniable. This wasn’t like flirting or small talk. Speaking with the captain of the Bright Lance was a unique experience every time.

“My crew jokes that we are setting a bad precedent by having a uniform of the day, completely opposite to our more frugal lifestyle before you and your enemies came to our system,” she said. “In reality, it’s a test and evaluation schedule. At the end of each week, we vote on which uniform works best.”

“Very democratic,” I said.

“My assistant today, Lieutenant Paul Oberon, will keep track of your interview style and some questions you direct at the Union applicants. Our goal is to develop a reliable screen process that can be replicated on a larger scale,” she said.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. X-37 agreed. “X-37 told me you have a new batch of Union turncoats. Intuition told me they would come around.”

Younger’s expression cooled. “They don’t like that term.”

“They’ve been called worse, just like I’ve been called worse. And, more importantly, they know the drill. If you didn’t take their switching sides seriously, they would lose respect for you and your people.”

“Where would you like to start?” Captain Younger asked.

I looked at Oberon, raising one eyebrow while opening my palm to signal him it was his turn to make a decision. The nonverbal communication took a second, but he got it.

“I think starting with an officer would be best. Most of the enlisted crew members switched sides early on with very convincing declarations of intent,” he said.

“Rule one, don’t trust any of their very convincing declarations,” I said. “Action not words.”

“Are you suggesting we keep a careful eye on them for an extended period?” Lieutenant Oberon asked.

“That is exactly what I’m suggesting. It’s time-consuming and resource draining, but necessary,” I said.

“Any member of my crew who was formally associated with the Union is assigned a mentor and guard. This protects them from accusations of disloyalty, and also acquaints them with our rules and customs,” Captain Younger explained. “It is time to begin.”

“Let’s start with somebody who wasn’t excessively dangerous—a supply officer or something. Maybe that will help with your uniform transition.”

The man Captain Younger and Lieutenant Oberon selected was named Ted or Theodore or something I really didn’t care about. Guards brought him into a small, comfortable room with a table and comfortable chairs. Once everyone was seated, a crew member from the galley brought a tray of snacks and cool drinks.

 “Seriously?” I asked.

The Union officer looked as alarmed and wary as I was, eyeing the gifts with clear suspicion.

 “It is a tradition among our people to be good hosts whenever possible,” Lieutenant Oberon said, serving each of us. “Can you please restate your name and rank, sir?”

“Lieutenant Theodore Feist, maintenance and supply officer, fourth watch, section 2,” he said, then recited his rather long unique identification number.

“Is that a number that is important? Your personal identification, perhaps?” Lieutenant Oberon asked as he took his seat and crossed one leg over the other, holding his drink very properly in his right hand. Captain Younger also sat with excellent posture, though she left her beverage on the table near her.

I leaned forward, planting my elbows on my knees. “Listen, Ted, we have a lot of people to talk to. You have about five minutes to convince us why you suddenly want Xad asylum.”

“I know who you are,” he said, watching me like I was a dangerous killer or something. “Why am I talking to the Xad captain? What is all of this food?”

 Oberon interrupted me, which I found annoying since he was supposed to be observing my technique. “The ship AI indicated this was a common snack, not an actual meal, and that it would be appropriate for an intimate conversation.”

“Ask the ship AI about campaign rations,” Theodore Feist said. “Check the discipline log for violators and Nebs’s personal penalty enhancements that were instituted the moment we left Union space.”

Captain Younger made a note on her work pad but said nothing.

Lieutenant Oberon nodded thoughtfully.

I had assumed I would take the lead, but that wasn’t how the interview was turning out. Before long, I settled back into an intimidation role—basically just staring at the man like I would as soon space him as look at him.

 Oberon did all the talking, sounding like he was reciting a personnel management questionnaire pulled straight from a book. Captain Younger paid careful attention and took notes.

I signaled X-37, asking what he thought. Prompting my LAI with nonverbals was second nature now. The more I was around people, the less I wanted them to believe I was a crazy person who talked to himself all the time.

“I am detecting a pattern to their interview style,” X-37 said. “Should the methods fail, you can step in and be your usual self. Until then, I would continue to glare at the man. It is giving me a very clear visual reading of his physical indicators.”

I prompted X-37 for more, still leaning back in my chair. My casual, almost careless posture contrasted sharply with that of the Xad officers.

“From what I can read of the man’s biometrics, and analyze from his speech patterns, he did genuinely resent Vice Admiral Nebs. I have insufficient information on this individual to determine whether he can be trusted,” X-37 said. “And yes, Reaper Cain, I can stream this information to the tablet that Captain Younger is using.”

A few moments later, she looked up at me, held my gaze, and then smiled subtly. She went back to work making notes and listening to the turncoat.

 We conducted three more interviews this way and sent each of the individuals back to their cells until the results could be analyzed.

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