Chapter Text
Vierran found the robots in the House of Balance unsettling. Unlike Yam, they never gave her the sense that she was talking to a thinking person. Nor, on the other hand, did they have the sleek unobtrusiveness of the domestic robots that were familiar from her childhood home. They loomed up unexpectedly, and seemed to glare at her from their grim, unchanging faces while hovering just a touch too close. Yam assured them all that he had fully reprogrammed the robot fleet (with a bit of help from Mordion for hardware adjustments), and that their accumulated memory and expertise were resources too valuable to waste. Still, she could not bring herself to trust them. It did not help matters that, at this moment, she was wearing only a flimsy paper gown.
“Some superficial scrapes and bruising, nothing to worry about,” the robot was saying. Its voice, like those of the other robots, was an incongruously feminine one that could almost pass for human, except for a flat, mechanical tone and a tendency to insert pauses or emphases in odd places. “This looks to have been rather a deep cut to your knee, but it has healed nicely.”
Vierran couldn’t help thinking that a full medical exam for her, personally, was not exactly a top priority. Naturally, it made sense to check out those who were recovering from centuries in stass-tombs, and Mordion had sustained serious injuries in the final dragon battle (though his self-healing capabilities seemed to have taken care of those). But surely nothing serious was likely to be wrong with her? Yam had insisted on these appointments for all five of them, however. “We can’t take a chance on anything interfering with your work while the balance is still so fragile,” he had said.
“Blood work all normal,” the robot continued. “One minor viral infection, common cold variant.” It reached into a drawer and brought out a container of pills, which it placed on a side table. “These should clear it right up. Take two each day with food for the next five days. Don’t forget to continue the dosage even after you start to feel better.” It opened a different drawer and selected another container, placing it beside the first. “And these are contraceptives.”
Vierran stared at the robot. Birth control was nominally illegal on Homeworld, due to its purported violation of the Divine Balance. As a practical matter, such things could still be obtained by those with sufficient money and privilege, but this was always a chancy game that left one vulnerable to scandal, blackmail, or worse. She personally knew one doctor, a friend of her parents’, who had been sent to one of Reigner Five’s “education” camps for distributing “immoral substances.”
What would have happened, she wondered suddenly, if that doctor had instead been scheduled for termination by the Servant? She felt a now-familiar stab of guilt, remembering how she had once romanticized Mordion’s role as assassin. It had helped that his victims had been mostly far away and sounded fairly unpleasant in themselves—outer planet administrators who had been caught embezzling, for example. How would she feel about him if he’d killed someone she had known and liked? Was it morally defensible to feel otherwise now?
That isn’t fair, she thought to herself, as she always did when such thoughts crossed her mind. It was never his choice. Still, there it was. The fact of those deaths would always be there, in her memory and his, like jagged rocks beneath the surface of a river. Nothing to do but let the river flow on, and hope that, in time, some of the sharp edges might begin to wear smooth.
The robot was still speaking as all of this flashed through her mind. “… no significant side effects, as it says here in the informational booklet. One per day. This is a three-month supply. Just scan the label when you need more.” Its voice, strangely, reminded her of someone for a moment, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on whom.
“So... is there a particular reason… I mean, does everyone get these at their checkups now?”
“Confidentiality regulations prohibit me from releasing information about other patients,” the robot said. This, at any rate, was evidence for some of Yam’s reprogramming; she doubted there had been any such concern for privacy under the old regime. It also pointed to a reason why the new Reigners’ examinations had been scheduled with the medical robot rather than an ordinary human doctor.
“Did Yam program you specifically to give me these?” Vierran asked.
“Who among us truly knows the origin of our own programming?” the robot replied. Now that was a Yam-ish remark.
“Good point. Er… will there be anything else?”
“That is all. You may get dressed. Have a nice day.”
“You too,” Vierran said reflexively, wondering as she said it what possible meaning this robot could attach to the phrase. She would definitely need to have a private conversation with Yam, as soon as possible.
*****
The antivirals did seem to have cured Vierran’s cold completely. Walking to and from her errand in the city this morning had been unexpectedly enjoyable. Following a rainstorm the previous night, everything appeared washed clean and sparkling in the spring sunshine, nothing more so than the curving flint walls of the House of Balance itself. She waved to a team of workers busily demolishing a hideous statue of Orm Pender, then turned to walk up the steps to the front entrance.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” she said as she came into the conference room.
“We just assumed you two were busy fluttering your eyelashes at each other,” Fitela said, indicating Mordion’s empty chair with a jerk of his head.
Vierran rolled her eyes. “It’s astonishing how someone who is literally thousands of years old can be so immature.”
“Less than two thousand, in point of fact,” Fitela retorted. “And I would remind you not to talk back to your elders and betters.” She laughed. Fitela had slipped so naturally into the role of little brother that she found herself forgetting they hadn’t really grown up together. Although she would never admit it out loud, she secretly appreciated his younger-sibling brattiness. It was a bit like finding a hidden doorway leading from the haunting inner-ear coils and gleaming surfaces of the House of Balance back to the house on Earth, where they could be Ann and Martin Stavely again, at least for a little while.
Besides, a small part of her mind piped up, if he’s teasing me about Mordion, that must mean he sees something there.
Probably only something there on my end, she told this small part sternly. Now be quiet; we’re at work.
The conference room door irised open to admit Mordion. “Morning,” he said, folding himself into his chair. His knee accidentally bumped Vierran’s leg under the table. A jolt of warmth flashed out through her whole body from the point of his touch.
He turned toward her with a disappointingly faint version of his usual smile. “I beg your pardon.” He twisted almost imperceptibly in his chair to avoid any further inadvertent contact.
“It’s all right,” she said, trying to smile back. Then she turned her eyes resolutely toward Artegal, on the other side of the round table.
“Now that we’re all here: motion to open our last meeting of the week?” Although Mordion was First Reigner, Artegal had fallen naturally into the role of chairing the Hand meetings. “Secretary, do we have the minutes from the previous meeting?”
“I have transmitted the file to everyone,” Yam replied from the alcove where he habitually perched during the meetings.
“Motion to approve the minutes?”
“Do we really have to vote to approve the minutes each time?” Fitela asked. “You’re a robot, Yam; it’s not as if you’re going to make mistakes.”
“I optimistically hoped this might induce some people to read the minutes,” Yam said pointedly.
Artegal consulted the agenda. “Reports are in from the crew liberating the detention camp on Yurov—the mission was a success, although conditions were appalling there. The financial team is moving forward to distribute compensation funds to survivors and families.”
After a round of cheering and applause from everyone, Mordion asked, “What’s the status of funds for the families of… other victims, as we discussed last time?”
“I’ve been looking into those,” Martellian said. “We’re going to need some sort of evaluation process to determine which cases are actually deserving of payment. Take this fellow here…” He tapped at his notepad. “Heavily involved in the illegal weapons trade on Earth, quite a nasty piece of work altogether. And this one…”
“It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Mordion. “We can’t sit in judgement to say who is or isn’t deserving, because no one deserves… what happened to them. What I did to them.”
“You mean, what the former Reigners did to them, and to you,” Martellian said. “You’re an innocent in all this. I know you won’t believe that, but it’s true.”
Mordion waved this aside. “We can’t be in the business of killing people. That’s it. That’s all I have to say about it.”
“I agree,” said Artegal. “And that is also why we can’t stop at handing out a few discreet payments. We need to make a public statement.”
“What are we going to say?” Mordion demanded. “’So sorry; regrettable error’? ‘Mistakes were made’? It’s not going to help the families to know that I feel bad about it. Nothing can really help; nothing will bring those people back. The payments would be something, at least.”
“Correct on both counts,” said Artegal. “Our personal feelings are of no great use to them, and nothing can change what has already happened. What we need to do is to ensure that the future will be different. It’s not about you individually, or those families individually; it should be all five of us, speaking to everyone who might be affected by our actions. You said it yourself: we need to make it clear that we’re not in the business of killing people.”
Mordion said nothing, but he held Artegal’s gaze for a moment and then gave a slight nod. A little of the tension seemed to drain out of his posture.
Vierran felt tears stinging her eyes. She took refuge in formality. “Second the motion.”
“All in favor?” said Artegal.
“Aye,” said Fitela. “And that’s why we call you the King.”
“Motion carried,” said Martellian. “But on a practical note, how are we going to get this message out? What’s the best platform? The state of the news media on this planet is utterly disgraceful.”
Vierran suspected Martellian of deliberately shifting the focus away from Mordion, for which she was grateful. “We really need to have a dedicated communications team,” she said. “Which gets us back to the staffing discussion again…” This led to a lengthy digression about hiring procedures. It’s comforting, somehow, that meetings can still be so… meeting-ish, even when the fate of the galaxy hangs in the balance, she reflected.
She glanced over and saw that Mordion was doodling in the margin of his notes—at least, he would call it doodling, she thought. If I had drawn that, I’d have it professionally framed and hang it on the wall. The picture was of a weeping willow; as it took shape, she recognized a particular tree from the bank of the river back on Earth. He looked up at her suddenly, and she hastily averted her gaze.
The conversation had apparently taken a sudden turn while she was distracted. “Point of information,” Artegal was saying. “What exactly do you mean by space pirates?”
“We’ve had a report from John Bedford back on Earth. A gang of bandits somehow got hold of some of our outdated antigravity transports,” Fitela explained. “They started making off with shipments of flint from Earth--not even bothering to pay our usual measly rates--smuggling them past Customs, and then selling directly to contractors on the Central Worlds. So: pirates! In space!”
“A more fitting term might be privateers,” Martellian put in, “as they appear to have had the support of an executive authority, namely the erstwhile Reigner Three. She was almost certainly the source of the antigrav vehicles.”
“And there’s pretty clear evidence of her getting a cut from at least one of their deals—only stands to reason that she’d be in on all of them. Nice extra bonus for her, plus a way of sticking it to Reigner One, which as we know was one of her main goals in life,” Fitela went on.
“Right before we left for Earth, Siri told me a lot of the flint consignments from Earth were missing,” Vierran said. “Maybe this accounts for at least some of them?”
“Very likely,” said Fitela. “But the crucial point is, according to Bedford, the pirates are still actively pirating, even though they’ve lost their sponsor. Which means we need to be mounting an expedition to chase them down!”
“And by we, you obviously mean you,” Vierran commented. “Isn’t that more of a job for local law enforcement? What should concern us more is finding out who else was a part of the scheme in our own organization, or our business partners. Those contractors, obviously… was there involvement from the Great Houses as well? Commodities trading, maybe? This would probably affect the price of flint futures… And is someone in Customs taking bribes to let them through?”
“They all take bribes,” Mordion said wearily. “There’s corruption at every level. We need to root it out.”
“I fully support that, but why not also make use of my particular skills?” Fitela asked. “Earth law enforcement is not going to be able to handle this on their own; they don’t have the equipment. Even the old antigrav technology is way out of their league, and they’re hampered by the need to maintain secrecy.”
“All right, Fitela, you draw up a proposal for your expedition,” Artegal said. “Choose your crew. Coordinate with Bedford and his group. Plan carefully, please—this is not like hunting dragons.”
“For the local investigation,” he continued, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to do a deep dive into the old accounting records—see if there are any discrepancies indicating something happening off the books. Mordion, we’ll need your knowledge of the file system and passcodes. Vierran, you’re our resident computer expert; the other three of us are a millennium or so behind the times. And the two of you are the most familiar with the current structure of the company. You can work together.”
“Perhaps we could get a start on downloading the files now, before lunch?” Mordion suggested, though he did not look as though he relished the prospect.
*****
As soon as the door had closed behind Mordion and Vierran, Fitela flung up his arms expressively and mimed tearing out his hair.
“Yes, I do see what you mean,” said Artegal. “It was particularly… strong today.”
“Couldn’t we just send them off and tell them to… well, as they say on Earth, get a room?” Fitela demanded.
“I doubt either of them would take kindly to that, most especially with such phrasing,” Artegal replied.
“And it would hardly stop them thinking about each other,” Martellian added. “More likely the reverse, if anything.”
“Yes, all right, but at least they might lose that angsty edge,” Fitela said. He clasped his hands over his heart and gazed dramatically at the ceiling. “What if he doesn’t really like me?” he wailed, in a high, squeaky voice that was not at all a fair imitation of Vierran. Then he drew his brows together and glowered at the tabletop. “I’m not good enough for her!” he rumbled in a fake deep voice.
Artegal could not quite suppress a smile, but his face quickly became serious. “This whole business saddens me, in truth. I had thought… Yam, is there any possibility you could do something?”
“The power of the Bannus is reserved for matters of the gravest galactic importance only,” Yam said primly. “In any case, it may be argued that I have already done more than my fair share of facilitating their interaction. You all were chosen for your ability to work as a team, among other things. Surely together you can devise a solution.”
Martellian looked thoughtful. “I might have some ideas. The direct approach probably is best; it just needs a bit of finesse. We’ll have to enlist Siri’s help, of course.”
“Another excuse to spend time with Siri, Uncle Wolf?” Fitela inquired with a smirk.
“My dear boy, I scarcely require an excuse for that. Anyway, this will specifically involve her spending time not with me. Here’s what I’m thinking…”