‘You’ve proved you are—’ Borodin started, but Idris held up a shaky hand.
‘Xavienne had to watch us die,’ he said. ‘Us volunteers, the first class. I remember all the faces who were there at the start, who didn’t survive the conditioning, the surgery, the chemical diet. Who didn’t survive you trying to make us into her. And I saw how it hurt her, how she felt every death. But she kept on, because she had to, and we kept on because we had to as well. Because there was a war on. Thirty, Menheer. Thirty of us walked out of the Program as Ints. And now you have the Liaison Board, and you take criminals and put them through the factory. If you’re lucky, then one Int walks out alive out of every hundred who go into the grinder. And those Ints of yours, you want to know something about them? They’re useless, Menheer Borodin. They’ll never fend off an Architect. None of them, or almost none.’
If Idris looked nine-eighths dead, Borodin was pushing for ten-eighths himself. ‘Why . . .?’ he managed.
‘Because they don’t want to be there. They’re slaves.’
‘A leash contract is—’
‘Slaves. Enforced labour without right or choice. And you know what the Architects are, for all their power? Slaves, Menheer. And if you’re a slave sent to chastise someone, and that someone sends their own slave out to plead for their master’s life, how well disposed do you think you’d be? Volunteers, Menheer. You cherish and take care of Andecka Tal Mar and anyone else like that, who give themselves willingly to the process. More of them will survive, for one thing, and what you get out of it will be worth having . . . not just a tame commercial pilot, but someone who can defend your worlds.’
Kris watched Borodin’s face, saw his quick mind changing tack. ‘There will be volunteers,’ he promised. ‘Once people understand that the threat is back, and it’s real, they’ll put themselves forward. Just like you did in the war.’
Idris nodded, looking defeated. ‘You’re probably right,’ he whispered. ‘But I still couldn’t watch them die. Because our brains aren’t the same, not any of us. Everyone gets cut up differently, trying to shape our brains to match Xavienne’s. It’s stupid, wasteful. And mostly it fails. I couldn’t live with it. I’m sorry, Menheer.’
‘Menheer Telemmier,’ Borodin said, at his most reasonable despite his pallor, ‘your crew would be compensated. You would be compensated. We would do everything we could to insulate you from the . . . negative aspects of the role.’ He blinked. ‘Menheer Telemmier?’
A stab of worry went through Kris, because Idris was very still. It wasn’t inconceivable that he’d actually died on them, right then and there. Then he said, ‘No,’ although there was a thoughtful tone to it. ‘No, Menheer. I’m not your man. And I’ll go against the Architects again, no doubt. I’ll likely die doing it, next time or the time after. Because even success kills, in this game.’ He shook his head, and suddenly everything seemed to be funny to him. ‘Oh, Menheer, I won’t abandon anyone. I just won’t take on this responsibility. I volunteered, back in the day, because I was needed. I’ll do my bit now for the same reason. However, I won’t go near you or your Liaison Board. Not now. Not ever.’
Solace
Monitor Superior Tact had left for the Thunderchild by the time various conversations amongst the Vulture crew had been concluded. So Solace had to commandeer another packet runner to get her over from the orbital to her superior’s ship. And every moment she was gone, she worried in case the Vulture God might not be there when she returned. Perhaps the crew would reconsider what they’d said, and just take off without her. No matter what she or anyone tried to pretend, she wasn’t quite one of them – and maybe never would be.
Tact’s room had holographic representations of every Partheni ship in the system projected around the walls, the display dominated by the five warships currently at her disposal. More Hugh forces were doubtless on their way, and that kind of pissing match was likely to end with someone doing something rash unless the Parthenon backed down. After all, Hugh couldn’t back down because they were above their own administrative capital. Situations like these made Solace glad she wasn’t a career diplomat.
‘You’ve requested a face-to-face meeting, so I take it you’re here to make a final report on your mission,’ Tact observed. She was watching those warship images: each one with the face of its Exemplar projected over it, all those sister-close likenesses.