[ 2.3 ]
They took Serafin on September 8th, before Fajr, on the day’s first Sharman-Foale crossing. Angel Piapil and Frank Morson were both along for the ride — Piapil grumbling to himself as he always did until he was confident that everything was secure.
The lighter was one of the older Broussard models, a long, miserable fifty-meter jumble of outmoded aesthetics and outdated machinery, bound for scrap if not for the shortages of the war. Most of its interior was given over to haulers, their cargo meticulously stacked and secured, patiently awaiting the next leg of their journey. At this hour, the passenger load was light: three droners in blue maintenance uniforms, uneager to return to work; a pack of Orderlies in their robes, smiling and nodding serenely to each other, as was their curious custom; a family of eight, the children strapped in maturational order, pestering each other as they floated around their elders in lazy, irregular orbits. At the stern, a peacekeeper rotated as he dozed, snoring softly.
That final moment of calm sits in his memory as clear as an instance: he’d been reading a message from Lucy on his personal view, one ear open to Piapil and Frank’s dickering about food printers.
Morson was a bit of a nervous nelly, always nodding along when other people talked, his hands constantly moving to check to make sure his hardware was still attached to his chest. He was a bright young med tech from Armstrong, who’d been accepted to Sagan at sixteen and chose Paean Medical out of what appeared to be genuine altruism. He had the thin limbs and sallow skin common to hard-born spacemen, but he did his best to offset this with sharp suits and the flashiest consensus accessories Paean allowed.
Piapil was a heavy-built grouch who worked for the Yeniceri Protection Agency, which Paean Medical had contracted for essential asset protection after an embarrassing incident when some locals managed to rip off a supply run without even using weapons. Piapil had barked at Morson at the start of the trip for not following protocols — he was a bit too serious for Serafin’s reckoning, as was often the case with securitors — and the atmosphere had been frankly rather grim until the discovery that Piapil was an aspiring gourmand; listening to him talk, his six months in food service as a young grunt had been the happiest of his life. But his seriousness paid off: Piapil’s record was flawless. He was as rigorous about his duties as he was about his personal fitness; he could have run the SDF gauntlet and still been ready for a dress code inspection at the end — aside from the trademark Yeniceri mustache, of course.
“Why were you traveling to Foale?” asks the trainer again.
Serafin leans back in his bunk, considering the question.
“I heard the weather was lovely this time of year.”
“This answer is fatuous. Please maintain sincerity in your responses.”
The PubComms virtual interview trainer isn’t really programmed for irony, sarcasm, or nuance. Best give it another go.
“Why were you traveling to Foale?”
Serafin squares his jaw, runs through the checklist in his mind.
“By the end of August, we were seeing more and more reports about critical system shortages, civil unrest — there was also some noise on the C-LSC systems that suggested possible Iblis compromise. After we lost ping with the Foale/Paean modules, I was ordered to go physical and assess the situation. UFA authenticators were short-handed and Frank Morson was VC2NS certified, so we were also asked to interface with the local team to help deploy verity updates.”
“This answer is too technical,” the PubComms trainer says. “Please review your Public Communications material and try again.”
Serafin rubs his eyes. He’s been going through the routine for hours, but hasn’t made much progress. The quality of the material is partially responsible, to be sure — it’s poorly structured and lacking in essential details. But at least the representation has managed to perfectly simulate the experience of being interviewed by a PubComms employee — which is to say, being interrogated for hours by a pompous, dim-witted fussbudget.
But he can’t blame it all on PubComms.
The forthcoming interview is a tight-rope: he needs to be sincere but not honest, open but not revealing, vulnerable but not weak. So no, it’s definitely not just the representation — Serafin is failing, again and again. For the first few days he would make excuses, blame it on the insomnia or his preoccupation with the Notion, but he’s never been able to delude himself for long. The idea of speaking with the media, being the center of attention, feels not only uncomfortable but profoundly unnatural. As bad as the recording was, it was done against his will. For Serafin, willingly submitting himself to universal broadcast feels akin to taking his helmet off during a space-walk.
But orders are orders.
“Why were you traveling to Foale?”
He takes a deep breath.
“After Garriott, the situation on Foale was spiraling rapidly out of control. There were food shortages, water shortages, the governance was on the verge of collapse. We also saw some very concerning indicators that Iblis units might be intercepting local communications. When our module on Foale went dark — that is to say, stopped responding to our messages — it was my responsibility as senior security facilitator to head on over and try to find out what the heck was going on.”
“When did you first become aware the transport was under attack?”
“When they started attacking us, I suppose.”
“This answer is inappropriate, and will likely be received poorly by the public. If you need help, please review your Public Communications material and try again—”
“Alright,” Serafin sighs. “There was a bang — a loud one. Hull breach. I thought it was a collision, at first.”
“Were you scared?”
“Oh yes.” The packet says it’s important to be scared.
“Your response appears to be insincere. Please try again.”
He sighs, takes a breath, pushes his mind back to the moment, the feeling in his body, the tension and uncertainty, the scream of the air rushing past and the lights flashing around him.
“I was scared. I mean, of course I was. There’s nothing scarier than a hull breach.”
“This answer lacks sincerity.”
“I’m sincere. It’s the truth. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Please try again.”
Serafin tries again, but the trainer simply refuses to believe him. After a few more attempts, Serafin gives up.
“Suspend emotional trackers. Let’s move on.”
“In order to communicate with the public as effectively as possible, it is important to present within appropriate sentiment ranges,” the trainer says “This training routine—”
“Override.”
“Suspending emotional tracking is not recommended—”
“Control: override.”
“Very well.”
The trainer sits back. They’ve given it a handful of little mannerisms — crossing its legs, shifting its balance, tilting its head — to make the experience more authentic, but it cycles through the same few so often it only serves to make its attempted simulacrum more uncanny. After briefly pretending to review imaginary notes, the trainer stares at Serafin, and tilts its head.
“Tell me about the abduction.”
Instead, Serafin ventures out for an evening rendezvous with the Schotts, only to find their quarters abandoned. Following their re-direct marker brings him to the upper levels of the ship, where ecru crushed velvet seats and emerald drapery line the spacious halls. On the first knock of his luxurious obsidian door, Herman appears immediately.
“Back for more, eh?!” Herman roars. He is clearly ready for combat, despite being in his undergarments.
“Easy! I come in peace.” Serafin raises his hands.
“Oh, Jim! Sorry, pal!” Herman says, clapping him vigorously on either shoulder, as though he’s built up so much energy he has to release it some way or another. “Thought you were someone else! Come in, come in, come in!”
The Elite suites live up to the name, easily five times the size of Serafin’s cabin, with a door at the far end that leads, presumably, to an adjoining bedroom. This particular model has been done up with blinding whites and gaudy reds, with consensus swans and roses sailing overhead. The far wall is set to sunset over some coastal Earth villa Serafin doesn’t recognize. Mounds of clothes and boxes scattered across the floor appears to be the extent of the Schott’s own contribution to the decor.
“Nice digs.”
“Yeah, they’re swell,” Herman says, shuffling to the bedroom door. “Maila managed to get into my account and upgrade us even though I specifically told her not to!” The last bit is bellowed for Maila’s benefit, and accentuated with a bit of pounding for good measure.
“Go away!” Maila shouts.
“Good evening, Missus Schott!” Serafin calls out.
“Good evening, Mister Serafin!”
“Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“Oh, I think I’ll stay in tonight, if you don’t mind!”
“Yes!” Herman says. Just stay in your room like a brat for all I care!”
“That’s fine! I’ll just order room service!”
“You’d better not!” Herman is about to lay into the door before Serafin leans in.
“Say!” Serafin says. “If you’re upgraded, that means they’ll let you into the good chow hall, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Gosh, I’d sure love to check that out. Been working so hard today, I’m afraid I completely missed lunch….”
“I suppose.”
“Also might be smart,” Serafin adds, sotto voce, “to give the missus a chance to cool off.”
Herman nods eagerly. “That’ll show her! Probably for the best, anyway. I’ve got some stuff I wanted to chat with you about. Adult stuff. Man stuff.”
“Oh?”
“You’re doing security over at Paean, right?” Herman says, pulling on a shirt and noisy flash jacket that is very much not appropriate for the lounge.
“Yes?”
“This expansion,” Herman says. “We’re leaving Earth, going system-wide… it’s why we’re doing all this sailing around, you know! Gotta shake hands, lock down contracts, make sure our ducks are in a row. Right now our security is being handled by Harrison’s uncle, which we appreciate — he’s doing us a huge favor, don’t get me wrong! — but he’s never even been to the moon, and, well! It feels like a whole different ballgame out here. I was hoping you could maybe give me a few pointers.”
“Not really my sector,” says Serafin, “but I’d be happy to help as much as I can.”
“Terrific!”
As they walk, Serafin half-listens to Herman’s description of the Peverall expansion, offered with the typical Schott exaggeration and bombast. But it’s a little hard to focus, because Herman’s lip is puffy and split; it’s been disguised in consensus, although not terribly well.
“What’s that then?” Serafin asks, wiggling fingers toward the mark. “Not from Maila, surely?”
“Oh, this?” Herman says, who seems surprised it hurts when he touches his lip. “No, no, ha ha! Got into a little scuffle. But you should see the other guy!”
Herman pulls up a model of the other guy, who does indeed appear to be in much worse shape: a scowling young red-haired man with a bloody nose and cruel abrasions across his cheek and jaw.
“You weren’t kidding. What happened?”
“Just a misunderstanding!” says Herman. “I was having a chat with one of the other passengers on board, a very charming little slip by the name of Etty. Long story short, Etty’s husband can’t take a joke, so….”
“Mm. Can’t take a punch, either, by the looks of it.”
Herman cackles.
“Is this kerfuffle what’s led to Maila’s seclusion?”
“Yeah. Well, and the upgrade!” Herman’s voice grows louder, somehow, startling a young steward passing by. “She’s been in my ear about it for ages. I’ll admit, I’m a little steamed! It’s one thing for her to throw a tantrum — she’s young, tantrums are par for the course — but this upgrade! It’s too much!”
“Pricey?”
“Oh no, no, I can afford it — but mucking around with the finances? She should really know better. Honestly, I don’t even know how she managed to get into the account!”
“Still, I suppose it’s preferable to the alternative.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Suppose she went off and had a chat of her own?”
Herman seems stunned by the suggestion. “Why in the devil would she do that?”
Serafin shrugs. “Why did you?”
“Oh, heck! No no no, it’s not like that! Listen, I was just having a bit of fun!”
“Mm.”
“It’s only natural, you know? Man is a hunter.”
“Of course.”
“She takes everything too serious, that’s all.”
“No harm in a little conversation.”
“That’s right! That’s exactly right.”
There follows an astonishing thirty seconds of silence, the longest Serafin has ever heard Herman go without speaking, grunting, or otherwise demanding attention, until they arrive at the lift to the dining lounge, which has lovely green and white stained glass windows that shift into different patterns to indicate the amenities available on each floor.
“You ever hear of Salganea taiwanensis?” Herman asks, as the doors slide shut, revealing the Verdant company logo.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Wood roaches.” Herman pulls up a model to demonstrate — a pile of small, dark brown, segmented insects crawling over each other in a pile. “They mate for life, raise their offspring together. You know what their secret is?”
“Search me.”
“They eat each other’s wings!”
Herman cackles, gloomily.
“Goodness,” says Serafin. “Let’s get some drinks in you, then.”
Over a largely liquid dinner, Serafin offers a brief crash course in modern interplanetary corporate security, which Herman impressively manages to mostly follow despite complaining the entire time and imbibing a frankly absurd amount of Hothead beer.
“This all seems so complicated!” Herman moans, scraping the relish off his hamburger bun. “We don’t have anything like this Corporative junk in the Americas. Why don’t you just let companies compete?!”
“I’m telling you,” Serafin says, “we do! The ultimate purpose of the Corporative is simply to ensure smooth collaboration between government and industry — it only discourages competition insofar as said competition might risk damaging shared resources or threatening UFA interests. But rest assured, the companies large enough to hold a Corporative seat have gotten into some very nasty dust-ups with each other over the years.”
“Dust-ups? Like what kind of dust-ups?”
“Disinformation. Propaganda. Blackmail. Sabotage. The UFA draws a hard line on anything that could harm civilians, so no bombings or assassinations — but even some violence is allowed, so long as it’s limited to corporators and contractors. We lose a few every year; a handful even in combat.”
“Cripes! I didn’t know you spacers had it in you!”
“What can I say? We take market competition very seriously.”
“How much of this is real, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know….”
Serafin honestly doesn’t.
“Lemme put it to you this way,” Herman says, leaning in. “Some of the guys on the Peverall payroll, you don’t need a robot to replace them, you just need a piece of driftwood! We got entire departments full of useless pencil-pushers who only exist to make sure we don’t get in trouble for violating a bunch of useless rules made up by a bunch of useless regulators. So I’m asking, just between us girls, you know… how much of this is real, and how much of this is just screwing around, playing silly games?”
Serafin considers his answer.
“I can’t deny that some of it is theater,” Serafin says. “But other corporations aren’t the only concern. Are you familiar with the HLS-Arco scandal from the ‘50s?”
“Something to do with heat shields? I saw the headlines, I don’t know the details.”
“Well,” Serafin says, “The short version is that a researcher in their meta-materials lab got passed over for promotion, fellow by the name of Glenn Kaur. He took this personally and decided to cross the street, talk to some of his company’s competitors, tip them off about the project he was working on. Honestly, if that was as far as it went, you’d be right — fun and games, as you say.”
“Okay….”
“The only problem was, the radiation weave schematics Glenn Kaur brought over were so complex, the company he brought them to had to bring in some specialists from another company, by the name of Widebridge Advanced Research. And it turned out, Widebridge was a potemkin. As soon as the russkiye got wind of what was going on, they immediately swooped in. They helped him smuggle data out of the lab, they helped him pay off his star debt — why, they even made sure he got promoted to a management position that allowed him to get access to even more sensitive projects.
“By the time BizDef caught on, the UFA had already lost nearly a decade in tech lead, and HLS-Arco? They wound up posting nearly sixty billion in losses, got kicked off their Corporative boards — to say nothing of the damage to their reputation, of course.
“So, yes, I suppose you could say it’s all a game. It is, to some degree. But it’s not a game you want to lose.”
Serafin is talking too much. He’s also drinking too much. But all of this is public record, and his time with the Advanced Technology Protection Office is in the profile if he needs to justify his expertise.
“One guy?!” Herman says, loudly enough to earn irritated glances from some of the other dinners. “All that, because of one guy?!”
“He recruited other people in the company to help him, but yes. One guy.”
“Outrageous. What a little rat fink! I could never betray my country like that.”
“Glenn Kaur didn’t know he was betraying his country. He thought he was betraying his company.”
“I wouldn’t do that either!”
“Speaking from experience,” Serafin says quietly, “it is difficult to be sure what you would and would not do until you actually have to do it.”
He doesn’t need to raise his prosthetic from the table; Herman gets the point.
“Yeah, okay, fair enough. But that’s different! This guy sold out his co-workers, for what? A few extra bucks?”
“Everyone has a reason. There’s always a reason.”
Herman shakes his head. “Okay, fine. Let’s say I got a special project in the hold. Something real top secret, something I’m showing potential investors to really dazzle them and get them to come on board. How would you get me to spill the beans?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It would depend.”
“Come on!” Herman says. “Show me.”
Serafin sighs. “Normally, the first thing I’d do is generate a personality profile. Get the basics from the roll call — name, age, siblings, and so on, then start pulling records — travel, medical, finance, consensus logs—”
“My logs! That ain’t legal, is it?”
“I mean, I can’t break into your personals,” Serafin says. “But there’s other methods. Companies like Aventure have open records; public events are fair game; anyone has the right to record their side of a shared experience. On top of that, the rights for instances typically default to the room’s owner — anything you’ve done on this ship, for example, is automatically uploaded to the Verdant servers, and likely shared with other corporations in their network. Most of the time, I wouldn’t even need to track this down myself; there are dedicated aggregators who actually go out and pay people for their data; they have massive archives all ready to go.”
Serafin gives Herman a moment to think about everything he’s done in the interface rooms during the course of his honeymoon.
“Okay, so you got all that,” says Herman. “Then what?”
“Well, at that point, I start looking for vulnerabilities. Are you in debt? Are you unhappy with your employers? Are you following proper security protocols? You’re in the middle of an expansion, so I might pretend to be a potential investor.”
“I could tell. I’d figure it out.”
“You might. But it might not happen on the clock. You’re obviously quite gregarious, so I might, say, send in an attractive young woman you might want to show off to….”
“… Etta?” Herman says, rattled.
“Oh no, Herman,” Serafin says, laughing. “Did you try to impress a young woman by showing her sensitive business information?”
“What? No!” Herman protests, but then sheepishly amends, “It didn’t really get that far. But wait, you don’t think—”
“I don’t. But I don’t think it’s impossible. Fundamentally, security is about uncertainty. You can’t never be sure; you always have to be open to the possibility. Honestly, did the thought she might be working you even cross your mind?”
“I mean, no… but that’s not how I see the world! I don’t go through life thinking everybody’s out to get me!”
“The bigger your company becomes,” Serafin says patiently, “the more people will be out to get you.”
“Well! That’s a hell of a way to go through life, don’t you think?”
“It takes a certain kind of person, to do this kind of work,” Serafin concedes. “And even then, it takes a toll. But someone has to check the vents and valves, because you can rest assured your competitors are doing the same—”
“Alright, jeez. I get it!” Herman finishes his beer, wipes his mouth. “Anyway. You want to see it?”
“Your top secret project?”
“Yeah!”
Serafin laughs, shakes his head. “Sure, why not?”
An unexpected snag sits in the final hall leading to Baggage: a young pock-faced steward, guarding the way in a half-buttoned green uniform, balancing his legs on a suitcase as he watches last night’s moonball.
“No passengers,” grunts the boy.
Herman is ready to admit defeat, but Serafin waves him back.
After a brief chat about the game — the Greens are down ten points — and a fifty-dollar chip, the young guard grunts again, and bangs on the door with his fist, which slides open obligingly.
“Make it quick.”
“Just needed a bit of baksheesh,” Serafin says, once they’re on the other side.
“How the devil did you know that would work?” Herman says.
“I mean, you never know. But he’s a flip.”
“What’s a flip?”
“This is a busywork crew,” Serafin says. “Truth be told, you only need a handful of crew-members on a ship like this — someone to monitor the flight, a couple warm pulses to oversee the blanks — but UFA travel regulations require transports like this to carry at least half of the crew they would be carrying if we weren’t living in the age of the Asimov.”
“Yeah, we got laws that on Earth too,” Herman says. “John Henry laws.”
“Well, that leaves the company with a problem: what do you do with the extra bodies? Human crews need to eat, breathe, sleep, make waste, take up room; worst of all, you have to pay them for the privilege. You can offset this somewhat with the elite passengers, because they’re paying exponentially more, and they tend to prefer human service anyway. But if you’ve still got more workers than you need, you find the cheapest people you can—”
“And get what you pay for, I reckon!”
“Just so. The only thing worse on these ships than the pay is the morale. So the rule of thumb with a ship is that your odds of actually getting what you need are about the same…”
“… as a coinflip?”
Serafin nods.
Herman stops, and puts a hand on Serafin’s shoulder, chuckling with an intoxicated, fraternal benevolence.
“Jim, old pal,” Herman says. “I gotta admit, I had you figured all wrong. When you got into that scrape the other night, I thought you lost your nerve. But you just saw it differently, didn’t you? You saw which way the game was going and you were willing to take the hit to make it go some way else.”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t read too much into it—”
“I think I’m reading into it just right. You’re a certain kind of person, like you said. We need that, at Peverall. How would you like to come work for me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about bugs.”
Herman chuckles. “Neither did, when I started!”
“We’re here,” Serafin says.
Baggage is divided into several categories. The first, economy, is best described as a jumbled pile. Business and Elite, however, are immaculately shelved, strapped, and clearly labeled. The Peverall section takes up an entire shelf, which Herman starts digging into with vigor. A blank wanders past, but leaves them be — after all, they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t have permission.
“Seriously, Jim!” Herman says, sliding containers back and forth. “How much is Paean paying you? Can’t be too much if they’re like the PSOs back home.”
“It’s enough to get by,” says Serafin, mostly trying to convince himself.
“You could put the whole department together yourself, run the show,” says Herman. “I’m telling you, things are heating up. Ainsley handles all the finances — I don’t have the head for numbers, never did — but Ainsley’s shown me the projections, Jimmy, and, oh, they’re a thing of beauty, let me tell you! We’re at a critical stage, very critical. Every dollar we invest now will be worth a hundred times that in just a few years! You’d be getting on board a rocket-ship!”
“I’m flattered, Herman, but—”
“Here we go!”
Herman finds what he’s looking for and holds it up triumphantly: a small temperature-controlled container stamped PEVERALL. He slides it off the shelf and pops it open, revealing a small grey case emblazoned with all manner of warnings and cautions. When he presses his palm against the case, a countdown appears, which Herman reads aloud as it drops.
When it’s finished, an indicator on the case turns green, and the locks flip up. The big man opens the case and spins it around; nestled inside is the largest insect Serafin has ever seen in real life.
“Periplaneta peveralla,” Herman says, reverently. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
“She’s… something, alright.”
“Part of our new bio-design lineup. Got some beetles in the pipeline as well. We’re designing them to stay in certain areas, so they won’t wander off and start a hive in a maintenance shaft or something like that.”
“You can design for that?”
“Yep! You take honey bees, for instance: those dances they use to communicate with each other, telling each other where to go? Those are actually hardwired into their little brains!”
“No kidding.”
Herman gives a demonstratory wiggle and taps his head. “Makes you wonder how many of our little dances are hardwired too, don’t it?”
“None, in my case. I’ve got two left feet.”
Herman cackles. “You’re a riot! But that’s not even the best part! Watch!”
Herman stands up straight, straining to focus through his inebriation. He takes a deep breath, rattles off an initiation phrase, and then holds up his hand.
The cockroach rises to something akin to attention.
Herman moves his hand to the left.
The cockroach moves to the left.
“Good Heavens,” says Serafin.
Herman points, and the cockroach launches itself out of the case and skitters into the shadows.
“Pretty great, huh?” Herman motions come hither and the cockroach returns. “The eggheads are still working on swarms, but even this little bugger is a game-changer. We’re putting together a deal with the IRCC for the first gens — in a couple of years every emergency rescue team in the system is going to be carrying these around. Say, grab me one of those bags, will ya?”
Serafin retrieves a small green ditty bag from the discarded luggage graveyard nearby, and Herman slips the bug in with considerable tenderness, which is impressive considering he’s also drunk enough he has to throw a marker to find his way home.
Along the way, he attempts to bully Serafin into taking the job.
“These are industry standard salaries out here?” Herman scoffs, scrolling through the posted rates for security facilitators. “We could double your pay, easy! Plus, you don’t gotta worry about uprisers trying to grab you and hack pieces off of you!”
“I appreciate the offer, Herman—”
“Just promise me you’ll give it some thought!”
“I promise,” says Serafin. “But at the moment, I’m afraid I’m feeling a touch of sobriety coming on. Best call it a night—”
“Oh, no, no no no, not yet!” says Herman. “Just one more thing!”
Herman shuffles through the romantic detritus in his room to the bedroom door, which is no longer locked, although further investigation reveals the bedroom itself sits empty. He motions vigorously for Serafin to follow.
“Honeybunch,” Herman calls out. “Are you here?”
“I’m in the shower!” Maila calls from the bathroom.
“Alright! Jimmy and I are just having a night-cap!”
Maila yells back something Serafin can’t quite make out, but the tone seems generally affirmative.
Herman shushes Serafin, although Serafin hasn’t said anything, and then unzips the bag, gently petting the insect with his thick pink fingers and giving it a kiss before he sets it on the floor.
“Go forth, my child!” he mutters.
The cockroach slips under the bathroom door easily. But Serafin isn’t entirely clear on the point of this exercise until Maila runs out of the bathroom screaming.
“Herman!” wails Maila, running back into the bathroom to risk grabbing a towel.
“Herman!” she yells on her return, mortified that Serafin has seen her.
“Herman!” she howls a third time, with consternation, as she begins to realize her husband is, somehow, responsible for her predicament.
Serafin casts his eyes aside in a shabby attempt at preserving dignity.
“Aw, relax!” Herman can barely speak he’s laughing so hard. “It ain’t nothing he hasn’t seen before!”
Hours later in the dark of the little cabin, Serafin tosses and turns, trying to distract himself from the throbbing at the remains of his arm by spinning the tentative connections of the Notion over his bed. But the Notion is hard thought, and he is simply too exhausted to engage with it properly.
And the truth is, if he is honest, is that he knows he’s been putting off what he needs to. Finally, he admits defeat, kicks off the covers, and starts up the trainer again.
“Tell me about the abduction.”
“It was two teams of four,” Serafin says. “They went in through the top with a breacher box. One team went to the middle of the ship for crowd control. The other team dealt with the peacekeepers—”
“Dealt with them?”
“Firefight. One was shot, the other surrendered. I didn’t see too much of it, we were already on the move.”
“Where did you move to?”
“Securitor Piapil had us de-strap and fall back to the cargo section. We were all armed, but Morson wasn’t much use — he was crying, trembling, kept whispering prayers under his breath. Not his fault, really, he was just a civvie.”
“Please rephrase.”
“… ah … Morson lacked combat experience?”
“Thank you. Please continue.”
“They started going through the crowd, running identi-scans. After that, they started searching the haulers. Checking the cabs, checking the containers. Banging against the walls.” Serafin raps his knuckles against the edge of the bed to demonstrate. “Looking for stragglers.”
“What did you do?”
“We kept moving. You know, it’s funny — the lighter seemed quite small, when we first got on board. But we kept finding new gaps to squeeze through, little nooks and gaps and crannies to hide in. But honestly, it didn’t matter very much.”
“Why not?”
“The whole reason we were making the trip in the first place was because the cluster’s security was so badly overburdened. The nearest military vessel was the ASF Pitcairn — and it was the final months of the war. They didn’t have a fighter to spare, and even, and even if they had, it would have still been twenty hours out with a hard burn.
“Even then, what could they have done, to help us, really? We were on our own. We decided to hold out the best we could, but we knew it was only a matter of time.”
“What did you do?”
“As active securitor, Piapil made the call. He said the collision was inevitable, but we had the choice to decide how that was going to go. So we pushed back. When they reached the section where we were hiding, Morson and I got their attention — then Piapil detonated a slap charge. Killed one, used the ensuing chaos to take out another. It was… when someone dies in the float like that, the blood just spreads out, and forms these… throbbing clouds….”
“This answer is too graphic.”
“Sorry,” says Serafin, rubbing his eyes. It’s late. He’s tired.
“I took Morson to a container, barricaded the entrance. Piapil stayed and fought. He made it hard for them, too; they had to call in the other team before they could bring him down. I heard him over the comms….” Best not to describe that; how the voice slowly went from a warrior’s roar to an animal’s howl, at the end.
“After that, it was just me and Morson. I shot the first one who tried to force his way in, but they smartened up after that, dropped in some disorients. The next thing I knew, I could feel their hands on me, striking me, tying me down. It was hard to see, but I could tell they were strapping Morson in for extraction. They pushed me next to him, and his mouth was open — I could tell he was screaming, but I could barely hear him. And then….”
Serafin closes his eyes, shakes his head. The trainer isn’t programmed for comfort, but it gives him a moment to collect himself before it continues on.
“Why do you think they kidnapped you?”
Serafin thinks about this for a long time. It’s the toughest question in the deck — he’s answered this question a dozen times before, but never to the trainer’s satisfaction.
“I was set up,” says Serafin, at last.
The trainer pretends, briefly, to take this answer seriously.
“This answer is not appropriate,” it intones at last.
“No, of course not,” says Serafin, laying back in the bed and closing his eyes. “It’s only the truth, after all.”