Tales from the Service: Sangster Stretched Thin

2949-04-13 – Tales from the Service: Sangster Stretched Thin

Nojus here. Duncan’s feeling a bit poorly this week and asked me to write an introduction for this piece he’d already finished preparing for the feed. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious, but you should hear him whining – it might almost convince you he was on his deathbed.

Though the Navy’s battle fleets and their mercenary auxiliaries tend to get the best press, they aren’t the only spacers caught up in this war. Thousands of support ships are needed to keep things ticking, and though their service isn’t nearly as likely to end under Incarnation guns, that doesn’t make their jobs safe or pleasant.

Steffen McTaggart, one of these so-called “rear area” spacers, sent us a message to describe how badly these crews are being overstretched. Apparently the Navy planned for this war to be a short conflict, and is patching the gaps with contract work from civilian vessels like his own, the heavy salvage tug Aram Sangster. These vessels and their owners are profiting from the exchange, but they can hardly refuse an urgent Navy contract (all Navy contracts are, it seems, urgent) without getting the money turned off for good. Most of them haven’t had a full shipyard workup since they arrived on the Frontier.

For the moment, the Navy seems content to just let these crews or ships wear themselves out. There are new ones coming in from the rest of the Reach to more than replace them, even if the growth rate of the rear-area logistics system is fairly poor. Eventually, I’m worried when something in this system breaks, it’s going to break hard and fast.

For those of you wondering, the ship Mr. McTaggart's crew salvaged most recently is one of those destroyed during the Battle of Berkant. Until his message, that the wrecks from that battle were still drifting there until recently, having only minimal recovery operations attempted, is something neither Duncan nor I knew.

“Hells.” Steffen McTaggart scowled out the command deck viewscreen over a mug of acrid spacers’ coffee. As usual, the view forward of Aram Sangster was nothing short of discouraging. “They always stick us with the worst gigs, don’t they. Why didn’t they say the damned ship was blown near clean in two?”

Jeanette Vang, the ship’s navigator and second in command, chuckled from her station. “That’s why they pay us the big credits, Boss.”

Steffen drained his coffee in one gulp and tossed the empty cup in the general direction of the pile of similar disposable containers spilling out of the bridge beverage dispenser’s broken return receptacle. “The big bucks ain’t nearly enough sometimes, Vang. I’ll go see Tyson. We’re going to need the torches for this one.”

Steffen sighed and limped toward the lift, trusting his second to see to the minutiae of edging Sangster closer to the shattered hulk of the heavy cruiser Ravi Songbird. There would be an extensive debris field around the shattered cruiser, but Sangster’s extensive screening fields and multi-layered armor-hull would let it bull through this with ease. Berkant being, at least for the moment, still a Confederated system, there was little chance of anything more dynamic than tumbling debris threatening his ship.

Being the commander of the biggest, most rugged FTL tug operating in the Coreward Frontier had its advantages, but today, like most days, Steffen wished for a command his Navy paymasters didn’t hold in such high regard. The Navy saw his ship and crew as the ultimate fixers for a sticky salvage situation, and for the moment they weren’t wrong, but the hardware and personnel of Sangster were beginning to show the strain. The bridge drink-dispenser was hardly the only symptom of the slow decay which had overtaken his once smartly-run ship.

Once in the lift, Steffen instructed it to carry him down four decks to the launch deck. Trying to haul both halves of a dead cruiser in one run would have been a tricky proposition even before the war, and now with his crew wrung out from eight months’ dashing from one job to the next with no shore leave, he didn’t doubt there would be complications. It would be far safer if the torches made sure the wreck stayed in one piece before Sangster tried moving it – but the torch hands and their machines were without doubt the parts of his outfit that most needed a rest and refit.

The lift disgorged him into the launch deck gallery. Through the armor-glass bulkhead opposite, he could see Sangster’s six torch launches lined up in two neat rows on the main launch deck below, umbilical cabling snaking to connect to each.

Hobbling toward the launch ops station at the end of the little gallery, Steffen barged in to find Freddy Tyson and two of the torch jockeys sitting on the consoles, chatting and passing around a flask of something that he doubted was water or coffee.

Tyson stood – not entirely steadily – at Steffen’s approach. “Boss, to what do we owe the-”

“Get your torches ready.” Steffen grabbed the flask from his subordinate’s hand, sniffed it, and recoiled at the sharp odor that only a crude shipboard distillery could produce. Before the war, he’d tolerated Tyosn’s alcoholism and the hobby that sustained it, and every wartime gig made him regret this leniency. “The Navy failed to mention that this wreck is only in one piece because a few hull panels didn’t quite get the memo that the bow and stern are getting a divorce. Can you and your boys make it stay in one piece?”

The two torch pilots slunk out the compartment’s opposite door, heading for their own ready-room. They wouldn’t launch on their initial survey run for at least two more hours, so Steffen hoped they would have enough time to sober up.

Tyson frowned, his eyes unfocusing as he worked on parsing Steffen’s words and formulating a response. “Anything’s possible, Boss. I’ll get on it.”

Steffen gritted his teeth. While sober, Tyson could be a borderline savant at directing torch operations – he had a knack for knowing just what parts of a wreck could be cut, which needed to be reinforced, and where the trouble spots would be. While drunk, on the other hand, and this had become an increasingly common state since his home-world of Mereena had been overrun by the Incarnation, Tyson lost his focus and his edge. Even drunk, he was better at his job than most, but most didn’t stand a chance of keeping the derelict Ravi Songbird together through a pair of Himura jumps. If either end of the ship broke loose during a star drive maneuver, thousands of tons of potentially salvageable Navy hardware would go tumbling off into interstellar space, along with Sangster’s reputation with the Navy.

Sensing Steffen’s concerns, Tyson stiffened his posture, clearly offended. “We’ll get it done, McTaggart. We always have.”

For all his slow downward spiral, the man and his torch pilots did always come through in the end. Steffen sighed and waved the half-empty flask out the viewpanels toward the torch launches on the deck below. “We can’t afford any mistakes on this one, Tyson. You’re off the bottle until that hulk is secured and we’re under way, do you hear me?”

Though his first reaction was a wince, Tyson nodded. “Makes sense, Boss.”

“Good.” Steffen turned on his heel and hobbled back toward the lift, taking the flask with him. He could almost believe Tyson would honor that request – almost.

Details

Tales from the Service: Source Yianna’s Favor

2949-03-30 – Tales from the Service: Source Yianna’s Favor

Colonel Rhys Bennington turned over the gleaming knife in his hand, a perfect twin of the one in Yianna’s hand beside him. Though he was quite familiar with the leaf-bladed jungle-knife configuration of the F.D.A.’s standard-issue hand multitool, and passingly familiar with the Marines’ Grier Knife, a clip-pointed slab of titanium alloy designed to be brutally simple, maintenance-free, and impossible for even an armor-suited gorilla to break. Neither of those blades, though meant to serve as killing implements if necessary, was a dedicated killing tool. The knife in his hands, with its long, twice-curved blade and fine tip, was perfectly shaped to cut a throat or burrow between a victim’s ribs to pierce their heart. It was an assassin’s weapon, militarily useless but perfect for snuffing out the unwary.

“I can’t take this.” He set the weapon down on the bed and stood up. “But thank you. I’m sorry you’ve got the wrong impression of me.”

Yianna glanced down at the gift he had distanced himself from and then back up. She didn’t look surprised, but then, she was an Immortal with circuitry crisscrossing her brain, more than capable of detaching her facial muscles from her emotional reactions if that suited her.

“You’re right that Hamlinson is a bad posting, but nobody gets here by sheer bad luck, least of all me.” He pointed at the knife. “With all the dying that’s going on over at Margaux, I don’t deserve medals or souvenirs. That should go to someone who put their life on the line to earn it. All I did was watch a tropical sunset and grumble over the rim of a drink.”

Yianna smiled and picked up the token. “What does the greater sacrifice made by anyone else have to do with it? Do you think that if you refuse this, that their suffering will be less?”

“Of course not.” Rhys scowled, finding it hard to explain why he thought it so improper to take the simple gift.

Yianna stood, identical, flashing knives in each of her hands. For an instant, a picture of himself being butchered by a peeved Immortal flashed through Rhys’s mind, but she merely held one out – the same one – on an open palm. “And do you believe that any of their killing and dying would have led to my defection the same way your good-natured grumbling with the locals did?”

Rhys shook his head. “Probably not, but why should-” He trailed off, reaching out toward the twice-offered murderer’s blade, but still hesitant to lay claim to it.

Yianna moved faster than Rhys’s eyes could track, slipping behind him and lowering her voice until she was almost whispering in his ear. “I’ll tell you why, Rhys Bennington. You’ve got every reason to hate the Incarnation and everyone who fights for it, especially an Immortal, but you don’t. I’m a counterhuman, a murderer, a terrorist who came to this world planning to deliver it over to a cause that would end your way of life. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to understand that?”

Rhys gulped, but said nothing. Of course he didn’t hate her – he devoted considerable effort to not hating anyone. He’d hated someone once – a superior officer in the F.D.A. when it was still a new organization – and letting this pointless emotional distaste overtake him had ensured he would watch the war from a safe, unglamorous desk in the Hamlinson Bay garrison.

“I knew that if I fell into your hands, I’d be treated like a person, not like an unfeeling war-machine.” Yianna moved away, and Rhys turned to watch her warily. The knife she’d offered him had vanished from her hand. “You’re going to let me thank you for that.”

Rhys reached around behind his back and found the knife where she had placed it, tucked safely into his belt in a way that presented no risk of cutting himself. “The Intelligence men will take it away the moment they see it.”

Yianna laughed, the sudden intensity which had overruled his initial refusal gone as quickly as it had come. “Don’t you outrank those fools? I’m surprised you haven’t thrown them out of your base perimeter by now. If I knew I’d have to deal with them, I might have stuck with the Incarnation.”

“They’re just field agents. The top-tier spooks don’t come out to places like Hamlinson. They’re just screening you so Intelligence can figure out where they should take you, but it shouldn’t be long before that happens.”

Rhys drew the weapon out of his belt and held it up. He could hardly go about his business on duty with an assassin’s tool jammed into his belt, so he slipped it into one sleeve of his uniform tunic instead.

Yianna nodded her approval, then sat back down to pick up the book she’d been reading when he entered. The conversation was, apparently, over.

Colonel Bennington’s account of the strange conversation he had with Source Yianna (which is continued from last week’s Tales from the Service: Bennington’s Token) matches up well with other accounts of Immortals and other Incarnation personnel being persuaded to cooperate with the Confederated war effort. Their harsh, digitally-regimented society and the propaganda which dominates their expectations of outsiders render their group morale all but impermeable, but individuals can be reached by persistently treating them like the humans they should have been, before the Incarnation’s computer implants invaded their bodies and minds.

I am told unofficially that a memorandum by our friend Samuel Bosch has been circulating since his force was relieved at Sagittarius Gate – evidently he had plenty of opportunities during the long march of the Lost Squadrons to test interrogation and propaganda-stripping of Incarnation prisoners. His methods mirror Yianna’s claims here.

[N.T.B. – These people don’t look at it the way we do. They think that with the implants, they are more themselves than they could ever be without them. It’ll be a rude shock for most of them when the war is over and they find there is no simple way to integrate with the rest of us. They’ll have to hide the implants or try to get them removed, and I’m worried some of them will resent it. The Navy had better be careful, or this war will create years of Incarnation insurgency.]

Details

Tales from the Service: Bennington’s Token

2949-03-30 – Tales from the Service: Bennington’s Token 

When Colonel Rhys Bennington approached the hastily-fortified holding cell in sublevel four of his facility, the four armor-suited Marine troopers and two scowling Naval Intelligence agents guarding the door snapped to various halfhearted degrees of attention. It bothered him that his own F.D.A. Soldiers weren’t being trusted with the containment of Hamlinson Bay’s most important prisoner, but orders were orders, and the Intelligence team which had swept into the garrison brandishing vague orders stamped with the highest levels of Admiralty authorization, tying Rhys’s hands even though he remained the putative superior officer of every one of the spooks who’d invaded his domain. 

Even if that were not the case, Rhys wouldn’t have expected them to salute smartly for him. Intelligence and the Marines, along with everyone else in the Confederated military complex, looked down on the Frontier Defense Army as a slapdash, bastard service inferior to their own, an expedient born of a bad war situation and a desire to put millions of exuberant Frontier youths to work doing something to stave off unrest. 

On his darker days, when he was punishing the practice of obscure cultic rituals among his garrison, Rhys might have agreed with them, but he was too proud to admit it now. Before the F.D.A., he’d been a militia commander on Adimari Valis, and he was, unlike most of the F.D.A.’s conscripts, armor-suit certified. Many of his junior officers had similar militia experience, and most of the rank and file were, if not experts in infantry tactics, at least handy with a weapon, rugged of constitution, and intimately used to rambling through potentially dangerous alien ecosystems without stepping into, waking up, or pissing off anything liable to eat them. They might be fractious, superstitious, and irregular, but they were determined, savvy, and curious. Rhys knew his men – and the millions under arms with the F.D.A. elsewhere – were capable of doing their part to stop the Incarnation’s march across the Coreward Frontier, if they were given half a chance to do it. 

“Mind if I talk to our prisoner, gentlemen?” Rhys pointed at the door. He hadn’t spoken more than two sentences to the woman known as Yianna since the day she’d arrived, thanks to the rapid response of the Intelligence team and its Marine muscle. After she had marched into the Lookout and announced herself to him particularly, he’d escorted her back to base and performed a perfunctory interview. He'd also, at her request and direction, assisted in disabling the main transmitter in her cranial implant in a way she suggested would tell her fellows – fellows who even at that moment remained at large on Håkøya.  

The shorter of the two Intelligence men – Rhys had never bothered to learn their names, nor they his – put his hands on his hips and adopted a blocking position. Rhys couldn’t help but notice a thin cut on the man’s left cheekbone that hadn’t been there the previous day. “For what purpose?” 

“She hasn’t said a damned word to either of you, has she?” 

The taller Intelligence man started at Rhys’s question. Though the superior in stature, he was the inferior member of the team in both intelligence and, apparently, rank. “How in all hells did you know that?” 

Rhys wanted to tell them how obvious it was since neither of them was in the room interrogating Yianna at that moment, but he figured they were the intelligence officers, not him – they would figure out on their own. “She surrendered to me, and talked to me. Still can’t imagine why, but we should take advantage of it.” 

The two Intelligence men frowned, then drew back and discussed the question in whispered tones. Their dark uniform coats with blue trim annoyed Rhys; that black cloth seemed to gleam in a way that made the drab brown uniform coat of a F.D.I. officer, patterned after the most common pattern of militia uniform used on Frontier worlds, look shabby and dusty even when just as clean. Those were uniforms which had never been smudged by the dust of fallen worlds like Adimari Valis or Mereena, nor the toxic ichors of faltering Margaux, but somehow Naval Intelligence found ways to cover its favorite sons with medals and accolades all the same. 

The taller of the two officers shook his head and turned back to Rhys. “You have fifteen minutes, Colonel.” 

Rhys dipped his head in acknowledgement, then approached the door as the Marines readied themselves to fill the doorway with railshot in the event of an attempted escape. The shorter intelligence officer keyed in a command on his wrist computer, and the armored door the garrison machine shop had helped assemble for Yianna’s cell – a double-layer of translucent corundum shielding spaced by a two-inch plate of armor-alloy – slid slowly to one side. There was a second door beyond, this one a simple metal sheet covered in a corrosion-resistant ceramic laquer and wired is. with dozens of alarms.  

Rhys waited for the outer door to close behind him, then pushed open the inner portal. Yianna’s cell had been an unused store-room before she’d arrived, and a few fabricator-plywood furnishings sat on a rectangle of beige carpeting identical to that in Rhys’s office eight levels above didn’t do much to disguise this. 

Yianna sat on the lower bunk of the bunk-bed installed for her use, and she barely looked up from the page to examine her visitor. In the hand not occupied carrying the book, she twirled a gleaming knife Rhys knew she wasn’t supposed to have, and his blood ran cold at the sight of it. No doubt, he and the other officers at Hamlinson Bay would have been destined to bleed their lifeblood out around such blades in the event of an invasion of Håkøya. 

“Your new friends out there are damnably unpleasant.” Yianna still didn’t look up, but she shifted to give Rhys a place to sit next to her. “Where’ve you been, Colonel?” 

Rhys stood in front of the woman, briefly at a loss for words. Eventually, he decided how he could explain the situation. “Security down here’s tight since you arrived.” 

“Can’t imagine why. If the others realize what I’ve done, that big door and four Marines won’t stop them.” This possibility didn’t seem to faze her; the observation held no more emotional attachment than a conversation about the weather. 

Rhys eventually decided to sit down, keeping his eyes on the effortlessly-twirled knife. “You can tell I’m not one of them in disguise, already here to clean up your mess?” 

Yianna closed the book and set it aside. “Maybe you should be the intelligence officer, not those two outside. Yes, I can tell.” 

“How? Maybe we can-” 

Yianna twirled the knife one more time, then held it out in front of Rhys, its grip extended toward him and blade balanced delicately between her fingers. “Take this.” 

Rhys hesitated. He’d read the intelligence reports about what an Immortal could do with ferromagnetic substances. With almost as many nanomachines inhabiting her body as living cells, Yianna could sculpt metal with a touch. Naval Intelligence guessed that the so-called Immortals could live perhaps twenty years after their technological transformation – eventually, the extensive modifications to body and mind would catch up with them. A primitive part of his brain wanted not to touch the products of this sacrifice, lest his own humanity might become tainted as well. 

“It’s a pocketknife, Colonel.” Yianna shrugged. “My calling-card. We both know that if I wanted to hurt you, I had plenty of time.” 

Rhys nodded and reached up to take the knife by its handle, finding the grip perfectly contoured to fit into his palm. Faint etching traced vaguely floral patterns up the centerline of the slightly curved blade. “Why are you giving it to me?” 

Yianna smiled, not entirely unkindly. “You’re a decent man and a good officer in a shit posting, Bennington.” Rhys noticed a glint of metal on her wrist under the tight-fitting dark uniform she’d been wearing since her defection, and watched as a rivulet of metal flowed up into her hand and formed into another knife not quite exactly like the one he now held. “Maybe they’ll pin a medal on you before this is over and maybe they won’t, but the least you deserve for your damned thankless job is a souvenir.” 

After hearing that his name was mentioned in our feed for the second time since the onset of this war, Colonel Rhys Bennington reached out with some of his own perspective on the strange person of Source Yianna. Even he refused to say whether she remains on Håkøya (but I get the sense from Naval Intelligence reports that she has been taken safely out of the theater of war). All the other Immortal agents on Håkøya she could identify, eight in total, have been rounded up, but the system remains in high alert in case there are more. 

Yianna's presentation of a nanofabricated blade to Col. Bennington seems to have some significance, as I have seen evidence from other Incarnation sources (such as Source Gabriel) that passing on a blade to a compatriot is a sign of deep respect and even affection among them. This is probably similar to the Ladeonist symbolism of a token known as a Callahar (Tales from the Service: The Cursed Callahar), a blunted blade commonly given to friends and foes for various purposes.

[N.T.B. Col. Bennington’s description of rivalries between the service branches is something I’ve been seeing in our inbox a lot lately. Duncan prefers to paper over these issues, but they worry me more than damned Nate ever could. If the Fleet, Marines, F.D.A., Naval Intelligence, Fleet Recon Auxiliary, and other services can’t figure out how to work together as one family, we haven’t got a prayer of stopping these bastards, but if they can figure it out, Nate doesn’t stand a chance.] 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Defection of Source Yianna

2948-03-23 – Tales from the Service: The Defection of Source Yianna 

The F.D.A. garrison at Hamlinson Bay on Håkøya has had its share of interesting incidents since it was established (most notably to this audience, the incident involving Amber Holiday: Tales from the Service: The Gossamer Patron), but most of those incidents were easily tied to existing settler legends such as the Gossamers. For the most part, Hamlinson Bay seemed to be a backwater posting, with most of its issued easily explainable in terms of restless soldiers posted far from the critical battlefields of Margaux with little to do. 

Unfortunately, it seems that this status is likely to be at an end. Naval Intelligence has revealed that in this apparent backwater, an Incarnation agent was captured only two weeks ago. This agent, who Naval Intelligence is calling Source Yianna (and no, this code-name does not come from the agent’s real name), has apparently been convinced to be quite helpful; several other agents disguised as civilians were captured in the Hamlinson Bay area shortly afterward. 

While the nature of this agent is still not clear, it is possible that Source Yianna is of the same general brief and capabilities as the late agent Horus and other Incarnation Immortals dispatched on behind-the-lines espionage duties in the Coreward Frontier. An extensive espionage ring on the world suggests the Incarnation wants to do more there than keep an eye on the cruiser squadrons stationed in-system, and though the Incarnation’s main fleet seems still tied up at Margaux, a heightened state of alert has been issued in Håkøya and nearby systems as a precaution. 

Yianna waited until the normally blue-white stellar primary had dipped low enough toward the horizon that its harsh rays, diffused by Håkøya’s thick atmosphere, slanted low across the hills in a warm yellow-orange. Sunsets at Hamlinson Bay were always a beautiful affair, even more so than those of bucolic Prospero where she had grown up. In another life, she might have yearned to do as many over-pampered Confederated spacers had already done – stake a claim for a stretch of the brilliant white-sand beach far below, build a bungalow, and live out the rest of her days, with her only company being the hiss of the eternally gentle surf and the four-winged Hamlinson Terns wheeling overhead. 

Unfortunately, for all the beauty of the landscape, Yianna had not come to settle down on the land, and could not do so by choice. As the evening shadows lengthened, she got up from her hiding-place and held her hand up in front of her face, concentrating on the control interface for the nanomachinery teeming in her blood. She grimaced through the agony of the machines’ ministrations as they altered her appearance, her posture, even the texture of her skin.  

Yianna hated the doddering old woman disguise, but she had to admit, as the nanomachines twisted her technologically-reinforced spine into a noticeable hump, that it made her a sympathetic and all-but-invisible figure in the little town of Hamlinson Point. The town, one of the earliest settlements on the planet, had prospered from the appearance of nearly ten thousand Frontier Defense Army soldiers on its doorstep a year previously – the Lookout, a tiny watering-hole perched at the cliff’s very edge, seemed always packed with off-duty F.D.A. men, and every spare room in the town’s cluster of weathered-wood domiciles had been rented by one of the many civilian contractors who were still expanding the garrison’s fortress, and a number of newer buildings now stood on the lee side of the ridge, downhill from the town proper. 

Other, less official personages had also followed the military presence – those selling luxuries most desirable to bored military personnel. Yianna had been advised by her masters to insinuate herself in one of the three burgeoning brothels in the new part of the town, but she had ignored this insulting suggestion. In fact, this first bruise to her high-flying pride as a newly-minted Immortal had started her down a trail whose terminus she now swiftly approached. 

As Yianna’s transformation completed, she scanned the ether for a few moments before shutting down all radio traffic generated by her implants. The firmament still muttered and bickered with the usual digital traffic of a Confederated world, but she was confident that, at least as far as Hamlinson Point was concerned, she was alone inside her own head, and could do what she intended without fear of immediate reprisal, or of her actions being carried up the long and terrible chain to the Incarnation Himself, who would surely mete out dire punishment on her family on Prospero. 

Taking up the tall walking-stick she used in her guise as an old woman – she had carved it herself with a knife when first concocting the disguise, since her nanomachines, though capable of rendering her will in metal, could do nothing with the local wood-analogues – Yianna emerged from the bushes and headed up the winding path to the Lookout, the tiny bar packed with Confederated volunteer soldiers enjoying an evening off-duty. She had watched Colonel Bennington, the local garrison’s commander, walk up that path from his base’s perimeter an hour before, and knew it was time to do what she had been contemplating for many weeks. 

Passing locals and uniformed F.D.A. personnel on the path, Yianna smiled at everyone, and most of them smiled back. She had been in the area for months, and many had seen her around many times before. So few of the local Håkøyan settlers, many of them retired spacers, carried personal digital devices that her lack of wrist computer or other technological accessories raised no eyebrows. 

Long before she approached the Lookout’s heavy double doors, Yianna could hear singing and laughter from within. The babble of such human activity had confused and overwhelmed her for several days when she’d first arrived on Håkøya - the sound seemed vastly chaotic and primeval, compared to the orderly, austere atmosphere of a dispensary in Incarnation territory. The implants that almost everyone carried allowed most communication to be carried on silently and invisibly, and automatically counteracted the volume-raising effects of alcohol and other intoxicants. The Confederated humans lacked this technological improvement, and so had to shout over each other in crowded spaces. 

A pair of soldiers, already quite drunk despite the early hour, burst out of the Lookout, leaning on each other and laughing about some nonsense. One of them waved at Yianna as they staggered by, and she waved one artificially-gnarled hand in return. She’d come to the Lookout in this guise every few nights for several months, and most of the regulars no longer questioned her presence. The soldiers had not hidden anything from her, and what they knew of the Hamlinson Bay fortress, she had picked up by overhearing and by asking a few questions, carefully phrased to be consistent with her role as a curious old woman. 

Tonight, though, Yianna would not be playing her usual part. The Incarnation had inculcated her well with its doctrine, but in her mission to Hamlinson Bay, she had spent too much time alone inside her head, far from any other Incarnation person whose implants might spy her heretical thoughts. When her fellows were near, she acted and even thought like a perfect true believer, but with such a small team spread out across hundreds of square kilometers of terrain, Yianna encountered the other Immortals sent to Håkøya only rarely. In the solitude, that initial bruised ego had festered and grown into a seeping psychic wound – the increasingly dread certainty that the infallible Incarnation had erred in the ancient quest to stave off extinction. 

That alone might have earned her death on an Inquisitor’s blade back on Prospero, even if Yianna was happy to follow a flawed but still virtuous leader of a pure mission. The festering wound might have made her bitter, but not a traitor. Treason – against her fellows and, as the Incarnation declared, against the fate of humanity itself – had an altogether different origin, one born in a long, pleasant conversation with the F.D.A. colonel dispatched to the thankless Hamlinson Bay outpost. What they had talked about, she dared not think about when she believed herself alone in her own head. Her reasons for betraying the cause she had been born to defend were the only thing about her that she could be sure was hers and hers alone; not even the man who’d sown the seeds could know what had sprouted there. 

Yianna paused at the double doors, taking a deep breath and glancing behind her to verify that the two inebriated men were not doubling back. This was the last chance to turn away from her chosen course of action and continue to do her duty to the Incarnation on Håkøya. Grimacing once more in anticipation, she set her nanomachines to begin reversed the disguise which had allowed her to approach this far unmolested, and similarly ordered her smart-fabric clothing to revert to its true form. 

Before the pain had begun in earnest, Yianna pushed open the doors of the Lookout and staggered inside. A few heads turned at first, seeing only a familiar crone, but soon the agony of the nanomachines chewing on her flesh rose, and those cursory glances became wide-eyed stares, and hands darted for the side-arms many of the F.D.A. soldiers wore. Colonel Bennington, in his usual seat at the leftmost end of the bar, was one of the last to take interest, and then only when the female lieutenant he’d been chatting with noticed first and drew his eye. 

Straightening her newly-restored back and rolling her shoulders, Yianna tapped the cane on the wood-plank floor to get the attention of those few who’d not yet noticed her. They saw her now as she truly was, as true as any appearance could be for one such as her. Tall and long-limbed, dressed in form-hugging Incarnation combat fatigues that put every slight curve and angle of her body on display for all to see, she raised her eyes to the uncertain crowd, all of whom certainly knew what they were looking at, and that if she desired, she could kill them all before a single gun left its holster. 

Yianna locked eyes with the garrison commander across the small space. “Colonel Rhys Bennington?” 

The man stood, jaw clenched, as if expecting that answering would mean death. In other circumstances, Yianna knew, it might have done just that. “That’s me.” 

“I request asylum and the protective custody of your brig, Colonel.” Yianna saluted smartly in the incarnation fashion. “I think there is much we have to discuss.” 

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