Michael Siemsen - Exigency

“Minerva, we can’t just… every private moment, journals, pics and vids—”

“Yeah, exactly, all that stuff. Trust me, she’ll never know.”

“We have no proof that she did anything to—”

“Stop!” Her irritation with this man had once more bubbled up over the top of her patience pot. The woman was dead. Everyone was dead. And he was trying to protect, what, the dignity of Ish’s memory? She fought to unclench her jaw. “Give me the damned passcode. Let me grab her last few vids, prove her innocence for you, clear her name, set things right.”

John closed his eyes. “I don’t think she’s innocent.”

“Regardless of what you think, there’s more at stake here than what she did or didn’t do. I guarantee you her entire Hynka wiki is in here. Language and dialects, other villages and concentrations, spiritual beliefs, triggers, behavioral patterns, favorite hunting grounds, geographic research notes. All of which is data we’re supposed to have right now! That’s mission data! For whatever reason, she wiped it all clean. There’s your criminal act—justification for a fone recovery. Right?”

She’d gotten him. He was making the acquiescing face. “S’true. We have to get that data out.”

“Yes, indeed. Passcode me, boss.”

“No.”

“No?”

He shook his head weakly. “I can’t just give you full access to her life. I’ll go in. Copy the wiki and work notes, last week of vids, dump it all in the EV.”

Minnie wanted to punch him in the nose. She needed into that fone! Some of the most important material was surely in non-work files. But she was powerless. No alternatives.

Maybe after they reviewed the vids—vids of dead crewmembers before they were murdered, of Ish effectively pulling the trigger—John might lose a bit of that self-righteous conviction and, finally appropriately outraged, be inspired to delve deeper into the loon cauldron.

She went to fetch the extractor.

Ishtab Soleymani flung aside the weighty fur blanket, rising from her stately bed of piled skins. Her fingertips parted the dangling curtain of piquant vines. A stand of trussed bones bore her long skin stole. She hung it over her neck, draping the wide, black strips in front.

Flanking her bedchamber’s tall, isosceles doorway, her servants bowed their heads as she approached. She presented a hand to one of the Lessers. He obliged the gesture by gently sandwiching the hand between his four thick fingers. Ishtab rewarded this obedience by stepping behind the servant, peeling open the protective skin pouch, and sliding her arm in, down to her elbow, until she’d found the hidden organ inside. Her servant twisted and squirmed, hissing his gratitude and undying loyalty.

The other would receive only a stroke of the snout this time. He squatted low, hunching down to Ishtab’s raised hand.

“You good,” she said, and walked out into the sunlight.

In the shadow of her great palace stood crushing throngs of her disciples, Lessers and Greaters, all eyes glued to her. She raised her arms in a V, silencing the energized chatter.

“This day!” Ishtab shouted. “Westers join. We make. Strong us.” She allowed a lengthy outburst of approval. “Bring me. Now go.”

The masses cheered. The chests of a thousand Greaters expanded and contracted as they huffed the power breath. Dozens of Lessers fell for the clan, their bodies claimed for vital meat, destinies finally fulfilled. Once their bones had been scraped clean, broken, and drained of marrow, the clan set off to conquer the neighboring village.

Ishtab descended the staircase of short blocks, crafted for her height. Her bare feet reached the compacted dirt ground. She glided across the central court, stepping over bones and overlooked gore, a gentle breeze sending her stole under her arms and fluttering behind her. Lessers with other duties strolled through the village. In passing, Ishtab raised a preemptive hand before these faithful souls could ask if their queen required anything.

In the Greaters’ shades, Ishtab walked among the beleaguered expecting, and weary recent birthers. Newborns, not much smaller than her, nursed from the porous skinfolds in their mothers’ armpits.

“Good,” Ishtab told each mother as she passed. “Good.”

At the end of a row, outside the shades, she spotted a small cluster of birthers, apparently ejected into the harsh sunlight. Ishtab approached.

“Why here?”

One of the three mothers turned her head, regarding Ishtab with respect, and then lifted her arm to expose her nursing newborn. The baby’s small feet and ashen sides answered the question. These Greater mothers had birthed Lessers.

Ishtab regarded mother and child for a moment and then hailed a passing Lesser.

Pointing to the baby, she said, “Take. Follow.”

The Lesser complied without hesitation, throwing the sapped mother’s arm aside, and snatching away the baby. The mother’s prattles and howls faded as Ishtab strode across the field to the Lessers’ shades, baby and carrier behind her. Here she looked upon five times the birthers and expecting.

Ishtab addressed a conscious birther. “Greaters?”

The mother peered up at her, offered respects, and rolled her eyes down the jagged aisle.

Halfway down the row, Ishtab found what she sought. A Lesser birther, asleep, with a Greater infant.

She turned to the Lesser carrying the baby, and motioned to the dozing mother. “Give. Take.”

The babies were swapped, then the newborn Greater was carried to the Greaters’ shades, to the distraught mother outside. With a look of confusion, the mother inspected the baby from head to toes, sniffing the distinct scent of Lesser, and then proceeded to cleanse the new delivery with saliva and gray milk.

The mother eyed the observing Ishtab and said, “Good.”

Ish closed her game, flung aside the sheet and fuzzy blanket, wedged her feet into her slips, and stepped to the sink. She leaned close to the mirror. A puffy bag under one eye received a resentful poke. She stepped back, tilted her head into the refresher nook, and her foot found the peddle. Microjets sprayed hot mist on her face as warm air and renewer blasted through her hair. The facials cooled to warm and then cold, finishing with a ten-second rush of enriched air. She ran a brush through her hair, worked into a fresh tank, shorts, and top, and traded her slips for runners.

“Morning,” Angela said as they both entered the corridor. “After you.”

In the lab, Tom was sitting on Minnie’s side, gnawing on a chewstick, engrossed with whatever was displayed on one of the screens. His music ticked and thumped from the sides of his headphones.

Ish unbolted one of her own stools and slid it to the farthest screen in the opposite corner of the lab. She sat down, linked in her fone, and navigated into the supply pod tracking system. 133 hours before the next pod’s arrival. It had already decelerated to half its cruising speed.

A glance to Tom, focus unchanged.

The trajectory map expanded before her, solid red pipe leading from the pod to the target docking bay. Indicating velocity, the pipe was thickest at the incoming pod’s end, tapering to a thin dashed line for the final docking approach. She brushed her finger over a hidden icon in the middle of open space and a new blue pipe appeared, eclipsing the red on the pod side, but then arcing slightly upward, targeting the center of the Backup Habitat. Its speed tapered somewhat, but never slowed enough to prompt a dashed line. The blue trajectory would impact the Backup Habitat at precisely 135 km/h.

Ish copied the pod’s most recent position and stats into her simulation and re-hid the alternate course. She closed the app.