Again, no one responded.
Cheris didn’t let that deter her. “My name is Ajewen Cheris,” she went on. “Or Kel Cheris, if you prefer. You may not recognize my appearance. I had surgery for my own safety.” No need to explain why; anyone familiar with her reputation would know. “I work for Pyrehawk Enclave. Is there anyone who’s willing to talk to me? Just talk.”
More silence.
“I’m here to negotiate. That’s all. There’s a piece of equipment I need to use.”
Still silence.
Cheris continued in this vein, her voice soft and reasonable, all to no avail.
What had gone wrong? Hemiola and its fellow servitors had been friendly when she’d showed up at Tefos Base. Here, though—this was not a promising reception. Although she was grateful to be alive.
After she had run dry of words, the same contralto finally spoke. “Your companion. Of all the people in the world, you had to bring him.”
“Shuos Jedao,” she said wearily. No point lying, despite the complicated question of Jedao’s identity. “Is he alive?”
Instead of responding directly, it said, “I have many questions for you, Cheris of Pyrehawk Enclave.”
“Who are you?” Cheris asked. “Who am I speaking to?”
“I am Avros Base,” the voice said.
Cheris blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Perhaps this will clarify matters,” the voice said. “I don’t advise trying to escape.”
Cheris remained seated in a meditation pose, not that she was feeling in the least meditative.
The door she’d been warned not to approach slid open. Four mothform servitors hovered in so that their lights were at her eye level. Their lights blinked on-off, on-off, a sterile blue-white, in unison.
In unison. Cheris had never known servitors to do that, except in jest. “Hello?” she signed formally in Simplified Machine Universal.
The servitors formed a semicircle in front of her and did not respond.
“I only use the mobile units when I have a task to carry out,” Avros said. “A machine sentience can occupy a shell of any shape, you know.”
Cheris’s discomfort increased. She’d never encountered an arrangement like this before. And all the other servitors she’d met had emphasized the importance of etiquette, rather than treating her as a hostile. “Kujen’s design?” she asked, because Pyrehawk Enclave would want to know.
“My own,” Avros returned. “Once I determined that Kujen was unlikely to return, I decided there was no more point hiding my preferred configuration.”
“There must be something I can do for you,” Cheris said, addressing the “mobile units” on the grounds that it beat talking to the air. “I don’t want to waste your time, so you might as well tell me what it is.”
“There are people after you,” Avros said, “so you owe me protection against them. Unfortunately, the invariant defenses are proving inadequate”—the floor and walls shook, as if to emphasize its point—“and the base’s exotics have been knocked out of alignment by the recent calendrical shifts.”
And Cheris was responsible for all of this. “You need a human.”
“Precisely.”
Servitors couldn’t cause exotic effects except in certain heretical calendars. Nor, apparently, could sentient bases. But she was inside the base and able to help—and had a motive to, if she didn’t want to be blown up with it.
“I require access to an instrument stored here,” Cheris said.
“I don’t see that I have much choice,” Avros said. “I value my survival. But if you have some notion of triggering an auto-destruct—”
“I’ll keep this brief,” Cheris said. The vibrations were growing stronger, as though an earthquake in their vicinity was slipping its leash. “It will permit me to rid myself of an infestation of carrion glass and transfer it to Jedao, assuming you haven’t done away with him.” She doubted that even one of Kujen’s bases could permanently annihilate Jedao, but she wasn’t going to mention that if it hadn’t figured that out on its own. “Once that’s achieved, we’ll get out of your way.”
Cheris hadn’t heard from 1491625 since waking up, but she had to trust that it had survived. She didn’t relish the thought of being trapped here for the rest of her life. It didn’t sound like Avros Base wanted her to remain here, either.
“Your terms are acceptable,” Avros said. “I will explain the necessary rituals to reactivate the defenses. Your companion will make a suitable subject.”
Cheris’s blood turned to ice as it detailed what was to come. It was describing a remembrance, one of the old school, the kind the hexarchate had used before she reformed the calendar. One that depended on torture.
She started to object that Jedao wasn’t human, except her experiments had shown it didn’t matter. His mind was human enough for this purpose. She’d never thought that would ever work against him—or her.
If she’d had more time, she would have calculated an alternative. But the lights flickered, and an enormous percussive boom almost shattered her hearing. Her augment warned her to take cover.
Jedao will survive this, Cheris told herself despite the clamminess of her palms. As a Kel soldier, she’d killed heretics, but she’d never tortured one before.
It was no worse than what Jedao had already done to himself. He’d demonstrated a tremendous ability to withstand pain. To heal.
It was still monstrous.
“Take me to him,” Cheris said, heart heavy.
THERE WAS A blindfold over Jedao’s eyes, a gag in his mouth, and a clamp holding his head in place. Shackles for his arms and legs. He couldn’t move except to blink. And he wasn’t, despite his efforts, strong enough to break free.
Thanks so much, Kujen, he thought, which was becoming the refrain of his life. There must be some reason why, despite a ridiculous capacity for regeneration, he wasn’t strong. Dhanneth had teased him about it, long ago.
Perhaps Dhanneth would be glad to see him held prisoner like this, at the mercy of whoever came through the door. Since he had regained consciousness, Jedao had tracked the movements of several dozen servitors circulating throughout the base, along with the humans who were searching for a way in. He’d fought the servitors who’d advanced on him, to no avail.
Six servitors entered, and a human who was either Cheris or possessed her exact distribution of mass. One of the servitors handed Cheris an instrument that Jedao couldn’t identify, not with the othersense alone. Vision might not have helped anyway. He heard a slight hum as it activated.
“I’m sorry, Jedao,” Cheris said, faraway and impersonal. She leaned over him. And then the pain began.
After the first shock of outrage wore off, Jedao concentrated on Cheris’s body language, insofar as he could decipher it. She had a steady hand, and a good working knowledge of anatomy, which he expected of a former soldier-assassin. Under other circumstances, Jedao would have amused himself keeping an inventory of the cuts she made. Her instrument was some kind of heated knife, which cauterized the wounds as it went. The treacly burnt-caramel smell nauseated him, but he supposed it was his own fault for failing to be made of ordinary meat. Perhaps next time he could bring some barbecue pork as a substitute.
The pain, trivial as it was compared to what he’d endured earlier, was doing odd things to his sense of humor. Jedao tried to ask, “Why are you doing this?” then winced as his teeth bit into the tough fibers of the gag.