Free Willful Child by Steven Erikson Page B

moaned. “I feel like I just ran a marathon on Nimbus-3. Of course, the best thing about it was when you leaned forward over the table and entered the low-g field. My, that was exceptional!”
    “Excuse me, sir?”
    “Your spiking, of course. What did you imagine I was referring to, 2IC?”
    “I wouldn’t know, sir. But I’m wondering, are we just going to while away our time before we arrive at the Exclusion Zone? Shouldn’t we be attempting to oust Tammy from our systems?”
    Hadrian closed his eyes. “Think it through, Sin-Dour. Granted, Tammy’s stolen the ship. Granted, he’s an alien AI with gender issues. But he’s also absurdly powerful, employing an energy source of unknown capacity, and without doubt that source resides in some parallel universe—or we would have found it, by, say, training a camera into our wake and finding a blue dwarf chasing us on a leash of pure plasma. So, we’re talking levels of tech way above our own. This, I posit, is now a good thing.”
    “Is it?”
    “Why, we’re about to engage in combat with a Misanthari Swarm, and then Radulak battleships, and then a Klang weapon wing or two. Now, granted that I am Terran Space Fleet’s finest captain—the only officer cadet to solve the Mishmashi Paradox in three days —and of course the Willful Child is the latest off-the-line Engage-class starship, bristling with weapons as befits our mission of peaceful exploration. But, as profoundly capable as we are, we must acknowledge that there are limits to what we can achieve.”
    “So, you believe that Tammy is our only chance of survival.”
    “Indeed. Aren’t you, Tammy?”
    “Probably,” the AI replied.
    Sin-Dour shook her head. “Thing is, if we ousted this AI, we wouldn’t have to enter the Exclusion Zone at all.”
    “Alas,” said Hadrian, “Terran Space Fleet considers us rogue. They are chasing after us with seven Counter-class ships with orders to shoot on sight.”
    “But if we get rid of Tammy and then drop out of T space and hail—”
    “We wouldn’t get a word off, 2IC, and even if we did, why would they believe us?”
    “I see.…”
    “Now,” said Hadrian, “if we crank up the low-g settings on this table, and get rid of the net, I bet we’d—”
    “Sir!” Sin-Dour made for the door, adjusting her bun of hair where a few strands had come loose. “If you will excuse me, I’ve had a thought.”
    He leapt to his feet. “And?”
    “I need to peruse some data, sir.”
    “Oh fine, off you go, then. But I want a rematch!”
    At the door she glanced back at him and something in her gaze made him weak at the knees. “Happy to oblige, Captain. Might I suggest you take this time to repair your uniform?”
    “What? Unnecessary, 2IC, I have multiple sets, in a variety of colors. But as you say, I could do with a shower and change of clothes, and let the crew think what they like.”
    She cocked her head. “Sir?”
    Smiling, he offered her a gallant wave. “Until later, Sin-Dour.”
    She swayed out and the iris closed behind her.
    Hadrian looked around, and then said, “Tammy, pull up a hologram recording, will you?”
    “Certainly. Of what, precisely?”
    “Sin-Dour’s spikes over the table.”
    “And the reason? No, honestly, I’m curious.”
    “Technique, of course,” Hadrian replied. “I want to be ready for the rematch. Oh, cue slow motion to my commands, will you?”
    “What about that shower?”
    “That can wait. There’s a good chance I’m about to get sweaty all over again.”
    Some time later, Hadrian made his way to his office. Lorrin Tighe was snoring on the floor, her hair disheveled and the bottle of Macallan lying empty on her tummy.
    Humming, Hadrian tore off the remnants of his shirt and then the rest of his clothes. Activating a floating shower bob, he stood with arms spread wide as the fist-sized unit scurried over his body, misting, soaping, depilating, lasering, repairing, reassessing, repeating, misting, and then drying.