Finally, some mysterious confluence occurs — of the Empress’ burgeoning reputation, the slackening of intelligence scrutiny of her once-allies, or perhaps other things beyond the perspective and imagination afforded by Timni’s station in life. They stop at a port on the Empress’ itinerary, as usual; and she comes back aboard later than Timni expects — sitting alone on the bridge, fretting — and wreathed in a sleek, cruel air of satisfaction.
Wordless, with the cold and radiant distance of a star or a god, she holds out to Timni the palm-length object of a physical data carrier; some portable digital repository. It is unlabelled, its shell of some fine wood, naturally dark almost to blackness, polished mirror-fine, inlaid contact pads burnished gold, unmarred by the base sprung-metal frottage of usage.
“Effulgence?” Timni says, dutifully taking it, dreading.
“Information for a rendezvous,” the Empress says, terrible and magnificent in her triumphant tone, carrying herself as though she is already remounting the steps of the Imperial throne over a mountain of struck-off heads.
Timni silently feeds the repository into the navigational dashboard’s socket for such, keeping her eyes downcast. Halfway into the socket, unseen friction rollers grip it, twitching it a little to brush off her fingers, then smoothly feed it the rest of the way themselves until its end lies seamlessly flush with the dashboard surface. If not for the contrast between its lush material and the scuffed grey bioplastic of the console, it might look like it belongs there. Cheap-looking pinprick lights blink and flicker, shining through the dashboard’s flimsy material, and the navigational display begins to fill with information: a placetime, route data, approach codes, forbiddingly labelled files sealed with court-grade encryption. Timni numbly copies what she needs into the navigational system, and ejects the repository.
The Empress leans over her shoulder to pluck it from the socket, without even waiting for Timni to convey it to her hands. Barely straightens from her lean before her body’s chest panels are whirring and pouting open, like a chestnut’s case splitting. She slides the repository into the heart of her, with a low noise of satisfaction, and closes up tight around it.
Timni turns to her presumed task of flight plotting; freezes at the unexpected grip of the Empress’ hand on her shoulder.
Just when she thought she was conscripted into the Empress’ scheming, she thinks dizzily. The Empress’ terrible, bloodied gun-henry hands will grip her chin from behind, like ten thousand foolish action movies, wrench it to the side, drop her superfluous corpse to the floor — no. Of course not. The Empress would never move Timni’s body herself. She is about to be picked up, like some wretched lice-infested animal, and cast out of her own airlock. Or, no, the Empress will not sully herself to do even so much, Timni will be told to take herself out, so much trash—
“The Empire,” the Empress says, with cold, distant, ringing benevolence, “is a vast device, a machinery of duty and diligence, in which glory and plenty result from every component knowing its place and performing its role. The Empire recognises the virtue of excellence in the operation of its own parts.”
Timni’s ears ring from some terrible excess of internal feeling. She feels some horrible, creeping idea winding its way through her, like poison in her veins; that the Empress is, perhaps, in her way, attempting to say that she is pleased, and that, in some way, she thinks of this piece of good fortune as evidence that the world is operating correctly for her. That this is evidence, in turn, that — as below, so above — the fulness of the Empire must bend back to her hand and will. And that Timni’s obedient misery and ruin are, in the tiniest way, part of that correct operation.
She squeezes her eyes tightly shut, feeling wetness swell behind her lids.
“Effulgence,” she croaks, head bowed.
The Empress stands silent and still, hand still on Timni like the indelible mark of some awful prophesied doom. It is almost as though she was expecting some other reaction, or something more — as if she is waiting—
Timni has nothing else to give.
“I have the mandate of Heaven,” the Empress says finally, and removes her hand. It is surely Timni’s imagination that she sounds not quite entirely as satisfied as she had previously.
“Yes, Effulgence,” Timni says, every dreadful sense of the Empress’ thought process confirmed. She does not feel like a dutiful cog, blithely satisfied to be worn to powder for the functioning of the Empress’ currently-tiny domain. She feels exhausted and fractured and aching. No doubt this is terrible of her, and she will suffer ten thousand lifetimes of punishment for the temerity of her feelings.
The Empress pauses, almost as if waiting, still, for something else; and then turns and strides off the bridge to attend her inscrutable Imperial business belowdecks. Timni wipes her eyes, discreetly blows her nose on a corner of her sleeve; turns her efforts back to the navigational plots.
