you use it, the image will make you look like a left dione of inconspicuous features, which I’ve constructed. It might be good to have a backup persona to adopt.”
“I don’t know that I can handle the one I already have,” I said.
“Still, it is wise, just in case. You should get going. I’ll still have contact with you up until you hyperjump, so we aren’t going radio silent quite yet.”
I scrambled back down the steps to grab some breakfast, then pack a lunch, as I’d been instructed. I put this in a backpack I’d ordered, then reached the bottom floor right in time for the chime to go off, informing me that the shuttle had arrived to take me to training.
Cuna stood on the landing near the front door.
“Don’t touch my ship,” I said to them.
“I wouldn’t think of doing so.”
I debated for a moment longer, suffering that untrustworthy smile, then sighed and marched out the door.
20
The shuttle was a small aircar with an alien driver whose race I didn’t recognize, though they looked vaguely fungoid in appearance. M-Bot would have been excited.
I found the seat overly cushy. It was like those in Jorgen’s luxury cars. I shook my head, strapping in as the shuttle took off.
Rather than dwelling on the fact that I had to leave M-Bot behind, I watched the city beneath us—a seemingly endless expanse of buildings. “Where are we going?” I asked M-Bot, barely whispering so the shuttle’s driver couldn’t overhear.
He piped up in my ear. “The orders you received say you’ll be transported to the Weights and Measures.”
“Is that a ship?” I asked. What an innocent-sounding name.
“Yes. A large trade vessel.”
It was obviously a cover. This Weights and Measures would be a military ship, just not one that the Superiority wanted the common people to know about.
“Can we go over the different species I’ll be flying with today?” I asked. “I feel like Alanik would know something about them.”
“That’s actually a great idea!” M-Bot said. “We wouldn’t want you sounding more ignorant than you normally are. Let’s see . . . Morriumur is a dione. You’ve got some experience with them by now. Though Morriumur is what is known as a draft—their term for a person who is not yet born.”
I shivered and turned to look out the window. “What they do feels like eugenics or something,” I whispered. “They shouldn’t be able to decide what personalities people are born with.”
“That’s a very human-centric way of looking at it,” M-Bot said. “If you’re to pull off this mission, you’ll need to learn to see things from alien perspectives.”
“I’ll try,” I whispered. “I’m most interested in the race they called figments. What’s the deal with them?”
“They are sapient beings who exist as a localized cloud of particulates in the air. Basically, they’re smells.”
“Talking smells?”
“Talking, thinking, and—from what I’ve read—somewhat dangerous smells,” he answered. “They are not a large population, but are spoken of in hushed tones throughout the Superiority. Sources on the local datanet insist that all remaining figments—many died in the human wars, and they are slow to reproduce—work as secret government operatives.
“Very little is known about them. Apparently, they usually investigate matters that involve internal Superiority politics, particularly the infractions of very high-ranking officials. They can pilot ships by infusing the electronics of the vehicle, and interrupting—or spoofing—the electronic signals from the controls.”
“Vapor did that in the test yesterday,” I said. “She took over one of the drones, and was flying it. So she just kind of . . . flew over to it and seized control?”
“Exactly,” M-Bot said. “Or at least that’s how people on the datanet think it works. There is very little official data about figments, but I can see why one showing up to the piloting test caused such a stir.”
“So she’s a spy too,” I whispered. “An invisible spy.”
“Who can survive in space,” M-Bot said. “So they’re not simply gaseous beings—otherwise the vacuum would rip them apart. It seems they can travel through space with no special equipment, and can move at speed between ships. In the wars, they’d often infiltrate the mechanical portion of an enemy fighter and take control of it with the pilot still on board.”
“Scud,” I whispered. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. “What about the human?”
“There are very few like her. Most humans must remain in the preserves. If an official wants to remove one, the human must be licensed—basically, someone has to take responsibility for them if they cause