Beautiful Maria frowned at the communications board. “I want to see the video.”

  PLEASE REPLY, RUNAWAY.

  Maria reached for the keyboard. Ubu stared at her.

  “You’re not going to answer, are you?”

  “Yes.” Firmly.

  “Jesus Rice!”

  Her glance was cold. Determined. “What choice do we have?” Ubu’s furious reply stuck helplessly in his throat. He had no answer to give her.

  Runaway asked for further information, which arrived promptly. Beautiful Maria viewed Ubu’s video of the meeting and pointed out that nothing on the video showed anything to contradict Clan Lustre’s version of events.

  “That analysis organ,” Maria said. “That’s Beloved. So is that nest of tentacles. She is the ship.”

  “I know.”

  “Or she’s infiltrated it. Or built it around herself.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Your analysis of the air in there showed all these complex organics floating around in the atmosphere. Part of their communication must be chemical. You hit them with something so strong that not even Beloved could control her reaction. Everyone went berserk.”

  “I know, I know. You don’t have to tell me.” Ubu jumped from the control cage, took a few angry steps. “You want me to go back, I know.”

  “I’ll do it. You said I could do the next one.” Ubu thought about that. His fingers beat agitated rhythms against his flanks. He realized it was one of Beloved’s patterns, and his fingers froze.

  “If I didn’t go,” he said, “it might... make them think I didn’t trust them.”

  “You don’t.”

  “We can’t deal if we don’t trust them. So I’ll do this one. You can do the next one.”

  She looked at him. Her face was masklike. “I don’t mind. I’ll do it.”

  Ubu remembered the long barbed tentacle reaching for him, its needles tipped with acid. He thought about it coiling around Maria, piercing her while she screamed, while armored soldiers boiled out of corridors.

  The soldiers had been there all along, he realized. He wondered what else might be inside Beloved’s hull. He took a breath. “I’ll go,” he said.

  Maria’s face softened. “Thank you,” she said. “I really didn’t want to.”

  “Neither do I. But bossriders gotta take the bad with the good.”

  She smiled. “Lucky for me.”

  “Maybe I’ll find a chemical that will make them love us forever.” Grinning. His grin faded as he saw Maria’s expression turn serious.

  “Do you think we could?” she asked. Ubu’s nerves hummed as he considered the idea. “We’ll see,” he said.

  *

  Ubu took a keyboard from stores, stripped the modular memory out of it so that it could be used only as a dumb terminal, and cabled it to a transmitter he built out of spare parts so that it would broadcast only on 1427.4 megahertz. He stuck the keyboard and transmitter together with adhesive, then added an old battery pack that would last maybe a month before it needed recharging.

  Maria found a touch-typing program in Runaway’s data store. She would broadcast it to Beloved’s ship after Ubu delivered the communications unit.

  Ubu was sick of the length of time it took Twelve to pick out messages with his stylus.

  Beloved’s strobes exploded ahead of Ubu, brightening the dark surface of the ship. There was a deep fear in him, moving in Ubu’s bowels like the slow wave of a subsonic. His vac suit felt hot, confining. His body itched as nervous twitches were damped by the unwieldy skin of the suit. He kicked up the air cooler, felt a little relief.

  Blazing strobes imprinted themselves on his vision as he entered the lock. He pressed the entry plate; the outer hatch dropped. Terror prickled the hair on his arms. He panted for each breath.

  Sound returned: Beloved’s drums thudding in counterpoint to the beating airpumps. Ubu blinked sweat from his eyes, pictured Beloved’s plated soldiers jammed in the hatch in their eagerness to reach him, the swift violence, the scarlet, lonely death...

  The inner hatch rattled open. In the cold blue light Ubu saw only Twelve, hanging inverted in the corridor while tapping painfully with his stylus.

  “My apologies for the circumstances of our last meeting, respected bossrider.”

  Ubu licked salt from his lips. “S’okay,” he said. “Could happen to anyone.”

  *

  I have completed analysis of the new samples. The humans will be pleased with the results.

  Twelve hung from his umbilicus with Ubu’s keyboard strapped across his front. Ubu’s sample case was in one hand.

  Glorious is Beloved, he said.

  You must now negotiate for their artificial intelligence.

  Glory. Twelve’s palps fluttered as Beloved touched his pleasure centers.

  We must not only have a human AI for ourselves, we must have others to sell.

  Glory, Beloved.

  But ours must be better than the others.

  Twelve warmed to Beloved’s strategy. Of course, Beloved, he agreed.

  In the meantime, Beloved said, you will practice your typing.

  *

  Twelve was only mildly surprised when Runaway announced that Bossrider Ubu Roy would not be coming to the next meeting, but rather another human called Beautiful Maria. Once the protocols had been established, Twelve reasoned, a general volitional would of course be sent to handle the details. A governing entity such as Ubu would not find the matter worth his time.

  Twelve was relieved. Dealing with an independent sentience, even one as limited as Ubu, had kept him forever on the edge of terror. Afraid that the last mistake might destroy him, Twelve worried he would not be as effective at bargaining as might otherwise be the case.

  The prospect of meeting Beautiful Maria gave him fewer anxieties. A maria, he assumed, was a type of volitional; beautiful would be his subclass. He had probably been made “beautiful,” whatever that meant in human terms, in order to increase his value as a negotiator— humans who encountered him were doubtless intended to be distracted by his aesthetic qualities, and their concentration would suffer. Twelve had no worries on that score.

  Twelve had only one definition of beauty: that which pleased and served Beloved.

  In the event, Beautiful Maria looked much like the bossrider: hair and eyes darker, hips wider, and two fewer arms, but otherwise the same nonspecialized human form. Twelve gathered that humans didn’t vary much. In any case he didn’t find himself moved by his beauty, if that’s what it was. Perhaps the beauty was hormonal in nature, and his protective suit masked it.

  Negotiations opened formally, precisely. Beautiful Maria offered an artificial intelligence capable of guiding the ship through singularity jumps, and suggested that fifteen hundred tonnes of the first sample would be adequate payment. Twelve began to dicker. And then a disturbing realization swept through him.

  Beautiful Maria was female.

  Twelve was appalled. Femaleness seemed rightly to be a thing reserved for Beloved, for a sentience and near-deity: the idea of a general-purpose female was faintly blasphemous. Even worse was the notion that the female Maria was outranked by the male dominant intelligence. Twelve felt himself begin to tremble. He willed his mind closed, tried to wall off the unsettling realization. Perhaps Beautiful Maria was sterile.

  He would try to maintain that comforting notion.

  “We find the notion of an artificial intelligence quaint,” he typed. “It is possible that we might be able to take other units in order to exploit the curiosity market.”

  Even though he was a bit clumsy and made frequent mistakes, communication was much faster on his new keyboard. The keys weren’t quite sized to his inner fingers, but his dexterity was improving.

  Beautiful Maria’s mouth moved behind her transparent faceplate. Twelve read the instantaneous print translation above her head. He was glad he did not have to comprehend their speech: reading the translation slowed down the speed of the negotiations, and that allowed him to better compose his thoughts.

  “You appreciate, I’m sure, that we’ve been speaking of hardware only,” said Maria.

  Apprehension began to flutter in Twelve’s mind. He hadn’t appreciated this at all.

  *

  “Twelve’s a chump.” Maria, her skin flushed from her shower as she padded through the galley, accepted a plate of pot-stickers from Ubu and lifted the steamer lid to reveal stuffed dumplings. The smell of garlic rose like an airy blessing.

  “I let him talk me down to nine hundred tonnes for the first AI. Then I mentioned that the software was extra. He wondered if we have any way to contain the stuff, and of course we don’t. Then I mentioned that the software wasn’t very useful without instruction. So in exchange for the instruction, Beloved will build containers of the ‘finest sterile exudate,’ whatever that is, and to our specifications so we can empty them with standard equipment once we get past the Edge. And then, after I pointed out that the software was duplicatable and that they’d only have to buy it once, we worked out two thousand tonnes for the software.”

  “Tonnes of what?” Ubu asked. He spooned dumplings out of the steamer. Maxim brushed himself hungrily against Ubu’s shins.

  “Tonnes of anything we want. Except for Blue Eighteen. We don’t wanna be around that stuff.”

  Ubu looked at her. Admiration stirred in him. “A good deal.”

  “If we stow the cargo properly, our holds will take a little over twenty-eight thousand tonnes.” Maria grinned. She dropped Maxim a pot-sticker. “At the price we agreed on for the AIs, they’ll end up owing us a couple thousand tonnes they can deliver next time we meet.”

  “Careful. That’s hot.”

  Maria hastily dropped a dumpling on her plate and sucked a burned finger. “This is gonna be the richest cargo in history. And they’re giving it to us for junk. Beloved isn’t very smart.”

  “I wonder if they’re saying the same about us?”

  She kissed him. Red chiles stung her lips. “Twelve hinted at something. I think he might be trying to work out a way to build delays into the software. Or make their primary more efficient.”

  “So they’d have an edge over the competition.”

  “Right.”

  He picked up a pot-sticker on his fork, stirred it in the chile sauce, bit, smiled. “Point out that on our next exchange we can sell them faster machines.”

  “You already told them these were the fastest computers in existence.”

  “I told them they were the fastest computers available.”

  “Smart. I didn’t notice that.”

  “Neither did they.”

  “Okay,” Ubu said. He charged a flask of beer. “We capitalize everything with the drags. Once we’ve got a few cargoes delivered to civilization, we can start delivering other services. Prebuilt habitats, air-generating systems—maybe even ship hulls grown to order.”

  “We can’t keep it secret that long.”

  “I’ve thought about that, and I think we at least have a chance. We get Beloved to grow the stuff for us, then she leaves it in orbit around a certain star. We’ll send one of our contractors to pick it up. He won’t even see Beloved’s ship. If he guesses we’ve made contact with nonhumans, he won’t know where to look. In the meantime, he’s making a great profit just by keeping his mouth shut.”

  Maria thought for a moment. “It might work.”

  “If we play it right.”

  Carrying plates, Ubu and Maria began walking to the lounge. Maxim, disappointed, trailed in dwindling hope.

  *

  Can we trust them?

  I cannot say, Beloved. I can only follow your counsel and guidance.

  Their claims are beyond Our experience. And they ask for so little in exchange for their apparatus. Yet, if they try to cheat Me, they are preposterously naive in the nature of their attempt.

  Perhaps the value of their devices will become self-evident once we acquire them.

  Still, the creation of these chemicals will strain our nitrogen reserves. I would prefer that something of value arise from this effort.

  There was a moment of silence from Beloved. Twelve acquired the impression of remote, formidable, remorseless thought, rolling through faraway reaches like distant thunder. I require further information.

  Glory.

  You will gain permission to travel on Runaway.

  Alarm clamored in Twelve’s mind. His hearts lurched. He raised hands and feet in a warding posture.

  I am prostrate, Beloved. I am unworthy of this great commission.

  You have My trust. You are proven capable of dealing with the outsiders.

  Beloved’s praise did little to quell the distress that wrung Twelve’s bones. He would be separated from Beloved. Cast among predatory intruder species. At the mercy of the independent sentience Ubu. And exposed at every moment to contaminant thought and the unholy disunion of the entire human species.

  What if they are hostile, Beloved?

  You will die as befits one of My servants.

  Glory, glory. He chanted the words, both mentally and aloud, while trying to calm himself. Panic shrieked and shivered in his veins. He wanted to curl into a foetal ball and let the threatened madness come.

  You will attempt to discover the size of Runaway’s commercial enterprise. I do not trust the claim that they are part of a greater whole.

  Yes, Beloved.

  You will observe the workings of Runaway, its crew, its artificial intelligences.

  Yes, Beloved.

  You will discover whether there are any other humans, other than those aboard Runaway, with whom I might deal in the future.

  Yes, Beloved.

  You will make these observations, and you will report the results to Me.

  Glory, glory.

  Terror still roiled in his mind. He knew that on his return, he might be so thoroughly infected by humanity that Beloved would order his dissolution in order to protect Home.

  He was, he reminded himself, Beloved’s instrument. If dissolution was her intent, then his dissolution was just.

  Pleasure flooded his senses at this idea. Beloved was rewarding him for the correctness of his uncontaminate thought.

  But even as his nerves pranced in galvanic joy, his panic still beat within him, a subdued terror running his mind like a motif through one of Beloved’s rhythms, an endless, painful whisper of subdural fear. And behind the ecstatic haze of artificial pleasure, Twelve could sense Beloved’s displeasure in his fear; and he could discern also the working of her mind as Beloved plotted the consequences of his fear—and his fate—with cold, patient, and remorseless calculation.

  *

  “Agreed. Eight hundred thirty each for all the rest.”

  “The next shipment to contain more efficient AIs.”

  “Agreed.”

  The scarcely noticed words rolled across Beautiful Maria’s vision. She had been in her vac suit for over three hours and her vision of Nirvana had narrowed until it encompassed only the ability to scratch thoroughly behind her right knee, beneath her left breast, between her shoulder blades...

  “Beloved will introduce a navigator into this environment,” Twelve reported. “The appropriate attachments will be grown between your computer and the ship’s systems. You will instruct the navigator in the use of AI.”

  “Agreed.” Which meant hours, Maria thought, teaching computer systems while confined to a vac suit, using the heavy-duty steel-alloy keyboards designed for airless spaces and gloved fingers ... At this realization, the itch between her shoulder blades began to glow with a transcendent fury.

  More letters paraded across her vision. “This-individual hopes to be able to increase the efficiency of our communication.”

  Maria licked her lips. The itching was driving her mad. “That would be beneficial,” she said.

  “Humans use audible speech for personal conversation. So do the servants of Beloved.”

  A sliver of interest penetrated the gauze of Maria’s agony. This was news to her. “I have not heard you speak.”

  Twelve’s little inner fingers busily tapped his keys. “There has not been the necessity.”

  “It would require a very elaborate programming job to create software capable of translating Melange,” Maria said. “We aboard Runaway do not possess the necessary capability. Not right now anyway.”

  Twelve’s body was turned slightly in relation to Maria, allowing him to view her with three of his eyes. Maria’s own eyes ached as they tried to return his glance, unable to decide which pupil to connect with.

  “My species have many different bodily forms,” Twelve said. “We cannot communicate using gesture or expression, only sound. Therefore, our sound-generating organ is very flexible, capable of great subtlety and discrimination. I will demonstrate.”

  Rattling through Maria’s vac suit came a high drumming, layering itself on top of Beloved’s throbbing. The new sound seemed to be coming from Twelve rather than Beloved. Then it began to vary in tempo, in intensity. The sound of a distant siren added to the mix. The drumming faded and vowel sounds began to form, ohhhh, ouwww, oieeee, still with the siren warbling in the background.

  Surprise rang through Maria like a bell, and she gave a brief cackle of delight. The sounds weren’t coming from Twelve’s mouth, she saw, but rather from his head. The slight concavity atop his head was vibrating like the diaphragm in an amplifier, producing the succession of sounds.

  Bow! Pai! Keee! Maria thought of comic-strip balloons, the sounds of heroic violence as fist connected to jaw, as fast-homer bullets sizzled off laminate armor. The siren noise ended. Mmmmaaaah. Mmmmoiii. Twelve continued typing as the noises bounded from his head.

  “I am trying to present an impression of the flexibility of my speech organ.” Zoou. Zohhh. “Though I do not have complete confidence in my ability to imitate all Melange speech sounds, I believe we can attempt useful approximations for those sounds of which I am incapable.” A deeper drumming began, kettledrums rather than snares, the pitch varying. Beneath it there rose a growl like increasing feedback.

  Dai. Deeee.

  Maria was enchanted by the display. She listened till Twelve finished his demonstration. “Your speech is certainly flexible,” she said. “But in order to learn to speak like us, you would have to spend hundreds of hours learning how to pronounce Melange like we do.”