The View from the Imperium by Jody Lynn Nye

damned big fungus!” Marden said.
    “Wouldn’t the screens have shown a ship that big coming into orbit around Boske?” Zembke demanded.
    “The screens would, but what if the operators are in league with the TU?” worried Seventeen, lowering his thick eyebrows. The Cocomons buzzed with concern, the patterns on their faces seeming to move like clouds.
    “What would the Trade Union have to offer our liberated artificial-intelligence operatives that we do not ourselves?” Tross demanded.
    “They are more in touch with cutting-edge technology than we are,” Five said, with a toss of his coiffed head. “We’re damned far out of the center of things. They might have programs or components that the LAIs find useful.”
    “You suggest that our own employees are capable of treason?”
    “No, self-interest,” Five said, with a sly smile. “It’s worth exploring.”
    “Curse all self-aware mechanicals!” Seventeen snarled. His thick eyebrows drew down. “Why we let them exist is beyond me.”
    “You can’t stop them,” Twenty said, meekly. “They have a right to exist.”
    “Not if they interfere with our lives!” DeKarn sighed. He was a born pessimist. There was no arguing with him.
    “The ship!” Zembke reminded them, causing a blare of color to erupt behind him. “Why is it here?”
    A voice answered them from the door of the chamber. “Why? As a gesture of friendship, of course!”
    DeKarn drew herself up to her full height and surrounded herself with a nimbus of white light. “Who dares speak in council who is not a member of this body?”
    “Why, I do.” A silhouette outlined by the stark light of the corridor grew larger and larger as it approached the council. Once underneath the spotlights of the chamber, the figure’s head of silvering black hair drew glints. The male human to whom it belonged was strongly built and well-proportioned—almost ideally so, DeKarn thought, with approval, though she objected to his easy assumption of welcome. She was not familiar with the uniform. The shipsuit was a dull purple, with boots, cuffs, collar and shoulder flashings of an autumn gold. The combination of colors should have looked clownish, but was instead almost regal. His face was clear of all markings, tattoos or clan insignia. He reached DeKarn’s seat and made a deep bow, sketching an arc in the air with his right hand. “Emile Sgarthad, Captain of the Trade Union ship, Marketmaker . I offer respect to the council.”
    “What are you doing here?” Zembke asked.
    “And by whom am I being addressed?” the man asked, rising and presenting a bland countenance to the fulminating councillor. His eyes were blue with a tiny hint of green, and the brows above them straight, as was the nose that jutted at a sharp perpendicular downward from their line. He was as handsome in face as he was in form and bearing. DeKarn felt her cheeks grow warm under her tattoos. He reminded her of a lover she had had when she was young. It was not the same man, of course, but he had the same insouciance.
    “This council speaks as one voice,” intoned Zembke dangerously, and a trifle prematurely. “You dare not question our authority.”
    The big man cocked one knee and stood at his ease. “I only ask so I might give you all your right names,” he said. “It was a friendly question.”
    His nerve was as bare as his face. DeKarn admired it alongside her impatience at his interruption of their meeting.”
    “Then let me ask a friendly question,” DeKarn said. The man regarded her with a pleasant expression. “What are you doing here?”
    Sgarthad turned to beckon toward the doorway. Almost timidly, four humans and a Wichu, all in bright yellow council robes, filed in: the missing councillors from Yolk. DeKarn’s heart leaped with relief. “Just seeing my new friends safely to their destination. I found them in distress and went to their rescue.”
    DeKarn could have sworn that she saw the Wichu blink in a puzzled