I watch Bruen leave the Ship-Mother's office and, through various cameras mounted throughout the station, track him as he leads a group of workers to a secluded restaurant. There he meets Somner Zek. He leads his group inside, beyond my ability to see.

  The inside, though under surveillance, is not connected to the broader system directly. I could access them, if it were important, but Bruen can be trusted to operate without my supervision. As always.

  "Well?"

  The Ship-Mother sits in her usual place atop her slightly raised seat, looking expectantly into the camera. Donna sits much more placidly. Her show of agitation earlier had been meant more for Bruen's benefit than anything else. The Tserri would not begrudge her friend Dunc proper commendations if he earns them.

  "The circuits in place in his brain remain as they were last time I inspected them," I report. "Neither worse nor better than before."

  Eva taps her fingertips absently upon her chair's arm supports. "But was there any activity?"

  "No. I did not detect any energies that could not be explained by natural biological processes. Whatever it is, it remains dormant."

  Donna puts forth her own question. "Any guesses what function it might have?"

  Before I can formulate a response, Eva demands, "Have you seen similar equipment in the heads of any other Squivers, Mos?"

  "I've observed these formations in only my Bruen's head and in the brains of some dust eaters, Ship-Mother. No others."

  "You shouldn't say that," Donna interjects.

  "You are quite right. He is not my Bruen any longer, but Mos Bruen, a skilled and valued member of the Empire. Thank you for correcting me."

  She hisses and her ears twitch in agitation. "Not that. Dust eaters. They don't like being called that."

  "But calling us Squivers is alright?"

  Donna sputters, unable to argue but Eva refuses to be distracted.

  "None of that. We don't call you Squivers as an insult, but out of convenience. Same reason we let you call us Selber."

  "You are Selber," proclaims Donna.

  "No, selber are animals. I'm a person."

  "A gray person," mutters Donna, looking elsewhere.

  It is possible that the Ship-Mother does not hear the quiet remark, though I think it more likely she chooses to ignore it.

  "A person," Eva reiterates stubbornly. She rubs the side of her head with one hand, thinking. When she decides to speak, the change of topic surprises me. "How many of those drones do you have available, Mos?"

  "Four. Two others are currently undergoing repairs." The orphans' newest game involves throwing stones at my dronefeathers. Somehow, they can always tell the drones apart from the real creatures. "Shall I have one join us in your office?"

  "No, that won't be necessary. Send two to the secondary docking tower. And arrange transport for them down to Honus."

  The flying automatons closest to the tower head that direction. It will take some little while for them to reach it, but that should be alright.

  "Once the drones are at the artifact, use them to locate Dunc. Establishing communication is our first priority."

  Donna nods, then adds, "We can't help him if we don't know his situation."

  Controlling two dronefeathers is not much more difficult than one, once I remember to set the second to follow the first. However, during the tricky beginning portion of their flight, when I must operate both independently, while I am busy, Desra enters the Ship-Mother's office.

  Whatever they discuss displeases the Ship-Mother. Donna and Desra both are absent when I'm able once more to return my attention to the office. Eva sits alone in her chair, arms crossed and with a distant expression on her gray face.

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  "Bad news, Ship-Mother?"

  "Yeah," she answers, eyes regaining focus. "Matron Bell can't do anything about the security forces. You remember Hestrun?"

  I don't understand the sudden shift in topic, but I answer, "The Matron's 'gran-baby'? I believe I recall the officer."

  "Right. Well, Hes's officially in charge of the armed forces, under her command, of course. Problem is that he's stuck with the kids most of the time. El Nosstun, apparently, is his second."

  "I might see the problem. El obviously won't order himself away. But why does the Matron not intervene?"

  Eva sighs quietly. "Because if she starts giving the troops orders herself, it weakens Hestrun's position with them."

  The discussion earlier, with Mos Bruen, should have been ample reminder that her people are prone to minor acts of rebellion, and yet I still cannot fully comprehend it. Sometimes they will go as willingly to their deaths as any of my own kind. At other times they will act as if only an honor duel could compel them to obey the simplest of orders. That those in positions of leadership so often overlook such behavior only deepens my confusion.

  To the best of my knowledge, Don Yosip remains free from reprisal for his abdication of duty. The only penalty of which I am aware is that he is no longer welcome on Prime, a punishment that does not overly bother him. I do not think he wishes to return to his home world any time soon.

  "And Hestrun relies upon El to fulfill the obligations to which he is sworn, I gather."

  "Right."

  I know little of El. Spen I know much better. Unreliable and quick to anger are quick descriptions. And yet he does possess some admirable qualities. His devotion to his partner, while perhaps possessive in nature, nevertheless shows a sort of loyalty that any Mos would be glad of. His exposure to the tailored neurotoxin of the Western Arm only heightens these traits.

  "What can you tell me about El Nosstun, Ship-Mother?"

  She runs a slim hand through her dark crest, smoothing it slightly. "I don't know him well, really. I've heard of his family, though. They were high in the Coalition, at one time."

  This old conflict makes me think of the conquest of the hold out cities. Unlike those I had defeated, these former Coalition members remain loyal to the fallen regime. And yet, the Selber trade individuals amongst their many vessels and all transferees quickly adapt to their new surroundings. In these instances, they behave much like my kind: upon meeting their new leader the crewmembers transfer their allegiance to their new Ship-Father or other officer.

  I voice my confusion to the Ship-Mother. Her mouth quirks, changing her polite smile into one of understanding.

  "Imagine that you Mos types for whatever reason become corrupt. Then one day a group of nobodies get together. They decide they're tired of how the Mos run things and think they could do a better job. Let's say there's a bunch of them. Enough that even with your fancy weapons and magic warpaint they still beat you. Are you with me?"

  "I find the situation you describe to be preposterous, but yes. This impossible victory would be devastating to the supposed casteless horde."

  She waggles her arms in an odd shrug. "They don't care. To them, it's worth it. Alright? So, after they win, they declare themselves Super Mos or something. I don't know your system. Anyway, they decide that they get to give the orders now. Are you going to just happily let that happen and follow the new regime?"

  "Your analogy is very flawed, but you convey your meaning adequately." She describes a weakness of her species. They lack the centralized leadership that would keep them all working towards the same ends. "I cannot say I would be pleased with the described outcome."

  "Exactly," she proclaims. "But there are never enough crew to outfit the ships we have, let alone any new vessels we might find or build. So we need to keep the Coalition remnants around, even if-"

  The chime of an incoming message interrupts the Ship-Mother. The smile falls off her face as she taps the controls hidden in her desk. An image of Bucket appears on the main screen. The conglomerate entity looks unwell, if such words can describe them. Not all of the worm bodies normally composing them are present, missing or perhaps destroyed.

  "We've received a long-range transmission from the Resurgent. The data packet contains genetic information, technical schema, and several still images. This is an example."

  One of the biomechanical arm-bodies activates a hidden control and an image of a Selber cadaver replaces the view of Bucket's workshop. The body is partially charred, with the left arm missing at the shoulder. Other ragged holes dot the torso. Personnel files identify the individual as Third Engineer Lopak Ind.

  "Not all of us are trained doctors," complains Eva with a frown. "What are we looking for?"

  With subtle manipulations of the image, Bucket increases the magnification and centers the display on the cadaver's left leg. The view focuses on a patch of rough yellow skin, so easy to miss next to the more glaring injuries. The edges plunge into the gray flesh and disappear like roots into soil.

  "Cancer?"

  "No, Ship-Mother. Attached files indicate the lesion shares significant genetic sequences with the tribal chieftains."

  Yes. Now that Bucket mentions it, the color does seem to be nearly identical. That flap there might even be a vestigial gill.

  "This might also be relevant," they continue. The still image is replaced with a short video file. On the screen plays out an interrogation conducted by Weapons Operative Gelly Drop. He questions a captive of his own race. Eva and I watch in silence until the video reaches its conclusion.

  Gelly's captive wears a stained and wrinkled blue and white uniform very similar to the ones worn by members of the Selberfeld Imperium. The same rank icons are used, though some iconography seems more ostentatious. Thin, steel manacles bind the prisoner's hands in front of them. Bandages, red with alien blood, bind fresh wounds upon both arms and the torso.

  When the playback ceases, Eva sits back in her chair. "Interesting. Start work on a device that can detect these infected individuals. If the situation is as dire as that video indicates, we're going to need it."

  Bucket signals confirmation before terminating the connection.