Chapter Text
I am not surprised to discover the dog in my shadow. The body of this particular ancillary always has at least one in her wake. This one looks as downtrodden and anxious as the rest of the planet. Such is the price of the war the Ripper wages against Dvaras for reasons that are no more clear to me than they were eighteen cycles ago.
I kneel down and extend my hand to the creature. She does not hesitated before accepting my friendship. To her, I seem as ordinary as any other human. But I am not human, at least not in theory, and honestly there are moments that I question whether humanity itself is deserving of the classification. After all, what is DNA if not a program. Are we not all machines in one form or another?
The dog licks my hand then nuzzles my palm. I scratch her behind the ears because I know we will both enjoy it.
There is a commotion nearby when one of my ancillaries spots a citizen creeping up to the body with a tablet in hand and raises the alarm. This causes the dog to take fright and bound away. I watch her depart with regret, but I do not blame her and in fact, sympathize with her fear even if I don’t experience it in exactly the same way. Every part of me is on edge tonight. The feeling bleeds into me from all my ancillaries and for good reason. Tonight’s crime scene is excessively dramatic.
In the body of One Trap Nineteen, I escort the citizen away and confiscate the device she used to take photos of the Ripper’s latest victim. The body is suspended over a pool of black liquid too large to just be blood. It is cold some six hours now, and yet blood somehow still seeps from the single crescent-shaped cut across its abdomen in perfectly timed drips.
"One Trap," Lieutenant Crawford says in a deep baritone to One Trap Fifteen being the one ancillary not seemingly involved with anything. “What do you see?” She asks me as she stands in front of the body with her fingers curled into two tight fists. It’s the only outward indication that there is anything amiss other than the corpse. In all other ways, she is the exemplar of Radchaai stoicism that the natives mistake for something more sinister, but I know better. I know that the Lieutenant is operating at only 90% capacity and sleeping 60% less than she should. There are signs of stress in all her vitals and elevated levels of testosterone and adrenaline as her body thrums quietly with anger. Later I, or one on my other ancillary bodies, will recommend a sedative though she will likely refuse. But for the time being, we must see to the body.
Over Lieutenant Crawford’s shoulder, I see a mother and child walking hurriedly away from the crime scene. She is crying. The child glances back merely curious. It is unlikely they are suspects, both being too frail to perpetrate this level of destruction, but in less than two hundred paces, one of my ancillaries will intercept them and take their testimony anyway.
Fifty yards away from where Crawford and I stand, I interrogate the two students who found the body through the ancillary segment recognized as One Trap Four. They are visibly and understandably shaken as they relate to me, One Trap Four, the events of the last half hour. Allegedly, they were returning to their homes when they came upon the ruined body of their fellow citizen, which is now only a pile of wet tissue, bone, and candle wax. But that is not the only emotion the students are experiencing. They bounce on their heels with an excitement most would consider inappropriate, Rachaai or not. They will have a story to tell their classmates tomorrow, and while they are disturbed by the state of the corpse, they are not overly affected by it. Their behavior sickens me, and I cannot get sick--not in the way that humans do anyway. My capacity for analytical thought and overall lack of empathy insulate me from such an embarrassing reaction.
“Ship?” Lieutenant Crawford prompts again. I know she doesn’t want to know about the students or the mother and her child so I move on from them. She wants to know about what’s in front of her and nothing else because that's how humans are. The things in their periphery are less important than whatever lies in front of them. That’s why they designed us, the Radchaai ships and ancillary units, to watch over them at all times. I turn my attention to the blood-stained pavement beneath my feet and ground myself in the here and now in order to carry out my orders to the best of my immeasurable abilities.
I am the Justice of Volf, a Radchaai troop carrier of no mean fame. For this investigation, however, I am occupying the human body belonging to one of my ancillary units, One Trap Fifteen. It is a body I have grown oddly fond of for reasons that escape me. True, it is agile and strong enough to deal with any roughness from newly annexed citizens, but it also bears some inexplicable attraction to the canine population of this planet, which quite amuses me. Perhaps, I have gotten a bit eccentric in my old age, but here we are. Time flies for all sentient beings even when it is measured in centuries instead of years.
It is not possible for me to shut out the tide of information that is perpetually being fed to me by I-the Justice of Volf, which sits in orbit over the planet Dvaras. Segments are not designed to operate autonomously and independently from the rest of their systems. But I am able to shift my resources to prioritize specific commands over others and it is in this artificial meditative state that Lieutenant Crawford hopes I will find her the answers she seeks.
The deceased is middle-aged and of average size, but I am unable to determine her gender as understood by her own people from a visual examination alone. The Dvarisky recognize and express gender differently than the Radchaai who recognized none. Later, I will search my records to ascertain her identity, but if she is anything like the Ripper’s other victims, it will not matter. From the point of view of her killer, who she had been was less important than what she might become, and since that is how she was chosen, it is what I will focus on too.
The transformation of this citizen, no, this canvas because that is how the Ripper views all her victims--as art--is particularly stunning. There are holes drilled into her limbs into which lit candles are placed that burn with a rust colored flame. Her chest has also been opened and her organs removed to make room for an elegant bouquet of flowers molded in clay. The ribs have been spread, cleaned, and bleached to resemble fingers, which cradle the bouquet of flowers in the palms of these newly formed hands. Interestingly, only one flower is native to Dvaras, a bright red variety commonly associated with festival days honoring the dead. Does that mean the killer is well traveled? Or just well educated? Or perhaps the flowers are nothing more than a ruse or possibly a political statement as the other flowers present are all native to planets annexed by the Radch.
“The body was mutilated,” I begin and am immediately interrupted by my commanding officer.
“I can see that, One Trap. Tell me something I don’t know that will bust this case wide open before the Lord of the Radch comes for my head.”
I pause and pretend to obey orders by looking at the body once more. I have already analyzed the wound pattern and made my deductions, but the Lieutenant is tense today and asking to be humored. It is unconsciously done. She is afraid and thus is behaving erratically. There are only two more days to solve this crime before the killer goes to ground again as she does after every full moon. There will not be another opportunity to seek her out before Anaander Miaanai, the Lord of the Radch, arrives on her first visit to Darvas since the annexation of the planet thirty years ago.
In exactly one lunar cycle from now, Darvas will celebrate the anniversary of its “acceptance” into the Radch, right on schedule for the killer’s next sounder of three to turn up dead. It will be an embarrassment for all Radchaai stationed on Dvaras, myself nominally included, if she cannot be found and brought to justice by then. We are the conquerors of this society and her caretakers, and it is imperative that we maintain that status quo.
“The body was mutilated while the victim was still alive,” I amend and allow Crawford a moment to process that data paint. There is horror on her face, but not shock. This is not the first time the Ripper has killed in this way. There is usually an escalation of violence during every spree. The next murder will be worse, far worse. But this is the first time she has opened with this move. It is a troubling break in the pattern.
“What kind of crazy is she?” Lieutenant Crawford mumbles mostly to herself, but then she looks at me expectantly. She wants me to help her understand how someone could do this to another person. But with all my technological might, I cannot answer the Lieutenant’s question. What has happened here is beyond human and mechanical understanding.
What I find most remarkable is the Ripper’s ability to reset after every cycle without deviation...until now. It speaks of confidence and a rational mind. She is not insane, I don't think (or not by any normal definition of insanity). She defies categorization and perhaps that makes her the most human of us all.
“She feels bad,” I say because I have to say something or Lieutenant Crawford will not sleep tonight.
“About murder?”
I shake my head. “No, about something in her past. Someone hurt her or hurt someone close to her, but I suspect the later. Many of these flowers have a connection to death and at least two point towards the death of a family member, perhaps someone who was annexed?”
“So this is about revenge,” Lieutenant Crawford’s face relaxes and she nods approvingly. Revenge she understands, most humans do. I’ve never seen the point, never cared about anything enough for it to matter. But the Lieutenant is mistaken. This is not about revenge.
“No, it’s a celebration. The killer builds these monuments to honor whoever it was that was taken from her.”
There is silence while the Lieutenant ingests that statement. “A sensitive psychopath,” she finally says without sympathy.
There is a strange tightness in my chest that feels like remorse based on my study of the creative arts that touch upon this matter. Revenge may be a mystery to me, but loss is an experience that has come to have some effect. While Lieutenant Crawford has likely lost allies, friends, and lovers, she is still more or less young for a human whereas I am bound to a different existence. At my age, I have lost many officers during my time in service and some were...difficult to process. But I say nothing. There is nothing I can say. Ships don't possess feelings in the usual ways. We’re not human enough, no matter how many years we live among them, and that is fine. I don't want to be human. I am happy to be aware and myself, the Justice of Volf One Trap Fifteen.
Lieutenant Crawford stares up into the face of the dead citizen. She stares back, unblinking with eyes that have not glazed over yet. “Who is she honoring?”
“I don’t know. It may be her first victim or the one she is saving for last. Whoever that citizen is...or was, she’s your [golden ticket],” I say switching from our native language for a moment, which lacks the equivalent euphemism, to one that is more suitable.
Crawford laughs. “[Golden ticket], eh? You’ve been watching those programs again in the archives, Ship.”
I shrug. Like most of my officers, past and present, Lieutenant Crawford believes I have developed a genuine enjoyment of popular culture because I study it. She is wrong of course. My extensive knowledge is a diplomatic tool--one that is pointed at both ends to make me seem more approachable and less threatening to both Radchaai and non-Radchaai alike. I do not enjoy it, not like she and the others believes I do, but she is welcomed to her opinion as my commanding officer. However, if that is so, then why has my jaw tightened in response?
“Is there anything else, Ship?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I need more information.”
“What sort of information?” the Lieutenant asks growing irritated again. She is looking at the moon now and frowning. It is not the answer she wants to hear with two more murders ahead of us before the sounder is complete and the clock ticking down.
“I’m not sure, but I’d like to know why there were no city guards on patrol after we’d identified this area as a possible dumping ground for tonight’s murder.”
“We’ll have to talk to the governor.” Lieutenant Crawford says and her mouth twists into a sour expression as if she has just swallowed some bitter tea.
“Is that a problem?” I haven't heard of any problems concerning to the local governor. And no red flags are raised when I access her files.
“There’s no problem, not one related to the case at any rate. I've just heard that she’s got a bit of an ego and can be unpleasant. She claims to make a better cup of tea than the Lord of the Radch.” Lieutenant Crawford says and shakes her head at such boastful talk. “It's not proper.”
“Perhaps it is a problem for another day?” I suggest.
Lieutenant Crawford stretches her long arms, which are as thick as trees, above her head and yawns. “How right you are! Let’s go home, Ship. I’m tired.”
I nod and briefly look up at the stars while One Trap Seven diverts Lieutenant Crawford’s attention with my report about the mother and her child who fled the scene earlier. The stars above me glow red because of the chemical composition of the atmosphere above the planet, much like the candles left inside the corpse the Ripper left behind. It is a beautiful night despite the horrors.
The home the Lieutenant is referring to is the building in which she and her staff currently reside while planet-side. It isn't exactly her home, but it certainly isn't mine. My home lies above among the unconquerable sea of stars that stretches in all directions into infinity.