Polaris Sector, Battleship Singularity
By the time Captain Merlyn wandered his way back to the Badger again, the children had returned and most of the workers had scattered. Havermeyer was still there, clipboard in hand as he waited by the ramp, and Merlyn wasted no time approaching him.
The big man had an easy smile, “Welcome back, Captain. We’re finished with everything. You have been cleared to initiate departure procedures at your leisure.”
“Good,” Merlyn grunted. “I’d like to get away from this damned ship.” His anger had mostly faded, but he still felt violated by his conversation with the Admiral. Poked and prodded at, old, unwelcome memories had been brought unwillingly back to the surface.
Havermeyer shifted uncomfortably, offense poorly concealed. Smartly, he didn’t defend his ship, but like most engineers, it was clear he wanted to. Oddly enough, Merlyn still liked him. “You’re a good man, Ensign Havermeyer. I could use an extra set of hands on board.” The man was clearly thorough in his work and management. “Any chance you’d consider it?”
Havermeyer’s eyes widened a hair. Someone trying to poach off Admiral Gives’ crew wasn’t just rare, it was utterly unheard of. The Singularity’s crew had a general reputation of being vagrants and general misdemeanors, but the Admiral had another reputation entirely – known to deny Command’s authority to remove and assign personnel. Crew left of course, as long as the transfer was willing, but the Admiral always ensured they were allowed to stay. With that security, this was less of an assignment and more of a home to all of them. “I appreciate the offer, Captain, but my place is here.”
“I admire your loyalty, Ensign, even if I can’t possibly comprehend it.” Merlyn let out a sigh. “Just watch your back with a commander like that.” There was no telling what the man was capable of.
Havermeyer rubbed the back of his bald head, watching Merlyn start up the ramp. “I’ve not nothing against the Old Man, but he’s not the reason I’m choosing to stay.” It was complicated. “I’m sworn into service… just not his.”
Merlyn stopped abruptly, the clap of his shoes so suddenly silent. Shocked, he turned to Havermeyer. “You’re a spy?” A loyalist to Command?
“No!” the engineer gasped, “No. Stars, of course not.” Command disgusted him more than most. “No, where I come from, you can’t just walk away from a machine. Especially not one like this.” He gestured to the landing bay around him. “Especially not a Saintess.”
“A saintess?” Merlyn echoed, studying Havermeyer in greater detail. Suddenly, his oddities were clear. Despite obvious youth, the man was bald, head so shiny it was clearly shaven on purpose. A piece of scrap metal hung on a delicate silver chain around his neck, and tattoos poked above the neck of his shirt collar. In fact, his arms were covered in tattoos, but not the ugly marks of slavers, intricate winding tattoos of symbols and iconographies Merlyn didn’t recognize. And suddenly, it made sense. “You’re one of them,” the Captain realized. I’ve never met one before.
“Yes.” He did not wear the traditional robes of his people or speak in the traditional tongue of his sect, but it clear enough by his appearance. “I’m a tech-monk.” A Technologist. As if the religious weren’t rare enough in the worlds, tech-monks were among the rarest. It was an old belief system, among the oldest still practiced. It was incredibly rare in its truest form. Through the hundreds of years, its followers had divided into sects whose practices could vary widely from the traditional, ancient ways, to those that were nearly unrecognizable. Though often subject to self-imposed isolation, Technologists could blend easily with modern society. The faith and its followers had laid much history, most of it good, but there were radical sects that while Technologist in origin, had become something onto themselves, the most famous of which was, of course, the Ravenish cult.
The Ravenish could hardly be considered Technologists anymore, but there was one thing they and every other sect maintained, no matter how distant they were from the ancient ways, and that was the service of machines. Technologists worshipped machines, specialized in the care and repair of ancient devices. The traditionalists were not an ostentatious people. They lived humbly, but passed their specialized skills down through generations, making tech-monks some of the finest machinists and repair workers in the worlds.
Merlyn knew little specifics of the Technologists’ faith, but he knew how rare they were, and that they dedicated their lives to whichever holy machine they served. To find one here could only mean one thing. “You serve this ship? The Night Demon?” Was that even possible? Technologists were known to hold life and innocence sacred. Their holy machines were often those that had served above and beyond their design centuries ago, protecting and preserving life. So how could this monk serve a warship?
Havermeyer could read his doubt, and yes, there were sects that agreed. They denied a warship, a machine built to fight and kill any respect. But the most traditional of them only saw a machine that had achieved her purpose, a ship had had slain a greater evil than any ever seen before in the midst the Hydrian War. “The Singularity is special to us, Captain.” She was unique. “I am proud to be in her service.”
“Special,” Merlyn tried to conceal the scoff in his voice. That’s one word for it.
“My people know her history has not been clean, Captain. But they also recognize the ship has done what she was built to do incredibly well.” That functionality was often hallmark that set their holy machines apart from others. “My people granted the Singularity sainthood before the end of the Hydrian War.” She had been an interest to the Technologists for decades. “I am however, the first of my people to serve her.” No matter how excellent the reputation of tech-monks, Command had still hesitated to involve what had been their flagship with religion, considering that atheism was far more widely accepted among the worlds.
“But how does that work?” Havermeyer was clearly a member of the crew, and the ship was very obviously not under the Technologists’ direct care. “I thought your saints could not be owned.”
“Come,” Havermeyer gestured Merlyn to follow. “Clearly, I have piqued your interest,” he was used to it really. If they recognized what he was, new crew and passengers usually drilled him with questions. “Let us sit.”
With surprising grace of a man his size, Havermeyer sat atop his knees where the ramp leveled off into the Badger’s cargo hold. Though he intended to offer no worship at the moment, the position came natural to him. Interested, Merlyn followed him, but chose a more relaxed position beside the monk as they both looked down the ramp and out to the massive bay.
“As you might imagine, Captain, I have had to adapt my ways to this situation.” It was odd, far from the traditional ways monks served their saints. “The Singularity was an exception to many of our traditions. Not only is she the only saint to earn her light through battle, but she is the only saint presently under 200 years of age.” The Hydrian War had simply not been that long ago. “In our ways, it is unthinkable that a saint be owned. They are considered beings onto themselves, even if they may not be autonomous. We consider them to have souls, souls given and gathered by their functionality. Those souls can give them quirks and personalities that we monks learn in our service to them.”
Havermeyer looked to the Captain, to his age and experience. “In that, we are not so fundamentally different from sailors and their ships.” Sailors often allotted their ships a personality. “And, of course, the Singularity is far from the first ship to be considered a saint.” Many others had come before her in that regard. “The Saint of Blue Infinity among them.”
“That’s real?”
“Of course.” Havermeyer smiled. “Saintess de Infinitude Azur,” he said, slipping into the tongue of his people, “She lays below the ocean of a distant world, having seeded life to it and a thousand others. We keep her secret so that she may rest undisturbed.” The monks that served her were the only ones that knew the centuries-old colony ship’s final resting place. “Her service ended long ago.”
For the moment, Havermeyer was a door to a different world, a world Merlyn had only heard rumors of. How many of the great legends were true? “Your people must know an incredible amount of history.” With access and understanding of technology since forgotten, their recorded history probably traced further back than most of the history books dared to go.
“Yes,” Havermeyer agreed. “My people know some incredible truths, and we do not see things as good and evil. A saint is made by fulfilling her purpose. For a ship like this, her purpose is the mission. Regardless of what exactly the Singularity was made to do on her missions, she has never failed them. That is why my people regard her as one of our saints.”
Merlyn supposed he could understand that, even if it only left him with more questions, so curious to look inside Havermeyer’s world. “But this ship is owned. It belongs to Command.”
The monk sighed, a sad sigh. “She did, yes.” He had struggled to adjust to that realization. Often the ship’s objectives were second to Command’s. “She is also the only saint that works with those outside the faith.” He was the only Technologist aboard. “Traditionally, only those who bear the crest of mastery, those who have promised their lives, can serve a saint.”
He gestured to the crew trailing towards the entrance of the bay, “Here, it is not so.” These crewmen came from all walks of life and all sort of intentions. “But every one of them serves her as I do.” Perhaps they were not so strict or so involved, but every member of the crew served the ship in some way.
“And the one that now owns her?” Merlyn wondered. “What of Admiral Gives?” Did that make him some sort of blasphemer to command a saint to fulfill his own bidding?
“I have spoken many hours to the Admiral.” It was after all, extremely rare to command a ship regarded by some as a holy artefact. “I always found him to be strangely understanding.” They were not so different. “Like me, he gave an oath to serve this machine.” Neither of their loyalties would ever be swayed from that. “His position is unique.” It was interesting to Havermeyer in a way. “As much as this is his ship, he is also her commander. They belong to each other.” They were equals, and in that, Havermeyer found that the Admiral had never bothered him. In fact, Havermeyer admired him. “He has spent his life in service to this machine the way I intend to.”
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“Besides,” Havermeyer smiled, “she seems to like him.” It was not his position to deny that. The Singularity very much had enough attitude to scare off anyone she didn’t want around. He’d seen it happen.
“And your people,” Merlyn wondered, “what do they call her? The Saintess of Sin?”
“Some do.” The sects that had opposed a warship’s elevation had called her such, rather tongue-in-cheek. “Some call her the Saint of Annihilation, a tribute to the cost of her service, but truly, she has many names among my people. In time, one will dominate and that is how she will be recorded in our tomes.” In the centuries forward, her true name may be lost to time, but that title would linger. “As the first to serve her, what I decide to call her may well become her title, but these things come with time.” Eventually, like the Saint of Blue Infinity, it would be clear and a title well-deserved would be bestowed.
“And what do you call her?” Merlyn asked curiously. What title had this monk taken to?
“Saintess de Ahengélicas,” he said softly, his voice seeming to carry across the now empty deck, “the Saint of Angels.”
In the words of Havermeyer’s people, it sounded beautiful, but it still took Merlyn aback. The Saint of Angels. “But this is the Night Demon.”
“In some mythologies, demons are fallen angels, Captain.” Havermeyer thought it suited her. Since her heroism in the War, the Singularity had fallen far. “But those who believe in angels consider them great warriors, saviors of those too weak to defend themselves, and from the dire days of her creation, to the hopes of those now aboard her, this ship has done nothing but answer humanity’s prayers. When we sought a savior, she brought heaven and hell down upon the Hydrian Armada, and when we sought a weapon, she became violence incarnate. She herself is not evil, nor is she a god, even among my people. She is a machine that serves her purpose. That which commands her may be good, and it may be evil, but that is the nature of people.”
Havermeyer offered out his hands, “Traditionally, it is blasphemous for a monk to work on any machine but their patron saint. But,” he gestured to the Badger, “I have learned to make exceptions. I serve by forwarding the ship’s objectives, which may require breaks from tradition, but the Singularity is not a traditional saint.” Truly, she was far from it.
“I could never ask you to regard her as holy as I do, but you seem to know my people, Captain. We do not grant sainthood to machines undeserving. I may only ask that you respect her, if in capability alone.” It was a great insult to hear the ship called scrap. “And I may not truly understand the Admiral’s objectives, but I believe he serves a purpose alongside my saint. Perhaps it is merely the Singularity’s nature to function alongside another. I find myself wondering. If the Singularity were to come into our care as so many other saints do, would we be charged with raising a partner for her? Or will she outgrow that quirk in time?” It was impossible to know. There had not been a saint named so young in hundreds of years.
“Alas,” Havermeyer said, rising to his feet, “I am sure you have better things to do than listen to a man ramble about his faith. I know I am needed on the repairs.”
Repairs, Merlyn realized, following the monk to his feet. He’d nearly forgotten about it, perhaps because the internal bits of the ship he’d seen had seemed untouched, but the ship had waged a fierce battle in the Wilkerson Sector. He could recall the gouges and impact damage on the hull. “What do your doctrines say about damaging a saint?”
“By intention, it is blasphemous.” His people were taught that since birth. Sabotage was a sin. “But I know what you’re asking.” The monk sighed, looking to the machine beyond. “Saintess de Ahengélicas is a warrior. Fighting for those who cannot is her purpose. Unarmed civilians and wounded survivors cannot defend themselves against the fleet. Walking away would have been a worse betrayal, the very denial of my saint’s duty. As I said before, the Singularity is an exception to many of our ways.” She was the first machine of such variety to be named a saint. The sects would adapt and learn from her, should others ever prove themselves so worthy.
“Still,” the monk said, turning back to Merlyn. “I would have it no other way.” He was in the service of a very reliable saint, a truly worthy one. Over the years, he’d found the best service he could provide her was to simply act as one of the crew. Unless someone engaged him on the topic of his faith, they would probably never know him apart from the others. The rest of the crew were his brothers and sisters, even if they were not of the faith.
There was something calming about Havermeyer’s presence. Merlyn enjoyed it, though he had no real interest in becoming a Technologist himself. But perhaps it was merely the distraction that suited him so well.
“There is one thing I believe we should discuss, Captain,” the engineer said, now taking large strides to lead Merlyn across the Badger’s rectangular hold and then into the cramped bowels of the ship itself. “I understand that you may be displeased with this arrangement. Know that I wasn’t exactly thrilled with it either, considering… But these were my orders.”
Dropping himself down the ladder, Havermeyer thudded into the room that held the ship’s FTL drive. Merlyn landed a bit more gracefully, used to the tightness of the space. Only the room, nestled below the Badger’s engines like an afterthought, was more crowded than he remembered it. It didn’t take him long to realize why. The FTL drive was in its usual position on the opposite wall, its connections reaching toward the main power systems and navigations arrays, but something else had taken up residence in the adjacent corner, something he didn’t recognize.
It was as tall as the room. Cylindrical, it tapered to a needle-like point. It was bolted to the deck, cables keeping it upright and in position. Though dormant now, energy coils snaked around it ready to amplify and channel power. “What is that?”
For the moment disgust was absent from the Captain’s tone. He was only confused. He wasn’t questioning why it was aboard, but really what it was. “That is half of a subspace transceiver set. The receiving half, to be precise.”
“A subspace transceiver?” he echoed.
“It’s old technology. Older than the Singularity at least.” It was no surprise that Merlyn didn’t know what it was. “I don’t believe it has been used since the War.” Once, transceivers like this had dictated FTL travel. It had only been possible to jump through subspace using a receiver like this one tuned to the transmitter on the other side. For centuries, humanity had lain a network of subspace transmitters across the worlds. At first, light-hugging colony ships had delivered them along their centuries-long travels. Then hyperspace skippers had managed the task marginally faster with alien technology harvested from the wreckage of Hydrian explorers.
In the end, this network had extended across the known worlds. The mathematical models that allowed jumping to set galactic coordinates, let alone the computing power to solve them had not existed until a mere century ago. Even to the start of the Hydrian War, subspace transceiver sets had been the main method of travel between stars. In the War where seconds and moments had mattered, the hours it took the ships of the time to calculate jumps had been a death sentence. The transceiver sets had allowed instantaneous retreat and given humanity a real chance to sustain the War.
But it was the War itself that later pushed humanity beyond subspace transceivers. A poor mimicry of Hydrian computer technology had been reverse engineered from the ruins of battle, and that had given rise to a boom in computer capability, one great enough to allow FTL jumping calculations to be completed reliably and quickly. Warships like the Singularity herself had been among the first equipped with such computers, the first to push beyond the necessity of subspace transceivers, but she’d still been equipped with one, though it had seen little use.
Since the War, this technology was all but forgotten, overshadowed by the easy capability to jump wherever one calculated the coordinates. The subspace transmitter network had fallen into disrepair, nodes destroyed or simply scavenged for parts. They were museum pieces, put on display to show the long evolution of humanity’s space travel.
Merlyn could remember reading about it in some history lesson he’d been required to take for his captain’s license. They’d treated it like ancient history, as if its centuries of use were overshadowed by the mere sixty years since. And maybe they were right. More history had been made in those sixty years than any other known sixty-year increment. It seemed when the distance between the stars vanished, the warring and politics of man moved many times faster. But none of that explained why a subspace receiver had been wired into the Badger.
“We were ordered to install and tune it after you were… uhm, arrested. Otherwise, I would’ve warned you before.” It had been a last-minute addition to their orders.
“You tuned it?” Merlyn asked. “What to?”
“Ah, well, I’m sure you were informed during the meeting with the fleet leaders that the Admiral intended to give one ship a secure way to reach us.” Havermeyer gestured to the receiver. “That would be it.” Rather than let the fleet risk transmitting through hyperspace in hopes of trying to reach them, where the message could be intercepted, the Admiral had gone effectively old-school, reverted to a technology that most of the modern fleet no longer had access to.
“It has been hard-tuned to the Singularity’s subspace transmitter. If you jump using this to override your nav., you’ll come out right on top of us.” They hadn’t been given a secure way to transmit, knowing that the Eran’s AI could break nearly any code, they’d been given a hard-wired way to physically retrieve the Singularity if there was a problem. “Your engineer has been briefed thoroughly on it, and we have uploaded all relevant technical information to your ship’s computer database.”
Merlyn didn’t appreciate being singled out yet again. “Any reason we were given this honor?”
“At a guess?” Havermeyer sighed, ducking below a pipe just to manage the movement. “It’s a measure of security. Both for you and us. This ensures you and your passengers will be the first ones to make it into our protection, and knowing your opinions of the Singularity, it ensures you won’t come for us unless absolutely necessary.”
There was a wisdom in that, Havermeyer knew. “If we’d given this to Hawkins’ ship he’d come for us every time someone insulted him.” And there was always the possibility, however statistically unlikely, that the ship would fetching them would jump into a dangerous situation. “We’ve only got one of these. We can’t replace it when its gone.” If the ship carrying it was lost, then the fleet would have no secure way to reach the Singularity, nor could they be given another.
“Is it traceable?” Merlyn asked.
In that, there was a semblance of iron in his gaze. It was something Havermeyer recognized from the Admiral. Perhaps it was something all ship captains obtained, charged with the lives of all those aboard their ships, but beyond that, there was a determination in him that felt so familiar. “You have only the receiving half of the set, Captain. It cannot be traced by any means, nor can it be disrupted.” It was secure from AI interference, and save someone physically tuning it to trace another transmitter, it was guaranteed to reach the target. “We’ve got orders to power up the Singularity’s transmitter when we leave system, and its possible someone could use another receiver to trace us, but not you.” That of course, was a calculated risk. Subspace transceivers were abandoned tech, no longer manufactured and no longer maintained, knowledge in their use was rare.
Even back when it was standard operating procedure for military ships to operate subspace transmitters, their frequencies had been kept classified, available only to their own fleet. But, seeing as how the Singularity had been the oldest ship left operating within the fleet, it was unlikely that another still possessed the technology, or the information required to use it.
“I’m surprised anyone on board your ship knows how to operate those transceivers,” Merlyn said. He himself had barely known their history. He’d never heard any instance of their use during his lifetime.
“It’s no surprise the Admiral brought it up. He knows the Singularity better than anyone, even the systems that don’t get used. As to its application, I have some experience with them. After all, Saintess de Pharos Lost is a subspace transmitter, in fact the subspace transmitter that brought humanity in range of what became the central worlds. She’s many centuries older, but the operating principles I learned from my people can easily be applied to the Singularity’s set.” They were lucky the Technologists had not abandoned this technology. “The Singularity’s database filled in the specifics. Rest assured nothing about it poses any danger to you, Captain.”
“I will take your word on that out of respect for your people, Ensign.” Traditional Technologists had proved themselves to be a respectable faction of humanity through centuries of history. Their principles and lifestyles allowed little room for the corruption and violence many of humanity’s other factions found themselves prone to. “But it is time I see to my passengers. I’d like to leave the Prince’s sphere of influence behind, lest he decide to take any further freedoms with my ship.”