For Ann Leckie,

who wanted a space opera

in omniscient point of view

1

The entrance buzzer chimed. Someone outside in the public hallway of the space station was paging admittance.

Niko Larsen, a.k.a. Captain Nicolette Larsen, formerly one of the finest military geniuses the Holy Hive Mind had ever threatened to absorb, now retired, looked around.

Huh, she thought. What now?

She checked the view screen. A delivery bot stood outside, flanked by a large crate, about two meters long, a half meter wide, and a meter tall. Its metal carapace was brown and yellow, regular station delivery colors. It stood patiently, ignoring the impatient stares of passersby trying to get around the large crate in the five-meter-wide hallway.

She didn’t remember any deliveries due today, but pushed the button nonetheless. With a velvety whoosh, the door slid open.

“You should take that into the kitchen through the back access hall,” she said. “There’s too much furniture in here—don’t bring it in this way.”

Despite her words, the bot was already trundling forward past her and the entrance lectern, trailed by the crate. It said, with a burst of speaker static resembling an officious chirp, “The access hallway leads to the kitchens of the Last Chance Restaurant. This delivery tag specifies Last Chance, and the default is main entrance.”

“Then don’t go with the default, use the back entrance!”

“My delivery has been executed.” The bot detached itself from the crate, leaving it two meters inside the vestibule. “I do not accept outside commissions. If this service has been of use to you, please consider rewarding my employers with a plus.”

Machines were impervious to Niko’s stare, but she tried one anyway. “This service has not been of use to me,” she said.

“My employers are sorry you feel that way,” the bot said, and exited.

Niko looked the crate over. Made of white-enameled plasmetal, it floated a few inches above the ground. A sturdy handle on each of the narrower ends provided the means with which to move it. The label simply bore Niko’s full name, along with the address of the restaurant. The orange ticket that would have disclosed its point of origin seemed to have been torn away.

Niko scowled at it and left it where it was.

She found her second-in-command waiting in her office. He silently handed her a sheet of plastic. Looking it over, she raised an eyebrow.

“Eggplant?” she said incredulously. “Where am I going to get eggplant, short of you finding some cut-rate sorcerer? None of the big farm ships grow it, except for the Mannan, and their prices are twice anyone else’s.”