Ruler of Naught by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge

Tallis
during the operation. Anderic had been unable to refuse Barrodagh’s invitation
to watch, fearing that to show any sign of weakness might be fatal. He
shuddered. He didn’t want to think about what it must have felt like.
    The recovery from the eye transplant had been bad enough. A
week in the tank, alternating between dreams of drowning and agonizing neural
alligation sessions. The visual migraines that too often warped the world into
glittering tessellations and sometimes even drained the meaning out of words.
And the first time he’d looked in a mirror after the dressing came off...
    A movement at the navigator’s console drew his attention.
Sho-Imbris quickly dropped his gaze. Anderic thought he knew why, the same
reason he now avoided his own reflection: one blue eye and one brown. He
snorted, feeling both revulsion and amusement—Tallis was a part of him now, for
the rest of his life. I wonder what he feels when he sees my face.
    Sho-Imbris looked up again, addressing a point somewhere to
the right and above Anderic’s head. “Fifteen minutes to terminator, Captain,”
he reported. “We’ll be at minimum altitude at that point, as ordered.”
    “Very good. Get me a status report from the lock crew.”
    The monitor bent to his console with gratifying alacrity, proof
that Barrodagh’s action had been more than the casual cruelty that common
knowledge ascribed to Dol’jhar and its minions. They do everything with a
purpose, even inflicting pain. Certainly the crew of the Satansclaw had been on its best behavior since Anderic posted the vid of Tallis’
operation, as the Bori had suggested. And they remember it every time I look
at them.
    “Lock crew reports ready. Discharge will take place along
the axis of the skip accelerator, as you ordered.”
    Anderic nodded. In a few minutes he’d be enjoying a little
entertainment he’d devised, while at the same time ridding the ship of some of
the chatzy furnishings that had represented elegance to its former captain,
Tallis.
    “Very good. Have them stand by.”
    He took a deep breath. There was only one leak in the seal
on his contentment, and now he would have to confront it. He couldn’t put it
off any longer, for without the aid of the cold intelligence illegally embodied
in the ship, he’d be unable to create the display that he hoped would finally
win Luri as his consort.
    Anderic looked around the bridge. No one was watching him.
He began to tap out the code sequence that would awaken the logos that Tallis
had installed.
    His hand trembled. A logos was the embodiment of evil to one
raised on Ozmiron, but not only was its assistance necessary for the coming
entertainment, its concentrated experience of warfare was also the only thing
that would permit Anderic to captain a warship safely through the
disintegrating Panarchy.
    Fascinated, almost terrified, he watched as the main
viewscreen sprang to life with words and diagrams overlaying the view of
Arthelion and the approaching darkness beyond the terminator. He could hardly
credit the fact that no one else could see them, but sure enough, there was no
reaction from anyone else on the bridge.
    “COMMAND TRANSFER ACKNOWLEDGED. AWAITING ORDERS.” Anderic started
as the dispassionate baritone of the logos sounded inside his head. He blinked,
trying in vain to shift the migraine crosshatching crowding into his vision.
    The buck-toothed little toad named Ninn at Fire Control gave
him a puzzled glance, then hunched over his console.
    Anderic almost turned the logos off. It was worse than he
had imagined: the dead voice of a never-alive intelligence, cousin to the
horrifying Adamantines, whose coldly calculated assaults could only be stopped
by acts of planetary genocide.
    But the memory of Eusabian of Dol’jhar’s harsh face, his
casual cruelty, restrained Anderic’s hand. He had no illusions about his fate
if he defied Eusabian—by comparison, a logos might even be a reasonable
partner.
    Warily he