The Greatship

by Robert Reed

  “Do you know what this is?” Perri asked.

  “Do you?”

  “The source,” he said. “The source of our rumor.”

  She shone a second light up and down the tunnel. There was no sign of disabled robots or the detritus left by mapping crews. But the captains could have cleaned up their trash, since captains liked to keep their secrets secret, particularly when it came to curious passengers.

  “This hole is fresh,” Perri said. And when Quee Lee reached toward the edge, he said, “Don’t. Unless you want to cut off a finger or two.”

  The floor was pure hyperfiber—a skin only a few atoms thick at its thickest. Because the stuff was so very thin, the light flickered. What they were trusting with their combined weight was close to nothing, like worn paint stretched across empty air, and the edge of the hole was keener than the most deadly sword.

  “But a robot should have noticed,” she guessed. “If we can see that the floor here is different…”

  “Yeah, I’ve given that some thought too,” said Perri. “We’re about as deep into the Vermiculate as you can go, or so we thought. A few surveyors probably started working above us, and when they were overwhelmed, they stopped and ate the rock and replicated themselves.”

  “Imperfect copies,” she said.

  “Flawed but not badly, and nobody noticed.” He shrugged, enjoying the game without taking anything too seriously. “Whatever the reason, the machine that first crawled into this tunnel wasn’t paying close attention. It didn’t notice what should have been obvious, and that’s why the Ship’s map was incomplete.”

  “Just like the rumor says,” Quee Lee agreed. “Except there isn’t much mystery, because if the captains found something remarkable—”

  “We wouldn’t get within ten kilometers,” Perri agreed.

  With every tool, including her warm brown eyes, Quee Lee examined the floor and the hole and the blackness below.

  Perri did the same.

  And then for the first time in perhaps a hundred years, one of them managed to surprise the other.

  It wasn’t the adventurous spouse who spoke first.

  Pointing down, Quee Lee said, “That hole’s just wide enough for me.”

  “If we string tethers to the ceiling,” Perri mentioned. “And if there’s another floor worth standing on below us.”

  “What about our friends?”

  “I’ll go gather them up,” he began.

  “No.” Then for the second time, she surprised her husband. “We’ll leave a note behind. We can tell them to follow, if they want.”

  Perri smiled at the ancient creature.

  “This is our adventure,” she concluded. “Yours, and mine.”

  3

  What lay below was the same as everything above. The sole difference was that no public map showed these particular cavities and chimneys, and the long tunnels and little side vents always led to a wealth of new places devoid of names. Perri’s navigational kit claimed that they had wandered twelve kilometers before beginning their hunt for a campsite. A series of electronic breadcrumbs led back to the original hole and their left-behind note, and speaking through the crumbs, Quee Lee discovered that her lady-friend and the twins hadn’t bothered to look for them. She mentioned why that might be, and the two enjoyed a lewd laugh. Then following one promising passageway around its final bend, they entered the largest room they had seen in weeks.

  The floor of the room was an undulating surface, like water stirred by deep currents. They selected a spacious bowl of cool gray hyperfiber, and with the camp light blazing beside them, they made love. Then they ate and drank their fill, and at a point with no obvious significance, Perri strolled over to his pack and bent down, intending to snatch some tiny item from one of the countless pockets.

  That was the moment when every light went out.

  Quee Lee was sitting on her memory-chair, immersed in sudden darkness. Her first instinct was to believe that she was to blame. Their camp light was in front of her. Had she given it some misleading command? But their other torches were extinguished, the night total, or perhaps for some peculiar reason her eyes had suddenly decided to go completely blind.

  Then from a distance, with a moderately concerned voice, her husband asked, “Darling? Are you there?”

  “I am.” Perri was blind too, or every one of their lights had failed. Either way, something unlikely had just occurred. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “That it’s ridiculously dark in here,” said Perri.

  Perfectly, relentlessly black.

  “Do you feel all right?” he asked.

  “I feel fine,” she said.

  “I do too.” He was disappointed, as if some little ache might help answer their questions. “Except for being worried, I suppose.”

  Perri’s foot kicked the pack.

  “Darling?”

  “I’m hunting for the echo-catchers.”

  “Good.”

  Then he said, “Found one.”

  She listened for the high squeak of sonar.

  But he said, “Nope. Not working either.”

  She rubbed her eyes.

  “Sing to me,” he said. “I’ll follow your voice.”

  Softly, Quee Lee sang one of the first tunes that she had ever learned—a nursery rhyme too old to have an author, its beguiling lyrics about rowing and time wrapped around a long dead language.

  Moments later, she heard Perri’s soft steps and one deep breath as he settled on the ground directly to her right.

  She stopped singing.

  Then Perri called from off to her left, from some distance, telling her, “Don’t quit singing now. I’m still trying to find you, darling.”

  A long moment brought nothing. The darkness remained silent and unknowable. And then from her right, from a place quite close, a voice that she did not recognize softly insisted, “Yes, please. Sing, please. I rather enjoy that wonderful little tune of yours.”

  4

  Quee Lee began to jump up.

  “No, no,” the voice implored. “Remain seated, my dear. There is absolutely no reason to surrender your comfort.”

  She settled slowly, warily.

  Perri called her name.

  Clearing her throat, Quee Lee managed to say, “I’m here. Here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought I heard–”

  “Yes.”

  “Is somebody with you?”

  Inside the same moment, two voices said, “Yes.”

  Then the new voice continued. “I was hoping that your wife would sing a little more,” it remarked. “But I suppose I have spoiled the mood, which is my fault. Please, Perri, will you join us? Sit beside Quee Lee, and I promise: Neither of you will come to any harm. A little conversation, a little taste of companionship…that’s all I wish for now…”

  Again, with urgency, Perri asked, “Are you all right?”

  How could Quee Lee answer that question? “I’m fine, yes.” Except she was startled, and for many rational reasons, she was scared, and with the darkness pressing down, she was feeling a thrilling lack of control.

  Her husband’s footsteps seemed louder than before. In the perfect blackness, he stepped by memory, and then perhaps sensing her presence, he stopped beside her and reached out with one hand, dry warm fingertips knowing just where her face would be waiting.

  She clung to his hand with both of hers.

  “Sit, please,” the stranger insisted. “Unless you absolutely must stand.”

  Perri settled on one edge of her soft chair. His hand didn’t leave her grip, and he patted that knot of fingers with his free hand. As well as she knew her own bones, Quee Lee knew his. And she leaned into that strong body, glad for his presence and confident that he was glad for hers.

  “Who are you?” asked Perri.

  Silence answered him.

  “Did you disable our lights?” he asked.

  Nothing.


  “You must have,” Perri decided. “And my infrared corneas and nexus-links too, I realized.”

  “All temporary measures,” the stranger said.

  “Why?”

  Silence.

  “Who are you?” asked Quee Lee asked. “And what’s your name?”

  Something here was funny. The laughter sounded genuine, weightless and smooth, gradually falling away into an amused silence. Then what might or might not have been a deep breath preceded the odd statement, “As I rule, I don’t believe in names.”

  “No?” Quee asked.

  “As a rule,” the voice repeated.

  Perri asked, “What species are you?”

  “And I will warn you,” the voice added. “I don’t gladly embrace the concept of species either.”

  The lovers sat as close as possible, speaking to each other with the pressure of their hands.

  Finally, Quee Lee took it upon herself to say, “We’re human, if that matters to you.”

  There was no response.

  “Do you know our species?” she asked.

  And then Perri guessed, “You’re a Vapor-track. Nocturnal to the point where they can’t endure even the weakest light—“

  “Yes, I know humans,” the stranger responded. “And I know Vapor-tracks too. But I am neither. And I am not nocturnal, nor diurnal. The time of day and the strength of the ambient light are absolutely no concern to me.”

  “But why are you down here?” Quee Lee asked.

  Their companion gave no response.

  “This is a remote corner of the Ship,” Perri said. “Why would any sentient organism seek out this place?”

  “Why do you?” was the response.

  “Curiosity,” Perri confessed. “Is that your motivation?”

  “Not in the least.”

  The voice was more male than female, and it sounded nearly as human as they did. But those qualities could be artifacts of any good translator. It occurred to Quee Lee that layers of deception were at play, and what they heard had no bearing at all on what, if anything, was beside them.

  “I could imagine that I am a substantial puzzle for the two of you,” the voice allowed.

  The humans responded with their own silence.

  “Fair enough,” their companion said. “Tell me: Where were each of you born?”

  “On the Great Ship,” Perri volunteered.

  “I come from the Earth,” Quee Lee offered.

  “Names,” the stranger responded. “I ask, and you instantly offer me names.”

  “What else could we say?” asked Quee Lee.

  “Nothing. For you, there are no other polite options. But as a rule, I prefer places that don’t wear names. Cubbyholes and solar systems that have remained outside the catalogs, indifferent to whichever label that a passerby might try to hang on its slick invisible flesh.”

  Quee Lee listened to her husband’s quick, interested breathing.

  After reflection, Perri said, “And that’s why you’re here. This is one place inside the Great Ship that has gone unnoticed, until now.”

  “Perhaps that is my reason,” the voice allowed.

  “Is there a better answer?” Perri asked.

  Silence.

  “You have no name,” Quee Lee pressed.

  The silence continued, and then suddenly, an explanation was offered. “I don’t wear any name worth repeating. But I do have an identity. A self. With my own history and limitations as well as a wealth of possibilities, most of which will never come to pass.”

  They waited.

  The voice continued. “What I happen to be is a government official, one of the harmless and noble followers of rules. But when necessary, I can become a brazen, fearless warrior. Except when my best choice is to be a coward, in which case I can flee any threat with determination and remarkable skill. Yet in most circumstances, I am just an official: The loyal servant to any exceptionally fine cause.”

  “Which cause?” both humans asked.

  “In service to the galactic union,” the entity replied. “That is my defining role…a role which I have played successfully for the last three hundred and seven million years, by your arbitrary and self-centered count.”

  Human hands squeezed, relaxed.

  Quee Lee took it upon herself to confess, “I’m sorry. But we don’t entirely believe you.”

  “You claim you were born on the Earth. Is that true, my dear?”

  She hesitated.

  “‘Earth.’ Your home planet carries a simple utterance. Am I right?”

  She said, “Yes.”

  “I happen to know your small world. But when I made my visit, the stars were completely unaware of that self-given name.”

  “And what do you know about the Earth?” Perri asked.

  “Actually, quite a lot,” their companion promised. Then once again, it fell into a long, long silence.

  5

  Separately, Quee Lee and Perri had come to identical conclusions: The voice was rhythmic and deep, not just easy to listen to but impossible to ignore. Every word was delivered with clarity, like the voice of a highly trained actor. But woven through that perfection were hints of breathing and little clicks of tongues or lips, and once in a great while, a nebulous sound that would leak from the mouth or nostrils…or some other orifice hiding in the darkness. Whatever was speaking to them was slightly taller than their ears, and their best guess was that the creature was sitting on a lump of hyperfiber less than three meters from them. There was mass behind the voice. Sometimes a limb moved, or maybe the body itself. Perhaps they heard the creak of its carapace or the complaining of stiff leathery clothes, or maybe a tendril was twisting back against itself. Unless there was no sound except what the two humans imagined they could hear out in the unfathomable blackness.

  As far as they could determine, their nameless companion was alone. There wasn’t any other presence, or a whisper of a second voice. Somehow the creature had slipped into their camp, perhaps even before the lights died, and neither one of them had perceived anything out of the ordinary.

  Or maybe there was nothing but the voice.

  Sound. Or a set of elaborate sounds, contrived for effect and existing only as so much noise produced by nothing but the unlit air or the fierce motions of individual atoms.

  Somebody could be playing an elaborate joke on the two of them. Perri had many clever friends. A few of them might have worked together, going to the trouble to bring him and Quee Lee into this empty hole, snatching them up in some game that would continue until the fun was exhausted and the lights returned. Quee Lee could envision just that kind of trick: One moment, a mysterious voice. And then just as suddenly, a thousand good friends would be standing around them, congratulating the married pair for some minor anniversary.

  “Is this a special occasion?” Quee Lee asked herself.

  That route seemed lucrative. She smiled, and the nervousness in her body began to drain away. How many months and years of work had gone into this silly joke? But she had seen through all of the cleverness, and she even considered a preemptive shout and laugh, perhaps throwing out the names of the likely conspirators.

  Meanwhile the creature continued to explain what might not be real. “My preferred method of travel is to move alone, and always by the most invisible means. This is standard behavior for officials in my station. We will finish one task in some portion of the Union, and that success brings another task to bear. Since news travels slowly across the galaxy, entities like ourselves are granted considerable freedom of action. No other organization is confident enough to tolerate such power in their agents.”

  “What kind of tasks?” Perri asked.

  “Would you like an example?”

  “Please.”

  “I am thinking of a warehouse that I had built and stocked—a hidden warehouse in an undisclosed location. And in the very next moment, I was dispatched to my next critical mission.”

  “A warehouse,” said Perri.


  “Not a romantic word, I grant you. But it was, and is, a vast, invisible facility full of rare and valuable items. I haven never returned to the site, but it most likely remains locked and unseen today. Idle but always at the ready. Waiting for that critical, well-imagined age when its contents help with some great, good effort. But that is the Union’s way: We have an elaborate structure, robust and overlapping, enduring and invincibly patient; which is only natural, since we are the oldest, most powerful political entity within this galaxy.”

  “The Union,” Perri said dubiously.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you didn’t approve of names.”

  “I offer it because you expect some kind of label. But like any contrivance, ‘the Union’ doesn’t truly fit what is real.” A smug, superior tone had taken hold, but it was difficult for the audience to take offense. After all, this was just a voice in the night, and who could say what was true and what was sane?

  “Simply stated, my Union is a collection of entities and beliefs, memes and advanced tools, that have been joined together in a common cause. And what you call the Milky Way happens to be our most important possession—the central state inside a vast, ancient empire.”

  “No,” Perri said. “No.”

  Silence.

  Quee Lee felt her husband’s tension. Leaning forward, she told their companion, “There are no empires.”

  A long black silence held sway, and then came a sound not unlike the creak of a joint needing oil.

  “Many, many species have tried to build empires,” she continued, naming a few candidates to prove her knowledge of the subject. “The galaxy’s first five sentient races accomplished the most, but they didn’t do much. The galaxy is enormous. Its planets are too diverse and far too numerous to be ruled by a thousand governments, and star travel has always been a slow, dangerous business. When one species rises, it gains control only a very limited region. Measure the history of empires against the life stories of suns and worlds, and even the most enduring régime is a temporary and tiny.”