by Robert Reed
Washen didn’t have the luxury of feeling clever. Instead, she dropped to her knees in front of Locke, forcing him to look at her eyes. “Till knew about Diu’s secret caches. Didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“How? Did he see your father using them?”
Locke hesitated, considering. “When Till was young, just after his first visions, he found a cache. Found it and watched it, and eventually, Diu climbed out of it.”
“What else did he know?”
“That Diu was feeding him the visions. Diu was telling the stories about the Builders and the Bleak.”
She had to ask, “But why did Till believe any of it?”
A chiding look was followed by a sharp warning. “Father was an agent, he realized. A vessel.” Locke shook his head, adding, “The steel bowl doesn’t have to believe in the water that slakes a man’s thirst.”
“Granted,” said Washen.
“The day the Waywards were born…?”
“What about it?”
“That valley, that place I took you to… the hyperfiber cache was tucked inside one of those crevices… and we walked right past…”
Washen said nothing.
“I didn’t know. Not then.” A bitter little laugh leaked out of him. “Years before, Till asked his mother about security systems. How they worked; how they were fooled. Miocene thought it was good captainly knowledge, so she taught him. Then Till climbed inside the cache and convinced its AI that he was Diu, and he rode it into Marrow. Down beneath all that wet iron, and the heat, he found the machinery that powers the buttresses.”
Quiedy, Washen said, “All right.”
“That’s where almost all our power comes from,” said her son. “The core is a matter-antimatter reactor.”
“Have you seen it?” she asked.
“Just once,” he replied. Then he reminded Washen, or maybe himself, “Till trusts me. After we returned to Marrow, and after Miocene was reborn, he took us down there. To show us the place. To explain what he knew, and how. All of it.” Another pause. “Miocene was thrilled. She had a conduit built that taps the energies. She claims that the reactor, once its fully understood, will transform the Milky Way, and humanity, and each of us.”
“Does that place offer answers?” Washen asked. “Does it tell us anything new about the Great Ship?”
Locke shook his head, disappointment rimmed with anger.
With a pitying voice, he said, “Mother,” and stared at her eyes. He stared and sighed, and as if addressing a small child, he asked her, “If Marrow hides inside the ship, and if this machinery hides inside Marrow… then what makes you think these mysteries ever come to an end…?”
“There’s something even deeper?” she sputtered.
A quick, tight nod.
“Have you seen that?
Again, he looked at his toes. “No,” he admitted. Then after a few deep breaths, he said, “Only Till has been that deep. And maybe, I suppose, Diu.”
“Your father-?”
“He was also Till’s father,” Locke blurted. “Till always suspected it. In secret. And in secret, he had our best gene-delvers decipher the genetics. Just to be sure.”
Washen silently absorbed the newest revelation.
Then she asked, “Is that everything you want to tell me? Till’s your half brother, and the ship’s full of mysteries?”
“No,” Locke replied.
He looked up at the towering mushrooms and gray hints of the hyperfiber roof, and with a weary anguish, he admitted, “I have certain thoughts. Doubts. For the last century, since I killed Diu… I’ve listened to Till’s plans, and Miocene’s, and I’ve helped meet all the deadlines, and I’ve watched what they’ve done to Marrow, and its people… a place I don’t even recognize anymore…’ Locke took a deep full breath, then said it. “When I look inside myself, I wonder.”
Down came his eyes, desperate for their mother.
But Washen refused to embrace him again. She stood and stepped back, and finally, with a slow and hard and pitiless voice, she asked, “Are you one of the Builders?”
The gray eyes pulled shut.
“That’s what you’re asking yourself. Isn’t it?” Then she gazed up at the sky, saying, “Because if you’re not the good souls of Builders reborn, by accident or by design… maybe you and Till and the rest of the Waywards… “Maybe you’re the Bleak reborn…!”
Forty-four
Every face was elaborate and utterly unique, and each had a sturdy, unexpected beauty that always became obvious with time.
Pamir watched the faces and listened to the watery voices.
“It was my decision. My plan. My responsibility.” Orleans’s mouth smiled, and his amber eyes changed shape, creating mouth-shaped patterns that mimicked his smile. “I accept the blame, and your punishment. Or your praise and blessings. Whichever verdict you, in your wisdom, wish to deliver.”
Most of the Remoran judges appeared uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because Pamir might be misreading their expressions. One old woman—a direct descendant of Wune, their founder—quoted the Remoran codes. “The ship is the greatest life. Injure its vitals, and you surrender your own life.” Her single eye, like a ruby floating on yellow milk, expanded until it half filled her faceplate. Then the compressed mouth added, “You know our codes, Orleans. And I remember two occasions when you carved the life-suit off another offender… for crimes less serious than disabling one of the main engines…!”
Perhaps a hundred judges and elders shared the diamond building. There were no airlocks, and not so much as a breath of atmosphere. Two doorways opened onto public avenues where hundreds of citizens fought for the chance to see this semi-secret trial. Every officious sound was a scrambled broadcast. Unlike Pamir, the audience could only measure the proceedings by watching faces.
Another elder rose to her feet, and into the angry buzz, she said, “Another code applies. Wune’s first and most essential code, as it happens.”
Together, in a shared voice, Remoras chanted, “Our first duty is to protect the ship from harm.”
The speaker’s blue face seemed to nod, and her musical voice offered, “This could be Orleans’s defense, if he chooses. Harm is harm, whether it comes from an impacting comet or a dangerous leadership.” Her helmet pivoted, and she asked the defendant, “Is this your argument, Orleans?”
“Absolutely,” he cried out.
Then he glanced at his companion, signaling him by swirling his eyes on their stalks.
As planned, Pamir stepped forward. “Distinguished citizens,” he proclaimed. “I ask to address the court.”
His lifesuit contained an electronic signature. As Remoras did with each other, a glance was enough to give his name, rank, and official status.
The one-eyed elder grumbled, “Is this appropriate? A wanted criminal defending a captured criminal?”
But a third elder—a small round fellow with a red-furred face—growled at her, saying, “Sarcasm later. Talk, Pamir. I want to hear you.”
“There isn’t time,” the captain agreed. “Wayward squads are coming. They want Orleans, but they’ll be thrilled to find me, too.”
The one-eyed woman grumbled, “Good.”
“I wish there was time,” Pamir continued. “For reflection. For a great debate. For a wise decision rendered by everyone. But every moment makes the Waywards stronger. Every minute, another steel ship rises up from Marrow, bringing soldiers and munitions and a set of beliefs that are laughable, and narrow, and indifferent to the wishes of every Remora.”
He paused a half-instant, checking with a security nexus, measuring the Waywards’ steady progress.
Then to the beautiful faces, he said, “I don’t want to be the Master Captain. But the rightful Master is dead, or worse. And I’m the ranking officer. According to the ship’s charter, I am its Master, and Miocene is a treasonous pretender. And since I’m parading the obvious here, maybe I should remind you.” He glanced at One-eye, then everywher
e else. “For more than a hundred millenia, you’ve served the ship and its charter, just as you’ve served Wune’s faith. With devotion and bravery. And what I want from you now—what I am asking for, begging for—is this:
“Resist the Waywards. On my authority as the momentary Master Captain, give them nothing. Not your cooperation, or your resources, or any of your expertise. Is that too much to ask?”
An unnerving silence descended.
Then One-eye stated the obvious. “Miocene is going to be very unhappy. And these Waywards are sure to respond—”
“Then we’ll respond, too,” growled the blue-faced woman.
Every judge spoke, crowding into the same secure channel, the noise defiant and worried, angry and sad. But defiance seemed loudest, and knowing that emotions can change in the beat of any heart, Pamir chose that moment to shout out:
“Will you pronuse me? To give them nothing?”
A quick vote was taken.
Two of three Remoras nodded, saying, “Agreed.” Then Pamir made the next logical step. He said, “Good. And thank you.”
If he was going to escape the Waywards, he was going to have to slip away now. But instead of fleeing, Pamir stepped into the middle of the blister-shaped building, and again, quietly, he repeated the admonition, “Give them nothing.”
Then with the heavy grace of his lifesuit, he bent his legs and dropped to the floor, sitting on the smooth gray hull of the Great Ship.
Wayward teams were forcing their way through the bystanders. Pamir heard the broad-band squawk of sirens and saw bright helmets parting to let them pass. But he remained sitting, like the elderly judges and Orleans, showing a grim, determined face, spending those last moments reminding himself that he had done a few things just as stupid as what he was doing now.
But very few, and always for himself. No one else riding the risk.
Another harsh squawk caused the last civilians to scatter, and purple-black lifesuits emerged from the chaos, marching through the doorways with lasers held high and hard gray faces showing behind the faceplates—the descendants of lost captains, their strong features laid over a tough, uncompromising nature.
The soldiers’ armor was light, and their weapons could have been stronger. Miocene, or someone, was showing a calculated restraint.
Pamir took a deep breath, and he held it deep.
Two of the Wayward teams blocked the open doors. A third discovered an unregistered staircase leading into the city’s basement. The final two teams found Orleans, their lasers kept high but ready as they scanned him, then as they examined the other Remoras.
“On the authority of the Master Captain—” a Wayward began.
“Whose authority?” dozens of voices replied, in a sloppy chorus.
“We take this man into custody—”
A taunting laugh broke out from some, while other Remoras remained silent. And One-eye shook her head, cautioning, “We should do as they want.”
With a blurring voice, the Wayward listed other suspected saboteurs. Then with his free hand gesturing and his urgent voice breaking, he told his soldiers to hurry their scans. “Fast, and right!’ he barked. “Fast, and right!”
But the rest of Orleans’s crew was missing. Soldier after soldier said as much, their grim faces suffused with a toxic mixture of excitement and fear and an instinctive disgust. It took two scans, then a naked-eye stare through the faceplate for someone to say, “This isn’t one. Like the others, Look, sir.”
Pamir forced a grin, and finally, he let his spent breath slip out of his mouth.
A slow, astonished expression spread across the Wayward’s face. And after a little gasp, he said, “It’s that missing first-grade, sir. It’s Pamir!”
The ranking Wayward turned, and said nothing.
Every soldier felt surprise, then a wild, unexpected elation that ended when the blue-faced Remora announced.’This is the Master Captain. Our guest, in our home. Which means—”
“Take him!’ the ranking Wayward cried out.
Half of the Remoras screamed, “No!”
The Wayward pointed his weapon, warning everyone, “Stand out of our way, or I’ll cut you out of your fucking shells! Am I understood?” Plainly.
One-eye was sitting on a standard Remoran squirt-pack. She had volunteered for the duty, arguing that even if she didn’t agree with the vote, it had been taken, and perhaps the soldiers wouldn’t scan her as closely as some. The pack’s safeties were dismantled. Its vents were permanently closed. When she kicked it into the center of the room, the Remoras and Pamir remained sitting, doing nothing but turning toward the rounded wall, putting their armored packs between them and the makeshift bomb.
The explosion was silent, then otherwise.
Pamir was still on the hull, head thrust between his knees, and the sudden blast smacked him across the slick grayness, bouncing him against Remoras and soldiers, and finally, one shoulder slamming into the diamond wall.
The building filled with a temporary, scorching atmosphere. Standing bodies were flung hardest, and lasers were ripped loose, and in the next seconds, in that purposeful mayhem, new hands grabbed the lasers, their safeties instantly rendering them harmless.
Pamir staggered to his feet.
His left knee was shattered, but the suit’s servos made the leg carry him. He screamed, “Orleans,” three times before the welcome figure appeared next to him, then sprinted ahead, the Remora flinging himself down the staircase.
A laser blast emerged, punching through the rounded ceiling.
Then the soldier was wrestled down, her weapon yanked free, and Orleans waved and called out, “This way,” and sprinted along a narrow, barely lit hallway. His lifesuit was punctured. Pamir saw a white fountain of leaking vapor. Orleans’s self was dissipating into the vacuum. But not too quickly, thought Pamir. More hope at work than any expertise.
The hall divided three ways.
Left, right. And straight down.
Orleans turned, and in a gesture old as humankind, he placed one of his gloved fingers to his rubbery mouth. “Quiet,” he was saying.
Orleans dove into the black bottomless hole. Feet first, Pamir followed.
In that perfect darkness, there was no sense of falling. The body felt nothing of its own rapid acceleration, and rime seemed to slow, and Pamir was trying to relax, readying himself for a distant floor, when a voice suddenly, unexpectedly whispered into his ears.
“Pamir?” said the voice. “Can you talk?”
Washen.
“Can you hear me, Pamir?”
He didn’t dare use even a scrambled channel. Someone might hear his convoluted bark, then trace the source. But maybe Washen realized as much, because she kept talking, making it feel as if they were falling together.
“I’ve got news,” she reported. “Our friend has helped, and will help us…”
Good.
“But I need to know,” she continued. “Will our other friends assist? Have they agreed to fight with us?”
Just then, something powerful struck the hull.
For a screeching instant, Pamir brushed against the shaft wall. The entire hull was rippling under the impact. Then he was tumbling through space again, free of weight, momentarily functioning as a tiny, tiny starship… and he closed his eyes, remembering to breathe, then telling Washen, and himself, “The Remoras will fight.”
He whispered to her, “We’ve got ourselves a war.”
THE BLEAK
My perfect, eternal solitude shattered by a wealth of stars, and by life, boisterous and abundant life, and it felt as if this was how it had always been. Skies filled with suns and living worlds, and the life within me fat and steady, prosperous beyond need or reasonable want, and how could it be any other way? Life peaceful, more than not. Life punctuated with great loves and endurable defeats. Life conjuring children out of semen and egg, software and cold crystals, and those children racing through their fresh-scrubbed incarnations with an innocent zest that alway
s eroded into the steady cool pleasantness that is a mark of maturity that time, under its tireless hand, forces upon each of us.
I had nearly forgotten Death.
Not as a theory, never. As a principle and occasional tragedy, I couldn’t help but think of that great balancer. But as hard practicality—as the simple inevitable consequence of Life—Death seemed as left behind as my ancient, much treasured solitude.
Or perhaps I never actually knew Death.
To me, Her face appears grim and self-assured, yet unexpectedly beautiful. That beautiful face rests on a tall body growing stronger as the carnage worsens, and more lovely. A body that feeds on one soul or ten million souls, choosing her mouthfuls with a fickle maliciousness sure to leave the living wondering:
“Why not me?”
“Why am I still here, alone?”
I hear their voices. From my skin come murmurs. Shouts. Coded ticks and great white roars of EM noise, and always, lovely Death drinks in their glorious misery.
“Abandon your station… now…!”
“Attack… now…!”
“Do you see them… no… not yet, no…!”
“Hold—”
“Not there, you need to be… by the patch-and-pray shop… do you see, no…!”
“Retreat—!”
“Casualties… in excess of… eleven million in the bombardment, and twenty million displaced into basements…”
“They ambushed us at the assembly point, with machine-shop nuclears…”
“Kill me. If it comes to it.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Casualties eighty percent. Swarm still functioning.”
“Fall back, and dig…!”
“We have a reactor sabotaged. Off-line. Request engineers.
How about it? A quick screw?”
“Prisoners will be assembled here. Ranked according to their likely knowledge here. By me. Then taken home for interrogation, or disposed by standard means…”
“Fanatics.”
“Maniacs.”
“Soulless fucks.”
“How about a really quick fuck?”
“Come see, come see! I want to show all of you. These are cyborgs, my friends! Much as the Bleak were! Nothing but machines with odd guts shoved inside them. Here, touch their guts. Touch them, and smell them. Make yourselves clothes with this odd flesh. Cut up their shells for trophies. Machines and meat, and a great evil, and nothing else. I promise you-!”