by Robert Reed
'With luck,'Washen echoed, knowing it would take a lot of that mecurial substance.
She was steering a large walker. Behind them, the latest incarnation of Happens River was dropping over the horizon. What passed for a road would soon become a starved trail, then nothing but jungle and raw mountains. They were already approaching Wayward lands, yet it would be another two hundred kilometers before the rendezvous. Nobody with an official invitation had ever moved this deep into their territory, and it had been at least three centuries since the uninvited had last passed here.
As the day progressed, Washen kept tabs on the walker's progress. The latest AI pilots still weren't particularly smart or adaptable, and it wouldn't impress anyone to have their machine - the culmination of sixteen centuries of technical wizardry - trip over a piece of mountain, ending up on its back like a clumsy crap bug.
The jungle path lifted up onto a wide, newborn plateau, then vanished. A hard hot rain was falling on the open ground, collecting in little basins and pools where black algae grew in silky blankets. In another year, all of this would be a vigorous young jungle. But which species would dominate? Sixteen hundred years of research gave Washen the expertise to admit that she didn't know how the succession would progress. Not on this ground, or any other. Chemical makeups varied from vent to vent, and even within a single flow. Rains were common but no longer reliable. Little droughts and hard floods could change initial conditions. Plus there was the pure creative randomness of the spores and seeds and eggs that would come here. A chance wind could bring a flotilla of gold balloons that might, or might not, lead to a lofty forest of pure virtue trees. Or the fickle wind would steer the balloons somewhere else. To an established jungle and their deaths, most likely, where hungry mouths waited in abundance. At least a hundred native species loved to chew on the gold foil, incorporating the metal into their own elaborate carapaces, showing the world and their prospective mates both a beauty and a gaudy strength.
Initial conditions were critical. That was essential in jungle ecologies, and in human ecologies, too.
What if Miocene were a better parent? More patient, and nurturing, and just a little more forgiving? If she and Till had been closer, resolving their differences in private, civilized ways, the history of Marrow would certainly have been much quieter. And if she had been a worse mother, she would have murdered her son. Then driven by the other captains' outrage, Miocene would have been ousted, another Submaster named their leader. Daen, perhaps. Or more likely Twist. Which would have radically changed the evolution of their ad hoc civilization . . .
The burden of intelligence: you can always imagine all those wonderful places where you can never belong.
The young plateau gave way to a younger volcanic cone, now sleeping. Dirty iron and nickel had frozen into a rough-faced slag. As the machine scrambled up the naked slope, the rains slackened, and the clouds were shoved far ahead, allowing Washen to glance over her shoulder, looking back across the swollen face of the world.
The sky was dimmer than ever.
As the buttresses weakened, the ambient light fell away proportionally. Still brilliant, but not the same cutting-to-the-bone brilliance. Temperatures were following the same smooth curve downward. Gravity weakened as the world expanded, subtly changing the architecture of plants and mountains and the largest, most important buildings. The atmosphere was growing cooler and quieter but not deeper, since it was spreading across more and more surface area. Likewise, there was only a finite amount of water. The metallic lavas were parched, bringing up nothing but rare earths and heavy metals. Less rain was falling and rivers were smaller, and if these various trends continued apace, there was the promise of long, hard droughts.
Near the horizon, far too small to be seen by the naked eye, was the sky's only flaw. The original base camp still clung to the silvery hyperfiber, its modern buildings and diamond walkways still empty and alone. And in another thirty-four centuries, the camp would remain just as empty, but it would gaze down on a radically different world. The buttresses' light would have fallen away to nothing, revealing a lovely starlike sparkle marking cities and well-lighted lanes.
That was the instant when a person could escape. And thinking that, Washen glanced at the vault again, feeling a cold, unnerving pain.
'We don't know if it's true,' she muttered to herself.
Miocene glanced at her, nearly asking, 'What did you say?'
But the Submaster thought better of it, placing both hands on that ball of smooth gray-white ceramics, the gesture protective, hands and her tilting body conveying a strange fondness for the terrible artifact.
AN UNMAPPED RIVER of iron meant a prolonged detour.
They were an hour behind schedule when they arrived at the appointed clearing. Three in the morning, ship time, according to Washen's silver clock.
The clearing began as a lava plain, but when its molten heart retreated underground, the flat countryside collapsed into a natural amphitheatre. A great flat slab was the stage, and the black iron rose up on all sides, in oversized stairsteps. The shadowless play of the light and the angle of the slopes made everything appear closer than it was. As instructed, Washen parked in the middle of the stage, both captains climbing into plain view, and with two of its jointed limbs, the walker carefully lowered the vault to the iron. Then the first Waywards appeared, mere dots against the blackness. Even trotting at a respectable pace, it took them forever to work their way down the long slope. Besides breechcloths, each wore an ornamental mask made from soft leather stretched over a framework of carved bone. Leather made from their flesh; bone torn from their own enduring bodies. Every mask was painted with blood and with urine. Each showed the same wild, almost fluid face. Like electricity with eyes but no mouth. A Builder's face, Washen recalled. How they had arrived at that imagery, she didn't know. Diu claimed that Till was preyed upon by visions. The Wayward’s leader was convinced that the Builders were visiting him, and in some ways, they were his only true friends.
As the first Waywards approached, they slowed to a dignified walk and lifted their masks back up on top of their heads.
Nearly fifteen centuries had passed since Washen last saw Till. Yet she knew him immediately. She knew him from the drawings and from a captain's crisp memories. But she also recognized his mother in his face and in his measured, imperious stride.
He was a smaller, prettier version of Miocene.
The rest of the party - the finest priests and diplomats and cabinet members — followed at a respectful distance. They were staring at the prize. Washen had plugged an umbilical into the vault, and the walker's generator was feeding it. A smooth living hum came from within, infusing the air with a palpable hint of possibilities.
Only Till wasn't staring at the prize. He watched Miocene. Wariness was mixed with other, less legible emotions. For an instant, his mouth opened. Then he took a quick breath and turned to Wishen, asking, 'May I examine the device?'
'Please,' she told him; she told all of them.
Locke was standing closest to Till. It was a sign of rank, perhaps, and as always, that brought Washen an unexpected pride.
'How have you been, Mother?' he inquired. Always polite; never warm.
'Well enough,' she allowed. 'And how are you?'
His answer was an odd wincing smile, and silence.
Where was Diu? More of the Waywards were climbing up on the stage, and she looked at each man as he lifted his mask, watching their faces, assuming that Diu was somewhere close, hidden by the growing crush of bodies.
Till was kneeling, caressing the vault's slick surface.
Miocene studied him, but her eyes seemed empty. Blind.
A few thousand honored Waywards had gathered around the stage. All were nursing women, each with at least one infant sucking on their swollen breasts. A thick, oddly pleasant scent lay on the breeze. Tens of thousands more streamed out of the jungle, from every direction, moving purposefully and quietly, footfalls and breathing makin
g a sound, soft and vast, like the beating of a distant surf that grew closer. Something about the sound was irresistible, and beautiful, and at the heart of things, frightening.
Among them were Locke's children and grandchildren.
In principle, Washen could have a hundred thousand descendants among these people. Which wasn't a small accomplishment for one old woman who could claim only one child of her own.
The vault's hum grew louder, increased in pitch, then stopped altogether. It was Locke who lifted an arm, shouting, 'Now,' to the multitude.
Everyone else repeated the gesture, the word. A great shared voice rippled its way to the top of the amphitheatre, and then a sudden smear of gold appeared along one edge, expanding rapidly, bright in the skylight as hundreds of strong bodies dragged it forward. Countless golden balloons helped hold the fabric aloft. It was a foil of gold, hectares in size and pounded thin and strengthened . . . how . . . ? Whatever the trick, it was strong enough and light enough to be pulled across the entire amphitheatre, enclosing everyone, creating a temporary, impermeable roof.
The sky fell dark.
Sensing the perfect darkness, the vault opened itself, revealing a new sky and a younger world. Marrow was suddenly barren and smooth, and it was covered with a worldwide ocean of bubbling, irradiated iron.
The audience found itself standing on that ocean, unwarmed, watching an ancient drama play itself out. The Builders' enemies appeared.
Without warning, the hated Bleak squirmed their way through the chamber's walls, emerging from the countless access tunnels - insectlike cyborgs, each one enormous and cold and frighteningly swift. Like angry jackwasps, they dove at Marrow, spitting out gobs of antimatter that slammed into the molten surface. Scorching white-hot explosions rose up and up. Liquid iron swirled and lifted, then collapsed again. In the harsh shifting light, Washen glanced at her son, trying to measure his face, his mood. Locke was spellbound, eyes wide and his mouth ajar, his muscular body drenched with a glossy, almost radiant perspiration. Almost every face and body was the same. Even Miocene was enthralled. But she was staring at Till, not at the spectacle overhead, and if anything, her rapture was worse than the others'. While her son, in stark contrast, seemed oddly unmoved by these glorious, holy images.
A hyperfiber dome burst from the iron.
Lasers fired, consuming a dozen of the Bleak. Then the dome dove under the iron again, whale-fashion.
The Bleak brought reinforcements, then struck again. Missiles carried antimatter deep into the iron, seeking targets. Marrow shook and twisted, then belched fire and searing plasmas. Maybe the Bleak had won, killing the last of the Builders. Maybe the Great Ship was theirs. But the Builders' revenge was in place. Was assured. The Bleaks' forces pressed on, filling the narrow sky with their furious shapes. Then the buttresses ignited, bringing their blue-white glare. Suddenly the monsters seemed tiny and frail. Before they could flee, the lightning storm - the Event — swept across the sky, bright enough to make every eye blink, dissolving every wisp of matter into a plasma that hung overhead as a superheated mist that would persist for millions of years, cooling as Marrow contracted and enlarged again, the world beating like a great slow heart, cooling itself gradually, a temporary crust covering the blistering iron.
A billion years passed in a moment.
The Bleaks' own carbon and hydrogen and oxygen became Marrow's atmosphere and its rivers, and those same precious elements slowly gathered themselves into butter bugs and virtue trees, then became the wide-eyed children standing in the present, in that natural depression, weeping in the deep, perfect darkness.
On a signal, the canopy was torn open, the gold foil splitting and falling in great long sheets that shimmered in the skylight.
Washen opened her watch, measuring the minutes.
Into that wide-eyed present, Miocene called out, 'There is more. Much more.' Her voice was urgent. Motherly. She stared only at Till, explaining, 'Other recordings show how the ship was attacked. How the Builders retreated into Marrow. This lump of iron . . . this is where they made their final stand . . . whoever they were . . . !'
A hundred thousand bodies stirred, making a softly massive sound.
Till wasn't awestruck. If anything, he seemed merely pleased, grinning as if amused by this vindication of a vision that needed no vindication.
For a slim moment, their eyes met. Then obeying some unspoken pact, mother and son looked away again. Indifference in one face; in the other, a wrenching pain.
The pained face glared at the sky. 'We never see the Builders themselves,' Miocene announced. 'But this thing, this gift that Washen and I have brought to you . . . it's given us a better, fuller understanding of the species . . .'
Till contemplated the same sky, saying nothing.
'Listen to me,' Miocene cried out, unable to contain her frustrations. 'Don't you understand? The Event that trapped us here, in this awful place . . . the Event was an ancient weapon. An apocalyptic booby trap that we probably triggered ourselves by sending our teams across Marrow . . . and that might have . . . probably did . . . kill and consume everyone above us, leaving the ship empty, and us trapped here . . . !'
Washen imagined a hundred billion vacant apartments and the long ghosdy avenues and seas turned to a lifeless steam; once again, the ship was a derelict, plying its way blindly among the stars.
If true, it was a horrible tragedy.
Yet Till's reaction was different, singular. 'Who is trapped?' he called out, his voice carrying farther than his mother's, buoyed up with a smooth, unnerving calm. 'I'm not trapped. No believer is. This is exactly where we belong.'
Miocene's eyes betrayed her anger.
Till conspicuously ignored her, shouting to the audience, 'We are here because the Builders called to the captains. They lured the captains to this great place, then made them stay, giving them the honor to give birth to us!'
'That's insane,' the Submaster growled.
Washen scanned the crowd, searching for Diu. Again and again, she would recognize his features in a Wayward's face, or eyes, or his nervous energy. But not the man himself. And they needed Diu. An intermediary with an intimate knowledge of both cultures, he could help everyone . . . and why hadn't Diu been invited to this meeting . . . ?
A cold dread took Washen by the throat.
'I know where you got this nonsense.' Miocene said the words, then took a long step toward Till, empty hands lifting into the air. 'It's obvious. You were a boy, and you stumbled across a working vault. Didn't you? The vault showed you the Bleak, and you hammered together a ridiculous story . . . this crazy noise about the Builders being reborn . . . and you conveniently at the center of everything . . .'
In a mocking, almost pitying fashion, Till grinned at his mother.
Miocene raised her hands still higher, and she spun in a slow circle, a majestic rage helping her scream, 'Understand me! All of this is a lie!'
Silence.
Then Till shook his head, assuring everyone, 'I didn't find any vault or artifact.' He made his own turn, proclaiming, 'I was alone in the jungle. Alone, and a Builder's spirit came to me. He told me about the ship and the Bleak. He showed me everything that this vault contains, and more. Then he made me a promise: when this long day ends, as it must, I will learn my destiny, and your destinies as well . . . !'
His voice trailed off into the enraptured silence.
Locke unfastened the umbilical from the vault, and glancing at Washen, his flat, matter-of-fact voice told her, 'We'll bring the usual payment to Happens River.'
Miocene roared.
'What do you mean? The usual payment . . . ? But this is the best artifact yet!'
The Waywards gazed at her with a barely restrained contempt.
'This one functions. It remembers.' The Submaster was stabbing at the air, reminding everyone, 'The other vaults were just empty curiosities!'
Till said, 'Exactly.'
Then, as if it were beneath their leader to explain the obvious,
Locke stepped forward, telling them, 'Vaults are usually crypts. They hold the Builders' souls. And the ones you sold us were empty because their souls have found better places to reside.'
Till pulled his blood-and-piss mask back over his face again, hiding everything but his bright eyes.
Every Wayward repeated the motion, a great rippling reaching to the top of the amphitheatre. And Washen had to wonder if this elaborate meeting, with all of its pagen-try and rich emotion, was intended not for a hundred thousand devoted souls, but for two old and very stubborn captains.
With his face obscured, Locke approached his mother.
A premonition made her mouth dry.
'Where is he?' she inquired.
Her son's eyes changed. Softened, sweetened.
'His soul is elsewhere now,' he replied, as a Wayward should. Then he gestured at the hard iron ground.
'Elsewhere?'
'Eight years ago. 'There was a sadness in his body and his voice. 'There was a powerful eruption, and he was taken.'
Washen couldn't speak, or move.
A warm hand gripped her by the elbow, and a caring voice asked, 'Are you all right. Mother?'
She took a breath, then told the truth.
'No, I'm not all right. My son's a stranger, my lover's dead, and how should I damn well feel . . . ?'
She pulled free of his hand, then turned away.
Miocene - the cold, untouchable Submaster - dropped to her knees on the hard iron, hands clasped before her weeping face. Their promising mission was ending with this. With Miocene pleading.
She said, 'Till,' with genuine anguish. 'I'm so very, very sorry, darling. I was wrong, hitting you that way . . . and I wish you would try to forgive me . . . please . . . !'
Her son nodded for a moment, saying nothing.
Then as he turned, preparing to leave, Miocene used her final plea.
'But I do love the ship,' she told him. And everyone. 'You were wrong then, and you're still wrong. I love and cherish the ship more than you ever could! And I'll always love it more than I love you, ungrateful little bastard . . . !'