Marrow m-1

by Robert Reed

  That was the ripe, perfect moment for the Master to appear.

  With ancient commands, she took control of the newly restored corn-networks, and suddenly she was everywhere—a holoimage dressed in a Master’s bright uniform and a bright, well-practised smile, her face even narrower than expected, and her dark gray hair cut very short, and her flesh looking changed by the centuries, as if dirty or tinged with smoke or rust; and her dark walnut-colored eyes, colder than any space, regarded each of her passengers and crew with an expression that fell just short of being comforting, her thin smart smiling mouth opening and then closing again, giving her audience a moment to adjust to her presence before she opened her mouth again, telling them in a quiet strong voice:

  “I am Miocene.

  “On my authority as a First Chair Submaster, I have removed the Master Captain from her office. From her duties. From her long-held chair.

  “Never worry. The woman still lives. Most of her captains are alive. In coming years, you will learn about the depths and scope of their incompetence. In accordance with the ships charter, public trials will be held, and punishments will be just and slow, and the Great Ship will continue to follow its planned course.

  “I will worry for you.

  “If you let me.

  “Your fives need not change. Not today, or in the future. Unless of course you wish to change what has always been yours.

  “As Master Captain, I make that promise to you.”

  Then for a moment, unexpectedly, the eyes gained a sudden warmth—genuine and a little shocking—and the image closed by saying:

  “I love this wonderful ship of ours. I have always loved and cherished it. And I want nothing but to protect the ship, and defend its passengers and good crew, today and until the end of its historic voyage.

  “My son will serve as my First Chair.

  “Word of other postings will follow.

  “This is your Master Captain wishing you a good day, and a wonderful next hundred millennia, my darling friends…”

  Thirty-seven

  A shiny gold bust of the Master Captain was perched at the end of the pearlwood table, its face suffused with a look of serene power and perfect arrogance; and beside the bust, set at a sloppy almost careless angle, was the Master’s own severed head. The long hair was white and tangled. The flesh was soft and badly desiccated, and pale, no trace left of its gold pigments. Some slow anaerobic pathway, not to mention a fantastic rage, allowed the head to open its eyes while the gaping mouth moved with a slow vigor. Without lungs to supply breath, the Master couldn’t so much as whisper. But what she was saying was obvious. Anyone with patience and a talent for reading hps could understand her. “Why?” she was asking.” Miocene, why?” Then after a long pause, she said “Explain.” She said, “For me.” Then she began to say, “Please,” but she was too exhausted to finish the word, and with a soft wet sound, her eyes and mouth pulled themselves shut again, and she descended back into a deep, fitful coma.

  With a cool fondness, Miocene stroked the white hair.

  She gazed up and down the conference table, and after a moment’s consideration, she pointed and called out a name, and one of her staff responded with a crisp, highly officious summary of what had been managed and what they were doing now and everything they intended to accomplish in the critical, wondrous near future.

  “Blessing Gable,” she called next.

  A small, burly woman—born Loyalist, but joining the Waywards as a child—rose from her black chair, then spoke about resistance among the last of the crew. “They still have their stronghold at Port Alpha, and two or three armed bands are operating near Port Denali. But the first group is trapped, and the others are disorganized and short on resources.” She paused for a moment, referring to one of her security nexuses. Then she added, “We just arrested the ones who sabotaged the reactors. Disgruntled engineers, just as you predicted, madam. The repairs, I am told, are well ahead of schedule. What the Builders create refuses to be destroyed easily”

  There were murmurs of approval, and many of her fellow officers repeated, “The Builders,” with the habitual reverence.

  Blessing was a ship’s general. She paused, one hand smoothing the perpetually smooth purple-black fabric of her uniform. Like most of the grandchildren, she didn’t appreciate the art of wearing clothes. It required discipline and new habits. But as Miocene had reminded everyone, time after time, the ship’s passengers expected a certain wardrobe from its crew. Captains and soldiers clothed in their own hair and flesh wouldn’t reassure anyone. And reassurance was an important, even critical task for these next days and centuries.

  Miocene’s First Chair inquired, “How many of their captains are running loose?”

  Blessing said, “Thirty-one. At the very most, sir.”

  Sitting on his mother’s left, Till showed everyone a look of confident concern. Unlike most Waywards, he seemed comfortable in uniform. Splendid, even. Each time Miocene glanced at him—at the bright fabric and the shiny epaulets and the slender, sturdy shoulders ready to accept any burden—she felt a powerful love as well as a withering, almost terrifying sense of pride.

  Till was the perfect First Chair.

  Already knowing the answer, he asked, “Of those thirty-one, who are the most dangerous?” Blessing listed the important names.

  She said “Pamir,” with a dismissive tone. “He’s the highest-ranking officer still at large. But his first-grade status can be misleading. Judging by the Master’s records, the man isn’t well regarded. Not by her or by the other captains. His loyalties are suspect. The Master herself made only sparing use of him.”

  “I remember that one,” said Daen. Then with a quick gesture and a giddy laugh, he added, “I wouldn’t worry. Pamir’s probably hiding in one of his old holes, praying for the next amnesty.”

  Daen was her Second Chair—the same position he had enjoyed before Marrow. But it was a post that he had taken grudgingly, even when he finally admitted that the old Master was inept. Letting a crazy man like Diu acquire so much power, then not finding her captains after nearly five millenia… well, she probably deserved to be unseated. Yet even then, if it wasn’t for his loyalty to Miocene, he wouldn’t have taken part in this ugliness. He had made that point plain on numerous occasions. And in turn, Miocene gave him no important role or linchpin responsibilities. Daen and the other old captains served a single clear, vital purpose: they showed that Miocene was operating legally, and morally, supported by proven souls who thought as she thought.

  Miocene agreed with her Second Chair’s assessment of Pamir; but as usual, Daen ignored certain key points.

  “Regardless what we think of the man,” she countered, “Pamir has talents. And more importantly, he has that first-grade rank. If there’s going to be an organized counterattack, by law and by tradition, Pamir’s the leader. If only as someone’s puppet, he can now be regarded as the ship’s true Master.”

  Her warning had a slow, inadequate impact.

  Daen blinked as if flustered, then admitted, “I just hope it doesn’t come to counterattacks and open rebellion.”

  Other long-term officers agreed with him.

  But Till reminded them and his Waywards, “There isn’t time to worry about one man. Or rebellions that only exist in our fears.”

  Miocene nodded, then deflected the focus. She glanced at another old Submaster, saying, “Twist.” She smiled and asked, “How soon will you have the new nexuses ready to be implanted. In you, and in the others. And in me.”

  Most importantly, me.

  The charming Submaster tried to smile, and failed. “Another fifteen days,” he admitted. “Just in time for the big burn.”

  Stripping away an ancient, byzantine system, full of booby traps and failed policies, then constructing a better system from the rawest ingredients… no, the delays weren’t much of a surprise, nor even much of a disappointment…

  “Pepsin,” said Miocene.

  Aasleen’s gran
dson nodded agreeably, then promised, “You already have full control over the main engines, madam.”

  Miocene let everyone see her smile.

  Then the engineer added, “There were some incidents of sabotage. A few. But what the Builders create is most definitely resilient…”

  “You have enough hands to make repairs?”

  The stocky man nodded, saying, “Yes, madam. I do.”

  He was lying. She sensed it as she nodded, then in the most casual way, she mentioned, “When you come up short, contact Till or me. Every resource will be shoved your way”

  “Thank you, madam. Thank you.”

  Pepsin’s grandmother would have been an enormous help here. But Miocene didn’t allow herself the luxury of making wishes. Aasleen had made her choice, and now she was living a comfortable, dull existence in Hazz City. She’d lived that way since the Waywards took over the Loyalists’ cities and industries. Their invasion—a proving ground for what was happening to the ship today—had come swiftly, with a minimum of blood and discomfort. By the time Miocene was reborn, the Loyalist society was dissolving into the much larger, more potent Wayward culture. By the time she was healthy and whole again, her son could present her with an empire rich in possibility.

  “For you, Mother,” he had whispered into one of her new ears. “This is for you. And I promise, this is nothing but the beginning.”

  Again, Miocene felt compelled to glance at her son, and she couldn’t help but feel singularly blessed. During her rebirth, her son had taught her what was possible. Every question was answered in full. Every doubt evaporated into her love for Till. Then through his love and devotion, Till offered her the ship’s helm. “The Master doesn’t deserve her chair,” he had assured her. “She doesn’t serve the ship as she should, or as you will. Isn’t that true, Mother? Can you argue it otherwise?”

  That was a great, perfect moment.

  Everything about Miocene’s long ambitious life pointed at that epiphany. Her duty was obvious. Indeed, it seemed as if every hardship and wrenching pain were nothing but the careful preparation of her soul, making her ready for what was, for lack of any better word, her destiny.

  “Both of us are Builders reborn,” Till had purred.

  “We are,” she had mouthed, beaming at her only child.

  To Miocene, the Builders were an abstraction. An idea with which she could coexist. No, she didn’t believe that their souls were billions of years old. But clearly, they were the natural ones to take control over this great, wondrous machine. She looked at the hardened souls at this long table. Waywards; Loyalists. She imagined the millions of children born before, then after the merging of those two nations. And there were the captains who had proved themselves during this century-long march toward this moment. Now…

  Till asked, “May I stand now, madam, and have a word?”

  Miocene nodded, then gladly sat in the Master’s oversized chair, letting every eye focus on him.

  For the next few minutes, her son spoke about duty. About the importance of these next days and weeks. He repeated what his mother had already stated emphatically, that it was crucial for the ship’s burn to be made on schedule. They needed to prove to the passengers and to the galaxy that the ship was in proficient hands.

  It was her speech, and it wasn’t.

  As always, Miocene noticed how the faces seemed to drink in her son’s words. Again, she could appreciate why he was able to find followers and motivate them. Even old men like Twist and Daen would nod appreciatively, their fealty having shifted—in some abstract, convoluted fashion—a little closer to the Waywards.

  Then she wasn’t thinking about Till, her eyes focusing on a new captain who had just entered the conference room, bowing at his superiors and taking one of the two empty chairs at the far end of the table.

  Till concluded by saying, “Welcome, Virtue.”

  The one-time traitor from the Wayward camp managed a deeper bow, then said,’My apologies. There was a problem—”

  “With the spine, again?”

  Asked Till.

  “With its borehole, specifically. Sir. Madam. The old hyperfiber has been putting up a tenacious fight.” Gray-white eyes blinked as if embarrassed, then stared at Virtue’s own hands. “Within the week, I can assure you, madam… you will be able to rule the ship from anywhere, including Marrow…”

  At this moment, they were nothing more than a boarding party. A few million highly motivated, thoroughly trained, and well-armed people living far from home.

  “When the spine is finished, integration of command functions won’t take long,” he promised. “Another day, or two. Or perhaps three.”

  Till glanced at his mother. For both of them, he said, “Thank you, Virtue.”

  Miocene barely noticed the exchange. What she was studying was the final empty chair, feeling that instinctive disquiet. When she listened again and heard nothing but patient silence, she leaned forward across the pearlwood table and said, “Locke.”

  She asked, “Has anyone heard from him?”

  No one responded.

  But ever so slightly, Till’s expression tightened. And he quietly admitted, “No, there hasn’t been any news.”

  In the mutiny’s opening moments, without warning, Locke had disappeared. It was commonly known but never discussed. The other captains and generals pretended to busy themselves with details while Miocene whispered to her son, “Do you still think that he’s off chasing his mother’s soul?”

  “Of course,” Till replied.

  What was she hearing in his voice?

  “I know the man,” he continued. “He very much loved Washen, even though he didn’t see her for centuries at a time—”

  It was a love that Miocene could appreciate.

  “And the poor man was wracked by guilt. For what happened, for what he had to do… it was very difficult for him…”

  Locke killed his own father, trying to save his mother. Yet Washen had died regardless. The two Waywards had seen her body torn apart by explosives. Shredded flesh and the dying mind were scattered across a great ocean of liquid fuel, and lost. Every report in the Master’s files documented a long, fruitless search. A solitary Wayward had no chance of finding her. None. Miocene felt certain, yet she had to ask, “Did you send anyone to search the leech habitat? As I suggested?”

  “Naturally,” Till replied.

  “And what did they find?”

  “It was sealed, but there were signs of a struggle,” he admitted, shaking his head with a sudden heaviness. “It’s possible, just possible, that Locke stumbled into an armed guard. The evidence is narrow, but reasonable. There was a fight, and he was killed with his own weapon.”

  She waited for a moment, then asked pointedly, “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  Till blinked. He sighed. Then with a peculiar sadness, he replied, “It didn’t feel like critical news.”

  “If Locke’s been captured—”

  “Mother,” he growled. “Locke is not a danger. You know that.”

  She sat upright in the Master’s chair, staring at that pretty face with all of the coldness that she could summon.

  “He knows nothing,” her son insisted. “His place at this table is honorary. Nothing else. For a long time, I haven’t given him any authority. Because, as I promised, I know him so very well.”

  Do you? she thought, in secret.

  Then her coldness turned inward, and she shivered in invisible ways. After a long moment, she remarked, “You might wish to search the fuel tank itself.”

  “We already have,’Till replied.

  Something about his eyes were flat. Unreadable. Even dead.

  “That tank is huge,” Miocene reminded him.

  “Which is why it took until today to finish our search.” The unreadable eyes wore a smile, and a smiling mouth added, “I sent ten swarms to search—”

  Ten swarms pulled from what duties?

  “And all that they found were aerogel barges
. Scientific instruments packed for shipment. And nothing alive or even a little bit important.”

  “You’re certain?” she asked.

  Till calmly stepped into her trap, telling her,’Yes, madam. I am quite sure.”

  With a harsh, loud voice, Miocene cried out, “But you’ve missed important things in the past. Haven’t you, First Chair? Haven’t you?”

  Her son stiffened.

  The room fell silent, waiting.

  Till forced himself to relax. Then quietly and angrily, he said, “Locke is useless.”

  Ten swarms were an enormous number of soldiers, particularly if you were chasing someone who was useless.

  But Till just kept shaking his head, telling everyone at the long pearlwood table, “Even if he wanted, he couldn’t hurt us.”

  Thirty-eight

  “Don’t worry. It’s just my hand.” The pressure was soft, soothing. “Keep still now, dear. Still.” Who was moving?

  The voice said a familiar name, and with the hand pressing, it complained, “She’s fighting. Me, or something else.” The voice is talking about me.

  Another voice, deeper and more distant, said, “Washen.” Said, “Just he still. Washen. Please.”

  Then a larger hand tried to smother her, pressing over her mouth and nostrils, and the deep voice drifted closer, familiarly intimate, telling her, “We don’t have much time. We’re sprinting you through this regrowth.”

  Regrowth?