by Greg Bear
Martin hesitated by the door, then passed through, walked down the hall, found a main shaft and laddered outward to the level where he would meet with Hans.
Hans was seldom in his quarters. He slept where exhaustion took him; he slept rarely, some said, exercising or researching for several days before finally collapsing in a corridor in a makeshift bed he carried in the backpack that was always with him.
Martin found him in the swim room. The water lay slowly rippling on the floor now. Hans lay back in the water up to his neck, pushing it toward one wall with broad sweeps of both arms. The water bounced from the wall and washed over his head, bounced from the rear wall and bobbed him up gently as he swam toward the edge of the pool.
Martin watched the water’s behavior for a moment as if it were completely unfamiliar. Hans stepped out and toweled off. He finished by tousling his short blond hair. It stood up in insolent spikes.
“The past Pans think we should confront the moms and ask for full disclosure,” Martin told him.
“Do what Ariel wants?” Hans asked.
“I suppose.”
“Poor Martin,” Hans said, chuckling. “What a grind.”
“Don’t worry about Ariel,” Martin said, irritated.
Hans pasted the towel on the wall to dry, flinging it up so that it spun flat and its wetness made it stick, and when it started to slip down, deftly pinned it with a ladder field. Even in full g, Hans was incredibly skillful in subtle physical acts; he had the best control of any of the children. On Earth, he might have become an acrobat.
“Any suggestions how I go about it?” Martin asked.
“Spring it on the moms at a tenday conference,” Hans said. “Unless they’re listening and already know. In which case, they ignore us, or they do something.”
“The moms don’t eavesdrop.”
Hans made a face but did not accuse Martin of naivete.
“God damn it, they don’t,” Martin said. “They have no reason to.”
Hans put on his overalls, his face slightly pink at Martin’s tone. “If you say so, brother,” he said tightly. “I just think they’d want to keep track of everything we do. Zookeepers and all that. They’re responsible for us—or at least responsible for seeing that we get our Job done, according to the Law, and if I were them, dealing with a bunch of Wendys and Lost Boys, I’d sure as hell want to keep tabs on us.”
Martin stood back as Hans walked by. Hans lifted his arms, shook his head. “But you believe them, that’s okay.”
Martin was speechless. “Has everybody on this ship gone flat cynical?” he asked.
Hans turned on him swiftly, pointing a finger. “Everybody feels bad and confused. What if we slick this whole Job? Who’s to blame? You’re Pan.”
Martin said, without hesitation, “I am.”
Hans stared, then grinned. “We are the leaders, brother. You and me. Maybe they’ll cook us and eat us. The children, I mean, not the moms. But hell, I think it’s a good idea we ask for… full disclosure, is it? I call it full partnership. My father was a businessman. Sold cars. I remember him talking about confidence and trust. He said he had to believe what he was doing was good for the customer, that they were actually partners, or he couldn’t convince them. Even if he didn’t tell the truth, he had to think he was while he was selling… I was ten. The Benefactors didn’t think he deserved to…” He lifted his eyes and didn’t finish. “Let’s go for it.”
Martin put a finger to his cheek and rubbed gently at the light bristle there. He hadn’t shaved in two days; still not much of a beard.
“Together,” Hans said. “More impact that way.”
“Not together,” Martin said.
“Why not?” Hans appeared puzzled.
“Because I’m Pan,” Martin said, looking away from him.
Hans rubbed his nose. “Better you than me, brother.”
Martin sat alone in his cubicle within the darkened quarters, wand in hand, concentrating. What were their limits? How much had they been told, and how much had they simply neglected to ask? It was time to find out, before he went to the moms and made a fool of himself.
“Strategy discussions,” Martin told the wand. A list of possible topics floated in the air before his face and he picked two: Armor and Deception in Deep Space Warfare, and Galactic Ecology and Galactic Defense Strategy. He had studied both topics before; nearly all the children had. Theodore had recorded some useful glosses. But no one, to his knowledge, had actively pursued the question of where these literary and visual productions had originated.
Martin asked, “Authors and sources, please.”
The wand projected: Authors and sources not relevant.
“I’d like to know anyway. As Pan. As leader for the children.”
Authors and sources: Translations and reinterpretations of materials devised by civilizations signatory to the Law.
“More details, please. Which civilizations? When?”
Not relevant.
“I’m demanding the answer, not asking for it,” Martin said, still calm, but understanding even more Ariel’s frustration. He had never tried this before; in his ignorance he had been content not to upset his preconceptions.
The basic texts and corresponding sensory additions were created three thousand four hundred years ago. A single civilization was responsible for the primary sources; other civilizations added to them, and adapted them. Names of the actual authors of the primal texts are not known.
“What was the first civilization like?”
Martin had asked for details about a good many civilizations, and had always been curious about the general nature of the answers, but not so curious as to seem disrespectful. Now it had been made his duty.
The originating civilization was severely damaged in a conflict involving offshoot spacefaring relations.
“Offshoots? You mean, its own colonies? Detail, please.” Martin tensed his jaw muscles as he waited for a reply.
Yes, its own colonies. Further details are not known to this source.
He had never pushed so far, and therefore, never received such an answer.
“Open another source, then,” Martin said, taking a wild chance. “Another library or whatever.”
Please refer to the moms.
“I’m asking now,” Martin said. “These facts are important to us. We need psychological insight.”
Details of civilizations participating in the Law are not relevant to your Job.
“I say they are,” Martin pursued, his voice rising. “I am Pan.”
Please refer to the moms.
There it was, then. The wall Ariel and others had doubtless hit. Martin could see why the moms were secretive about some things; the civilizations signatory to the Law could easily imagine another round of death and destruction if their whereabouts and the details of their defenses were known.
Earth had been an easy target because of innocent radiation of energy into space, its baby-bird cheeping in the unprotected tree branch of the solar system.
Martin felt a weary sadness, an echo of all the sadness he had known since Earth’s death. Was there ever a point in the scale of galactic civilizations when strangers could trust each other? Did civilizations ever develop sufficient scruples that not one of them would think of creating machines of mass destruction?
Perhaps; but humans were certainly not on that level.
Martin’s reading of human history easily led him to imagine planet-destroying probes created by his people, and turned against others. And if he could imagine it, the moms could imagine it as well.
What sort of equality could exist between children and Benefactors under those circumstances?
Martin waited in the empty schoolroom, uneasy, a tic in his left eye, simple nerves. He stood near the sphere. The stars appeared normal now, and the sphere was offering an unaltered view in the direction of Wormwood, which he could make out even without help as a slightly brighter spot of light among the myriads. Brighter still was th
e red burn of Behemoth. Leviathan was not visible from this angle.
The War Mother entered.
“Hello, Martin,” it said. “How are the children?”
“Fine, physically. A few social problems. Some aren’t meshing perfectly.” He always seemed to optimize the situation, making it sound better than he actually thought it was. Was this part of what Ariel might have called toadying to the moms?
“Have you developed plans for further training?”
He swallowed. “No,” he said. “We feel stymied.”
“Why?”
“We can’t do the Job without knowing what might be waiting for us down there.”
“All the information you need is being provided as we receive it.”
“I mean background,” Martin said. “Information about other civilizations, other incidents—how the strategies were created, how we can adapt them to suit our needs… I mean, to adapt them, we have to…” He swallowed again. For a Pan, he was not showing much fortitude. “You have to trust us with all your information. We’re calling for full disclosure.”
To Martin’s surprise and concern, the War Mother did not speak for several long seconds. “The information provided should be adequate,” it finally answered.
“We’re being asked to show independent thought, to devise our own strategies… and the libraries aren’t detailed. How did others fight against the planet-wreckers? How did your builders fight them?”
More seconds of silence. Surely it did not need so much time to compute or think of an answer.
“Your requests cannot be met,” the War Mother said. “The information you require is dangerous.”
Martin was astonished by the word “dangerous.” That doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“Cooperation was required to build the Ships of the Law. To encourage the cooperation of many civilizations and beings, certain precautions were necessary, among them, that security would be maintained. Ships of the Law might be captured, and their information used to seek out and harm those who built the ships.”
Martin had never thought of being captured; it had seemed, from the very beginning, that at least the children were safe, traveling in a Ship of the Law, the ultimate power, the belated victor of the war that had destroyed Earth. But of course that was not a war—just a battle. Probably an unimportant battle, at that.
Martin was not about to budge. “We need to have all your information shared with us.”
“Surely you hope to survive this mission,” the War Mother said.
“Of course.”
“Martin, if your brothers and sisters survive, you, too, could be dangerous. If you are given such information, you also might seek the builders of these instruments.”
Martin swallowed hard. “We cannot create strategies out of nothing. I’ve asked questions that need to be answered, and received no answers.”
“You have worked with the best information available. There are simply no clues to where the Benefactors might be found. The information you need is available. Use it.”
“I’ve been told—”
“You are Pan,” the mom said.
He swallowed harder, and his tongue seemed to grow thick. “We’ll stand down.”
“What is ‘stand down’?” the mom asked.
“We’ll refuse to enact the Law.”
“If that is your choice, the ship will change from its present course.”
Martin relaxed his clenched fists. He was not angry with the moms; he was not angry with the children. With regard to himself he felt nothing. He looked away from the copper-bronze robot, seeing too clearly how naive they all were.
“We’re just asking to be trusted,” Martin said, working to keep his voice level.
“We are not empowered to trust or not to trust. Nor can we give you information that this ship does not carry. We cannot do the impossible, Martin.”
He felt ill and exhausted. Why had he let the children put him up to this? Because he was Pan, and represented them? That didn’t seem at all sufficient to explain his predicament and his misery.
“Why were we sent on this mission when we don’t have the information we need to complete it?” He sounded petulant and petty, and he hated it.
“What you lack is information that our builders think you will not need.”
Martin’s mind worked furiously to find a chink in this thick armor of logic. I would have designed the ship the same way! We all would have!
“But the ship carries information about Earth. If it’s captured, they could—the Killers could—”
“This Job would be impossible if you did not have access to your culture, your history and planetary memories.”
“You’d risk our solar system, but you will not risk your… makers? Your planet, or planets?”
“That is the way it must be.”
Another wall, huge and unyielding; two walls actually, closing with him between. “We feel inadequate to do the Job,” he said softly, eyes turned away.
“Go back to the others and tell them they are not inadequate. They have the resources they need.
“There is, in this ship, something that goes beyond knowledge, that is hidden in its structure and the way it operates, which allows this ship to judge with high accuracy the chances of a mission’s success. Call it a mechanical instinct. Your people are very capable. Tell them.”
Martin lifted his head and stepped back. “I’ll try,” he said.
His face was red as he left the schoolroom. He had been maneuvered into presenting a case without believing it himself. That showed his weakness as a leader. Failing to get what he had been sent to get would make him seem weak in the eyes of some children—Ariel in particular. But he did not care what she thought.
What would Theresa think? And William?
What would Rosa Sequoia think? Rosa, who needed a strong leader to draw her back into the group?
Sitting on the edge of a table, Martin finished his crew report, the most difficult few minutes in recent memory. Most of the children—seventy-two of them—sat in the main cafeteria, the only space besides the schoolroom large enough to hold them all at once.
The ship’s deceleration had hastened and they now faced a steady two g’s. They were tired and they listened to his report quietly.
“That’s it,” he concluded, looking from face to face to keep direct visual contact with as many as he could. Then he gave that up; it might make him seem nervous. Instead, he focused on four or five in the front ranks.
Hans Eagle and Erin Eire sat in the front row. Hans’ expression was quizzical. Erin cradled her cat, a fat gray thing with exhausted, bored eyes and matted fur.
“Did you argue with them?” someone asked from the middle. Martin looked up quickly and tried to spot the face, but answered before he had identified Terence Sahara.
“I did my best to present our case,” he said. “Either we believe them, or we don’t. And if we don’t believe them…” He let the question hang.
Theresa sat on a bench to his right. He glanced at her; she smiled support. William, on the opposite side, about one third back into the crowd, sat with hands behind his head, elbows like stubby wings, eyes closed.
No one stood against the oppressive force; no one exerted themselves more than they absolutely had to.
“It’s frightening,” Erin Eire said. She swallowed; even speaking seemed tiring. “We thought they were all-wise, all-knowing. If the Ship of the Law doesn’t know, then the machines that saved us probably didn’t know, either… don’t know.”
“What do the Benefactors know? Anything?” Jack Sand asked.
Felicity Tigertail, in the front row—Martin’s first lover, back on the Central Ark, during a brief two-day tryst—raised her hand as if she were in school. Martin nodded to her. Her arm was bruised, he noted; they all had bruises from such casual actions as letting arms drop. She lowered her arm cautiously.
“We’re lost if we don’t believe them,” she said. “We have
to believe them. That should be obvious.”
“We don’t have to believe anything,” Ariel said from the rear, voice loud to rise above the murmuring. She sounded harsh, angry. Martin wondered where she got her energy to stay angry. “We have to ask questions. We should continue to ask questions! I think this is bullshit. They can defend themselves against the kind of machines that destroyed Earth! Why worry about what information they carry? The moms—the Benefactors—are simply afraid of us. They don’t want us to know anything about them or their makers.”
Martin started to speak, but Paola Birdsong, in the middle of the group, shouted out first, “Hold it! Does anybody here have enough imagination to see what the moms are really saying? Martin, do you know what they’re telling us?”
“They’re not all-powerful,” Jack Sand said.
“I’m asking Martin!” Paola insisted.
Martin looked out over the group from his seat on the table top, then with great effort stood up, holding his hands behind his back. The table seemed very high. If he fell, he could break a leg. Or his neck. “They seem to say there are hunter-killers out there from civilizations much more technologically advanced than the one—or ones—that built the Ships of the Law.”
“It never ends! Nobody ever learns!” Erin Eire cried out. Her cat tried to crawl away in distaste. “Nobody ever grows old enough to be kind or wise!”
“Hold it,” Martin said, raising his hand. Noise rippled through the children, words of shock and dismay. “Hold it! Quiet!” he shouted hoarsely.
“Quiet!” Hans repeated, his voice like a bear’s growl in the cafeteria space.
The children quieted. Ariel stood and lumbered from the room, followed by two others whose faces Martin didn’t catch in the rear gloom.
“To get agreement to build these machines, the Benefactors have to guarantee security. Safety. They need to know that sending the ships and machines out won’t backfire and lead bigger wolves down on them. That’s just caution. Maybe there aren’t really any bigger wolves out there. But they have to be cautious. And of course, in time, maybe we will become dangerous, like a lion turning on its keeper.” He looked at Felicity and smiled. Felicity nodded.
