She looked at the displays on her control boards. "I don't see any orders."
"I know -"
"Is this another drill?" If the reinforced crust under them ever began to subside, they might have only minutes to evacuate. "Because if it is, we need a better system than having you walking about, tapping people's shoulders."
"No, madam. It's not a drill."
"Then what-?"
"Miocene," he blurted. "She contacted me directly. Following her instructions, I've already dismissed the others, and now I am to tell you to wait here. She is on her way." As proof, he gave the order's file code. Then with a barely restrained frustration, he added, "This is very mysterious. Everyone agrees. But the Submaster is such a secretive person, so I am assuming-"
"Who's with her?" Washen interrupted.
"I don't think anyone."
But the primary tube was the largest. Twenty captains could ride inside one of its cars, never brushing elbows with one another.
"Her car seems to have an extra thick hull," the assistant explained, "plus some embellishments that I can't quite decipher."
"What sorts of embellishments?"
He glanced at the time, pretending he was anxious to leave. But he was also proud of his cleverness, just as Washen guessed he would be. Cameras inside the tube let them observe the car. Its mass could be determined by the energy required to lift it. He pointed to the pipelike devices wrapped around its hull, making the car look like someone's ball of rope, and with a sudden dose of humility, he admitted, "I don't seem to quite understand that apparatus."
In other words, "Please explain it to me, madam."
But Washen didn't explain anything. Looking at her assistant-one of the most talented and loyal of the captains' offspring; a man who had proved himself on every occasion-she shrugged her shoulders, then lied.
She said, "I don't understand it, either."
Then before she took another breath, she suggested, "You should probably do what she wants. Leave. If Miocene finds you waiting here, she'll kick you down the shaft herself."
The Submaster had exactly the same face and figure that she had carried for millennia, but in the eyes and in the corners of her voice, she was changed. Transformed, almost. On those rare occasions when they met face to face, Washen marveled at all the ways life on Marrow had changed Miocene. And then she would wonder if it was the same for her-if old friends looked at Washen and thought to themselves, "She looks tired, and sad, and maybe a little profound."
They saw each other infrequently, but despite rank and Miocene's attitudes, it was difficult to remain formal. Washen whispered, "Madam," and then added, "Are you crazy? Do you really think it'll work?"
The face smiled, not a hint of joy in it. "According to my models, probably. With an initial velocity of five hundred meters per-"
"Accuracy isn't your problem," Washen told her. "And if you can slip inside your target-that three kilometer remnant of the old bridge, right?-you'll have enough time to brake your momentum."
"But my mind will have died. Is that what you intend to say?"
"Even as thin and weak as the buttresses are now ... I would hope you're dead. Otherwise you'll have suffered an incredible amount of brain damage."
Washen shook her head. "Unless you've accomplished a miracle, and that car will protect you for every millisecond of the way."
Miocene nodded. "It's taken some twenty-one hundred years, and some considerable secrecy on my part ... but the results have been well worth it."
In the remote past-Washen couldn't remember when exactly-the captains toyed with exactly this kind of apparatus. But it was the Submaster who ordered them not to pursue it. "Too risky," was her verdict. Her lie. "Too many technical hurdles."
For lack of better, Washen smiled grimly and told her, "Good luck then."
Miocene shook her head, her eyes gaining an ominous light. "Good luck to both of us, you mean. The cabin's large enough for two."
"But why me?"
"Because I respect you," she reported. "And if I order you to accompany me, you will. And frankly, I need you. You're more gifted than me when it comes to talking to people. The captains and our halfway loyal descendants ... well, let's just say they share my respect for you, and that could be an enormous advantage."
Washen guessed the reason, but she still asked, "Why?"
"I need to explore the ship. And if the worst has happened-if it's empty and dead-then you're the best person, I believe, to bring home that terrible news ... "
Just like that, they escaped from Marrow.
Miocene's car was cramped and primitive, and the swift journey brought little hallucinations and a wrenching nausea. But they survived with their sanity. Diving into the remains of the first bridge, the Submaster brought them to a bruising halt inside the assembly station, slipping into the first empty berth, then she took a moment to smooth her crude, homespun uniform with a trembling long hand.
Base camp had been without power for nearly five millennia. The Event had crippled every reactor, every drone. Without food or water, the abandoned lab animals had dropped into comas, and as their immortal flesh lost moisture, they mummified itself. Washen picked up one of the mandrill baboons-an enormous male weighing little more than a breath-and she felt its leathery heart beat, just once, just to tell her, "I waited for you."
She set it down, and left quietly.
Miocene was standing on the viewing platform, gazing expectantly at the horizon. Even at this altitude, they could only see the captains' realm. The nearest of the Wayward cities-spartan places with cold and simple iron buildings fitted together like blocks-were hundreds of kilometers removed from them. Which might as well have been hundreds of light years, as much as the two cultures interacted anymore.
"You look as if you're expecting someone," Washen observed.
The Submaster said nothing.
"The Waywards are going to find out that we're here, madam. If Till doesn't already know, it's only because he's got too many spies, and all of them are talking at once."
Miocene nodded absently, taking a deep breath.
Then she turned, and never mentioning the Waywards, she said, "We've wasted enough time. Let's go see what's upstairs."
The long access tunnel to the ship was intact.
Tube-cars remained in their berths, untouched by humans and apparently shielded from the Event by the surrounding hyperfiber. Their engines were charged, every system locked in a diagnostic mode. The com-links refused to work, perhaps because there was no one to maintain the dead ship's net. But by dredging the proper commands from memory, Washen got them under way, and every so often she would glance at Miocene, measuring the woman's stern profile, wondering which of them was more scared of what they would find.
The tunnel turned into an abandoned fuel line that spilled out into the leech habitat.
Everything was exactly as Washen's team had left it. Empty and dusty and relentlessly gray, the habitat welcomed them with a perfect silence. Miocene gripped her belly, as if in pain.
Washen tried to link up with the ship's net, but every connection to the populated areas had been severed.
"We're going on," Miocene announced. "Now."
They pressed on, climbing out of the mammoth fuel tank and into the first of the inhabited quarters. Suddenly they were inside a wide, flattened tunnel, enormous and empty, and looking out at the emptiness, Miocene said, "Perhaps the passengers and crew ... perhaps they were able to evacuate the ship ... do you suppose ... ?"
Washen began to say, "Maybe."
From behind, with a jarring suddenness, an enormous car appeared, bearing down on them until a collision was imminent, then skipping sideways with a crisp, Al precision. Then as the car was passing them, its sole passenger-an enormous whale-like entity cushioned within a salt water bath-winked at them with three of its black eyes, winking just as people did at each other, meaning nothing but the friendliest of greetings.
It was a Yawkieen. Five m
illennia removed from her post, yet Washen immediately remembered the species' name. With a flat, disbelieving voice, Miocene said, "No."
But it was true. In the distance, they could just make out a dozen cars, the traffic light, but otherwise perfectly normal. Perfectly banal.
Pausing at the first waystation, they asked its resident AI about the Master's health.
With a smooth cheeriness, it reported, "She is in robust good health. Thank you for inquiring."
"Since when?" the Submaster pressed. "For the last sixty thousand years, bless her."
Miocene was mute, a scalding rage growing by the instant.
One of the waystation's walls was sprinkled with com-booths. Washen stepped into the nearest booth, saying, "Emergency status. The captains' channel. Please, we need to speak to the Master."
Miocene followed, sealing the door behind them.
A modest office surrounded them, spun out of light and sound. Three captains and countless Als served as the Master's staff and as buffers. It was the night staff, Washen realized; the clocks on Marrow were wrong by eleven hours. Not too bad after fifty centuries of little mistakes The human faces stared at the apparitions, while the Als simply asked, "What is your business, please?"
"I want to see her!" Miocene thundered.
The captains tried to portray an appropriate composure.
"I'm Miocene! Submaster, First Chair!" The tall woman bent over the nearest captain, saying, "You've got to recognize me. Look at me. Something's very wrongthe Als remembered them, and acted. The image swirled and stabilized again.
The Master was standing alone in a conference room, watching the arrival of a small starship. She looked exactly as Washen remembered, except that her hair was longer and tied in an intricate bun. Preoccupied in ways that only a Ship's Master can be, she didn't bother to look at her guests. She wasn't paying attention to her AI's warnings. But when she happened to glance at the two captains-both dressed in crude, even laughable imitations of standard ship uniforms-a look of wonder and astonishment swept over that broad face, replaced an instant later with a piercing fury.
"Where have the two of you been?" the Master cried out.
"Where you sent us!" Miocene snapped. "Marrow!"
"Where ... ?!" the woman spat.
"Marrow," the Submaster repeated. Then, in exasperation, "What sort of game are you playing with us?"
"I didn't send you anywhere ...” In a dim, half-born way, Washen began to understand.
Miocene shook her head, asking, "Why keep our mission secret?" Then in the next breath, "Unless all you intended to do was imprison the best of your captains-"
Washen grabbed Miocene by the arm, saying, "Wait. No."
"My best captains? You?" The Master gave a wild, cackling laugh. "My best officers wouldn't vanish without a trace. They wouldn't take elaborate precautions to accomplish god-knows-what, keeping out of sight for how long? And without so much as a whisper from any one of them ...!"
Miocene glanced at Washen with an empty face. "She didn't send us-"
"Someone did," Washen replied.
"Security!" the Master shouted. "Two ghosts are using this link! Track them! Hurry! Please, please!"
Miocene killed the link, giving them time.
The stunned ghosts found themselves standing inside the empty booth, trying to make sense out of pure insanity.
"Who could have fooled us ... ?" asked Washen. Then in her next breath, she realized how easy it would have been: Someone with access and ingenuity sent orders in the Master's name, bringing the captains together in an isolated location. Then the same ingenious soul deceived them with a replica of the Master, sending them rushing down to the ship's core ... "I could have manipulated all of you," Miocene offered, thinking along the same seductive, extremely paranoid lines. "But I didn't know about Marrow's existence. None of us knew."
But someone had known. Obviously.
"And even if I possessed the knowledge," Miocene continued, "what could I hope to gain?"
An ancient memory surfaced of its own accord. Suddenly Washen saw herself standing before the window in the leech habitat, looking at the captains' reflections while talking amiably about ambition and its sweet, intoxicating stink. "We've got to warn the Master," she told Miocene. "Of what?"
She didn't answer, shouting instructions to the booth, then waiting for a moment before asking, "Are you doing what I said?"
The booth gave no reply.
Washen eyed Miocene, feeling a sudden chill. Then she unsealed the booth's door and gave it a hard shove, stepping warily out into the waystation.
A large woman in robes was calmly and efficiently melting the AI with a powerful laser.
Wearing a proper uniform, saying the expected words, she would be indistinguishable from the Master.
But what surprised the captains even more was the ghost standing nearby. He was wearing civilian clothes and an elaborate disguise, and Washen hadn't seen him for ages. But from the way his flesh quivered on his bones, and the way his gray eyes smiled straight at her, there was no doubt about his name. "Diu," Washen whispered. Her ex-lover lifted a kinetic stunner. Too late and much too slowly, Washen attempted to tackle him.
Then she was somewhere else, and her neck had been broken, and Dill's face was hovering over her, laughing as it spoke, every word incomprehensible.
Washen closed her eyes. Another voice spoke, asking, "How did you find Marrow?" Miocene's voice?
"It's rather like your mission briefing. There was an impact. Some curious data were gathered. But where the Ship's Master dismissed the idea of a hollow core, I investigated. My money paid for the drones that eventually dug to this place, and I followed them here." There was soft laugh, a reflective pause. Then, "This happened tens of thousands of years ago. Of course. I wasn't a captain in those days. I had plenty of time and the wealth to explore this world, to pick apart its mysteries, and eventually formulate my wonderful plan .. Washen opened her eyes again, fighting to focus. "I've lived on Marrow more than twice as long as you, madam."
Diu was standing in the middle of the viewing platform, his face framed by the remnants of the bridge. "I know its cycles," he said. "And all its many hazards, too."
Miocene was standing next to Washen, her face taut and tired but the eyes opened wide, missing nothing. "How do you feel?" she inquired, glancing down at her colleague.
"Awful." Washen sat up, winced briefly, then asked, "How long have we been here?"
"A few minutes," Diu answered. "My associate, the false Master, was carrying both of you. But now it's gone ahead to check on my ship-"
"What ship?"
"That's what I was about to explain." The smile brightened, then he said, "Over the millennia, I've learned how to stockpile equipment in hyperfiber vaults. The vaults drift in the molten iron. In times of need, I can even live inside them. If I wanted to pretend my own death, for instance."
"For the Waywards," Miocene remarked. "Naturally."
The Submaster pretended to stare at their captor. But she was looking past him, the dark eyes intense and unreadable, but in a subtle way, almost hopeful. "What do you want?" asked Miocene.
"Guess," he told them.
Washen took a long breath and tried to stand. Miocene grabbed her by the arms, and they stood together like clumsy dancers, fighting for their balance.
"The ship," Washen managed.
Diu said nothing.
"The ultimate starship, and you want it for yourself." Washen took a few more breaths, testing her neck before she pulled free of Miocene's hands. "This scheme of yours is an elaborate mutiny. That's all it is, isn't it?"
"The Waywards are an army," said Miocene. "An army of religious fanatics being readied for a jihad. My son is the nominal leader. But who feeds him his visions? It's always been you, hasn't it?"
No response.
Washen found the strength to move closer to the railing, looking down, nothing to see but thick clouds of airborne iron kicked up by some
fresh eruption.
Miocene took a sudden breath, then exhaled.
Strolling towards them, huge even at a distance, was the false Master. Knowing it was a machine made it look like one. It had a patient stride, even with its thick arms raised overhead, waving wildly. "What about the Builders?" Miocene blurted. Diu nearly glanced over his shoulder, then hesitated. "What are you asking?"
"Did they really fight the Bleak?"
Diu enjoyed the suspense, grinning at both of them before he admitted, "How the fuck should I know?"
"The artifacts-?" Miocene began.
"Six thousand years old," he boasted. "Built by an alien passenger who thought I was in the entertainment industry."
"Why pretend to die?" Miocene asked.
"For the freedom it gave me." There was a boy in his grin. "Being dead, I can see more. Being dead, I can disguise myself. I walk where I want. I make babies with a thousand different women, including some in the captains' realm."
There was silence.
Then for a moment, they could just begin to hear the machine's voice-a deep sound rattling between the dormitories, fading until it was a senseless murmur. "We spoke to the Master," Washen blurted. Miocene took the cue, adding, "She knows. We told her everything-"
"No, you told her almost nothing," Diu snapped. "Are you certain?"
"Absolutely."
"But she'll be hunting for us," Washen said.
"She's been on that same hunt for five thousand years," he reminded them. "And even if she sniffs out the access tunnel this time, I won't care. Because on the way back down, I mined the tunnel. Patient one kilo charges of antimatter are ready to close things up tight. Excavating a new tunnel is going to take millennia, and probably much longer. Giving myself and my friends plenty of time to prepare."
"What if no one digs us out?" Washen asked.
Diu shrugged, grinning at her. "How does the old story play? It's better to rule in one realm than serve in another-?"
Then he hesitated, hearing a distant voice. The Master's voice.
A laser appeared in his right hand, and he turned, squinting at his machine, puzzled by the frantic arm-waving.
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Fifteenth Annual Collection Page 61
