Marrow

by Robert Reed

  Washen looked at her displays. “I don’t see orders.”

  “I know—”

  “Is this a drill?” Drills happened from time to time. If the crust beneath them subsided, they might have only moments to evacuate. “Because if it’s an exercise, we need a better system than having you wandering about, tapping people on their shoulders.”

  “No, madam. It’s not that.”

  “Then what—?”

  “Miocene,” he blurted. “She contacted me personally. On a secure line. Following her instructions, I’ve dismissed our construction crews, and I’ve placed our robots into their sleep mode.”

  Washen said nothing, thinking hard.

  With a barely restrained frustration, he added, “This is very mysterious. Everyone agrees. But the Submaster is fond of her secrets, so I’m assuming—”

  “Why didn’t she talk to me?” asked Washen.

  The assistant gave a big lost shrug.

  “Is she coming here?” she asked. “Is she using the Primary?”

  A quick nod.

  “Who’s with her?”

  “I don’t know if there’s anyone else, madam.”

  The Primary tube was the largest. Fifty captains could ascend inside one of its cars, never brushing elbows with each other.

  “I already looked,” he confessed. “It’s not a normal car.”

  Washen found the rising car on her monitors, then tried to wake a platoon of cameras. But none of them would respond to her commands.

  “The Submaster asked me to take the cameras off-line, madam. But I happened to get a glimpse of the car first, by accident.” The assistant grimaced as he made his confession. “It’s a massive object, judging by the energy demands. With an extra-thick hull, I would surmise. And there are some embellishments that I can’t quite decipher.”

  “Embellishments?”

  He glanced at his own clock, pretending that he was anxious to leave. But he was also proud of his courage, smiling when he explained, “The car is dressed up inside pipelike devices. They make it look like someone’s ball of rope.”

  “Rope?”

  With a dose of humility, he admitted, “I don’t quite understand that apparatus.”

  In plain words, “Please explain it to me, madam.”

  But Washen explained nothing. Looking at her assistant—one of the most loyal of the captains’ loyal offsping; a man who had proved himself on every occasion—she shrugged her shoulders, took a secret breath, then lied.

  She said, “I don’t understand it, either.”

  Then, as an afterthought, she inquired, “Was my name mentioned, by any chance? While you and Miocene were chatting, I mean.”

  “Yes, madam. She wanted me to tell you to stay here, and wait.”

  Washen took a little breath, saying nothing.

  “I’m supposed to leave you here,” he whined.

  “Well, then, do what our Submaster wants,” was Washen’s advice. “Leave right now. If she finds you here, I guarantee she’ll throw you down the shaft herself.”

  Twenty-three

  FOR CENTURIES, VIRTUE had proved himself with his genius and his passion for the work. On all occasions, contrived or genuine, he had acted with as much loyalty as anyone born into the Loyalist nation. Yet even now—particularly now—Miocene couldn’t make herself completely trust the little man.

  “It might not work,” he warned her, again.

  She said, “It will,” and looked past him, watching the sealed and simple mechanical door, imagining it opening and her stepping that much closer to the end. Another barrier crossed, if only a small one. Then she reminded Virtue, “In your simulations, success is a ninety percent event. And we both appreciate how difficult you make your simulations.”

  The Wayward scalp had grown hair. A Gordian bun and implanted gemstones made him look like any Loyalist, while the busy gray eyes had acquired a fondness for the Submaster, deeply felt and surprising to both of them.

  Quietly, angrily, Virtue told her, “This is too soon.”

  She said nothing.

  “Another two years, and I can improve the odds—”

  “One or two percent,” she quoted. Then staring at the fond eyes, Miocene wondered why she didn’t trust him. Was she that suspicious, or that gifted? Either way, she would feel better if she could find a fair reason to send him home again.

  “Miocene.”

  He said her name tenderly, hopefully. Fondness dissolved into a stew of deeper emotions, and where the voice stopped, a small tidy hand reached out, reached up, grabbing hold of her right breast.

  After so long, a Wayward gesture.

  She said, “No,” to him, or to herself.

  Again, he said, “Miocene.”

  The Submaster removed his hand with one of hers, bending back two of his fingers until his face filled with a pained surprise.

  “That little quake helped the alignment,” she reminded him. “‘By nearly half a meter,’ you said. ‘But the next quake or two could steal our advantage.’”

  “I said it,” he agreed. “I remember.”

  “Besides,” she whispered. “If we wait, we’ll likely lose the gift of surprise.”

  “But we’ve kept our work secret for this long.” When determined, Virtue could look like his father. Like Till. The narrow face was full of emotions, and you were never sure which emotion would bubble out next. “What would it injure? Give me another full day, and I’ll recheck every system and recalibrate the guidance system, plus both backups—”

  “But,” Miocene interrupted, “this is the day. This is.”

  He had no choice but to sigh and shake his empty hands, and surrender. And just like that, he suddenly looked nothing at all like Till.

  “Don’t you believe in destinies?” she asked. “You’re a Wayward, after all.”

  “Not now,” he grumbled, hurt by the insult. “If I ever was.”

  “Destinies,” she repeated. “I woke this morning knowing that this was the morning. I understood that fully, and I have no idea why.” She felt herself smiling, looking through him as she explained, “I’m not superstitious. You know that much about my character. And that’s why I know that this is the right, perfect moment. Intuition is instructing me. Every day that I make ready is another opportunity to be found out, and why would I want that? My Loyalists. Your Waywards. Let’s allow both our peoples as much ignorance as they can possibly cherish. Isn’t that what we agreed?”

  Virtue nodded helplessly.

  As a lover, he reached for the comforting curve of her breast, and Miocene intercepted the hand, lowering it and holding tight to the fingers, gazing into the warm and caring steel-gray eyes.

  From the charred remains of his mind, she had resurrected him—never letting him forget on whose charity his existence was perched. But even with that intimacy, and after living for centuries in her private compound, surrounded by luxuries and every research toy that Marrow could provide—not to mention her own compliant body—the little man insisted on surprising her. That’s why she could only trust him to a point. She didn’t know him perfectly, and now, at this point, she never would.

  Tenderly, he said, “Darling.”

  He confessed, “I don’t want to lose you, darling.”

  Quietly and fiercely, Miocene promised, “If you don’t do this one thing for me, you’ll most assuredly lose me. I won’t see you to shit on you. And you know I mean it.”

  He shrank.

  He started to say, “Darling,” once again.

  But the car was deaccelerating, and the massive door was preparing to unseal itself. To her lover and to herself, Miocene said, “This is the moment.”

  At long last.

  * * *

  AS ORDERED, WASHEN was waiting.

  As the door opened outward, the first-grade peered into the tiny cabin, eyes the color of band iron staring at the stranger—at Virtue—even as her steady, mocking voice asked, “Madam, are you insane? Do you really think this can
work?”

  Then she answered her own questions.

  “No, you aren’t insane,” she said. “And yes, you’ve got to think it can.”

  “Washen,” Miocene replied. “I’d recognize your wit anywhere, darling.”

  She stepped out of the car. The Submaster had never visited the control room, but it was exactly like its holoplans, complete to the banks of glowing instruments and the absence of human bodies. Most of its systems had barely been tested. Why bother when it would be another three centuries before they were meant to be used?

  “You’ll need me to oversee,” Washen assumed. Then she stared at Virtue, remarking, “I don’t know you.”

  “She doesn’t need you, and you don’t know me,” the man replied. Bristling now.

  Miocene faced her captain, and exactly as she had imagined the moment, she said, “No, my associate will oversee the launch. He’s fully versed in this equipment.”

  Washen nearly blinked.

  Then to her credit, she focused on the larger issue. “You’ve got to have accuracy to do this. Because what we’re talking about here is shooting a fat cannonball between two cannons. Am I right?”

  A nod. “Always, darling.”

  “And if you can hit the old bridge true, you’ll still have enough time and distance to brake your momentum. True?”

  “A rough, abrupt stop. It has to be.”

  “But even as thin and weak as the buttresses are … this ugly little ship has got to do an impressive job of protecting you.”

  “It will,” Miocene replied.

  Virtue took a deep, skeptical breath.

  Washen examined the car in person, touching the outside of the hatch, fondling the odd, ugly pipes. “Aasleen suggested something along these lines,” she allowed. “I can’t remember when, it was that long ago. But after she was done explaining herself, you said no. You said it would be too clumsy and too limited, not to mention the technical hurdles, and you ordered us to put our efforts into richer ground.”

  “I said those things. Yes.”

  For lack of anything better, Washen smiled, and she said, “Well, then. The best of luck to you.”

  Miocene let herself show a grin. “Good luck to both of us, you mean. The interior, as you see, seats two.”

  The woman was brave, but she wasn’t fearless or a fool. She had to flinch and think hard about her next breath, eyeing the Submaster for a long moment before asking, “Why? Me?”

  “Because I respect you,” Miocene replied, honestly and without qualms.

  The dark eyes grew larger.

  “And because if I order you to accompany me, you will. Now.”

  Washen took a careful breath, and another. Then she admitted, “I suppose all of that’s true.”

  “And truthfully, I need you.”

  That declaration seemed to embarrass everyone.

  To kill the silence, Miocene turned to Virtue, telling him, “Start the procedures.” She paused. Then quietly, she added, “As soon as we’re on board.”

  The man looked ready to cry.

  She didn’t leave him the opportunity. With a crisp wave and a defiant stride, Miocene reentered the car. Not for the first time, she thought how it resembled the Great Ship—a thick body with a hidden hollow sphere at its center.

  To Washen, she said, “Now, darling.”

  The first-grade was obviously considering her next step, and everything else, too. Long, strong hands wiped themselves dry against her uniform, and with a mixture of stiffness and grace, she bent over and climbed through the hatchway, then examined the twin seats, padded and set on greased titanium rails. The seats would always keep their backs to the accelerations. As if to appreciate the technology, she touched the simple control panel, then the inner wall. The hand pulled away abruptly, and she said, “Cold,” with a quiet little voice.

  “Crude, chilly superconductors,” Miocene admitted.

  Then the Submaster touched the panel, and as the hatch pulled itself shut, she said, “Virtue.” She looked out at him and said, “I trust you.”

  The man was crying. Nothing but.

  The hatch closed and sealed itself, and as the two women sat together, back to back, Washen said, “You trust him, and you respect me, too.” She was securing her protective straps, and laughing. “Trust and respect. From you, on the same day.”

  Miocene refused to look over her shoulder. She busied herself making last-instant checks, saying to the controls, “You’re more gifted than I am when it comes to other people. You can speak to the grandchildren, and the other captains … and that’s a sweet skill that could prove an enormous advantage…”

  Washen had to ask, “Why is that an advantage?”

  “I could explore the ship alone,” Miocene allowed. “But if the worst has happened—if everything above us is dead and empty—then you, I think, Washen … you are the better person to bring home that terrible new…”

  Twenty-four

  HERE WAS THE culmination of more than four thousand years of single-minded labor—two captains ready to throw themselves off Marrow. Washen found herself strapped into the primitive crash chair, part of her demanding some task, some worthwhile duty, even when she knew full well that there was nothing to do now but sit and wait and wish for the best.

  With a crisp, dry voice, Miocene worked her way down a precise checklist.

  Her mysterious companion might resemble Till, or Diu, but his voice was far too slow and uncertain to belong to either man. He spoke across an intercom, alternating, “Good,” and “Yes,” and, “Nominal,” with little pained silences.

  The captains sat back to back. Unable to see the Submaster’s face, Washen found herself thinking about little else. It was the same cold, confident face that it had always been, and it wasn’t. Washen always marveled at how Marrow had changed that rigid woman. A metamorphosis showed in the wasted, haunted eyes, in the taut corners of the pained mouth. And when she spoke, as she did now, even a simple word felt infinitely sad, and a little profound.

  “Initiate,” that sad voice commanded.

  There was a pause.

  Then the little man said softly, with resignation, “Yes, madam.”

  They were falling, accelerating down a dark, airless shaft. This wasn’t a bridge, and it was never supposed to be. It was a vast piece of munitions, and everything depended on its accuracy. Descending to the starting point, to the electromagnetic breech, Miocene whispered technical details. Terminal velocity. Exposure to the buttresses. The transit time. “Eighteen point three seconds.” Which was nearly as long as they spent inside the buttresses on their way down. But without the same levels of protection, or backup systems, or even a single field test beyond the laboratory.

  The ugly cannonball stopped abruptly, then its thick walls began to hum. To crackle, and sputter, and seemingly ripple as the protective fields were woven tightly around them.

  Again, Miocene said, “Initiate.”

  There was no response this time. Would the man obey? But as she thought those words, Washen was slammed back into her seat, bone pressed against dense padding, gee forces mounting, tearing flesh and bursting blood vessels.

  Then came the sensation of drifting.

  A pleasant, teasing peace.

  After leaving the shaft, there was perhaps a half second of streaking up through the last breaths of the atmosphere, a cluster of little rockets firing on the hull, correcting for the very thin winds. In her mind’s eye, Washen saw everything: Marrow’s storm clouds and cities and tired volcanoes falling behind while the slick sliver of the chamber wall descended on them. Then they struck the buttresses, and her eyes filled with random colors and senseless shapes, while a thousand incoherent, terrified voices screamed inside her dying mind.

  Madness.

  Eighteen point three seconds of nothing else.

  Time dragged. That’s what she promised herself when she managed to concentrate, carving a sensible thought out of that screaming chaos. It was a symptom of the
buttresses, this compression of the seconds. Because if more than eighteen seconds had passed, they had simply missed their target, falling short, and now they were tumbling in a close, fatal orbit around Marrow.

  No, we can’t be, Washen whimpered.

  The frightened voices lent her their fear, and a ragged wild panic took her by the throat, by the colon. Nausea came in one savage thrust. Washen bent forward as far as the padded straps allowed, and with her left hand she managed to yank the silver clock from its pocket, then open it, that sequence of practiced motions requiring what seemed to be hours of relentless work.

  She stared at the fastest hand.

  A solid click meant that a full second had passed.

  Then, another.

  Then her seat, and Miocene’s, unlocked and slipped on the titanium rails, meeting at the opposite end of the little cabin, locking again with a crisp determination.

  Washen looked up.

  Swallowing a burning mouthful of bile and vomit, she stared up at where she had just been, and she saw herself restrained in an identical chair, her own face twisted in misery, gazing down, hair hanging loose and long, unlike Washen’s bunned hair, and the mouth opening as if this hallucination were ready to offer a few tortured words.

  Washen watched herself, and in rapt attention, listened.

  But then they had pierced the buttresses, and a string of angry rockets fired beneath Washen, braking the vehicle as it plunged, she hoped, into the battered remains of the original bridge.

  Impact.

  Washen felt the car scrape hard against hyperfiber. There was a sloppy shrieking on her right as pipes and boiling superconductors were stripped away. Then an instant of silence, followed by a second, deeper roar from her left, their car bouncing down the shaft.

  Rockets barked again, killing momentum at all costs.

  The final impact was abrupt and crushing, and it was over before her mind registered the barest pain.

  The chair fell back into its original position.

  A voice said, “There.”

  Miocene’s voice. Then the Submaster fought her way out of her belts and made herself stand, holding her long sides as she sipped each breath, acting as if her ribs had been shattered.