Marrow

by Robert Reed

  Locke opened his mouth, then closed it. Then with a new defiance, he screamed, “No. I won’t tell you—!”

  But Diu wasn’t standing before him. Not anymore.

  Locke blinked and felt his body sagging, hopelessness mixed with relief. Then a warm hand took him on the bare shoulder, and he turned into her, knowing it was her, crying in the soft angry way of a man who knows that he has been fooled and who discovers that really, at the heart of things, he doesn’t even care …

  * * *

  “WHAT IS THIS place, and these dead men…?”

  “Just another corner of the ship,” Washen assured him, holding him tight around his back and the back of his head. “Pamir found it before he found my clock. An AI lives here. With my help, it created Hazz. And your father. With its help, I watched your reactions, and parts of your nervous system.”

  “You read my mind?”

  She said, “Never,” and relaxed her arms, letting him pull away and look into her face before she confessed, “You didn’t see Wayward soldiers. No one shot at us. That was a different performance, existing as false data fed straight to your eyes and ears. And you’re certainly not dead now.”

  Relief bled into a guilty, self-aware grimace.

  “It’s just us,” she promised.

  “Pamir?”

  “He’s doing other work now.” She sat on the petrified toadstool, never taking her eyes off Locke. “There’s nobody else. Tell me what you want to tell me. Then if you wish, I’ll let you go back to Till. Or just sit here.” She waited a half-moment, then added, “And if you don’t want to tell me, I’ll accept that, too. All right?”

  Locke sighed, glancing at his own empty hands.

  Finally, quietly, he announced, “I think I will. Explain things. Maybe.”

  Washen struggled to say nothing and to choke down her excitement. Instead, she nodded, and with a gentle voice asked, “How is our home?”

  “Changed,” he blurted. Wide, astonished eyes lifted. “You don’t realize, Mother. This has been a very long century…!”

  Locke couldn’t stop talking, the words coming out under pressure.

  “By the time I was home, the Loyalists were gone. Conquered. Dissolved. There were so many sympathizers and outright believers inside your borders that it was an easy invasion. Hazz City was clean and quiet, and very little had changed.” He paused, then said, “For a while.” He raked his golden hair with both hands, explaining, “Till and I returned, and Till had me detonate Diu’s charges, closing the shaft overhead. Then Till gave a speech to everyone. Standing in your main temple, with Miocene’s head at his feet, he told everyone how our societies would join, and everyone would be stronger for joining, and we were part of the Builder’s ultimate plans, and soon, soon, soon everything would be explained.” He breathed quickly, deeply. Then, “You wouldn’t know Marrow. It’s a very strange place now.”

  Washen resisted the urge to ask, “When wasn’t it strange?”

  But Locke guessed her thoughts. He tilted his head as if to reprimand, then with a despairing gasp, he announced, “Time’s very short now.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Locke confessed.

  With a quiet, sharp voice, Washen asked, “Exactly what do you know?”

  “There were timetables. Till wanted us to regain the ship before it changed course. Before today’s burn, if possible.” He shook his head, eyes lowering. “Since you left, our population’s grown tenfold. Factories as large as cities. We’ve been building weapons and training soldiers, and we manufactured enormous boring machines designed to dig upward. And downward, too.”

  Washen said, “Downward,” and leaned closer.

  Then with a breathless excitement, she asked, “Where do you find the power to fuel all of this?”

  Locke examined his toes.

  She prompted him, saying, “Till knew. About Diu, he knew. And probably from the earliest times.” Then because she might be completely mistaken, Washen added, “That’s the only way it makes sense to me.”

  Her son gave the tiniest nod.

  Washen didn’t have the luxury of feeling clever. Instead, she dropped to her knees in front of Locke, forcing him to look at her eyes. “Till knew about Diu’s secret caches. Didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? Did he see your father using them?”

  Locke hesitated, considering. “When Till was young, just after his first visions, he found a cache. Found it and watched it, and eventually, Diu climbed out of it.”

  “What else did he know?”

  “That Diu was feeding him the visions. Diu was telling the stories about the Builders and the Bleak.”

  She had to ask, “But why did Till believe any of it?”

  A chiding look was followed by a sharp warning. “Father was an agent, he realized. A vessel.” Locke shook his head, adding, “The steel bowl doesn’t have to believe in the water that slakes a man’s thirst.”

  “Granted,” said Washen.

  “The day the Waywards were born…?”

  “What about it?”

  “That valley, that place I took you to … the hyperfiber cache was tucked inside one of those crevices … and we walked right past…”

  Washen said nothing.

  “I didn’t know. Not then.” A bitter little laugh leaked out of him. “Years before, Till asked his mother about security systems. How they worked; how they were fooled. Miocene thought it was good captainly knowledge, so she taught him. Then Till climbed inside the cache and convinced its Al that he was Diu, and he rode it into Marrow. Down beneath all that wet iron, and the heat, he found the machinery that powers the buttresses.”

  Quietly, Washen said, “All right.”

  “That’s where almost all our power comes from,” said her son. “The core is a matter-antimatter reactor.”

  “Have you seen it?” she asked.

  “Just once,” he replied. Then he reminded Washen, or maybe himself, “Till trusts me. After we returned to Marrow, and after Miocene was reborn, he took us down there. To show us the place. To explain what he knew, and how. All of it.” Another pause. “Miocene was thrilled. She had a conduit built that taps the energies. She claims that the reactor, once it’s fully understood, will transform the Milky Way, and humanity, and each of us.”

  “Does that place offer answers?” Washen asked. “Does it tell us anything new about the Great Ship?”

  Locke shook his head, disappointment rimmed with anger.

  With a pitying voice, he said, “Mother,” and stared at her eyes. He stared and sighed, and as if addressing a small child, he asked her, “If Marrow hides inside the ship, and if this machinery hides inside Marrow … then what makes you think these mysteries ever come to an end…?”

  “There’s something even deeper?” she sputtered.

  A quick, tight nod.

  “Have you seen that?”

  Again, he looked at his toes. “No,” he admitted. Then after a few deep breaths, he said, “Only Till has been that deep. And maybe, I suppose, Diu.”

  “Your father—?”

  “He was also Till’s father,” Locke blurted. “Till always suspected it. In secret. And in secret, he had our best gene-delvers decipher the genetics. Just to be sure.”

  Washen silently absorbed the newest revelation.

  Then she asked, “Is that everything you want to tell me? Till’s your half brother, and the ship’s full of mysteries?”

  “No,” Locke replied.

  He looked up at the towering mushrooms and gray hints of the hyperfiber roof, and with a weary anguish, he admitted, “I have certain thoughts. Doubts. For the last century, since I killed Diu … I’ve listened to Till’s plans, and Miocene’s, and I’ve helped meet all the deadlines, and I’ve watched what they’ve done to Marrow, and its people … a place I don’t even recognize anymore…” Locke took a deep full breath, then said it. “When I look inside myself, I wonder.”

&nbs
p; Down came his eyes, desperate for their mother.

  But Washen refused to embrace him again. She stood and stepped back, and finally, with a slow and hard and pitiless voice, she asked, “Are you one of the Builders?”

  The gray eyes pulled shut.

  “That’s what you’re asking yourself. Isn’t it?” Then she gazed up at the sky, saying, “Because if you’re not the good souls of Builders reborn, by accident or by design … maybe you and Till and the rest of the Waywards …

  “Maybe you’re the Bleak reborn…!”

  Forty-four

  EVERY FACE WAS elaborate and utterly unique, and each had a sturdy, unexpected beauty that always became obvious with time.

  Pamir watched the faces and listened to the watery voices.

  “It was my decision. My plan. My responsibility.” Orleans’s mouth smiled, and his amber eyes changed shape, creating mouth-shaped patterns that mimicked his smile. “I accept the blame, and your punishment. Or your praise and blessings. Whichever verdict you, in your wisdom, wish to deliver.”

  Most of the Remoran judges appeared uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because Pamir might be misreading their expressions. One old woman—a direct descendant of Wune, their founder—quoted the Remoran codes. “The ship is the greatest life. Injure its vitals, and you surrender your own life.” Her single eye, like a ruby floating on a yellow milk, expanded until it half filled her faceplate. Then the compressed mouth added, “You know our codes, Orleans. And I remember two occasions when you carved the lifesuit off another offender … for crimes less serious than disabling one of the main engines…!”

  Perhaps a hundred judges and elders shared the diamond building. There were no airlocks, and not so much as a breath of atmosphere. Two doorways opened onto public avenues where hundreds of citizens fought for the chance to see this semisecret trial. Every officious sound was a scrambled broadcast. Unlike Pamir, the audience could only measure the proceedings by watching faces.

  Another elder rose to her feet, and into the angry buzz, she said, “Another code applies. Wune’s first and most essential code, as it happens.”

  Together, in a shared voice, Remoras chanted, “Our first duty is to protect the ship from harm.”

  The speaker’s blue face seemed to nod, and her musical voice offered, “This could be Orleans’s defense, if he chooses. Harm is harm, whether it comes from an impacting comet or a dangerous leadership.” Her helmet pivoted, and she asked the defendant, “Is this your argument, Orleans?”

  “Absolutely,” he cried out.

  Then he glanced at his companion, signaling him by swirling his eyes on their stalks.

  As planned, Pamir stepped forward. “Distinguished citizens,” he proclaimed. “I ask to address the court.”

  His lifesuit contained an electronic signature. As Remoras did with each other, a glance was enough to give his name, rank, and official status.

  The one-eyed elder grumbled, “Is this appropriate? A wanted criminal defending a captured criminal?”

  But a third elder—a small round fellow with a red-furred face—growled at her, saying, “Sarcasm later. Talk, Pamir. I want to hear you.”

  “There isn’t time,” the captain agreed. “Wayward squads are coming. They want Orleans, but they’ll be thrilled to find me, too.”

  The one-eyed woman grumbled, “Good.”

  “I wish there was time,” Pamir continued. “For reflection. For a great debate. For a wise decision rendered by everyone. But every moment makes the Waywards stronger. Every minute, another steel ship rises up from Marrow, bringing soldiers and munitions and a set of beliefs that are laughable, and narrow, and indifferent to the wishes of every Remora.”

  He paused a half-instant, checking with a security nexus, measuring the Waywards’ steady progress.

  Then to the beautiful faces, he said, “I don’t want to be the Master Captain. But the rightful Master is dead, or worse. And I’m the ranking officer. According to the ship’s charter, I am its Master, and Miocene is a treasonous pretender. And since I’m parading the obvious here, maybe I should remind you.” He glanced at One-eye, then everywhere else. “For more than a hundred millenia, you’ve served the ship and its charter, just as you’ve served Wune’s faith. With devotion and bravery. And what I want from you now—what I am asking for, begging for—is this:

  “Resist the Waywards. On my authority as the momentary Master Captain, give them nothing. Not your cooperation, or your resources, or any of your expertise. Is that too much to ask?”

  An unnerving silence descended.

  Then One-eye stated the obvious. “Miocene is going to be very unhappy. And these Waywards are sure to respond—”

  “Then we’ll respond, too,” growled the blue-faced woman.

  Every judge spoke, crowding into the same secure channel, the noise defiant and worried, angry and sad. But defiance seemed loudest, and knowing that emotions can change in the beat of any heart, Pamir chose that moment to shout out:

  “Will you promise me? To give them nothing?”

  A quick vote was taken.

  Two of three Remoras nodded, saying, “Agreed.”

  Then Pamir made the next logical step.

  He said, “Good. And thank you.”

  If he was going to escape the Waywards, he was going to have to slip away now. But instead of fleeing, Pamir stepped into the middle of the blister-shaped building, and again, quietly, he repeated the admonition, “Give them nothing.”

  Then with the heavy grace of his lifesuit, he bent his legs and dropped to the floor, sitting on the smooth gray hull of the Great Ship.

  * * *

  WAYWARD TEAMS WERE forcing their way through the bystanders. Pamir heard the broad-band squawk of sirens and saw bright helmets parting to let them pass. But he remained sitting, like the elderly judges and Orleans, showing a grim, determined face, spending those last moments reminding himself that he had done a few things just as stupid as what he was doing now.

  But very few, and always for himself. No one else riding the risk.

  Another harsh squawk caused the last civilians to scatter, and purple-black lifesuits emerged from the chaos, marching through the doorways with lasers held high and hard gray faces showing behind the faceplates—the descendants of lost captains, their strong features laid over a tough, uncompromising nature.

  The soldiers’ armor was light, and their weapons could have been stronger. Miocene, or someone, was showing a calculated restraint.

  Pamir took a deep breath, and he held it deep.

  Two of the Wayward teams blocked the open doors. A third discovered an unregistered staircase leading into the city’s basement. The final two teams found Orleans, their lasers kept high but ready as they scanned him, then as they examined the other Remoras.

  “On the authority of the Master Captain—” a Wayward began.

  “Whose authority?” dozens of voices replied, in a sloppy chorus.

  “We take this man into custody—”

  A taunting laugh broke out from some, while other Remoras remained silent. And One-eye shook her head, cautioning, “We should do as they want.”

  With a blurring voice, the Wayward listed other suspected saboteurs. Then with his free hand gesturing and his urgent voice breaking, he told his soldiers to hurry their scans. “Fast, and right!” he barked. “Fast, and right!”

  But the rest of Orleans’s crew was missing. Soldier after soldier said as much, their grim faces suffused with a toxic mixture of excitement and fear and an instinctive disgust. It took two scans, then a naked-eye stare through the faceplate for someone to say, “This isn’t one. Like the others, Look, sir.”

  Pamir forced a grin, and finally, he let his spent breath slip out of his mouth.

  A slow, astonished expression spread across the Wayward’s face. And after a little gasp, he said, “It’s that missing first-grade, sir. It’s Pamir!”

  The ranking Wayward turned, and said nothing.

  Every sold
ier felt surprise, then a wild, unexpected elation that ended when the blue-faced Remora announced. “This is the Master Captain. Our guest, in our home. Which means—”

  “Take him!” the ranking Wayward cried out.

  Half of the Remoras screamed, “No!”

  The Wayward pointed his weapon, warning everyone, “Stand out of our way, or I’ll cut you out of your fucking shells! Am I understood?”

  Plainly.

  One-eye was sitting on a standard Remoran squirt-pack. She had volunteered for the duty, arguing that even if she didn’t agree with the vote, it had been taken, and perhaps the soldiers wouldn’t scan her as closely as some. The pack’s safeties were dismantled. Its vents were permanently closed. When she kicked it into the center of the room, the Remoras and Pamir remained sitting, doing nothing but turning toward the rounded wall, putting their armored packs between them and the makeshift bomb.

  The explosion was silent, then otherwise.

  Pamir was still on the hull, head thrust between his knees, and the sudden blast smacked him across the slick grayness, bouncing him against Remoras and soldiers, and finally, one shoulder slamming into the diamond wall.

  The building filled with a temporary, scorching atmosphere. Standing bodies were flung hardest, and lasers were ripped loose, and in the next seconds, in that purposeful mayhem, new hands grabbed the lasers, their safeties instantly rendering them harmless.

  Pamir staggered to his feet.

  His left knee was shattered, but the suit’s servos made the leg carry him. He screamed, “Orleans,” three times before the welcome figure appeared next to him, then sprinted ahead, the Remora flinging himself down the staircase.

  A laser blast emerged, punching through the rounded ceiling.

  Then the soldier was wrestled down, her weapon yanked free, and Orleans waved and called out, “This way,” and sprinted along a narrow, barely lit hallway. His lifesuit was punctured. Pamir saw a white fountain of leaking vapor. Orleans’s self was dissipating into the vacuum. But not too quickly, thought Pamir. More hope at work than any expertise.