by Robert Reed
Who knew what they would find? This was a huge place, Washen reminded herself. They couldn't see more than a sliver of the world from this one tiny vantage point. And who could say what was beneath any of those iron-belching mountains, or beyond that rough horizon . . . ?
As she considered these weighty matters, Diu spoke. Buoyant words kept flowing from his tireless mouth. 'This is fantastic,' he exclaimed, staring down through the platform's diamond floor. 'And it's an enormous honor. I'm just thrilled that the Master, in her wisdom, included me in this project.'
The Submaster nodded, conspicuously saying nothing.
'Now that I'm here,' Diu blubbered, 'I can almost see it. The purpose of this place, and the entire ship.'
With a level glance, Washen tried to tell her companion: 'Be quiet.'
But Miocene had already tilted her head, eyeing her eleventh-grade colleague. 'I, for one, would love to hear all of your ideas, darling.'
Diu lifted his dark eyebrows.
An instant later, with a bleak amusement, he remarked, 'My apologies. But I think not, madam.' Then he glanced at his own hands, and with a captain's cool judgment, he added, 'Once spoken, the useful thought belongs to at least one other soul.'
Eight
EVEN INSIDE HER quarters, with the windows blackened and every lamp put to sleep, Miocene could sense the light outside. In her mind, she could see its harsh blueness even when her eyes were firmly closed, and she could feel its radiance slipping through the tiniest cracks, then piercing her flesh, wanting nothing more than to bother her old bones.
When did she last sleep well? She couldn't remember the night, which only made it worse. The pressure of this mission and its peculiar environment were ravaging her nerves, her confidence, and splitting her carefully crafted veneer.
Awake and knowing that she shouldn't be, the Submaster stared up into the darkness, imagining a different ceiling, and a different self. When Miocene was little more than a baby, her parents — people of extremely modest means — presented her with an unexpected, wondrous toy. It was an aerogel-and-diamond miniature of the deep-space probe that had recently discovered the Great Ship. At the girl's insistence, the toy was suspended over her bed. It resembled a bluish spiderweb that had somehow snared half a hundred tiny round mirrors. In its center was a fist-sized housing. Inside the housing was a simple AI holding the memories and personality of its historic predecessor. At night, while the girl lay still beneath the covers, the AI spoke with a deep, patient voice, describing the distant worlds that it had charted and how its brave trajectory had eventually carried it out of the Milky Way. The false mirrors projected images that showed thousands of worlds, then the cold black vacuum, and finally, the first dim glow of the ship. The glow brightened, swelling into the battered, ancient face, and then Miocene was past the ship, looking back at the mammoth engines that had helped throw that wonder toward her. Because the Great Ship was thrown toward her, she knew. At that age, and always.
Come morning, the toy always greeted her with envious words.
'I wish I had legs and could walk,' it claimed. 'And I so wish I had your mind and your freedom, and just half of your glorious future, too.'
She loved that toy. Sometimes it seemed to be her finest friend and staunchest ally.
'You don't need legs,' Miocene would tell it. 'Wherever I go, I'll take you.'
'People would laugh,' her friend warned.
Even as a child, Miocene hated being anyone's joke.
'I know you,' said her toy, laughing at her foolishness. 'When the time comes, you'll leave me. And sooner than you think.'
'I wont,' she blurted. 'Never*
Naturally, she was wrong. Barely twenty years later, Miocene had an adult's body and the beginnings of an adult's intellect, and against brutal odds, she had won a full scholarship to the Belter Academy. Her illustrious career had begun in earnest, and of course she left her toys behind. Today her one-time friend was in storage, or lost, or most likely her parents — people not too bothered by sentimentality — had simply thrown it away.
And yet.
There were moments when she lay awake, alone or otherwise, and looking up, she would see her friend hanging over her again, and she would hear its deep heroic voice whispering just to her, telling her how it was to sail alone between the stars.
A DISEMBODIED VOICE said, 'Miocene.'
She was awake, alert. Had never been asleep, she was certain. But the bed lifted her until she was sitting upright, and a lamp came on, and only then did she notice the passage of time. Ninety-five minutes of uninterrupted dream sleep, claimed her internal clock.
Again, she heard, 'Miocene.'
The Master Captain was sitting on the far side of the room. Or rather, a simple projection of the Master sat in a hypothetical chair, looking massive even though she was composed of nothing but trained photons, that familiar voice telling her favorite and most loyal subordinate, 'You look well.'
Implying the exact opposite.
The Submaster gathered up all the poise at her disposal, then with the perfect little bow, she said, 'Thank you, madam. As always.'
A slight, lightspeed pause. Then, 'You're very welcome.'
The woman had a strange, quixotic sense of humor, which was why Miocene never tried to cultivate one of her own. The Master didn't need a laughing friend, but a sober assistant full of reason and devotion.
'Your request for additional equipment—'
'Yes, madam?'
'Is denied.' The Master smiled, then shrugged. 'You don't absolutely need any more resources. And frankly, some of your colleagues are asking questions.'
'I can imagine,' Miocene replied. Then with a second, lesser bow, she added, "What equipment we have is adequate. We can reach our goal. But as I pointed out in my report, a second corn-line and a new field reactor would give us added flexibility'
'What resource wouldn't help you?' the Master asked.
Then she laughed.
An eternity of practice kept Miocene from speaking or showing the simplest discomfort.
'They're asking questions,' the Master repeated.
The Submaster knew how- to react, which was to say nothing.
'Your colleagues don't believe our cover story, I'm afraid.' The round face smiled, absorbing the lamplight, the golden skin shining brighdy. 'And I went to such trouble, too. A fully fueled taxi. Robot facsimiles of you walking on board. Then the momentous launch. But everyone knows how easy it is to lie, which makes it hard to coax anyone into believing anything . . .' Again, Miocene said nothing.
Their cover was a simple fiction: a delegation of captains had left for a high-technology world. They were to meet with a species of exophobes, the humans trying to coax them into friendship, or least to trade for their profitable skills. Such missions had happened in the past, and they typically were wrapped in secrecy. Which was why those other captains - the less qualified ones left behind — should know better than to spit gossip.
'If I sent you a reactor,' the Master explained, 'then someone might notice.'
Not likely, thought Miocene.
'And if we lay down a second corn-line, then we double our risk that someone will send or hear something they shouldn't.'
A likely estimate, yes.
Quiedy, the Submaster replied, 'Yes, madam. As you wish.'
'As I wish.'An amused nod. Then the Master asked the obvious question. 'Are you keeping up with your timetable?'
'Yes.'
'You'll reach the planet in six months?'
'Yes, madam.' As of yesterday, Aasleen's bridge was halfway to Marrow. 'We'll make every deadline, if nothing unexpected happens.'
'Which is the way it should be,' the Master pointed out.
A circumspect nod. Then Miocene volunteered, 'Our spirits are excellent, madam.'
'I have no doubt. They are in exceptional hands.'
Miocene felt the compliment warming her flesh, and she couldn't help but nod and offer the tiniest of smiles before as
king, 'Is that all, madam?'
'For the moment,' said the ship's leader.
'Then I shall leave you to more important duties,' Miocene offered.
'The important is finished,' she replied. 'The rest of my day is nothing but routine.'
'Have a good day, madam.'
'And to you. And to yours, darling.'
The image dissolved, followed by a pulse of thoughtful light that would search the comlink for leaks and weaknesses.
Miocene rose, standing at her room's only window. 'Open,' she coaxed.
The blackness evaporated. The relentless daylight poured over her, blue and harsh. And hot. Gazing out across her abrupt little city, watching drones and captains in the midst of their important motions, Miocene allowed her thoughts to wander. Yes, she was honored to be here, and endlessly pleased to be leading this vital mission. Yet when she was honest about her ambitions, she had to be honest about her own skills, not to mention the skills of her colleagues. Why had the Master chosen her? Others were more graceful leaders, more imaginative and with better experience in the field. But she obviously was the best candidate. And when she looked hard at herself, there was only one quality in which Miocene excelled above all others.
Devotion.
Aeons ago, she and the Master had attended the Academy together. They were much alike - ambitious students who absorbed their studies together, and who socialized as friends, and who occasionally confessed their deep feelings on matters they wouldn't admit to lovers, and sometimes wouldn't admit to themselves.
Both young women declared, 'I want to be first to that great ship.'
In the Master's dreams, she was leading the first mission. While in Miocene's dreams, she was merely an important organ in the mission's body.
A critical distinction, that.
Why, wondered Miocene, hadn't the Master herself come here?
Yes, there would have been problems. Logistical barriers and security nightmares, absolutely. But with holoprojections and robot facsimiles, she could rule the ship from anywhere. Which was why a bold, dynamic soul like hers must hate being so far removed from here. Perhaps in the end, at the last possible minute, the Master would swallow her good sense, then cram herself into one of the tiny cap-cars, coming here on the eve of their planetfall. Stealing Miocenes historic moment, in essence.
For the first time, the Submaster sensed how much she hated that prospect. A small anger began to practice inside her. It felt strangely delicious, and even better, it felt appropriate. A justified anger, and it would grow whenever it occurred to Miocene that maybe this was why she was here. The Master knew that she could take every advantage of her endless devotion. She could come here and steal the honor, and her Submaster would have no choice but to smile and nod, deflecting the credit and the fame that should have belonged to her.
Quietly, Miocene told the window to extend.
The transparent panel bowed outward, thinning like a bubble as it expanded.
Leaning forward, she looked down the side of the dormitory, through the diamond street, peering at the hot black face of that strange world . . . and to herself, with a quiet dry voice, she said, 'Please don't come here, madam.'
She said, 'Leave me the glory. Just this once, please,'
Nine
CAPTAINS ARE NOTHING without plans and without routines.
Planetfall occurred nine days and a year after the Master's briefing, and every historic event, small and otherwise, transpired exactly as the captains had anticipated. The touchdown site was selected for the maturity and apparent stability of its crust. The bridge was tweaked and teased into position, then lowered into the upper atmosphere, bellows taking a great breath, the stolen air subjected to every imaginable test. The bridge's final kilometers were added in a carefully orchestrated rush. At the last instant, sensors studied the rising land, mapping details to a microscopic level. Then a tip of razor-edged hyperfiber was shoved into the iron ground, and a specially designed car raced downward, protected by elaborate fields as well as its speed. The journey through the corrosive buttresses was swift and uneventful, and the first landing party arrived with a strict minimum of fuss.
There was a rumor that the Master herself was coming to take part. But like most rumors, it proved untrue, and afterward it seemed like a faintly ridiculous story. Why, after such careful security, would the woman take the obnoxious risk now?
It was Miocene who shouldered the privilege.
Accompanied by a swarm of cameras and security AIs, she stepped carefully onto Marrow's surface. Watching from base camp, Washen saw that too-calm face gazing at the alien landscape, and she noticed something in the wide, unblinking eyes. An amazement, perhaps. A genuine awe. Then the look, whatever it was, evaporated, and the narrow mouth opened, and with a forced sense of importance, Miocene declared, ‘In service of the Master, we have arrived.'
The captains overhead cheered and broke into song.
The landing party took ceremonial samples of soil and foliage, then made the expected retreat back to base camp.
Dinner was late, and it was a feast. Bottomless glasses of authentic champagne washed down spiced meats and odd vegetables, and when the party was at its loudest, the distant Master sent her hearty congratulations.
In front of everyone, she called Miocene 'Your brave leader.' Then the projected body did a graceful turn, gesturing at the world beneath as she proclaimed, 'This is a momentous day in our ship's momentous history.'
No it wasn't, thought Washen.
A nagging disappointment only grew. Six teams, including Miocene's, journeyed to Marrow that next day, and studying the data harvests and live images, Washen found exactly what she expected to find. Captains were administrators, not explorers. Every historic moment was choreographed, routine. What Miocene wanted was for every bush and bug to have a name, and every rusty piece of soil to be memorized. Not even tiny surprises were allowed to ambush those hardworking, utterly earnest first teams.
That second day was thorough, and it was stifling. But Washen didn't mention her disappointment, or even put a name to her emotions.
Habit was habit, and she'd always been an exemplary captain. Besides, what sort of person hopes for injuries, or mistakes, or any kind of trouble? Which is what can come from the unexpected. And yet.
On the third day, when her own team was set to embark, Washen forced herself to sound like a captain. 'We'll take our walk on the iron,' she told the others,'and we'll exceed every objective. On schedule, if not before.'
It was a swift, decidedly strange journey. Diu rode beside Washen. He made that request, just as he'd requested being part of her team. Their shielded car began by retreating back up the access tunnel, into the garage, acquiring some distance before flinging itself downward. Then it streaked through the buttresses while a trillion electric fingers reached through the superfluid shields, then through their thin skulls, momentarily playing with everyone's sanity.
The car reached the upper atmosphere, and braked, the terrific gees bruising flesh and shattering minor bones. Emergency genes awoke, weaving protein analogs and knit-ring the most important aches in moments. The bridge was rooted in a hillside of cold rusting iron and black jungle. Despite a heavily overcast sky, the air was brilliant and furnace-hot, every breath tasting of metals and nervous sweat. The captains unloaded their supplies. As team leader, Washen gave orders that everyone already knew by heart. Their car was led from the bridge, then reconfigured. Their new vehicle was loaded and tested, and the captains were tested by their autodocs: newly implanted genes were already churning away, helping their flesh adapt to the heat and metal-rich environment. Then Miocene, sitting in a nearby encampment, gave her blessing, and Washen lifted off, steering toward their appointed study site.
The countryside was broken and twisted, split by fault fines and raw mountains and countless volcanic vents. The vents had been quiet, some for a century, some for a decade, or in some cases, for days. Yet the surrounding terrain was alive, ad
orned with pseudotrees reminiscent of enormous mushrooms, each pressed flush against its neighbors, their lacquered black faces feeding on the dazzling blue light.
Marrow was at least as durable as the captains flying above it. Growth rates were phenomenal, and for more reasons than the abundant light or a hyper-efficient photosynthesis. Early findings supported an early hypothesis: the jungle was also feeding through its roots, the chisellike tips forcing their way through fissures, finding hot springs fat with thermophilic bacteria.
But were the aquatic ecosystems as productive? That was Washen's little question, and she had selected a small, metal-choked lake for study. They arrived on schedule, and after circling the lake twice, she set down on a slab of frozen black slag. The rest of the day was spent setting up their lab and quarters, and specimen traps, and as a precaution, installing a defense perimeter — three paranoid AIs chat did nothing but think the worst of every passing bug and spore.
Night was mandatory.
Despite the perpetual light, Miocene insisted that each captain sleep four full hours, then invest another hour in food and ritual chores.
On schedule, Washen's team climbed into their six popup shelters, stripped out of their field uniforms, then lay awake, listening to the steady buzzing of the jungle, counting the seconds until it was time to rise again.
They sat in the open at breakfast, in a neat circle, and gazed up at the sky. A shifting wind had carried away the clouds, bringing hotter, drier air and even more fight. The chamber's distant wall was silvery-white and smooth and remote. The captains' base camp was a dark blemish visible only because of the clear air. With the distance and the glare, the bridge had vanished. If Washen was careful, she could almost believe they were the only people on the world. If she was lucky, she forgot that elaborate telescopes were watching her sitting on her aerogel chair, eating her scheduled rations, and now, with her right hand, scratching the damp back of her very damp right ear.
