by Robert Reed
'I know that I'm asking too much,' Miocene had admitted on many occasions. 'A slower pace would be fast enough, and there wouldn't be as many hardships on our grandchildren. But these are only hardships. Not lives. And I want our people to see their energies going toward something genuine. Something they can touch, and climb -with our permission - and something that is visibly progressing.'
What the eye found unimpressive at first glance was quite tall, and even to an old woman who had seen plenty of marvels, the bridge had a magnificence that always made her blink and shiver. It was far taller than any neighboring skyscraper. Taller than all of them set on top of each other, in fact. It reached up into the cold stratosphere. If they didn't add another centimeter, Marrow's own expansion could lift it up until it nearly kissed the surviving nub of the old bridge, and their escape would be complete.
But that led to a problem.
Washen had always doubted Miocene's rationale. Maybe their people needed something tangible. Although hadn't they always been wonderfully motivated by the abstract charms of the mythlike ship? And maybe this was a project that should be completed as quickly as possible, regardless of costs and deprivations. But the fledging bridge stood on an island of iron, and the iron was drifting on a slow, ancient ocean. Plumes of white-hot metal were rising beneath them, each plume wrestling with its neighbors. Heat and momentum played a slow, relentless game. True, the abatement teams had managed to steer the plumes, forcing them to cancel each other's effects. Drifting ten meters north or sixty east were workable issues. But they still had three centuries of tectonic tampering ahead of them, and what was difficult today would only become more so. With the crust acting as a blanket, the trapped heat could only grow, the molten iron would rise faster and faster, and like any liquid that needs to move, the iron would show persistence and a low cunning.
'This is too soon,' she had told the Submaster. The ancient woman had become a recluse over these last centuries. She had her own elaborate compound between the factories and the bridge. She ruled by dispatches and digitals. Walls of scrap hyperfiber hid whatever passed for a life, and sometimes an entire year would pass without the two women meeting face-to-face. Miocene only emerged for the annual Submaster feast, which was where Washen asked her bluntly, 'What if Marrow pushes the bridge completely out of alignment?'
But Miocene possessed her own form of persistence. 'First of all,' she replied, 'that will not happen. Hasn't the situation been well in hand for the last thousand years?'
With the buried heat escalating all the time, yes.
'And second of all, is any of this your responsibility? No, it is not. In fact, you have no role in any key decision.' Miocene seemed cold and troubled, shaking her head as she explained,'I gave you a role in the bridge's construction, Washen, because you motivate the grandchildren better than most. And because you're willing to make your own decisions without troubling the Submasters every day'
Miocene didn't like to be troubled anymore.
There were whispers about her hermitage. Sad rumors, typically. Some claimed that Miocene wasn't at all alone. She kept a secret cadre of young grandchildren whose only function was to entertain her, sexually and otherwise. It was a ludicrous story, but centuries old just the same. And what was that old warning? If you tell a lie often and if you tell it well, then the truth has no choice but to change Her face . . .
With a hard thump of tires, Washen pulled into the main garage.
The Great Temple was always open to the public. From the basement garage to the old library, she was surrounded by crowds of worshipers from across the city and from every end of the Loyalist nation. Happens River had sent a dozen grinning pilgrims bearing a special gift - a giant, hugely massive nickel bust of Miocene - and the temple administrator wore a pained, confused expression, telling them thank you in the same breath that she warned them that all gifts needed to be registered beforehand. 'Do you see my point? And thank you so much, again. But how else can I keep this place from being a cluttered mess? With so much devotion, don't we need a system?'
There were many ways into the bridge.
Most of the routes were subterranean, and armored, and typically locked. Washen preferred to enter through a small door at the back of the library. The important security measures were thorough but subtle. But to convince visitors of the facility's impregnability, armed guards stood in plain view, eyeing everyone; even high-ranking captains deserved a look of cold suspicion.
Twice in twenty meters, Washen was scanned and registered.
Reaching a secondary elevator, she signed her name into the register, then allowed an autodoc to take a snip of tissue, a sip of blood.
With confidence, the nearest guard said, 'Good morning, Madam Washen.'
'Hello, Golden,' she replied.
For the last twenty years, without fail, the man had sat at his station, never complaining, observing the comings and goings of thousands of talented, determined workers. Besides a square face and a name, he seemed to have no identity of his own. If Washen asked about his life, he deflected the question. It was their game. At least it was her game. But she didn't feel like playing it today. Watching her hand scrawl her name on the thinking plastic, she found herself recalling her dream again, wondering why it was bothering her so much.
'Have a good day, madam.'
'You, too, Golden. You, too.'
Alone, Washen sat in the car and rode to the top of the bridge. Another square-faced guard welcomed her by name, saluted briefly, then reported the most important news of the day. 'Rain is coming, madam.'
'Good.'
The only windows on the bridge were here. A series of tall diamond panes looked out on the near vacuum of the stratosphere. The sky was hyperfiber and a tired blue glow came from nowhere, from everywhere. And fifty kilometers below was the city and its surrounding ring of farms, dormant volcanoes, and aging red lakes reaching out to a horizon that looked as if it were about to press up against the chamber's wall.
Only from here did Marrow resemble a faraway place.
This was a view that any captain could appreciate.
As promised, a line of thunderstorms were drifting toward the city. The tallest clouds were intricate and clean and white, beautifully shaped and constantly twisted by winds into even more beautiful shapes. But the clouds were little more than bumps above the remote terrain. As the buttresses weakened, storms grew less frequent, and less angry. Without light and an abundance of water to feed them, they tended to fade and fall apart as swiftly as they formed.
Another three-plus centuries, and Marrow would be immersed in darkness.
And for how long?
Maybe a ship-day. Or maybe twenty years. Either was a viable estimate, and nobody knew enough to feel certain. But each of the native species had a reservoir of unexpressed genes, and in laboratory conditions, bathed in night, the genes awakened, allowing the vegetation and blind insects to fall into a durable hibernation.
The buttresses would vanish, it was assumed. Or at least fade to negligible levels. And the Loyalists would climb up this wondrous makeshift bridge, reaching the base camp, then the ship beyond.
In polite company, nobody even discussed the possibilities that lay beyond that point. After forty-six centuries, the same theories ruled. And every other bizarre explanation had been offered, then debated in depth, and finally, mercifully, buried in a very deep, unmarked grave.
Whatever was, was.
That's what Washen told herself as she entered her small, spartan office, taking her seat before a bank of controls and monitors and simple-minded AIs.
'Whatever is, is.'
Then like every other morning, she let herself gaze out the diamond window. Maybe the bridge was too much and too soon. But even still, it was a marvel of engineering and ad hoc inventiveness, and sometimes, in a secret part of herself, Washen wished there was some way to carry it along with the grandchildren.
To show the universe both treasures in which she felt such p
ride.
'MADAM WASHEN?' She blinked, turned.
Her newest assistant stood in the office doorway. An intense, self-assured man of no particular age, he was obviously puzzled - a rare expression for him - and with a mixture of curiosity and confusion, he announced, 'Our shift is over.'
'In another fifty minutes,' she replied, pushing aside her daily report. Washen knew the rime, but the habit of her hands was to open her silver watch, eyes glancing at the slow hands. 'Forty-nine minutes, and a few seconds.'
'No, madam.' Nervous fingers tugged at the dangling Gordian braids, then attempted to smooth the crisp blue fabric of his uniform. 'I was just told, madam. Everyone is to leave the bridge immediately, using every tube but the Primary.'
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 oflsping; 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 girted? 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 Way wards. 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 holo-plans, 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.'
