Mallow (10 page)

'A delirious dream,' Miocene warned him.

But Washen felt much the same. Standing here, seeing this wondrous realm, she could imagine an ancient species of bipeds slathering the hyperfiber on the chambers walls, then creating Marrow from the ship's own core. Why they would do it, she didn't know. She wouldn't even dare a secret guess. But imagining someone like herself, five or ten billion years removed from here
...
it was a compelling, frightening, and focusing insight . . . and something
.she
wouldn't share with the others . . .

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 asking, '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 holoprojec
tions 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.

Quietl
y, 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 exactl
y 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.