Mallow (29 page)

'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 consta
ntly
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 pride.

'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 confes
sion.'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, VI
RTUE
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 exa
ctly
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.'

'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.'