Mallow (52 page)

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 soldier 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 perma
ne
ntly
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 sold
ier was wrestl
ed 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.

The hall divided three ways.

Left, right. And straight down.

Orleans turned, and in a gesture old as humankind, he placed one of his gloved fingers to his rubbery mouth. 'Quiet,' he was saying.

Orleans dove into the black bottomless hole. Feet first, Pamir followed.

In that perfect darkness, there was no sense of falling. The body felt nothing of its own rapid acceleration, and rime seemed to slow, and Pamir was trying to relax, readying himself for a distant floor, when a voice suddenly, unexpectedly whispered into his ears.

'Pamir?' said the voice. 'Can you talk?'

Washen.

'Can you hear me, Pamir?'

He didn't dare use even a scrambled channel. Someone might hear his convoluted bark, then trace the source. But maybe Washen realized as much, because she kept talking, making it feel as if they were falling together.

'I've got news,' she reported. 'Our friend has helped, and will help us . .
.'

Good.

'But I need to know,' she continued. 'Will our other friends assist? Have they agreed to fight with us?'

Just then, something powerful struck the hull.

For a screeching instant, Pamir brushed against the shaft wall. The entire hull was rippling under the impact. Then he was tumbling through space again, free of weight, momentarily functioning as a tiny, tiny starship . . . and he closed his eyes, remembering to breathe, then telling Washen, and himself, 'The Remoras will fight.'

He whispered to her, 'We've got ourselves a war.'

THE
BLEAK

M
y perfect, eternal
solitude shattered by a wealth of stars, and
by
life, boisterous and abundant life, and it felt as if this was how it had always been. Skies filled with suns and living worlds, and the life within me fat and steady, prosperous beyond need or reasonable want, and how could it be any other way? Life peaceful, more than not. Life punctuated with great loves and endurable defeats. Life conjuring children out of semen and egg, software and cold crystals, and those children racing through their fresh-scrubbed incarnations with an innocent zest that always eroded into the steady cool pleasantness that is a mark of maturity that time, under its tireless hand, forces upon each of us.

I had nearly forgotten Death.

Not as a theory, never. As a principle and occasional tragedy, I couldn't help but think of that great balancer. But as hard practicality - as the simple inevitable consequence of Life - Death seemed as left behind as my ancient, much treasured solitude.

Or perhaps I never actually knew Death.

To
me, Her face appears grim and self-assured, yet unexpectedly beautiful.
Th
at beautiful face rests on a tall body growing stronger as the carnage worsens, and more lovely. A body that feeds on one soul or ten million souls, choosing her mouthfuls with a fickle maliciousness sure to leave the living wondering:

'Wh
y not me?'

'Wh
y am I still here, alone?'

I hear their voices. From my skin come murmurs. Shouts. Coded ticks and great white roars of
EM
noise, and always, lovely Death drinks in their glorious misery.

'Abandon your station . . . now . . . !'

'Attack . . . now . . . !'

'Do you see them . . . no . . . not yet, no . . . !' 'Hold—'

'Not there, you need to be . . . by the patch-and-pray shop . . . do you see, no . . . !' 'Retreat
—/'

'Casualties . . . in excess of
...
eleven million in the bombardment, and twenty million displaced into basements . . .'

'They ambushed us at the assembly point, with machine-shop nuclears . . .'

'Kill me. If it comes to it.'

'I will. I promise.'

'Casualties eighty percent. Swarm still functioning.' 'Fall back, and dig
...
!'

'We have a reactor sabotaged. Off-line. Request engineers.' 'How about it? A quick screw?'

'Prisoners will be assembled here. Ranked according to their
likely knowledge here. By me. Th
en taken home for interrogation, or disposed by standard means . . .'

'Fanatics.'

'Maniacs.'

'Soulless fucks.'

'How about a really quick fuck?'

'Come see, come see
! I want to show all of you. Th
ese are cyborgs, my friends! Much as the Bleak were! Nothing but machines with odd guts shoved inside them. Here, touch their guts. Touch them, and smell them. Make yourselves clothes with this odd flesh. Cut up their shells for trophies. Machines and meat, and a great evil, and nothing else. I promise you—!'

'Casualties, ninety-two percent. Swarm effectiveness diminished.'

'Escape wherever you can, however you can . . .'

'NOTICE: WITHIN THE LAST SHIPMENT OF PRISONERS WAS A CAMOUFLAGED FINGER OF ANTIMATTER. ALL PRISONERS MUST BE EXAMINED THOROUGHLY BEFORE EMBARKING—'

'Retreat again . . . with all available skimmers . . . !'

'Th
ey're the Bleak, reborn! And this is our duty, and our honor, to chop them open and kill them slowly
—!
'

'Our last city . . . Wune's Hearts . . . abandoned . .
.'

'NOTICE: PASSENGERS ARE NOT SUBJECT TO THE SAME TREATMENT AS REMORAS. THEY MAY NOT BE SUMMARILY EXECUTED, REGARDLESS OF BEHAVIOR. CIVIL CODES WILL REMAIN IN EFFECT. ALWAYS. FROM THE OFFICE OF THE MASTER CAPTAIN—'

'I
won't tell you anything, Bleak! Ever!'

'They'
re calling us the Bleak now. Wh
atever that is. I don't know. Considering, maybe we should be insulted . .
.'

'Press them! Run them!'

'I'm finished, and you promised.'

An EM crackle, then a solid whump.

'Good dreams, friend.'

'My swarm's gone. No one else alive.
My
family, most
of
them, are in Happens River. Tell them—'

'All right you shits! I'm a Bleak. We're all pretty fucking Bleak in here. Does that scare you? Does that make you want to drip your piss? Because we're going to keep holding our positions, you fucks, and
if
you want to take us, you've got to follow your piss down into our hole
—/'

'All engines secured!'

'Reactors, on-line!'

'Waywards, they keep coming . . . new units keep coming . . . there's more Waywards than we've got stars . .
.'
'Again, retreat. You know how!'

'PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: FIGHTING SLOWS
IN
THE INSURRECTION'S LAST HOURS. THE SHIP'S TRAILING FACE IS SECURE. ESSENTIAL
SHIP
OPERATIONS HAVE NEVER BEEN IMPAIRED. PASSENGER
DISTRICTS
HAVE NEVER BEEN ENDANGERED. FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND YOUR

BLESSINGS, THANK YOU. FROM THE OFFICE OF THE MASTER CAPTAIN—'

'So we've got some time. How
about a slow screw?'

'Sounds nice.'

'Doesn't it, now?'

Forty-five

One of the
generals said it first, and said it badly.

'The Remoras are just about beaten,' he declared, standing over the latest strategic holomaps. When he realized that the Master had overheard his audacious words, he straightened his back and squared his shoulders, adding, 'We've destroyed every one of their cities, imprisoned or killed most of them, and pushed their refugees out onto the ship's bow. Without cover, and with only a fool's hope left to them.' Then he said, 'Madam,' with a minimal bow, smiling in the Master's direction while his pale eyes kept careful track of Till.

A reprimand was in order.

Something blunt, and powerful, and lasting.

Miocene showed a narrow grin, and in a near whisper, she assured her officer, 'There is nothing to celebrate here.'

'Of course, madam.' Again, the little bow. 'I simply meant—'

She stopped him with a crisp wave of the hand, and said nothing.

Instead of the expected words, Miocene stared at each of her generals, and Till, then conspicuously looked at no one when she said, 'When we first arrived here, I noticed a man. A human male standing outside the bridge, wearing nothing but a handwritten sign.'

Silence.

'The End Is Here,' she quoted.

The silence grew less sure of itself.

'I'm a busy person, but I still have time enough to ask simple questions.' She shook her head, telling everyone, 'He was a fool, obviously. One of those poor souls whose focus narrows too much, who can't work free of some consuming, pathetic idea. For the last six centuries, that fool wore his sign in public. Outside the Master's station. Did you know that? Did you know that he painted those words on fresh parchment every morning, careful to never repeat the curl and color of any letter. Why that was important to him, I can't say. Two days ago - the last time I left these quarters - I could have stopped for a moment and asked him those questions. I could have let him explain his passions to me. "What makes it so important, sir, that you're willing to invest hundreds of years in what looks futile to a normal soul . . . ?"'

Miocene sighed heavily, then admitted, 'Even if I wanted, I couldn't ask him any questions now. Nor could I help him, if that's what I thought was best. Because he has vanished. More than two hundred thousand mornings of rising before dawn and painting his important pronouncement according to his difficult, choking logic . . . and for some reason, the fool couldn't stand on his usual ground two mornings ago. Or yesterday morning. Or today, for that matter. I can't see him through any of my security eyes. Quite simply, he has vanished. Now don't you think that is odd?'