Robert Reed - Marrow

She paused again and placed her hands flush against the ceiling, and twisting her head, she judged from where those voices were corning. The acoustics were that fine.

She broke into an easy jog.

The room’s only furnishings were hard gray pillows. The air was warm and stale, smelling of odd dusts and durable pheromones. Colors seemed forbidden. Even Washen s gaudy touristy clothes seemed to turn grayer by the moment.

The voices gradually grew louder, turning familiar. They were human voices, she realized. And after a little while, she could even tell who they were. Not by their words, which were still a tangled mess. But by their tone. Their self-importance. These were voices meant to give orders and to be obeyed instantly, without question or regret.

She stopped. Squinted.

Against the grayness was something darker. A spot, a blemish. Very nearly nothing, at this distance. She called out, “Hello?”

Then she waited for what seemed to be long enough, deciding that no one had noticed her voice, and as Washen started to shout, “Hello,” again, several voices reached her, telling her, “Hello,” and, “This way,” and, “Welcome, you’re nearly late…!’ Yes, she was.

The Master’s orders had given her two weeks to slip down to this odd place. Washen had said her good-byes to Pamir with some time to spare. But afterward, waiting for a cap-car in a little way-station, she had run into security troops who examined her fake identity and her donated generics, then finally let her go again. After that, just to be certain that no one was hiding in her shadow, she had wandered another full day before starting for here.

Washen began to run.

But when the dark spot became people standing in knots and little lines, she slowed to a walk again, aiming for decorum.

A quiet rain of applause began, then fell away.

Suddenly, Washen couldn’t count all the captains spread out before her, and putting on her most captainly smile, she joined them, almost laughing as she asked, “So why, why, why are we here?”

No one seemed to know this had happened. But the captains had obviously spent the last few days talking about little else. Each had a pet theory to offer, and none had the bad taste to defend their words too far. Then that ritual was finished, at least for the moment, and colleagues asked Washen for stories about her travels. Where had she wandered, what marvels had she accomplished, and did she have two or twenty interesting ideas about this whole crazy business?

Washen mentioned a few touristy haunts but avoided any word that could, even by accident, remind anyone of Pamir.

Then with a shrug of her shoulders, she admitted, “I don’t have guesses. I’m presuming this is a necessary business, and gloriously important, but until I have the facts, that’s all that I can assume.”

“Bravo,” said one gray-eyed captain.

Washen was eating. And drinking. The first arrival had followed a steady drip-drip-dripping sound, coming to this place and discovering stacks of sealed rations and a dozen kegs of the ship’s best wine, brought from the Alpha Sea district, raised by the hands and feet of tailored apes. Judging by the size of the drops and the small red puddle, the keg had opened itself the moment that first captain had stepped from the elevator.

Delicious wine, thought Washen.

Again, the captain said, “Bravo.”

She looked at him now.

“Diu,” he said, offering a hand and a wide smile.

She balanced her mug on her plate, then shook his with her free hand, saying, “We met at the Masters banquet. Twenty years ago, was it?”

“Twenty-five.”

Like most captains, Diu was tall for his species. He had craggy features and an easy charm that instilled trust in the human passengers. Even dressed in a simple gown, he looked like someone of consequence.

“It’s kind of you to remember me,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Even when he stood still, Diu was moving. His flesh seemed to vibrate, as if the water inside were ready to boil. “What do you think of the Master’s taste?” he inquired, gray eyes brightening. “Isn’t this a bizarre place to meet?”

“Bizarre,” Washen echoed. “That’s the word.”

For the moment, they looked at their surroundings. The ceiling and floor ended with a plain gray wall punctuated with a very rare window.

Bracing herself, ‘ Washen asked, “Whatever happened to the leech? Does anyone remember?”

“They leaped into the sea below,” said Diu. “No,” she muttered.

“Or we got them to their destination.”

“Which was it?”

“Both,” he reported. “Or something else entirely. They’re such a strange species. Apparently, they can’t take any course without pretending to go a hundred other places at the same time.”

To confuse their imaginary enemies, no doubt. “Wherever they are,” Diu assured her, “I’m sure they’re doing well.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Washen replied, knowing what was polite. In the face of ignorance, a captain should make positive sounds.

Diu hovered beside her, smiling as his flesh shivered with nervous energy.

Twenty-five years since they met… and what, if anything, did Washen remember about the man…?

Her thoughts were interrupted.

A sudden voice, familiar and close, told her, “You were nearly late, darling. Not that anyone noticed.” Miocene.

Turning with a respectful haste, Washen found a face that she knew better than most. The Submasters face was as narrow as an axe blade and less warm, and every bone beneath the taut flesh had its own enduring sharpness. Amused, the dark eyes had a chilly brightness. The short brown hair was streaked with snow. Taller than anyone else, Miocene’s head brushed against the ceiling. Yet she refused to dip her head, even for the sake of simple comfort.

“Not that you know any more than the rest of us,” said the tall woman. “But what do you believe the Master wants?”

Others grew quiet. Captains held their breath, secretly delighted that someone else had to endure the woman’s scrutiny.

“I don’t know anything,” said Washen, with conviction. “I know you,” Miocene reminded her. “You have a guess, or ten.”

“Perhaps…”

“Everyone’s waiting, darling.”

Washen sighed, and gestured. “I count several hundred clues here.”

“And they are?”

“Us.”

Their group stood near one of the rare windows—a wide slit of thick, distorting plastic. Nothing was outside but blackness and vacuum. The ocean of liquid hydrogen, vast and calm and unforgivably cold, lay fifty kilometers below their toes. Nothing was visible in the window but their own murky reflections. Washen glanced at herself, at her handsome, ageless face, her raven-and-snow hair pulled back in a sensible bun, her wide chocolate eyes betraying confidence as well as a much-deserved pleasure.

“The Master selected us,” she offered. “Which means that we are the clues.”

Miocene glanced at her own reflection. “What do you see, darling?”

“The elite of the elite.” Washen began singing off names, listing bonuses and promotions earned over the last millenia. “Manka is a new second-grade. Aasleen was in charge of the last engine upgrade, which came in below budget and five years early. Saluki and Westfall have won the Master’s Award more times than I can recall—”

“I bet they remember,” someone called out.

The captains laughed until they ran out of breath.

Washen continued. “Portion is the youngest Submaster.

Johnson Smith jumped three grades with his last promotion. And then there’s Diu.” She gestured at the figure beside her.” Already an eleventh-grade, which is astonishing. You boarded the ship—correct me if I’m wrong—as a passenger. An ordinary tourist. Is that right?”