Robert Reed - Marrow

“Well enough,” she allowed. “And how are you?”

His answer was an odd wincing smile, and silence.

Where was Diu? More of the Waywards were climbing up on the stage, and she looked at each man as he lifted his mask, watching their faces, assuming that Diu was somewhere close, hidden by the growing crush of bodies.

Till was kneeling, caressing the vault’s slick surface.

Miocene studied him, but her eyes seemed empty. Blind.

A few thousand honored Waywards had gathered around the stage. All were nursing women, each with at least one infant sucking on their swollen breasts. A thick, oddly pleasant scent lay on the breeze. Tens of thousands more streamed out of the jungle, from every direction, moving purposefully and quietly, footfalls and breathing making a sound, soft and vast, like the beating of a distant surf that grew closer. Something about the sound was irresistible, and beautiful, and at the heart of things, frightening.

Among them were Locke’s children and grandchildren.

In principle, Washen could have a hundred thousand descendants among these people. Which wasn’t a small accomplishment for one old woman who could claim only one child of her own.

The vault’s hum grew louder, increased in pitch, then stopped altogether. It was Locke who lifted an arm, shouting, “Now,” to the multitude.

Everyone else repeated the gesture, the word. A great shared voice rippled its way to the top of the amphitheatre, and then a sudden smear of gold appeared along one edge, expanding rapidly, bright in the skylight as hundreds of strong bodies dragged it forward. Countless golden balloons helped hold the fabric aloft. It was a foil of gold, hectares in size and pounded thin and strengthened… how…? Whatever the trick, it was strong enough and light enough to be pulled across the entire amphitheatre, enclosing everyone, creating a temporary, impermeable roof.

The sky fell dark.

Sensing the perfect darkness, the vault opened itself, revealing a new sky and a younger world. Marrow was suddenly barren and smooth, and it was covered with a worldwide ocean of bubbling, irradiated iron.

The audience found itself standing on that ocean, unwarmed, watching an ancient drama play itself out. The Builders’ enemies appeared.

Without warning, the hated Bleak squirmed their way through the chamber’s walls, emerging from the countless access tunnels—insectlike cyborgs, each one enormous and cold and frighteningly swift. Like angry jackwasps, they dove at Marrow, spitting out gobs of antimatter that slammed into the molten surface. Scorching white-hot explosions rose up and up. Liquid iron swirled and lifted, then collapsed again. In the harsh shifting light, Washen glanced at her son, trying to measure his face, his mood. Locke was spellbound, eyes wide and his mouth ajar, his muscular body drenched with a glossy, almost radiant perspiration. Almost every face and body was the same. Even Miocene was enthralled. But she was staring at Till, not at the spectacle overhead, and if anything, her rapture was worse than the others’. While her son, in stark contrast, seemed oddly unmoved by these glorious, holy images.

A hyperfiber dome burst from the iron.

Lasers fired, consuming a dozen of the Bleak. Then the dome dove under the iron again, whale-fashion.

The Bleak brought reinforcements, then struck again. Missiles carried antimatter deep into the iron, seeking targets. Marrow shook and twisted, then belched fire and searing plasmas. Maybe the Bleak had won, killing the last of the Builders. Maybe the Great Ship was theirs. But the Builders’ revenge was in place. Was assured. The Bleaks’ forces pressed on, filling the narrow sky with their furious shapes. Then the buttresses ignited, bringing their blue-white glare. Suddenly the monsters seemed tiny and frail. Before they could flee, the lightning storm—the Event—swept across the sky, bright enough to make every eye blink, dissolving every wisp of matter into a plasma that hung overhead as a superheated mist that would persist for millions of years, cooling as Marrow contracted and enlarged again, the world beating like a great slow heart, cooling itself gradually, a temporary crust covering the blistering iron.

A billion years passed in a moment.

The Bleaks’ own carbon and hydrogen and oxygen became Marrow’s atmosphere and its rivers, and those same precious elements slowly gathered themselves into butter bugs and virtue trees, then became the wide-eyed children standing in the present, in that natural depression, weeping in the deep, perfect darkness.

On a signal, the canopy was torn open, the gold foil splitting and falling in great long sheets that shimmered in the skylight.

Washen opened her watch, measuring the minutes.

Into that wide-eyed present, Miocene called out, “There is more. Much more.” Her voice was urgent. Motherly. She stared only at Till, explaining, “Other recordings show how the ship was attacked. How the Builders retreated into Marrow. This lump of iron… this is where they made their final stand… whoever they were…!”

A hundred thousand bodies stirred, making a softly massive sound.

Till wasn’t awestruck. If anything, he seemed merely pleased, grinning as if amused by this vindication of a vision that needed no vindication.

For a slim moment, their eyes met. Then obeying some unspoken pact, mother and son looked away again. Indifference in one face; in the other, a wrenching pain.

The pained face glared at the sky. “We never see the Builders themselves,” Miocene announced. “But this thing, this gift that Washen and I have brought to you… it’s given us a better, fuller understanding of the species…”

Till contemplated the same sky, saying nothing.

“Listen to me,” Miocene cried out, unable to contain her frustrations. “Don’t you understand? The Event that trapped us here, in this awful place… the Event was an ancient weapon. An apocalyptic booby trap that we probably triggered ourselves by sending our teams across Marrow… and that might have… probably did… kill and consume everyone above us, leaving the ship empty, and us trapped here…!”

Washen imagined a hundred billion vacant apartments and the long ghosdy avenues and seas turned to a lifeless steam; once again, the ship was a derelict, plying its way blindly among the stars.

If true, it was a horrible tragedy.

Yet Till’s reaction was different, singular. “Who is trapped?” he called out, his voice carrying farther than his mother’s, buoyed up with a smooth, unnerving calm. “I’m not trapped. No believer is. This is exactly where we belong.”

Miocene’s eyes betrayed her anger.

Till conspicuously ignored her, shouting to the audience, “We are here because the Builders called to the captains. They lured the captains to this great place, then made them stay, giving them the honor to give birth to us!”

“That’s insane,” the Submaster growled.

Washen scanned the crowd, searching for Diu. Again and again, she would recognize his features in a Wayward’s face, or eyes, or his nervous energy. But not the man himself. And they needed Diu. An intermediary with an intimate knowledge of both cultures, he could help everyone… and why hadn’t Diu been invited to this meeting…?

A cold dread took Washen by the throat.

“I know where you got this nonsense.” Miocene said the words, then took a long step toward Till, empty hands lifting into the air. “It’s obvious. You were a boy, and you stumbled across a working vault. Didn’t you? The vault showed you the Bleak, and you hammered together a ridiculous story… this crazy noise about the Builders being reborn… and you conveniently at the center of everything…”

In a mocking, almost pitying fashion, Till grinned at his mother.