Robert Reed - Marrow

The one-time derelict had evolved into a vibrant ship, rich and fundamentally happy—at least so far as a Master’s many nexuses could measure qualities as ethereal and private as happiness.

But one matter kept worrying both nexuses and the woman, and that was the nagging, impossible mystery about Miocene and the other missing captains.

When her captains first vanished, the Master’s response was a purposeful, magnificent panic. She dispatched security troops, uniformed and otherwise, who combed the vast ship, hunting for a few hundred women and men. At first the troops used subtle means, then after a barren week, random sweeps were implemented. And after another month of conspicuous failure, the troops gathered up known troublemakers and unlikable souls and held an assortment of surgical interrogations.

Yet the missing captains—the best of the best—still would not be found.

Colleagues soon realized the scope of things, and as whispered words let the news slip, first to the low-ranking crew members, then to the passengers themselves, explanations became mandatory. Which was why the Master fabricated the story about a secret mission to a distant world, leaving the purpose and exact destination undefined, allowing her audiences’ imagination and paranoia to fill in the unknowns. All that mattered was that she repeated the story often enough, forcing others to believe it, and after a century without any word from the missing captains, or even one plausable sighting, the Master put on a sorrowful face, then made a very public announcement.

“The captains’ ship is missing,” she reported.

It was her annual banquet; thousands of lesser captains blinked at the news, putting on their own sorrowful faces as the words sank deep.

“Their ship is missing and presumed destroyed,” she continued. “I wish I could explain their mission. But I cannot. Suffice to say that our colleagues and good friends are heroes, and we are forever in their debt, as is the Great Ship”

New security measures were in charge. Devised by the Master and implemented by her elite guard, these paranoias were intended to keep watch over the remaining captains. Old escape routes, wise in an earlier age, were forbidden and ordered dismantled. New nexuses incorporated into her vast body did nothing but report on the captains’ whereabouts and activities, failures and successes, and without being too intrusive, passed along certain thoughts, too.

By then, the shortfall of captains was a real and pernicious issue. Only a few percent of the roster were missing. Yet efficiencies had dropped by a full quarter, and innovation had collapsed by nearly sixty percent. The Master found herself studying the talents of every crew member, then the human passengers, too. Who among these warm immortal bodies would make a passable captain? Whom could she trust with some little part of the ship, if only to dress them in the proper uniform and march them up and down the public avenues, lending confidence to those who needed it most?

Talent—genuine instinctive lead-us-around-the-galaxy talent—was in short supply.

Even with training, time, and genetic tinkering, few souls had the deep ambition and the need for duty that captains required. The Master found herself automating more and more nexuses, making her days and nights even busier. Plainly, a few willing and talented souls would be a blessing. But how to find them? Her ship was so far from the Terran colonies, and her needs were so terribly, unbearably urgent…

“What about a general amnesty…?” suggested her new First Chair.

His name was Earwig, and he was thrilled with Miocene’s disappearance. Which was exactly as it should be. But Earwig lacked his predecessor’s better qualities, including Miocene’s good sense to publicly admit her ambitions. Not to mention her notorious inability to forgive and forget.

“An amnesty?” said the Master, her voice doubtful. But not decided.

“At last count, madam, eighty-nine captains have left the ranks. Some are imprisoned for minor crimes, while others long ago vanished into the general population, assuming new names and faces, and lives without responsibility.”

“We need such people?” asked the Master.

“If they willingly start at a low rank,” he argued. “And if their crimes are small enough that you, in your magnificence, can forgive them. I should think yes, we might make good use of them. Yes.”

She summoned the list herself.

In a fraction of a second, AI functionaries digested those eighty-nine lives and service records, and her conscious soul looked at the names, remembering most, surprised by the talent listed there. A smooth strong finger pointed at the highest-ranking name while her voice rumbled. “What do you think happened to your predecessor?”

“Madam?”

“To Miocene. I want your best guess.” She held her giant hand steady, repeating the obvious. “Several hundred colleagues vanished on the same day, and we haven’t found so much as a lost finger, and where do you think they must be?”

“Far away,” was his verdict.

Then sensing her mood as any good First Chair should, he added. “It was an alien influence.” Several species were named, all local and all suspicious. “They could have bribed our captains, or kidnapped them. Then smuggled them off the ship.”

“Why those captains?”

Ego made him say, “I don’t know why. Madam.”

It wasn’t a matter of talent, he seemed to be claiming. Even though both of them knew otherwise.

“You should trust your new security measures.” Earwig was dragging the conversation back toward the amnesty issue. “We can watch each of these forgiven captains. If they disappoint, we act appropriately. You can act, madam. There is absolutely no chance of a repetition of these events, madam.”

“Am I worried about a repetition?”

“Maybe I am,” he replied. Then he remembered to smile, looking at the list of fallen captains, at the name that the Master had firmly under her finger.

Quietly, he said, “Pamir,” aloud.

She watched her First Chair, then asked. “Do you really believe that a general amnesty would work? That a man like Pamir would give up his freedom for this uniform?”

“Give up his freedom?” Earwig sputtered, not understanding those words.

Then, struggling to please the Master, he added, “I remember Pamir. He was a talented, natural captain. Sometimes abrasive, yes. But whatever else is said about him, madam… Pamir was adept at wearing our uniform…”

The amnesty was well advertised in the more discreet venues, and it was given a life span of exactly one century.

During its first two minutes, half of the imprisoned and AWOL captains accepted its terms, begging forgiveness for their various crimes. Quietly but openly, each was returned to service, given a modest rank and obscure responsibilities, and after jive decades of reliable service, they were awarded small promotions of pay and station.

Pamir hadn’t appeared.

The Master was disappointed but not surprised. She had known that man forever, it seemed. In a passing sense, she even understood him. It wouldn’t be like Pamir to join that first wave of supplicants. A laudable mistrust was part of his makeup, true. But more importantly, he was a creature of tremendous, almost crippling pride. In the amnesty’s final years, as more lost souls came forward, Pamir’s absence grew more notable. Even the Master decided that if he was still alive and still living on the ship—two enormous suppositions—then it would take a gift sweeter than forgiveness to bring him home to her.