Robert Reed - Marrow

Till was the perfect First Chair.

Already knowing the answer, he asked, “Of those thirty-one, who are the most dangerous?” Blessing listed the important names.

She said “Pamir,” with a dismissive tone. “He’s the highest-ranking officer still at large. But his first-grade status can be misleading. Judging by the Master’s records, the man isn’t well regarded. Not by her or by the other captains. His loyalties are suspect. The Master herself made only sparing use of him.”

“I remember that one,” said Daen. Then with a quick gesture and a giddy laugh, he added, “I wouldn’t worry. Pamir’s probably hiding in one of his old holes, praying for the next amnesty.”

Daen was her Second Chair—the same position he had enjoyed before Marrow. But it was a post that he had taken grudgingly, even when he finally admitted that the old Master was inept. Letting a crazy man like Diu acquire so much power, then not finding her captains after nearly five millenia… well, she probably deserved to be unseated. Yet even then, if it wasn’t for his loyalty to Miocene, he wouldn’t have taken part in this ugliness. He had made that point plain on numerous occasions. And in turn, Miocene gave him no important role or linchpin responsibilities. Daen and the other old captains served a single clear, vital purpose: they showed that Miocene was operating legally, and morally, supported by proven souls who thought as she thought.

Miocene agreed with her Second Chair’s assessment of Pamir; but as usual, Daen ignored certain key points.

“Regardless what we think of the man,” she countered, “Pamir has talents. And more importantly, he has that first-grade rank. If there’s going to be an organized counterattack, by law and by tradition, Pamir’s the leader. If only as someone’s puppet, he can now be regarded as the ship’s true Master.”

Her warning had a slow, inadequate impact.

Daen blinked as if flustered, then admitted, “I just hope it doesn’t come to counterattacks and open rebellion.”

Other long-term officers agreed with him.

But Till reminded them and his Waywards, “There isn’t time to worry about one man. Or rebellions that only exist in our fears.”

Miocene nodded, then deflected the focus. She glanced at another old Submaster, saying, “Twist.” She smiled and asked, “How soon will you have the new nexuses ready to be implanted. In you, and in the others. And in me.”

Most importantly, me.

The charming Submaster tried to smile, and failed. “Another fifteen days,” he admitted. “Just in time for the big burn.”

Stripping away an ancient, byzantine system, full of booby traps and failed policies, then constructing a better system from the rawest ingredients… no, the delays weren’t much of a surprise, nor even much of a disappointment…

“Pepsin,” said Miocene.

Aasleen’s grandson nodded agreeably, then promised, “You already have full control over the main engines, madam.”

Miocene let everyone see her smile.

Then the engineer added, “There were some incidents of sabotage. A few. But what the Builders create is most definitely resilient…”

“You have enough hands to make repairs?”

The stocky man nodded, saying, “Yes, madam. I do.”

He was lying. She sensed it as she nodded, then in the most casual way, she mentioned, “When you come up short, contact Till or me. Every resource will be shoved your way”

“Thank you, madam. Thank you.”

Pepsin’s grandmother would have been an enormous help here. But Miocene didn’t allow herself the luxury of making wishes. Aasleen had made her choice, and now she was living a comfortable, dull existence in Hazz City. She’d lived that way since the Waywards took over the Loyalists’ cities and industries. Their invasion—a proving ground for what was happening to the ship today—had come swiftly, with a minimum of blood and discomfort. By the time Miocene was reborn, the Loyalist society was dissolving into the much larger, more potent Wayward culture. By the time she was healthy and whole again, her son could present her with an empire rich in possibility.

“For you, Mother,” he had whispered into one of her new ears. “This is for you. And I promise, this is nothing but the beginning.”

Again, Miocene felt compelled to glance at her son, and she couldn’t help but feel singularly blessed. During her rebirth, her son had taught her what was possible. Every question was answered in full. Every doubt evaporated into her love for Till. Then through his love and devotion, Till offered her the ship’s helm. “The Master doesn’t deserve her chair,” he had assured her. “She doesn’t serve the ship as she should, or as you will. Isn’t that true, Mother? Can you argue it otherwise?”

That was a great, perfect moment.

Everything about Miocene’s long ambitious life pointed at that epiphany. Her duty was obvious. Indeed, it seemed as if every hardship and wrenching pain were nothing but the careful preparation of her soul, making her ready for what was, for lack of any better word, her destiny.

“Both of us are Builders reborn,” Till had purred.

“We are,” she had mouthed, beaming at her only child.

To Miocene, the Builders were an abstraction. An idea with which she could coexist. No, she didn’t believe that their souls were billions of years old. But clearly, they were the natural ones to take control over this great, wondrous machine. She looked at the hardened souls at this long table. Waywards; Loyalists. She imagined the millions of children born before, then after the merging of those two nations. And there were the captains who had proved themselves during this century-long march toward this moment. Now…

Till asked, “May I stand now, madam, and have a word?”

Miocene nodded, then gladly sat in the Master’s oversized chair, letting every eye focus on him.

For the next few minutes, her son spoke about duty. About the importance of these next days and weeks. He repeated what his mother had already stated emphatically, that it was crucial for the ship’s burn to be made on schedule. They needed to prove to the passengers and to the galaxy that the ship was in proficient hands.

It was her speech, and it wasn’t.

As always, Miocene noticed how the faces seemed to drink in her son’s words. Again, she could appreciate why he was able to find followers and motivate them. Even old men like Twist and Daen would nod appreciatively, their fealty having shifted—in some abstract, convoluted fashion—a little closer to the Waywards.

Then she wasn’t thinking about Till, her eyes focusing on a new captain who had just entered the conference room, bowing at his superiors and taking one of the two empty chairs at the far end of the table.

Till concluded by saying, “Welcome, Virtue.”

The one-time traitor from the Wayward camp managed a deeper bow, then said,’My apologies. There was a problem—”

“With the spine, again?”

Asked Till.

“With its borehole, specifically. Sir. Madam. The old hyperfiber has been putting up a tenacious fight.” Gray-white eyes blinked as if embarrassed, then stared at Virtue’s own hands. “Within the week, I can assure you, madam… you will be able to rule the ship from anywhere, including Marrow…”

At this moment, they were nothing more than a boarding party. A few million highly motivated, thoroughly trained, and well-armed people living far from home.

“When the spine is finished, integration of command functions won’t take long,” he promised. “Another day, or two. Or perhaps three.”

Till glanced at his mother. For both of them, he said, “Thank you, Virtue.”

Miocene barely noticed the exchange. What she was studying was the final empty chair, feeling that instinctive disquiet. When she listened again and heard nothing but patient silence, she leaned forward across the pearlwood table and said, “Locke.”