Robert Reed - Marrow

A universe of data begged to be noticed. In a mostly thorough, near light-speed fashion, Miocene assigned degrees of importance to each bit of news, real or rumored, then absorbed and digested what seemed critical. Small protests were being held in scattered parts of the ship. Weapons had been discharged in half a dozen public venues. But mostly as warnings. With billions of passengers, there was the guarantee that a few of the fights were simply criminal. There was always a perfectly normal trickle of violence. Locke was still missing, a thousand little whiffs of evidence implying that he was killed on the first day. Then she focused on the teams that Till had dispatched to the Remoran city: their makeup; their training histories; their inadequate experience. They were as good as some units, no better than most. But wouldn’t this work demand the best? Sending a few bodies into an enemy-held city seemed like such a blatant waste, and dangerous…

She lingered on that one telling word. Waste.

Then again, she examined the damage through the scut-debug’s eyes. She took a deep breath of the blistering plasmas, thinking about the ancient machines that had been slaughtered for no worthy purpose, and she calculated the numbers of engineers and drones that these repairs would demand. Wayward engineers, probably. Since she still didn’t yet trust her own corps. And when she was angry enough, her living mouth dropped open, remarking to her First Chair, “I’m going to let your orders stand.”

“As you wish, madam.”

“Also,” she continued, “I want a full weapons array positioned nearby. In case our troops are attacked. Where we were when the rockets fired… that would be a natural vantage point, and nicely ironic. Don’t you think?”

Till’s face brightened, and he said, “All in your service, madam.”

Then he bowed.

Bowed to Miocene, she could only hope.

An army of tiny bone-white toadstools stood on a carpet of something dark and wet, with warm, feathery vapors rising into the bright damp air.

For a long while, nothing happened, nothing changed.

Then a fissure opened, and a filthy hand and wrist pushed up into the light, the elbow exposed, the arm bending one way, then the other, fingers obliterating the delicate toadstools with groping motions growing more desperate by the moment.

Finally the hand retreated, vanished.

A half-instant passed.

Then with a sloppy, wet sloosh, the ground spilt wide, and a naked body sat up, spitting and gasping, then coughing with a choking vigor that after several painful minutes fell away into a string of quiet moans.

The man stared at his surroundings.

Surrounding him was a forest of thick-bodied mushrooms, each as large as a full-grown virtue tree. His face was amazed and dubious and frightened, and even when he should have recovered from his suffocation, his breathing remained elevated, and his heart rattled along with an anxious gait, and no matter how many times he wiped his eyes with the dirty heels of his hands, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.

Under his ragged breath, he muttered, “Where? Where?”

At the sound of his voice, a tall man stepped from the mushroom forest. The man was wearing the uniform of a Submaster, but the mirrored fabric was wrinkled and tired, the sleeves frayed, a vertical gash exposing one of his long pale legs. He was smiling, and he wasn’t. He approached to a point, then knelt and said, “Hello.” He said, “Relax.” He said, “A name. We usually start with a name.”

“My name…?”

“That might be best.”

“Locke.”

“Of course.”

“What happened to me?” Locke sputtered.

“You were there,” the other man remarked. “Better than me, you would know what happened.”

Like a person suddenly cold, Locke pulled his knees out of the stinking black earth, grabbing them and holding tight for a long moment. Then he quietly, quietly asked, “What is this place?”

“Again,” said the man, “you would know that answer, too.”

Locke’s face seemed quite simple, and for the moment, very young. After a thoughtful gasp, he said, “All right,” and forced himself to look up with a mixture of resignation and hopefulness. “I don’t know you,” he admitted. “What’s your name?”

“Hazz.”

Locke opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I’ll take that as a sign of recognition,” the long-dead man responded. Then he stood and beckoned, telling the newcomer, “Clean yourself. Tell me what you want for clothes, and they’ll appear. Then if you wish, follow me.” The dead man smiled in a knowing fashion, saying, “I know someone who very much wants to see you.”

Locke must have been hoping for someone else.

Wearing a Wayward’s leather breechcloth, he followed Hazz out of the mushroom forest, and the simple young face vanished abruptly. He was angry now. His back stiffened. His voice failed on its first attempt. Then he forced himself to say, “Father,” with a pure, unalloyed bitterness.

Diu sat on a petrified toadstool outside a simple shelter, wearing the same gaudy clothes in which he had died. Gray eyes danced. A mischievous look came over his craggy features. Quietly, mockingly, he asked, “So who murdered you? One of your sons, I can hope.”

Locke stopped short, his mouth grim and determined.

Diu laughed and slapped his knees, then said, “Or it wasn’t. But I bet it was some distant relative. Your own blood, almost assuredly.”

“I had to do it,” Locke grunted. “You were killing Mother—”

“She deserved to die,” Diu replied, framing the words with big shrugs. “Escaping from Marrow that way. Too soon, and without warning anyone. Nearly alerting the Master to our presence. How did that help the Wayward cause?”

Locke opened his mouth, and waited.

“She was dangerous,” Diu assured. “Everything you want and deserve was at risk because of her and because of Miocene.”

A deep breath filled Locke’s chest, then lay there growing stale.

“But let’s forget your mother’s despicable, endurable crimes,” Diu continued. “There’s another offender. Someone who’s potentially far more dangerous to the Waywards, and to the Builders’ great cause.”

“Who?”

Diu growled, “Please,” and shook his head in disgust.

Then he rose to his feet, saying, “You had an assignment. A clear duty. But instead of doing your duty, you rushed off to that alien house as soon as you had the chance. And I want to know why, son. Why was it so fucking important to go there?”

Locke turned in a quick circle, but Submaster Hazz had vanished.

“Tell me,” Diu pressed.

“Don’t you know why?”

“What I know,” he replied with a rasping voice,’is inconsequential. What I don’t know, and what matters here, is your response.”

Locke said nothing.

“Were you hoping to find your mother?” Nothing.

“Because you couldn’t have. You and Till couldn’t recover her body more than a century ago. What good could you accomplish by going there alone?”

“I don’t need to explain—”

“Wrong!’ Diu interrupted. “You do! Because I don’t think you know what you want. For this last horrible century, you’ve been nothing but lost.” His father shook his head, saying, “I’m not asking these questions to soothe my arrogant soul. I’m asking for the sake of your miserable one.” Then he laughed in a large, tormenting way, adding, “What? Did you think that being dead was easy? That the Builders would simply ignore your last-breath crimes…?”

“I did nothing wrong!”

“The old Master was digging her way toward Marrow, but the Waywards never knew how she found the old hole. Chances are, a routine search had turned up that hidden doorway’ Diu closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he opened them again, acting angry to find his son still standing before him. “You went to that leech house… you went to see if the old Master had been there first. Because if she had been, then she might have realized where Washen was. And maybe, just maybe, your mother had been rescued. Admit that much to your father, Locke. Go on.”