Robert Reed - Marrow

Quiedy, Washen said, “All right.”

“That’s where almost all our power comes from,” said her son. “The core is a matter-antimatter reactor.”

“Have you seen it?” she asked.

“Just once,” he replied. Then he reminded Washen, or maybe himself, “Till trusts me. After we returned to Marrow, and after Miocene was reborn, he took us down there. To show us the place. To explain what he knew, and how. All of it.” Another pause. “Miocene was thrilled. She had a conduit built that taps the energies. She claims that the reactor, once its fully understood, will transform the Milky Way, and humanity, and each of us.”

“Does that place offer answers?” Washen asked. “Does it tell us anything new about the Great Ship?”

Locke shook his head, disappointment rimmed with anger.

With a pitying voice, he said, “Mother,” and stared at her eyes. He stared and sighed, and as if addressing a small child, he asked her, “If Marrow hides inside the ship, and if this machinery hides inside Marrow… then what makes you think these mysteries ever come to an end…?”

“There’s something even deeper?” she sputtered.

A quick, tight nod.

“Have you seen that?

Again, he looked at his toes. “No,” he admitted. Then after a few deep breaths, he said, “Only Till has been that deep. And maybe, I suppose, Diu.”

“Your father-?”

“He was also Till’s father,” Locke blurted. “Till always suspected it. In secret. And in secret, he had our best gene-delvers decipher the genetics. Just to be sure.”

Washen silently absorbed the newest revelation.

Then she asked, “Is that everything you want to tell me? Till’s your half brother, and the ship’s full of mysteries?”

“No,” Locke replied.

He looked up at the towering mushrooms and gray hints of the hyperfiber roof, and with a weary anguish, he admitted, “I have certain thoughts. Doubts. For the last century, since I killed Diu… I’ve listened to Till’s plans, and Miocene’s, and I’ve helped meet all the deadlines, and I’ve watched what they’ve done to Marrow, and its people… a place I don’t even recognize anymore…’ Locke took a deep full breath, then said it. “When I look inside myself, I wonder.”

Down came his eyes, desperate for their mother.

But Washen refused to embrace him again. She stood and stepped back, and finally, with a slow and hard and pitiless voice, she asked, “Are you one of the Builders?”

The gray eyes pulled shut.

“That’s what you’re asking yourself. Isn’t it?” Then she gazed up at the sky, saying, “Because if you’re not the good souls of Builders reborn, by accident or by design… maybe you and Till and the rest of the Waywards… “Maybe you’re the Bleak reborn…!”

Every face was elaborate and utterly unique, and each had a sturdy, unexpected beauty that always became obvious with time.

Pamir watched the faces and listened to the watery voices.

“It was my decision. My plan. My responsibility.” Orleans’s mouth smiled, and his amber eyes changed shape, creating mouth-shaped patterns that mimicked his smile. “I accept the blame, and your punishment. Or your praise and blessings. Whichever verdict you, in your wisdom, wish to deliver.”

Most of the Remoran judges appeared uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because Pamir might be misreading their expressions. One old woman—a direct descendant of Wune, their founder—quoted the Remoran codes. “The ship is the greatest life. Injure its vitals, and you surrender your own life.” Her single eye, like a ruby floating on yellow milk, expanded until it half filled her faceplate. Then the compressed mouth added, “You know our codes, Orleans. And I remember two occasions when you carved the life-suit off another offender… for crimes less serious than disabling one of the main engines…!”

Perhaps a hundred judges and elders shared the diamond building. There were no airlocks, and not so much as a breath of atmosphere. Two doorways opened onto public avenues where hundreds of citizens fought for the chance to see this semi-secret trial. Every officious sound was a scrambled broadcast. Unlike Pamir, the audience could only measure the proceedings by watching faces.

Another elder rose to her feet, and into the angry buzz, she said, “Another code applies. Wune’s first and most essential code, as it happens.”

Together, in a shared voice, Remoras chanted, “Our first duty is to protect the ship from harm.”

The speaker’s blue face seemed to nod, and her musical voice offered, “This could be Orleans’s defense, if he chooses. Harm is harm, whether it comes from an impacting comet or a dangerous leadership.” Her helmet pivoted, and she asked the defendant, “Is this your argument, Orleans?”

“Absolutely,” he cried out.

Then he glanced at his companion, signaling him by swirling his eyes on their stalks.

As planned, Pamir stepped forward. “Distinguished citizens,” he proclaimed. “I ask to address the court.”

His lifesuit contained an electronic signature. As Remoras did with each other, a glance was enough to give his name, rank, and official status.

The one-eyed elder grumbled, “Is this appropriate? A wanted criminal defending a captured criminal?”

But a third elder—a small round fellow with a red-furred face—growled at her, saying, “Sarcasm later. Talk, Pamir. I want to hear you.”

“There isn’t time,” the captain agreed. “Wayward squads are coming. They want Orleans, but they’ll be thrilled to find me, too.”

The one-eyed woman grumbled, “Good.”

“I wish there was time,” Pamir continued. “For reflection. For a great debate. For a wise decision rendered by everyone. But every moment makes the Waywards stronger. Every minute, another steel ship rises up from Marrow, bringing soldiers and munitions and a set of beliefs that are laughable, and narrow, and indifferent to the wishes of every Remora.”

He paused a half-instant, checking with a security nexus, measuring the Waywards’ steady progress.

Then to the beautiful faces, he said, “I don’t want to be the Master Captain. But the rightful Master is dead, or worse. And I’m the ranking officer. According to the ship’s charter, I am its Master, and Miocene is a treasonous pretender. And since I’m parading the obvious here, maybe I should remind you.” He glanced at One-eye, then everywhere else. “For more than a hundred millenia, you’ve served the ship and its charter, just as you’ve served Wune’s faith. With devotion and bravery. And what I want from you now—what I am asking for, begging for—is this:

“Resist the Waywards. On my authority as the momentary Master Captain, give them nothing. Not your cooperation, or your resources, or any of your expertise. Is that too much to ask?”

An unnerving silence descended.

Then One-eye stated the obvious. “Miocene is going to be very unhappy. And these Waywards are sure to respond—”

“Then we’ll respond, too,” growled the blue-faced woman.

Every judge spoke, crowding into the same secure channel, the noise defiant and worried, angry and sad. But defiance seemed loudest, and knowing that emotions can change in the beat of any heart, Pamir chose that moment to shout out:

“Will you pronuse me? To give them nothing?”

A quick vote was taken.

Two of three Remoras nodded, saying, “Agreed.” Then Pamir made the next logical step. He said, “Good. And thank you.”

If he was going to escape the Waywards, he was going to have to slip away now. But instead of fleeing, Pamir stepped into the middle of the blister-shaped building, and again, quietly, he repeated the admonition, “Give them nothing.”