Robert Reed - Marrow

“Abandon your station… now…!”

“Attack… now…!”

“Do you see them… no… not yet, no…!”

“Hold—”

“Not there, you need to be… by the patch-and-pray shop… do you see, no…!”

“Retreat—!”

“Casualties… in excess of… eleven million in the bombardment, and twenty million displaced into basements…”

“They ambushed us at the assembly point, with machine-shop nuclears…”

“Kill me. If it comes to it.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Casualties eighty percent. Swarm still functioning.”

“Fall back, and dig…!”

“We have a reactor sabotaged. Off-line. Request engineers.

How about it? A quick screw?”

“Prisoners will be assembled here. Ranked according to their likely knowledge here. By me. Then taken home for interrogation, or disposed by standard means…”

“Fanatics.”

“Maniacs.”

“Soulless fucks.”

“How about a really quick fuck?”

“Come see, come see! I want to show all of you. These are cyborgs, my friends! Much as the Bleak were! Nothing but machines with odd guts shoved inside them. Here, touch their guts. Touch them, and smell them. Make yourselves clothes with this odd flesh. Cut up their shells for trophies. Machines and meat, and a great evil, and nothing else. I promise you-!”

“Casualties, ninety-two percent. Swarm effectiveness diminished.”

“Escape wherever you can, however you can…”

“NOTICE: WITHIN THE LAST SHIPMENT OF PRISONERS WAS A CAMOUFLAGED FINGER OF ANTIMATTER. ALL PRISONERS MUST BE EXAMINED THOROUGHLY BEFORE EMBARKING—”

“Retreat again… with all available skimmers…!”

“They’re the Bleak, reborn! And this is our duty, and our honor, to chop them open and kill them slowly-!”

“Our last city… Wune’s Hearts… abandoned…”

“NOTICE: PASSENGERS ARE NOT SUBJECT TO THE SAME TREATMENT AS REMORAS. THEY MAY NOT BE SUMMARILY EXECUTED, REGARDLESS OF BEHAVIOR. CIVIL CODES WILL REMAIN IN EFFECT. ALWAYS. FROM THE OFFICE OF THE MASTER CAPTAIN—”

“I won’t tell you anything, Bleak! Ever!”

“They’re calling us the Bleak now. Whatever that is. I don’t know. Considering, maybe we should be insulted…”

“Press them! Run them!”

“I’m finished, and you promised.”

An EM crackle, then a solid whump.

“Good dreams, friend.”

“My swarm’s gone. No one else alive. My family, most of them, are in Happens River. Tell them—”

“All right you shits! I’m a Bleak. We’re all pretty fucking Bleak in here. Does that scare you? Does that make you want to drip your piss? Because we’re going to keep holding our positions, you fucks, and if you want to take us, you’ve got to follow your piss down into our hole-/”

“All engines secured!”

“Reactors, on-line!”

“Waywards, they keep coming… new units keep coming… there’s more Waywards than we’ve got stars…”

“Again, retreat. You know how!”

“PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: FIGHTING SLOWS IN THE INSURRECTION’S LAST HOURS. THE SHIP’S TRAILING FACE IS SECURE. ESSENTIAL SHIP OPERATIONS HAVE NEVER BEEN IMPAIRED. PASSENGER DISTRICTS HAVE NEVER BEEN ENDANGERED. FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND YOUR BLESSINGS, THANK YOU. FROM THE OFFICE OF THE MASTER CAPTAIN—”

“So we’ve got some time. How about a slow screw?”

“Sounds nice.”

“Doesn’t it, now?”

One of the generals said it first, and said it badly.

“The Remoras are just about beaten,” he declared, standing over the latest strategic holomaps. When he realized that the Master had overheard his audacious words, he straightened his back and squared his shoulders, adding, “We’ve destroyed every one of their cities, imprisoned or killed most of them, and pushed their refugees out onto the ship’s bow. Without cover, and with only a fool’s hope left to them.” Then he said, “Madam,” with a minimal bow, smiling in the Master’s direction while his pale eyes kept careful track of Till.

A reprimand was in order.

Something blunt, and powerful, and lasting.

Miocene showed a narrow grin, and in a near whisper, she assured her officer, “There is nothing to celebrate here.”

“Of course, madam.” Again, the little bow. “I simply meant—”

She stopped him with a crisp wave of the hand, and said nothing.

Instead of the expected words, Miocene stared at each of her generals, and Till, then conspicuously looked at no one when she said, “When we first arrived here, I noticed a man. A human male standing outside the bridge, wearing nothing but a handwritten sign.”

Silence.

“The End Is Here,” she quoted.

The silence grew less sure of itself.

“I’m a busy person, but I still have time enough to ask simple questions.” She shook her head, telling everyone, “He was a fool, obviously. One of those poor souls whose focus narrows too much, who can’t work free of some consuming, pathetic idea. For the last six centuries, that fool wore his sign in public. Outside the Master’s station. Did you know that? Did you know that he painted those words on fresh parchment every morning, careful to never repeat the curl and color of any letter. Why that was important to him, I can’t say. Two days ago—the last time I left these quarters—I could have stopped for a moment and asked him those questions. I could have let him explain his passions to me. ‘What makes it so important, sir, that you’re willing to invest hundreds of years in what looks futile to a normal soul…?’ ”

Miocene sighed heavily, then admitted, “Even if I wanted, I couldn’t ask him any questions now. Nor could I help him, if that’s what I thought was best. Because he has vanished. More than two hundred thousand mornings of rising before dawn and painting his important pronouncement according to his difficult, choking logic… and for some reason, the fool couldn’t stand on his usual ground two mornings ago. Or yesterday morning. Or today, for that matter. I can’t see him through any of my security eyes. Quite simply, he has vanished. Now don’t you think that is odd?”

One of the Wayward generals—Blessing Gable—cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and started to say, “Madam—”

“No. Shut up.” Miocene shook her head, then warned everyone, “I’m not interested in anyone’s reasons. Not for this or for that. And frankly, the fate of one odd soul is not particularly compelling to me. What sickens me is knowing that someone made assumptions, not asking simple questions first. What worries me is my own simple question: ‘What else are my arrogant, inexperienced generals forgetting to ask themselves and each other?’ ”

Till stepped forward. This staff meeting belonged to him. For sturdy and obvious reasons, Miocene had given her First Chair responsibility over the war. She had too many new duties of her own to embrace just now. Besides, these events were too large and much too savage to directly involve a Master. Better her son than her, yes. Not one nanogram of self-doubt gnawed at Miocene now.

“You’re right, madam,” Till allowed. Then he showed the generals how to bow, saying to the foot-worn marble floor, “It’s too soon to call anything won, madam. Victory comes at a terrible cost. And of course the Remoras may only be the first of our enemies.”