"We don't know the enemyis weak," Martin said. "They might still be strong."
"Then why do they hide behind traps?"
"To avoid trouble. Maybe this was no more significant to them than the loss of a bug zapper in a front yard."
Hakim's smile curled wickedly. "I like this metaphor," he said. "We are mosquitoes, but we bring yellow fever… And now the bug zapper is down, we fly freely toward the house…"
"About to join with a group of moths," Martin suggested.
"I would prefer wasps." Hakim chuckled, and then suddenly his voice caught and he turned away. "Excuse me," he said, clearing his throat.
"Someone you loved," Martin said after a moment. He had never followed Hakim's romantic affairs, partly out of respect, partly because Hakim and his partners had always been extremely circumspect.
"It was hard for me to call it love," Hakim said. "Min Giao Monsoon. She was my equal, and I couldn't… I didn't know how to digest that. But she was very important to me. We were not very open." For an instant, Hakim showed simple and enormous pain.
Martin watched the beautiful display, greens and reds dominating, cinders of planets visible only in the graphs and enhancements at this distance. Spirals of plasma from the poles had quickly spread and whipped in arcs to encompass a vast sphere; the artificial fields that controlled Wormwood giving way and rearranging in the violence. Wormwood's corpse had finally assumed an aspect of natural star death. Perhaps that had been planned by the Killers, as well…
No need to light any brighter a beacon in the forest than absolutely necessary.
"However you loved, you loved," Martin said.
Hakim agreed to that with a measured nod. "I have high hopes that our new Pan will grow into his position." He spoke quietly, as if Hans might be listening.
"It's not easy."
"There are many challenges even before we get to our destination. I wonder how I will react to new and inhuman colleagues… perhaps better to say nonhuman."
"The ship and the mom don't know an awful lot about them," Martin said. "Otherwise they'd tell us more."
"I agree," Hakim said. "I have never believed the moms hold things back from us."
"Oh…" Martin said, "I wouldn't go that far. They always tell us what we need to know, but…"
"Pardon my saying so, but you sound like Ariel."
Martin scowled. "Please," he said.
"Not to offend," Hakim added with a touch of his old impish-ness.
Rosa Sequoia sat in the cafeteria among a group of twenty-two of the crew, conducting a ceremony for the dead, following— as far as Martin could tell—her own rules and her own rituals. He could not object; ritual was healthy at this point.
She had made up hymns or borrowed from old songs and projected lyrics for the crew to sing. Martin watched from the outside, near the door, and did not sing, but felt his heart tug at the swell of voices.
Rosa looked up, and her eyes met his, and she smiled—broadly, without resentment; beautifully.
In our grief and pain, she finds herself, he thought. But perhaps that was too unkind.
Hans came out of his isolation after six days, somber and unshaven, blond beard bristling and face wreathed in a dreary scowl that gave nobody confidence, least of all Martin. He asked for a private session with Hakim and the remains of the search team. After, he emerged from the nose to brush past Martin and Erin Eire in the corridor, saying nothing.
"He hasn't taken a lover since he became Pan," Erin said.
Martin looked at her. "So?"
Erin blinked. "So it's unusual. He's not exactly been chaste, Martin. A lot of Wendys go for bulk over brains."
"He's not stupid," Martin said.
"He's still acting like a jerk," Erin said.
"Maybe he's waiting for the right girl to come along," Martin said, aware how silly that sounded.
Erin hooted. "Oh, sure. Somebody he's never met before."
"We'll have visitors soon," Martin said, face straight.
"Spare me," Erin said, grimacing over her shoulder as she departed.
Ariel laid her meal tray on the table across from Martin in the cafeteria. New watch schedules posted by Hans had placed her in an opposite sleep cycle; he was having dinner, she breakfast, but the food appeared much the same.
The ship was not yet up to the broad variety of meals it had once offered; what they were served now was bland but filling, a brownish bread-like pudding varied occasionally by soups.
They exchanged minimal greetings. Ariel made him uncomfortable by focusing on him when he wasn't looking.
"What do you think of Hans now?" she asked when their eyes met.
"He's doing fine," Martin said.
"Better than you?" she asked.
"In some ways," Martin said.
"How? I'm curious. I don't mean to embarrass you."
"I'm not embarrassed. He's probably more canny than I am, more sensitive to the crew's swings of mood."
She tipped her head in a way that implied neither agreement nor disagreement.
"And you?" he asked.
"Reserving judgment. He is more canny than some Pans we've had. Rosa approves of him. She talks about the duty to our leader in her sermons."
"Sermons?"
"I haven't been to one, but I hear about them."
"She's preaching?"
"Not yet," Ariel said, "but close. She's counseling. Helping some of the crew face up to the Skirmish and what it means."
"Blaming the moms?"
"Not implicitly."
"Blaming them at all?"
"She doesn't even mention them, from what I've been told. She talks about responsibility and free will and our place in the broad scheme. Maybe we should go and listen."
"Maybe I will," Martin said.
"Maybe Hans should go, too."
"Do you want me to spy on her for Hans?"
Ariel shook her head. "I just think it's significant, what's happening."
"It's inevitable, maybe," Martin said under his breath, and got up to go to his quarters.
Theodore Dawn visited his dreams, and was full of talk, some of which Martin remembered on waking.
They sat in a garden, under an arbor in full flower, Theodore in a short white tunic, his legs tanned from long exposure to the summer sun now at zenith over their heads. They were eating grapes; they might have been Romans. Theodore had been fond of reading about Romans.
"Something terrible is about to happen to Rosa," Theodore said. "You know what it is?"
"I think so," Martin answered, letting a grape leaf fall to the pebble gravel at their feet.
"The worst thing that can happen to a prophet is not to be ignored and forgotten; it's to have her cause taken up and chewed by the masses. Whatever she says, if it doesn't fit, will be chewed some more; some opportunist will come along and forge a contradiction, polish a rough edge of meaning, and then it will fit. People believe in everything but the original words."
"Rosa isn't a prophet."
"You said you knew what's happening."
"She isn't a prophet. Just look at her."
"She's had the vision. This is a special time for you."
"Nonsense!" Martin said, angry now. He got up from the marble bench and adjusted his robe clumsily, not used to its folds. "By the way, is Theresa here with you?"
Theodore shook his head sadly. "She's dead. You have to be alive to die."
Paola Birdsong and Martin found themselves alone in the tail of the ship, having completed a wand transmission test for the mom, and with no further instructions, they sat and talked, glad to be away from the glum business of the crew.