The leader of the party was an extraordinarily tall and skinny man who, despite the careful tailoring of his skinsuit, was stiff and clumsy, and he had some trouble getting down off his disc. This official appeared to do a double take when he saw a Silver Ghost among the new arrivals.
Wheezing, the official puffed himself up and stepped forward to face Kimmer. The two of them looked oddly similar, Pirius thought; tall, thin, elegantly formed. “Marshal, welcome to Orion Rock!”
“Thank you—”
But Kimmer was taken aback when poles sprouted out of the hoverdiscs and thrust toward the stars. Virtual flags, adorned with the green tetrahedral sigil of free mankind, began to ripple in a nonexistent breeze.
The tall official said, “My name is Boote the Forty-Third — Captain Boote, I should say. I command here, and I place my base at your disposal. I am the one-hundred-and-nineteenth captain of this station, and the forty-third to wear the proud name of Boote.” He spoke comprehensibly, but he had a very strong, clipped accent. “For one thousand and fifty-seven years, sir, we have waited for the call. If today is the day we fight and die for the benefit of the Third Expansion of Mankind — if the purpose of this station is to be fulfilled on my watch — then I, Boote the Forty-Third, will be proud to take my place in history.” He struck his sunken chest with his fist.
“Thank you, Captain,” Kimmer said dryly. “I know you will do your duty.”
The two parties faced each other, motionless. As the delay lengthened, Pirius grew puzzled.
Pila leaned toward him so their helmets touched. “Go to the backup command loop.”
Pirius tapped his chest control panel, and he heard massed voices. “…Named for a victory / Over Ghosts, a vanquished enemy / Our Rock, as firm as our resolve / Is dedicated to our duty…” Now he saw the faces of the ranks of troops, their moving mouths. They were singing, he realized, all thousand of them, singing a song of welcome to their visitors. They even sang harmonies.
“The lyrics are none too tactful in the circumstances,” Pila murmured through his helmet.
Pirius glanced surreptitiously at the Ghost, but it showed no reaction to this song of triumph about its kind’s most terrible defeat.
The song went on and on. By now Nilis had coached Pirius in the need to be diplomatic, but by the fourth verse he had had enough. He switched to the squadron loop and ordered his crews to fall out. Then he confronted Captain Boote the Forty-Third. “Sir. Thanks for the song. Where’s the refectory?”
Kimmer glowered; Nilis looked mortified. Pila laughed.
Once he’d got his skinsuit stripped off, Pirius went straight to work.
In theory, so he’d been told, the base was fully equipped with all they needed to operate the squadron. He told Pila his target for resuming training flights was twenty-four hours. Again she laughed.
Captain Boote led Pirius and Nilis through the guts of the complex that had been dug into Orion Rock.
Boote wore a robe that trailed to the floor in languid, elegant drapes. His face and scalp had been shaved of every scrap of hair, even eyebrows and nostril hair.
If Boote was magnificent, so was the base he commanded. But like him, it was odd, too. In its layout it was essentially the same as every other Rock Pirius had visited, with the usual barracks, refectories, dispensaries, science labs, training facilities from classrooms to sim chambers, and technical facilities from environment systems to huge subsurface hangars.
But every other Rock had an air of shabbiness; a Rock always looked lived-in, because it was, by a bunch of squabbling, randy trainees and troopers who cared a lot more about sack time than about hygiene and neatness — and because, by Coalition policy, every military facility was cut to the bone in resources anyhow. A base was a place you left to go fight, not a place you longed to get back to.
Orion was different. Pirius had never seen a base so neat. In the barracks there wasn’t a blanket out of place. When they passed, all the troops sprang to attention and lined up neatly by their bunks, eerie grins plastered over their faces. Even the walls were smooth to the touch — worn at shoulder height by the passage of millions of young bodies.
Neat it might have been, but everywhere was dark, lit by only a few hovering globes. Pirius thought the air was a little cold, though it tasted fresh enough. Not only that, everybody — even the youngest children in the junior cadres — crept about quietly, treading softly and murmuring. Boote said it was always like this.
“Ah,” Nilis said. “Silent running.”
“What’s that?” They were both whispering; it was contagious.
“This is a covert base, remember. The crew are sailing toward the Xeelee, who must not suspect they are here. And they strive to keep everything below the level of the background noise of the Baby Spiral — their energy expenditure, their signaling. As for the whispering and creeping about, I don’t imagine it makes much practical difference, but, though I’m no expert on motivation, I should think it is good psychology — a constant reminder to keep your head down.”
Pirius peered around curiously at the wide-eyed children who smiled hopefully at him. He tried to imagine how it must be to have grown up in this claustrophobic environment of darkened corridors and whispers. But these kids had never known anything different; to them this was normal.
As they walked on, Boote proudly explained the origin of his name.
Of course there were no true families here, no heredity; that would be far too non-Doctrinal. This was a place of birthing tanks and cadres, like most military bases. But a tradition had grown up even so. The first Boote, centuries back, had been a fine Captain who had inspired loyalty and affection from all. When her successor had taken her name on his accession, to become Boote the Second, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world, a tribute that had become a badge of honor to the Captains who had followed, right down to this fine fellow, Boote the Forty-Third. Similarly there were “dynasties” among the engineers and medics, comm officers and pilots, and other specialist corps.
Nilis raised his eyebrows at Pirius, but said nothing. Wherever you went, a little deviance was inevitable, it seemed.
They were taken out onto the surface in a covered walkway. Nilis cringed from the crowded sky, but after that gloomy enclosure Pirius was relieved to be out under the healthy glow of the Core.
They surveyed earthworks dug into the ground. Teams of troopers in skinsuits were working in the trenches. They weren’t digging so much as refurbishing, Pirius saw. He had never seen earthworks so regular and neat — their walls were precisely vertical, their edges geometrically straight and dead neat. And he couldn’t see a trace of stray dust anywhere. The troops smiled as they worked, in precise formation.
In one part of the works the troops suddenly lunged out of their trenches and flopped onto the surface, across which they began to wriggle.
“They’re maneuvering,” said Pirius. “But it’s not an exercise. It’s more like a game.”
“Yes,” said Nilis. “And these earthworks are an ornamental garden. These folk have been isolated too long, Pirius. A trench is a place to fight and die. They have domesticated these trenches.”
Pirius slowly pieced together an understanding of this place.
Rocks were an essential element in most attacks on Xeelee concentrations; they provided cover, resources, and soaked up enemy firepower. But while most Rocks were purposefully deflected onto their required trajectories, Orion Rock, and a number of others, had natural orbits that took them into useful positions in the Core without deflection. So they could be used as cover, to mount covert operations.