In crisp, clear terms, she described the hydrogen river falling toward them, and she estimated when gravity would bring the river this far. Of course the base camp overhead would be obliterated. And the diamond blister. And the bridge. Then the cold fluid would turn into a horrific rain, static electricity or someone’s forgotten candle starting a great fire. Marrow’s oxygen would try to consume the flood, transforming hydrogen into sweet water and a fierce heat. But the fuel tank was vast, and eventually, there would be no more oxygen. Eventually the frigid rain would fall unencumbered onto the ash and iron, and the dead, and the Wayward civilization would be dead… and after a moment’s pause, Washen added, “There’s only one other choice. Or two.” She was staring at Miocene again, feeling enough confidence to bristle. “Your total surrender,” she offered. “Or I suppose, if you can, you could kick the wall of the access tunnel, kick it good and hard, collapsing it and destroying the Spine and plugging everything before the flood reaches us.”
A perverse pleasure took hold of Miocene.
She was still weeping, still miserable. But even as she pushed the tears across her swollen, unfamiliar face, she felt a smile forming. With a cold horrible joy, she told Washen, “You’re clever, yes. I see how you stole those pumps and valves. I couldn’t steal them back again. Not in time, probably. But when I look up at those pumps, do you know what else I see? Do you know what’s happening up there?”
Washen gathered herself, then asked, “What?”
Miocene linked with the chamber’s holoprojection, and she showed them. In an instant, after a silent command, the captains found themselves inside an observation blister on the ship’s backside, surrounded by towering rocket nozzles that were doing nothing. Except for the steep, almost lazy tilt to each of them, they seemed perfectly ordinary. But even as a dozen voices begged for explanations, fires large enough to broil worlds rose up out of them, plumes of gas and light racing for the stars.
Every nozzle was firing.
No captain could remember a day when every engine was needed, and with a confused amazement, they asked for explanations.
“It’s my son,” Miocene confessed.
Again, she grabbed hold of herself, and she squeezed, angry hands jerking at her swollen, useless flesh, yanking until vessels burst and blood flowed from beneath her hard fingernails.
“When we made the last little burn, I thought I was the one controlling the engines,” she muttered. “And Till let me believe whatever I wanted to believe…”
Washen stepped close enough to touch her. And with a crisp voice, she said, “I don’t care about Till. I want to know… why he is firing the engines… now!”
Miocene laughed, and sobbed, and laughed harder.
Then Washen swept her long hands through her dark hair, and in the words of every pilot about to crash, she whispered, “Oh, shit.”
Fifty-three
A brutal chill took Washen by the throat and by the belly, and for a slippery instant she found herself waiting for the panic. Hers, and everyone’s. But the enormity was too much, and it hit them too suddenly. Among the captains, only Miocene seemed able to grieve with the proper anguish, collapsing to the steel floor, hands clawing at her thick neck as she sobbed, incoherently at first, then muttering to herself with a robust, unexpected confidence, “This is my catastrophe. Mine. The universe will never forget me. or forgive me. Ever.”
“That’s enough,” Washen growled.
The captains whispered to one another and moaned under their breath.
Washen yanked at the woman’s hands and hair, forcing the anguished eyes to look up at her. Then with the sturdiest voice she could manage, Washen said, “Show us. Exactly what’s happening. Show us now.”
Miocene closed her eyes.
The captains found themselves standing on the ship’s leading face, staring up at a senile red sun that seemed large and frighteningly close. But they had several billions of kilometers left to cross. At one-third lightspeed, the journey would take fifteen hours, and according to exacting plans drawn up centuries ago, they would miss that sun’s hot atmosphere by a comfortable fifty million kilometers.
With each passing second, their course was being changed. Was being mutated, and in dangerous ways.
“If the engines keep burning,” said Miocene, eyes still clamped shut.
The image leaped ahead fifteen hours. The ship dipped into the sun’s outer fringe—a warm plasma, thinner than most worthy vacuums. The hull could absorb both heat and trillions of little impacts. But simple friction had to alter the ship’s velocity even more, and in another blink, the captains were falling toward the dying sun’s tiny, infinitely dense partner, its mammoth gravity twisting the hull until it shattered, the ship’s ancient guts strewn into a hot accretion disk, every lump and particle destined to fall into that great black nothingness, leaving the universe entirely.
“No, no, no!’ Locke cried out.
“What about the Bleak?” asked dozens of voices.
With a doubting voice, Aasleen suggested, “It’d be destroyed, maybe.”
But black holes existed in the earliest universe, created in the swirls and eddies of hyperdense plasmas. Washen reminded everyone, “The Builders could have done this. But they knew best, and what they did instead, whatever the reason, was throw the ship out where there were very few, if any, black holes.”
The overhead image dissolved, the Temple surrounded them again.
Washen glanced at the high ceiling and base camp. Then she stared at Miocene, and she quietly asked, “Are you sure you can’t stop the engines?”
With a vivid anger, Miocene said, “What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I’m trying to stop them now. But the engines don’t know me, and I can’t cut Tills hold on them!”
“Then why is he coming here?”
Silence.
“If there’s nothing we can accomplish,” Washen continued, “why doesn’t Till just huddle close to the engines, and wait?”
The crying woman’s face grew calm. Reflective.
After a long moment, astonishment took her. “Because it isn’t my son,” she sputtered. “Of course. He isn’t the one who’s controlling the engines.”
The Bleak, Washen realized. Fifteen billion years as a prisoner, and of course you’d want the helm at this pivotal, perfect moment!
Miocene gazed up at the diamond bridge, at the blister and the Spine. The Spine was allowing something in the depths of Marrow to give captainly commands, and as she accepted that impossibility, she asked, “If I can bring down the bridge, Washen—cut the connection with Marrow—do you think you and your allies could sabotage enough machinery quickly enough to save us…?”
Washen started to say, “I don’t know”
An abrupt, almost gentle whump was heard, and felt, and the steel floor moved just enough to make people look at their feet.
“What did you do?” Locke asked.
Miocene rose with a tired majesty, her reddened eyes blinked a few times, and with an exhausted voice, she said. “The array that controls the quakes. It’s an old system, and it’s always been mine. They couldn’t steal it from me without my feeling the thief’s damp fingers.”
A second tremor passed through the Temple.
Smiling at her own wicked, nearly infinite cleverness, Miocene announced, “The iron’s tired of sleeping, I think. And I don’t believe we have that much time.”
A word and glare gave the captains every available lift-car, and every car on the bridge, empty or filled, immediately began falling toward the Temple.