Come morning, the toy always greeted her with envious words.
“I wish I had legs and could walk,” it claimed. “And I so wish I had your mind and your freedom, and just half of your glorious future, too.”
She loved that toy. Sometimes it seemed to be her finest friend and staunchest ally.
“You don’t need legs,” Miocene would tell it. “Wherever I go, I’ll take you.”
“People would laugh,” her friend warned.
Even as a child, Miocene hated being anyone’s joke.
“I know you,” said her toy, laughing at her foolishness. “When the time comes, you’ll leave me. And sooner than you think.”
“I wont,” she blurted. “Never.”
Naturally, she was wrong. Barely twenty years later, Miocene had an adult’s body and the beginnings of an adult’s intellect, and against brutal odds, she had won a full scholarship to the Belter Academy. Her illustrious career had begun in earnest, and of course she left her toys behind. Today her one-time friend was in storage, or lost, or most likely her parents—people not too bothered by sentimentality—had simply thrown it away.
And yet.
There were moments when she lay awake, alone or otherwise, and looking up, she would see her friend hanging over her again, and she would hear its deep heroic voice whispering just to her, telling her how it was to sail alone between the stars.
A disembodied voice said, “Miocene.”
She was awake, alert. Had never been asleep, she was certain. But the bed lifted her until she was sitting upright, and a lamp came on, and only then did she notice the passage of time. Ninety-five minutes of uninterrupted dream sleep, claimed her internal clock.
Again, she heard, “Miocene.”
The Master Captain was sitting on the far side of the room. Or rather, a simple projection of the Master sat in a hypothetical chair, looking massive even though she was composed of nothing but trained photons, that familiar voice telling her favorite and most loyal subordinate, “You look well.”
Implying the exact opposite.
The Submaster gathered up all the poise at her disposal, then with the perfect little bow, she said, “Thank you, madam. As always.”
A slight, lightspeed pause. Then, “You’re very welcome.”
The woman had a strange, quixotic sense of humor, which was why Miocene never tried to cultivate one of her own. The Master didn’t need a laughing friend, but a sober assistant full of reason and devotion.
“Your request for additional equipment—”
“Yes, madam?”
“Is denied.” The Master smiled, then shrugged. “You don’t absolutely need any more resources. And frankly, some of your colleagues are asking questions.”
“I can imagine,” Miocene replied. Then with a second, lesser bow, she added, ‘What equipment we have is adequate. We can reach our goal. But as I pointed out in my report, a second corn-line and a new field reactor would give us added flexibility”
“What resource wouldn’t help you?” the Master asked.
Then she laughed.
An eternity of practice kept Miocene from speaking or showing the simplest discomfort.
“They’re asking questions,” the Master repeated.
The Submaster knew how- to react, which was to say nothing.
“Your colleagues don’t believe our cover story, I’m afraid.” The round face smiled, absorbing the lamplight, the golden skin shining brighdy. “And I went to such trouble, too. A fully fueled taxi. Robot facsimiles of you walking on board. Then the momentous launch. But everyone knows how easy it is to lie, which makes it hard to coax anyone into believing anything…’ Again, Miocene said nothing.
Their cover was a simple fiction: a delegation of captains had left for a high-technology world. They were to meet with a species of exophobes, the humans trying to coax them into friendship, or least to trade for their profitable skills. Such missions had happened in the past, and they typically were wrapped in secrecy. Which was why those other captains—the less qualified ones left behind—should know better than to spit gossip.
“If I sent you a reactor,” the Master explained, “then someone might notice.”
Not likely, thought Miocene.
“And if we lay down a second corn-line, then we double our risk that someone will send or hear something they shouldn’t.”
A likely estimate, yes.
Quiedy, the Submaster replied, “Yes, madam. As you wish.”
“As I wish.’An amused nod. Then the Master asked the obvious question. “Are you keeping up with your timetable?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll reach the planet in six months?”
“Yes, madam.” As of yesterday, Aasleen’s bridge was halfway to Marrow. “We’ll make every deadline, if nothing unexpected happens.”
“Which is the way it should be,” the Master pointed out.
A circumspect nod. Then Miocene volunteered, “Our spirits are excellent, madam.”
“I have no doubt. They are in exceptional hands.”
Miocene felt the compliment warming her flesh, and she couldn’t help but nod and offer the tiniest of smiles before asking, “Is that all, madam?”
“For the moment,” said the ship’s leader.
“Then I shall leave you to more important duties,” Miocene offered.
“The important is finished,” she replied. “The rest of my day is nothing but routine.”
“Have a good day, madam.”
“And to you. And to yours, darling.”
The image dissolved, followed by a pulse of thoughtful light that would search the comlink for leaks and weaknesses.
Miocene rose, standing at her room’s only window. “Open,” she coaxed.
The blackness evaporated. The relentless daylight poured over her, blue and harsh. And hot. Gazing out across her abrupt little city, watching drones and captains in the midst of their important motions, Miocene allowed her thoughts to wander. Yes, she was honored to be here, and endlessly pleased to be leading this vital mission. Yet when she was honest about her ambitions, she had to be honest about her own skills, not to mention the skills of her colleagues. Why had the Master chosen her? Others were more graceful leaders, more imaginative and with better experience in the field. But she obviously was the best candidate. And when she looked hard at herself, there was only one quality in which Miocene excelled above all others.
Devotion.
Aeons ago, she and the Master had attended the Academy together. They were much alike—ambitious students who absorbed their studies together, and who socialized as friends, and who occasionally confessed their deep feelings on matters they wouldn’t admit to lovers, and sometimes wouldn’t admit to themselves.