Both young women declared, “I want to be first to that great ship.”
In the Master’s dreams, she was leading the first mission. While in Miocene’s dreams, she was merely an important organ in the mission’s body.
A critical distinction, that.
Why, wondered Miocene, hadn’t the Master herself come here?
Yes, there would have been problems. Logistical barriers and security nightmares, absolutely. But with holoprojections and robot facsimiles, she could rule the ship from anywhere. Which was why a bold, dynamic soul like hers must hate being so far removed from here. Perhaps in the end, at the last possible minute, the Master would swallow her good sense, then cram herself into one of the tiny cap-cars, coming here on the eve of their planetfall. Stealing Miocenes historic moment, in essence.
For the first time, the Submaster sensed how much she hated that prospect. A small anger began to practice inside her. It felt strangely delicious, and even better, it felt appropriate. A justified anger, and it would grow whenever it occurred to Miocene that maybe this was why she was here. The Master knew that she could take every advantage of her endless devotion. She could come here and steal the honor, and her Submaster would have no choice but to smile and nod, deflecting the credit and the fame that should have belonged to her.
Quietly, Miocene told the window to extend.
The transparent panel bowed outward, thinning like a bubble as it expanded.
Leaning forward, she looked down the side of the dormitory, through the diamond street, peering at the hot black face of that strange world… and to herself, with a quiet dry voice, she said, “Please don’t come here, madam.”
She said, “Leave me the glory. Just this once, please,”
Nine
Captains are nothing without plans and without routines.
Planetfall occurred nine days and a year after the Master’s briefing, and every historic event, small and otherwise, transpired exactly as the captains had anticipated. The touchdown site was selected for the maturity and apparent stability of its crust. The bridge was tweaked and teased into position, then lowered into the upper atmosphere, bellows taking a great breath, the stolen air subjected to every imaginable test. The bridge’s final kilometers were added in a carefully orchestrated rush. At the last instant, sensors studied the rising land, mapping details to a microscopic level. Then a tip of razor-edged hyperfiber was shoved into the iron ground, and a specially designed car raced downward, protected by elaborate fields as well as its speed. The journey through the corrosive buttresses was swift and uneventful, and the first landing party arrived with a strict minimum of fuss.
There was a rumor that the Master herself was coming to take part. But like most rumors, it proved untrue, and afterward it seemed like a faintly ridiculous story. Why, after such careful security, would the woman take the obnoxious risk now?
It was Miocene who shouldered the privilege.
Accompanied by a swarm of cameras and security AIs, she stepped carefully onto Marrow’s surface. Watching from base camp, Washen saw that too-calm face gazing at the alien landscape, and she noticed something in the wide, unblinking eyes. An amazement, perhaps. A genuine awe. Then the look, whatever it was, evaporated, and the narrow mouth opened, and with a forced sense of importance, Miocene declared, ‘In service of the Master, we have arrived.”
The captains overhead cheered and broke into song.
The landing party took ceremonial samples of soil and foliage, then made the expected retreat back to base camp.
Dinner was late, and it was a feast. Bottomless glasses of authentic champagne washed down spiced meats and odd vegetables, and when the party was at its loudest, the distant Master sent her hearty congratulations.
In front of everyone, she called Miocene “Your brave leader.” Then the projected body did a graceful turn, gesturing at the world beneath as she proclaimed, “This is a momentous day in our ship’s momentous history.”
No it wasn’t, thought Washen.
A nagging disappointment only grew. Six teams, including Miocene’s, journeyed to Marrow that next day, and studying the data harvests and live images, Washen found exactly what she expected to find. Captains were administrators, not explorers. Every historic moment was choreographed, routine. What Miocene wanted was for every bush and bug to have a name, and every rusty piece of soil to be memorized. Not even tiny surprises were allowed to ambush those hardworking, utterly earnest first teams.
That second day was thorough, and it was stifling. But Washen didn’t mention her disappointment, or even put a name to her emotions.
Habit was habit, and she’d always been an exemplary captain. Besides, what sort of person hopes for injuries, or mistakes, or any kind of trouble? Which is what can come from the unexpected. And yet.
On the third day, when her own team was set to embark, Washen forced herself to sound like a captain. “We’ll take our walk on the iron,” she told the others, “and we’ll exceed every objective. On schedule, if not before.”
It was a swift, decidedly strange journey. Diu rode beside Washen. He made that request, just as he’d requested being part of her team. Their shielded car began by retreating back up the access tunnel, into the garage, acquiring some distance before flinging itself downward. Then it streaked through the buttresses while a trillion electric fingers reached through the superfluid shields, then through their thin skulls, momentarily playing with everyone’s sanity.
The car reached the upper atmosphere, and braked, the terrific gees bruising flesh and shattering minor bones. Emergency genes awoke, weaving protein analogs and knit-ring the most important aches in moments. The bridge was rooted in a hillside of cold rusting iron and black jungle. Despite a heavily overcast sky, the air was brilliant and furnace-hot, every breath tasting of metals and nervous sweat. The captains unloaded their supplies. As team leader, Washen gave orders that everyone already knew by heart. Their car was led from the bridge, then reconfigured. Their new vehicle was loaded and tested, and the captains were tested by their autodocs: newly implanted genes were already churning away, helping their flesh adapt to the heat and metal-rich environment. Then Miocene, sitting in a nearby encampment, gave her blessing, and Washen lifted off, steering toward their appointed study site.
The countryside was broken and twisted, split by fault fines and raw mountains and countless volcanic vents. The vents had been quiet, some for a century, some for a decade, or in some cases, for days. Yet the surrounding terrain was alive, adorned with pseudotrees reminiscent of enormous mushrooms, each pressed flush against its neighbors, their lacquered black faces feeding on the dazzling blue light.
Marrow was at least as durable as the captains flying above it. Growth rates were phenomenal, and for more reasons than the abundant light or a hyper-efficient photosynthesis. Early findings supported an early hypothesis: the jungle was also feeding through its roots, the chisellike tips forcing their way through fissures, finding hot springs fat with thermophilic bacteria.
But were the aquatic ecosystems as productive? That was Washen’s little question, and she had selected a small, metal-choked lake for study. They arrived on schedule, and after circling the lake twice, she set down on a slab of frozen black slag. The rest of the day was spent setting up their lab and quarters, and specimen traps, and as a precaution, installing a defense perimeter—three paranoid AIs chat did nothing but think the worst of every passing bug and spore.
Night was mandatory.
Despite the perpetual light, Miocene insisted that each captain sleep four full hours, then invest another hour in food and ritual chores.