Which wasn’t a surprise to anyone, of course.
Yet Saluki exclaimed, “Four years,” and marched into the brightest patch of light, glancing up through a gap in the canopy, perhaps trying to find the abandoned base camp. “Four long years…!”
If only a single captain had stayed behind at the base camp. One warm body could have called for help, or at least made the long climb to the fuel tank and leech habitat, then to the Master’s quarters… assuming, of course, that there was someone up there to find…
Thinking the worst, Washen recoiled. And finally, with her most careful voice, she forced herself to ask, “Who isn’t here?”
Miocene recited a dozen names.
Eleven of them had been Washen’s friends and associates. The last name was Hazz—a Submaster and a voyage-long colleague of Miocene’s. “He was the last to die,” she explained. “Two months ago, a fissure opened, and the molten iron caught him.”
A silence fell over the little village.
“I watched him die,” Miocene admitted, her eyes distant, and damp. And furious.
“I’ve got one goal now,” the Submaster warned. Speaking in a grim, hateful voice, she said, “I want the means to return to the world above. Then I will go to the Master myself and I’ll ask her why she sent us here. Was it to explore this place? Or was this just the best awful way to be rid of us…?”
Thirteen
Bitterness served the woman well.
Miocene despised her fate, and with a searing rage, she blamed those unconscionable acts that had abandoned her on this horrible, horrible world. Every disaster, and there were many of them, helped feed her emotions and fierce energies. Every death was a tragedy erasing an ocean of life and experience. And each rare success was each a minuscule step toward making right what was plainly and enormously wrong.
The Submaster rarely slept, and when her eyes dipped shut, she would descend into vivid, confused nightmares that eventually shook her awake, then lingered, left in the mind like some sophisticated neurological toxin.
Her immortal’s constitution kept her alive.
Ancestral humans would have perished here. Exhaustion or burst vessels or even madness would have been the natural outcome of so little sleep and so much undiluted anger. But no natural incarnation of humanity could have lived a single day in this environment, subsisting on harsh foods and ingesting every sort of heavy metal with each breath and sip and bite. Once it was obvious that the Master wasn’t pulling her fat carcass down the tunnel to rescue them, it also become plain that if Miocene were to escape, it would take time. Deep reaches of time. And persistence. And genius. And luck, naturally. Plus everyone else’s immortal constitution, too.
Hazz’s death had driven home every hard lesson. Two years later, she still couldn’t stop seeing him. A gregarious, Earthborn man who loved to talk about bravery, he was nothing but brave at the end. Miocene had watched helplessly as a river of slag-covered iron trapped him on a little island of old metal. Hazz had stood up tall, looking at the fierce slow current, breathing despite the charring of his lungs, putting on a grimacing sort of smile that seemed, like everything else in this awful place, utterly useless.
They tried desperately to save him.
Aasleen and her crew of engineer-minded souls had started three separate bridges, each melting before they could finish. And all that time, the iron river got deeper, and swifter, shrinking the island down to a knob on which the doomed man managed to balance, using one foot until it was too badly burned, then using the other.
He was like a heron bird, in the end.
Then the current surged, and the thin black slag burst open, a red-hot tongue of iron dissolving Hazz’s boots, then boiling away both of his feet and setting fire to his flesh. But the engines of his metabolism found ways to keep him alive. Engulfed in flames, he actually managed to stand motionless for a long moment, the grimacing smile getting brighter and sadder, and very tired. Then with every captain watching, he said something, the words too soft to be audible, and Miocene screamed, “No!,” loudly enough that Hazz must have heard her voice, because suddenly, on boding legs, he made an heroic attempt to walk himself across the slag and molten metal.
His tough, adaptable body reached its limits. Quietly and slowly, Hazz slumped forward, his mirrored uniform and his smiling face and a thick tangle of blond-white hair bursting into dirty flames. The water inside him exploded into steam and rust and hydrogen. Then there was nothing left but his shockingly white bones, and a wave of hotter, swifter iron pulled the skeleton apart and took the bones downstream, while a rising cloud of blistering fumes drove the other captains away.
Miocene wished that she could have retrieved the skull.
Bioceramics were tough, and the tough mind could have survived that heat for a little while longer. And weren’t there stories of miracles being accomplished by autodocs and patient surgeons?
But even if he was past every resurrection, Miocene wished she had Hazz’s skull now. In her dreams she saw herself setting it beside one of the Master’s golden busts, and with a deceptively calm voice, she would tell the Master who this had been and how he had died, and then with a truer, angrier voice, she would explain to the captains’ captain why she was a disgusting piece of filth, first for every awful thing that she had done, then for every good thing that she had failed to do.
Bitterness brought with it an incredible, fearless strength.
More and more, Miocene trusted that strength and her resolve, and more than at any time in her spectacularly long life, she found herself with a focus, a pure, unalloyed direction to her life.
Miocene relished her bitterness.
There were moments, and there were sleepless nights, when she wondered how she had ever succeeded in life. How could anyone accomplish anything without this rancorous and vengeful heart that would never, no matter what the abuse, stop beating inside its blazing, fierce chest?
Washen’s return had been an unexpected success. And like most successes, it was followed by disaster. The nearby crust rippled and tore apart, a barrage of quakes shattering the river bottom as well as the nearby hillside. The old remnant of the bridge pitched sideways, and with a creaking roar, its sick hyperfiber shattered, the debris field reaching across fifty kilometers of newborn mountains.
The fall of the bridge was momentous, and unseen.
The captains’ encampment had already been obliterated by a mammoth geyser of white-hot metal. The neat houses were vaporized. Two more captains died, and the survivors fled with a bare minimum of tools and provisions. Lungs were cooked during the retreat. Hands and feet were blistered. Tongues swelled and split wide, and eyes were boiled away. The strongest dragged the weakest on crude Utters, and finally, after days of stumbling, they wandered into a distant valley, into a grove of stately blue-black trees that lined a deep pool of sweet rainwater, and there, finally, the captains collapsed, too spent to curse-As if to bless them, the trees began discharging tiny balloons made from gold. The shady, halfway cool air was filled with the balloons’ glint and the dry music made when they brushed against one another.
“The virtue tree,” Diu called them, snagging one of the golden orbs with both hands, squeezing until he squeezed too hard and it split, hydrogen escaping with a soft hiss, the skin collapsing into a whiff of soft gold leaf.
Miocene set her people to work. New homes and new streets needed to be built, and this seemed an ideal location. With iron axes and their enduring flesh, they managed to hack down half a dozen of the virtue trees. The golden fat inside the wood was nourishing, and the wood itself was easily split along its grain. The beginnings of twenty fine houses were laid out before the hard ground ripped open with an anguished roar. Wearily, the captains fled again.