Bored with waiting, she asked her companion, “What bothers you, darling?”
“These children,” said Washen.
“Yes?”
“As if they’re the only ones.”
“You mean the Waywards.” Miocene nodded and laughed, and she made a show of finishing her own tea. Then she told the first-grade, “I just assumed they’d want to remain here, where they’re happiest. On Marrow, and we could lock them in here. Nice and tight.”
A new category had eased its way into the Submaster’s scrupuously accurate tally of gains and losses. There were the born, of course, and the dead. And now, in small but swelling numbers, there were the missing.
It was presumed, with reason, that these new casualties were slinking away, taking nothing but the provisions and light tools suitable for a good march. If rumor and physical evidence could be believed, the nearest Waywards were a thousand kilometers past the horizon. It was a daunting journey to any reasonable soul, but Miocene could almost believe that children—the most susceptible to go missing—might convince themselves that here was a worthy challenge, an undertaking sure to answer some vague need or a trivial absence in their very brief lives. She could even picture their reasons. Boredom. Curiosity. Political ideas, sloppy or muscular. Or perhaps they didn’t see advancement for themselves here, inside the Loyalist camp. They were slow, lazy, or difficult people, and maybe the Waywards would be less demanding. Unlikely, but that’s what the missing must have told themselves. And off they marched, singly and in little groups, blissfully counting on youth and good fortune to bring them to their just rewards.
Some died en route.
Alone, in nameless and temporary’ valleys, they were swallowed by the flowing iron, or flash-baked in a burst of fiery gases.
Miocene’s first instinct had been to dispatch search parties, then punish the children for their treachery. But more charitable voices, including her own, cautioned against rough measures. Who mattered were those who remained behind, the willing and the genuinely far-sighted ones.
Each night, placing her daily entry into its asbestos envelope, then into the asbestos trunk, Miocene rewarded herself with small congratulations. Another day accomplished; another centimeter closer to their ultimate goal. Then she would sit on her little bed, typically alone, and because she often forgot to eat during the arbitrary heart of the day, she would force down a slice of heavily spiced fat. She made herself feed a body that rarely felt hunger anymore, but that needed calories and rest, and at least she was able to give it the former. Then Miocene would lie in the imperfect night, typically on her back, and sometimes she would sleep, and dream, and sometimes she just stared up into the contrived darkness, forcing herself to remain motionless for a full three hours, her mind working with a dreamy vagueness, planning the next day, and the next week, and the five thousand years to come.
The Five Hundredth was a ripe moment for grand gestures.
A year-long observance of their lives on Marrow culminated in a week-long celebration, and the celebration peaked with a lavish parade around the Grand Round of Hazz City. Half of the world’s Loyalists were in attendance. Painted bodies marched, friends and family locking arms, or they stood in the Round’s tent-shrouded center, or they watched the parade from one of the fifty wood and plastic buildings that rimmed the neat outside edge of the public area. Fifty thousand happy, well-fed souls were present, and each one of them looked up as Miocene stepped to the podium, glancing at the clock in one hand as the other hand lifted, a long thin finger dropping as a signal, her strong voice announcing:
“Five hundred years.”
Magnified and projected from cumbersome speakers, her voice seemed to boom across the city and the world.
There was a great cheer, sloppy and full throated, and honest.
“Five centuries,” she repeated, her voice louder than the crowd’s. Then Miocene asked the nation, “Where are we now?”
A few jokes were muttered.
“Where we always are!’ someone called out.
A thin trickle of laughter diminished into a respectful, impatient silence.
“We are climbing,” the Submaster declared. “Constantly, endlessly climbing. At this moment, we are being lifted skyward at the graceful, glorious rate of a quarter of a meter to the year. We are building new machines and new citizens, and despite the hardships that the world throws at us daily, we are prospering. But what is more important, by a thousandfold, is that you remember what we are climbing toward. This world of ours is only a small place. It is like a hammerwing larva nestled inside its large and infinitely more impressive cocoon.
“We are in the center of a starship. A great vessel, complex and vast. This starship is racing through a universe that you have never seen. About which you know next to nothing. A universe of such scope and beauty that when you see it, I promise, all of you won’t be able to hold back your tears.”
She paused, just for an instant.
“I promise. All of you will see this great universe.
“For the willing and the loyal, your rewards will be vast and glorious, and you will have no fear or want for the rest of your endless lives.”
A small cheer rose, then collapsed on itself.
“I know how hard it can be,” she told them. “To believe in places and wonders that none of you have witnessed for yourselves. It takes a certain type of thinking. A grand, dreaming mind. It takes courage and trust, and I am so pleased with each and every one of you. For your work. Your patience. And your boundless love.”
A larger, self-congratulatory cheer blossomed, hands clapping each other and flat wet bellies before the crowd slowly let itself grow quiet again.
“We old captains thank you. Thank you!”
That was a prearranged signal. The surviving captains were sitting behind Miocene according to rank. As a body, they rose to their feet, their silvered uniforms catching the light, and after a communal bow, they sat again, staring purposefully at the back of her head.
“Your lives here have only become richer with time,” she remarked. “We old captains brought knowledge with us, a small taste of what is possible. You see the impact of that knowledge every day, everywhere. We can now predict eruptions months in advance, and we farm the local jungles with great efficiency, and who is our equal at building new and fantastic machines? But those aren’t our greatest gifts to you, our children. Our grandchildren. All of our beautiful, loving descendants.
“Our greatest gifts are charity and honor.
“Charity,” she repeated, “and honor.”
Miocene’s voice ran off into the distance, bouncing off the High Spines and returning again. Softer now, and kinder.
She smiled grandly, then said, “This is what charity is. On my authority, today and for the next complete year, there is a full pardon in effect. A full pardon intended for any person belonging to the Wayward camps. We want to include you in our dream. Yes, the Waywards! If you are listening to me now, come forward. Come out of the wild forests! Come join us, and help us build for this great day coming!”
Again, the echoes bounced off the nearby mountains.
Surely the Waywards were hiding on those slopes, watching the great celebration. Or closer, perhaps. Rumor had it that spies crept in and out of the Loyalist cities every day. But even when she heard the thunder of her own voice, Miocene didn’t believe that any Wayward would ever willingly accept her charity.
Yet only one year later, typing into the bulky and very stupid machine that passed for an AI, the Submaster could write, “Three souls have returned to us.”