The burden of intelligence: you can always imagine all those wonderful places where you can never belong.
The young plateau gave way to a younger volcanic cone, now sleeping. Dirty iron and nickel had frozen into a rough-faced slag. As the machine scrambled up the naked slope, the rains slackened, and the clouds were shoved far ahead, allowing Washen to glance over her shoulder, looking back across the swollen face of the world.
The sky was dimmer than ever.
As the buttresses weakened, the ambient light fell away proportionally. Still brilliant, but not the same cutting-to-the-bone brilliance. Temperatures were following the same smooth curve downward. Gravity weakened as the world expanded, subtly changing the architecture of plants and mountains and the largest, most important buildings. The atmosphere was growing cooler and quieter but not deeper, since it was spreading across more and more surface area. Likewise, there was only a finite amount of water. The metallic lavas were parched, bringing up nothing but rare earths and heavy metals. Less rain was falling and rivers were smaller, and if these various trends continued apace, there was the promise of long, hard droughts.
Near the horizon, far too small to be seen by the naked eye, was the sky’s only flaw. The original base camp still clung to the silvery hyperfiber, its modern buildings and diamond walkways still empty and alone. And in another thirty-four centuries, the camp would remain just as empty, but it would gaze down on a radically different world. The buttresses’ light would have fallen away to nothing, revealing a lovely starlike sparkle marking cities and well-lighted lanes.
That was the instant when a person could escape. And thinking that, Washen glanced at the vault again, feeling a cold, unnerving pain.
“We don’t know if it’s true,” she muttered to herself.
Miocene glanced at her, nearly asking, “What did you say?”
But the Submaster thought better of it, placing both hands on that ball of smooth gray-white ceramics, the gesture protective, hands and her tilting body conveying a strange fondness for the terrible artifact.
An unmapped river of iron meant a prolonged detour.
They were an hour behind schedule when they arrived at the appointed clearing. Three in the morning, ship time, according to Washen’s silver clock.
The clearing began as a lava plain, but when its molten heart retreated underground, the flat countryside collapsed into a natural amphitheatre. A great flat slab was the stage, and the black iron rose up on all sides, in oversized stairsteps. The shadowless play of the light and the angle of the slopes made everything appear closer than it was. As instructed, Washen parked in the middle of the stage, both captains climbing into plain view, and with two of its jointed limbs, the walker carefully lowered the vault to the iron. Then the first Waywards appeared, mere dots against the blackness. Even trotting at a respectable pace, it took them forever to work their way down the long slope. Besides breechcloths, each wore an ornamental mask made from soft leather stretched over a framework of carved bone. Leather made from their flesh; bone torn from their own enduring bodies. Every mask was painted with blood and with urine. Each showed the same wild, almost fluid face. Like electricity with eyes but no mouth. A Builder’s face, Washen recalled. How they had arrived at that imagery, she didn’t know. Diu claimed that Till was preyed upon by visions. The Wayward’s leader was convinced that the Builders were visiting him, and in some ways, they were his only true friends.
As the first Waywards approached, they slowed to a dignified walk and lifted their masks back up on top of their heads.
Nearly fifteen centuries had passed since Washen last saw Till. Yet she knew him immediately. She knew him from the drawings and from a captain’s crisp memories. But she also recognized his mother in his face and in his measured, imperious stride.
He was a smaller, prettier version of Miocene.
The rest of the party—the finest priests and diplomats and cabinet members—followed at a respectful distance. They were staring at the prize. Washen had plugged an umbilical into the vault, and the walker’s generator was feeding it. A smooth living hum came from within, infusing the air with a palpable hint of possibilities.
Only Till wasn’t staring at the prize. He watched Miocene. Wariness was mixed with other, less legible emotions. For an instant, his mouth opened. Then he took a quick breath and turned to Wishen, asking, “May I examine the device?”
“Please,” she told him; she told all of them.
Locke was standing closest to Till. It was a sign of rank, perhaps, and as always, that brought Washen an unexpected pride.
“How have you been, Mother?” he inquired. Always polite; never warm.
“Well enough,” she allowed. “And how are you?”
His answer was an odd wincing smile, and silence.
Where was Diu? More of the Waywards were climbing up on the stage, and she looked at each man as he lifted his mask, watching their faces, assuming that Diu was somewhere close, hidden by the growing crush of bodies.
Till was kneeling, caressing the vault’s slick surface.
Miocene studied him, but her eyes seemed empty. Blind.
A few thousand honored Waywards had gathered around the stage. All were nursing women, each with at least one infant sucking on their swollen breasts. A thick, oddly pleasant scent lay on the breeze. Tens of thousands more streamed out of the jungle, from every direction, moving purposefully and quietly, footfalls and breathing making a sound, soft and vast, like the beating of a distant surf that grew closer. Something about the sound was irresistible, and beautiful, and at the heart of things, frightening.
Among them were Locke’s children and grandchildren.
In principle, Washen could have a hundred thousand descendants among these people. Which wasn’t a small accomplishment for one old woman who could claim only one child of her own.
The vault’s hum grew louder, increased in pitch, then stopped altogether. It was Locke who lifted an arm, shouting, “Now,” to the multitude.
Everyone else repeated the gesture, the word. A great shared voice rippled its way to the top of the amphitheatre, and then a sudden smear of gold appeared along one edge, expanding rapidly, bright in the skylight as hundreds of strong bodies dragged it forward. Countless golden balloons helped hold the fabric aloft. It was a foil of gold, hectares in size and pounded thin and strengthened… how…? Whatever the trick, it was strong enough and light enough to be pulled across the entire amphitheatre, enclosing everyone, creating a temporary, impermeable roof.
The sky fell dark.
Sensing the perfect darkness, the vault opened itself, revealing a new sky and a younger world. Marrow was suddenly barren and smooth, and it was covered with a worldwide ocean of bubbling, irradiated iron.
The audience found itself standing on that ocean, unwarmed, watching an ancient drama play itself out. The Builders’ enemies appeared.
Without warning, the hated Bleak squirmed their way through the chamber’s walls, emerging from the countless access tunnels—insectlike cyborgs, each one enormous and cold and frighteningly swift. Like angry jackwasps, they dove at Marrow, spitting out gobs of antimatter that slammed into the molten surface. Scorching white-hot explosions rose up and up. Liquid iron swirled and lifted, then collapsed again. In the harsh shifting light, Washen glanced at her son, trying to measure his face, his mood. Locke was spellbound, eyes wide and his mouth ajar, his muscular body drenched with a glossy, almost radiant perspiration. Almost every face and body was the same. Even Miocene was enthralled. But she was staring at Till, not at the spectacle overhead, and if anything, her rapture was worse than the others’. While her son, in stark contrast, seemed oddly unmoved by these glorious, holy images.