He shrank.
He started to say, “Darling,” once again.
But the car was deaccelerating, and the massive door was preparing to unseal itself. To her lover and to herself, Miocene said, “This is the moment.” At long last.
As ordered, Washen was waiting.
As the door opened outward, the first-grade peered into the tiny cabin, eyes the color of band iron staring at the stranger—at Virtue—even as her steady, mocking voice asked, “Madam, are you insane? Do you really think this can work?”
Then she answered her own questions.
“No, you aren’t insane,” she said. “And yes, you’ve got to think it can.”
“Washen,” Miocene replied. “I’d recognize your wit anywhere, darling.”
She stepped out of the car. The Submaster had never visited the control room, but it was exactly like its holo-plans, complete to the banks of glowing instruments and the absence of human bodies. Most of its systems had barely been tested. Why bother when it would be another three centuries before they were meant to be used?
“You’ll need me to oversee,” Washen assumed. Then she stared at Virtue, remarking, “I don’t know you.”
“She doesn’t need you, and you don’t know me,” the man replied. Bristling now.
Miocene faced her captain, and exactly as she had imagined the moment, she said, “No, my associate will oversee the launch. He’s fully versed in this equipment.”
Washen nearly blinked.
Then to her credit, she focused on the larger issue. “You’ve got to have accuracy to do this. Because what we’re talking about here is shooting a fat cannonball between two cannons. Am I right?”
A nod. “Always, darling.”
“And if you can hit the old bridge true, you’ll still have enough time and distance to brake your momentum. True?”
“A rough, abrupt stop. It has to be.”
“But even as thin and weak as the buttresses are… this ugly little ship has got to do an impressive job of protecting you.”
“It will,” Miocene replied.
Virtue took a deep, skeptical breath.
Washen examined the car in person, touching the outside of the hatch, fondling the odd, ugly pipes.” Aasleen suggested something along these lines,” she allowed. “I can’t remember when, it was that long ago. But after she was done explaining herself, you said no. You said it would be too clumsy and too limited, not to mention the technical hurdles, and you ordered us to put our efforts into richer ground.”
“I said those things. Yes.”
For lack of anything better, Washen smiled, and she said. “Well, then. The best of luck to you.”
Miocene let herself show a grin. “Good luck to both of us, you mean. The interior, as you see, seats two.”
The woman was brave, but she wasn’t fearless or a fool. She had to flinch and think hard about her next breath, eyeing the Submaster for a long moment before asking, “Why? Me?”
“Because I respect you,” Miocene replied, honestly and without qualms.
The dark eyes grew larger.
“And because if I order you to accompany me, you will. Now.”
Washen took a careful breath, and another. Then she admitted, “I suppose all of that’s true.”
“And truthfully, I need you.” That declaration seemed to embarrass everyone. To kill the silence, Miocene turned to Virtue, telling him, “Start the procedures.” She paused. Then quietly, she added, “As soon as we’re on board.” The man looked ready to cry.
She didn’t leave him the opportunity. With a crisp wave and a defiant stride, Miocene re-entered the car. Not for the first time, she thought how it resembled the Great Ship—a thick body with a hidden hollow sphere at its center.
To Washen, she said, “Now, darling.”
The first-grade was obviously considering her next step, and everything else, too. Long, strong hands wiped themselves dry against her uniform, and with a mixture of stiffness and grace, she bent over and climbed through the hatchway, then examined the twin seats, padded and set on greased titanium rails. The seats would always keep their backs to the accelerations. As if to appreciate the technology, she touched the simple control panel, then the inner wall. The hand pulled away abruptly, and she said, “Cold,” with a quiet little voice.
“Crude, chilly superconductors,” Miocene admitted.
Then the Submaster touched the panel, and as the hatch pulled itself shut, she said, “Virtue.” She looked out at him and said, “I trust you.”
The man was crying. Nothing but.
The hatch closed and sealed itself, and as the two women sat together, back to back, Washen said, “You trust him, and you respect me, too.” She was securing her protective straps, and laughing. “Trust and respect. From you, on the same day”
Miocene refused to look over her shoulder. She busied herself making last-instant checks, saying to the controls, “You’re more gifted than I am when it comes to other people. You can speak to the grandchildren, and the other captains… and that’s a sweet skill that could prove an enormous advantage…”
Washen had to ask, “Why is that an advantage?”
“I could explore the ship alone,” Miocene allowed. “But if the worst has happened—if everything above us is dead and empty—then you, I think, Washen… you are the better person to bring home that terrible news…”
Twenty-four
Here was the culmination of more than four thousand years of single-minded labor—two captains ready to throw themselves off Marrow. Washen found herself strapped into the primitive crash chair, part of her demanding some task, some worthwhile duty, even when she knew full well that there was nothing to do now but sit and wait and wish for the best.
With a crisp, dry voice, Miocene worked her way down a precise checklist.
Her mysterious companion might resemble Till, or Diu, but his voice was far too slow and uncertain to belong to either man. He spoke across an intercom, alternating, “Good,” and “Yes,” and, “Nominal,” with little pained silences.
The captains sat back to back. Unable to see the Submaster’s face, Washen found herself thinking about little else. It was the same cold, confident face that it had always been, and it wasn’t. Washen always marveled at how Marrow had changed that rigid woman. A metamorphosis showed in the wasted, haunted eyes, in the taut corners of the pained mouth. And when she spoke, as she did now, even a simple word felt infinitely sad, and a little profound.
“Initiate,” that sad voice commanded.
There was a pause.
Then the little man said softly, with resignation, “Yes, madam.”
They were falling, accelerating down a dark, airless shaft. This wasn’t a bridge, and it was never supposed to be. It was a vast piece of munitions, and everything depended on its accuracy. Descending to the starting point, to the electromagnetic breech, Miocene whispered technical details. Terminal velocity. Exposure to the buttresses. The transit time. “Eighteen point three seconds.” Which was nearly as long as they spent inside the buttresses on their way down. But without the same levels of protection, or backup systems, or even a single field test beyond the laboratory.
The ugly cannonball stopped abruptly, then its thick walls began to hum. To crackle, and sputter, and seemingly ripple as the protective fields were woven tighdy around them.
Again, Miocene said, “Initiate.”
There was no response this time. Would the man obey? But as she thought those words, Washen was slammed back into her seat, bone pressed against dense padding, gee forces mounting, tearing flesh and bursting blood vessels.