About the old Master and her captains, no one seemed to know.
One comforting tale was that the old leaders were still alive, in some diluted form or another. Perhaps they weren’t conscious or whole, but they were still capable of being reborn again… should Miocene, in her wisdom, decide to consider them harmless…
About the new Master and her staff, even less was known.
From where did they come?
A thousand rumors told the same basic story: the Vanished must have left the ship, probably against their will. Then on a mysterious high-technology world, Miocene gathered up the tools and army and fleets of star-ships necessary to catch up again. Where her fleet was today, nobody knew. Everyone agreed that the main ports were quiet; the Great Ship had been passing through a thinly inhabited region around an active, modestly dangerous black hole. And it was hard to imagine that little ships could have caught them without being seen. But didn’t that explanation make far more sense than that silly noise about secret chambers and worlds hiding within the ship’s heart?
And yet. Travelers reported seeing enormous bug-shaped cars rising through a certain basement district. On that first day, and each subsequent day, there was a relentless parade of the steel machines gaining speed as they climbed, swarming for the Master’s station and every other essential hub.
“They have to be coming from somewhere,” was the sluggish verdict, delivered in spoken words and structured scents and soft flashes of dumb-founded light.
“Somewhere’ meaning a place below them.
Deep inside the fuel tanks, some assumed. While others preferred more fantastical locations, including a secret chamber or chambers buried in the ship’s iron heart.
On the mutiny’s fourth day, this mysterious place acquired a name. Marrow. Suddenly, everyone was whispering that odd old word, in ship-terran and in the full multitude of other ship languages. That word appeared so suddenly and in so many places that souls with a taste for conspiracy decided that the knowledge, genuine or false, had come directly and with purpose from whoever was in charge.
There was a world hiding inside the Great Ship, voices claimed: a hidden realm, and wondrous, and undoubtedly powerful.
Tantalizing details about Marrow started to rear up into the light.
Open-minded, undisciplined species embraced the revelation. A few even celebrated it. While others, deeply conservative by nature or by choice, ignored everything said and every wild implication.
As a rule, humans were somewhere in the middle.
There were small, modestly bothersome events. Some districts went dark as key reactors failed, power rationed to the most essential systems. Communications became snarled everywhere for the next four days. It was a time of modest chaos. But generally, little changed. Ancient passengers and crew went about the rituals of their lives, habits ingrained over the millennia and not so easily dropped. Even when the public corn-networks failed completely, there were still private pathways where electrons and structured light could send good wishes and viable currency and the lastest, best gossip. Then those little outages seemed to be finished, and the corn-networks found their feet again, and the last rumors of armed combat turned stale and were generally forgotten. It was the mutiny’s ninth day, and the public mood, as measured by twenty-three subtle means, was on the rise in every district, every major and minor city, and in most apartments and alien habitats and occupied caves.
That was the ripe, perfect moment for the Master to appear.
With ancient commands, she took control of the newly restored corn-networks, and suddenly she was everywhere—a holoimage dressed in a Master’s bright uniform and a bright, well-practised smile, her face even narrower than expected, and her dark gray hair cut very short, and her flesh looking changed by the centuries, as if dirty or tinged with smoke or rust; and her dark walnut-colored eyes, colder than any space, regarded each of her passengers and crew with an expression that fell just short of being comforting, her thin smart smiling mouth opening and then closing again, giving her audience a moment to adjust to her presence before she opened her mouth again, telling them in a quiet strong voice:
“I am Miocene.
“On my authority as a First Chair Submaster, I have removed the Master Captain from her office. From her duties. From her long-held chair.
“Never worry. The woman still lives. Most of her captains are alive. In coming years, you will learn about the depths and scope of their incompetence. In accordance with the ships charter, public trials will be held, and punishments will be just and slow, and the Great Ship will continue to follow its planned course.
“I will worry for you.
“If you let me.
“Your fives need not change. Not today, or in the future. Unless of course you wish to change what has always been yours.
“As Master Captain, I make that promise to you.”
Then for a moment, unexpectedly, the eyes gained a sudden warmth—genuine and a little shocking—and the image closed by saying:
“I love this wonderful ship of ours. I have always loved and cherished it. And I want nothing but to protect the ship, and defend its passengers and good crew, today and until the end of its historic voyage.
“My son will serve as my First Chair.
“Word of other postings will follow.
“This is your Master Captain wishing you a good day, and a wonderful next hundred millennia, my darling friends…”
Thirty-seven
A shiny gold bust of the Master Captain was perched at the end of the pearlwood table, its face suffused with a look of serene power and perfect arrogance; and beside the bust, set at a sloppy almost careless angle, was the Master’s own severed head. The long hair was white and tangled. The flesh was soft and badly desiccated, and pale, no trace left of its gold pigments. Some slow anaerobic pathway, not to mention a fantastic rage, allowed the head to open its eyes while the gaping mouth moved with a slow vigor. Without lungs to supply breath, the Master couldn’t so much as whisper. But what she was saying was obvious. Anyone with patience and a talent for reading hps could understand her. “Why?” she was asking.” Miocene, why?” Then after a long pause, she said “Explain.” She said, “For me.” Then she began to say, “Please,” but she was too exhausted to finish the word, and with a soft wet sound, her eyes and mouth pulled themselves shut again, and she descended back into a deep, fitful coma.
With a cool fondness, Miocene stroked the white hair.
She gazed up and down the conference table, and after a moment’s consideration, she pointed and called out a name, and one of her staff responded with a crisp, highly officious summary of what had been managed and what they were doing now and everything they intended to accomplish in the critical, wondrous near future.
“Blessing Gable,” she called next.
A small, burly woman—born Loyalist, but joining the Waywards as a child—rose from her black chair, then spoke about resistance among the last of the crew. “They still have their stronghold at Port Alpha, and two or three armed bands are operating near Port Denali. But the first group is trapped, and the others are disorganized and short on resources.” She paused for a moment, referring to one of her security nexuses. Then she added, “We just arrested the ones who sabotaged the reactors. Disgruntled engineers, just as you predicted, madam. The repairs, I am told, are well ahead of schedule. What the Builders create refuses to be destroyed easily”