“Absolutely,” he cried out.
Then he glanced at his companion, signaling him by swirling his eyes on their stalks.
As planned, Pamir stepped forward. “Distinguished citizens,” he proclaimed. “I ask to address the court.”
His lifesuit contained an electronic signature. As Remoras did with each other, a glance was enough to give his name, rank, and official status.
The one-eyed elder grumbled, “Is this appropriate? A wanted criminal defending a captured criminal?”
But a third elder—a small round fellow with a red-furred face—growled at her, saying, “Sarcasm later. Talk, Pamir. I want to hear you.”
“There isn’t time,” the captain agreed. “Wayward squads are coming. They want Orleans, but they’ll be thrilled to find me, too.”
The one-eyed woman grumbled, “Good.”
“I wish there was time,” Pamir continued. “For reflection. For a great debate. For a wise decision rendered by everyone. But every moment makes the Waywards stronger. Every minute, another steel ship rises up from Marrow, bringing soldiers and munitions and a set of beliefs that are laughable, and narrow, and indifferent to the wishes of every Remora.”
He paused a half-instant, checking with a security nexus, measuring the Waywards’ steady progress.
Then to the beautiful faces, he said, “I don’t want to be the Master Captain. But the rightful Master is dead, or worse. And I’m the ranking officer. According to the ship’s charter, I am its Master, and Miocene is a treasonous pretender. And since I’m parading the obvious here, maybe I should remind you.” He glanced at One-eye, then everywhere else. “For more than a hundred millenia, you’ve served the ship and its charter, just as you’ve served Wune’s faith. With devotion and bravery. And what I want from you now—what I am asking for, begging for—is this:
“Resist the Waywards. On my authority as the momentary Master Captain, give them nothing. Not your cooperation, or your resources, or any of your expertise. Is that too much to ask?”
An unnerving silence descended.
Then One-eye stated the obvious. “Miocene is going to be very unhappy. And these Waywards are sure to respond—”
“Then we’ll respond, too,” growled the blue-faced woman.
Every judge spoke, crowding into the same secure channel, the noise defiant and worried, angry and sad. But defiance seemed loudest, and knowing that emotions can change in the beat of any heart, Pamir chose that moment to shout out:
“Will you pronuse me? To give them nothing?”
A quick vote was taken.
Two of three Remoras nodded, saying, “Agreed.” Then Pamir made the next logical step. He said, “Good. And thank you.”
If he was going to escape the Waywards, he was going to have to slip away now. But instead of fleeing, Pamir stepped into the middle of the blister-shaped building, and again, quietly, he repeated the admonition, “Give them nothing.”
Then with the heavy grace of his lifesuit, he bent his legs and dropped to the floor, sitting on the smooth gray hull of the Great Ship.
Wayward teams were forcing their way through the bystanders. Pamir heard the broad-band squawk of sirens and saw bright helmets parting to let them pass. But he remained sitting, like the elderly judges and Orleans, showing a grim, determined face, spending those last moments reminding himself that he had done a few things just as stupid as what he was doing now.
But very few, and always for himself. No one else riding the risk.
Another harsh squawk caused the last civilians to scatter, and purple-black lifesuits emerged from the chaos, marching through the doorways with lasers held high and hard gray faces showing behind the faceplates—the descendants of lost captains, their strong features laid over a tough, uncompromising nature.
The soldiers’ armor was light, and their weapons could have been stronger. Miocene, or someone, was showing a calculated restraint.
Pamir took a deep breath, and he held it deep.
Two of the Wayward teams blocked the open doors. A third discovered an unregistered staircase leading into the city’s basement. The final two teams found Orleans, their lasers kept high but ready as they scanned him, then as they examined the other Remoras.
“On the authority of the Master Captain—” a Wayward began.
“Whose authority?” dozens of voices replied, in a sloppy chorus.
“We take this man into custody—”
A taunting laugh broke out from some, while other Remoras remained silent. And One-eye shook her head, cautioning, “We should do as they want.”
With a blurring voice, the Wayward listed other suspected saboteurs. Then with his free hand gesturing and his urgent voice breaking, he told his soldiers to hurry their scans. “Fast, and right!’ he barked. “Fast, and right!”
But the rest of Orleans’s crew was missing. Soldier after soldier said as much, their grim faces suffused with a toxic mixture of excitement and fear and an instinctive disgust. It took two scans, then a naked-eye stare through the faceplate for someone to say, “This isn’t one. Like the others, Look, sir.”
Pamir forced a grin, and finally, he let his spent breath slip out of his mouth.
A slow, astonished expression spread across the Wayward’s face. And after a little gasp, he said, “It’s that missing first-grade, sir. It’s Pamir!”
The ranking Wayward turned, and said nothing.
Every soldier felt surprise, then a wild, unexpected elation that ended when the blue-faced Remora announced.’This is the Master Captain. Our guest, in our home. Which means—”
“Take him!’ the ranking Wayward cried out.
Half of the Remoras screamed, “No!”
The Wayward pointed his weapon, warning everyone, “Stand out of our way, or I’ll cut you out of your fucking shells! Am I understood?” Plainly.
One-eye was sitting on a standard Remoran squirt-pack. She had volunteered for the duty, arguing that even if she didn’t agree with the vote, it had been taken, and perhaps the soldiers wouldn’t scan her as closely as some. The pack’s safeties were dismantled. Its vents were permanently closed. When she kicked it into the center of the room, the Remoras and Pamir remained sitting, doing nothing but turning toward the rounded wall, putting their armored packs between them and the makeshift bomb.
The explosion was silent, then otherwise.
Pamir was still on the hull, head thrust between his knees, and the sudden blast smacked him across the slick grayness, bouncing him against Remoras and soldiers, and finally, one shoulder slamming into the diamond wall.
The building filled with a temporary, scorching atmosphere. Standing bodies were flung hardest, and lasers were ripped loose, and in the next seconds, in that purposeful mayhem, new hands grabbed the lasers, their safeties instantly rendering them harmless.
Pamir staggered to his feet.
His left knee was shattered, but the suit’s servos made the leg carry him. He screamed, “Orleans,” three times before the welcome figure appeared next to him, then sprinted ahead, the Remora flinging himself down the staircase.
A laser blast emerged, punching through the rounded ceiling.
Then the soldier was wrestled down, her weapon yanked free, and Orleans waved and called out, “This way,” and sprinted along a narrow, barely lit hallway. His lifesuit was punctured. Pamir saw a white fountain of leaking vapor. Orleans’s self was dissipating into the vacuum. But not too quickly, thought Pamir. More hope at work than any expertise.
The hall divided three ways.
Left, right. And straight down.
Orleans turned, and in a gesture old as humankind, he placed one of his gloved fingers to his rubbery mouth. “Quiet,” he was saying.
Orleans dove into the black bottomless hole. Feet first, Pamir followed.