In that perfect darkness, there was no sense of falling. The body felt nothing of its own rapid acceleration, and rime seemed to slow, and Pamir was trying to relax, readying himself for a distant floor, when a voice suddenly, unexpectedly whispered into his ears.
“Pamir?” said the voice. “Can you talk?”
Washen.
“Can you hear me, Pamir?”
He didn’t dare use even a scrambled channel. Someone might hear his convoluted bark, then trace the source. But maybe Washen realized as much, because she kept talking, making it feel as if they were falling together.
“I’ve got news,” she reported. “Our friend has helped, and will help us…”
Good.
“But I need to know,” she continued. “Will our other friends assist? Have they agreed to fight with us?”
Just then, something powerful struck the hull.
For a screeching instant, Pamir brushed against the shaft wall. The entire hull was rippling under the impact. Then he was tumbling through space again, free of weight, momentarily functioning as a tiny, tiny starship… and he closed his eyes, remembering to breathe, then telling Washen, and himself, “The Remoras will fight.”
He whispered to her, “We’ve got ourselves a war.”
THE BLEAK
My perfect, eternal solitude shattered by a wealth of stars, and by life, boisterous and abundant life, and it felt as if this was how it had always been. Skies filled with suns and living worlds, and the life within me fat and steady, prosperous beyond need or reasonable want, and how could it be any other way? Life peaceful, more than not. Life punctuated with great loves and endurable defeats. Life conjuring children out of semen and egg, software and cold crystals, and those children racing through their fresh-scrubbed incarnations with an innocent zest that always eroded into the steady cool pleasantness that is a mark of maturity that time, under its tireless hand, forces upon each of us.
I had nearly forgotten Death.
Not as a theory, never. As a principle and occasional tragedy, I couldn’t help but think of that great balancer. But as hard practicality—as the simple inevitable consequence of Life—Death seemed as left behind as my ancient, much treasured solitude.
Or perhaps I never actually knew Death.
To me, Her face appears grim and self-assured, yet unexpectedly beautiful. That beautiful face rests on a tall body growing stronger as the carnage worsens, and more lovely. A body that feeds on one soul or ten million souls, choosing her mouthfuls with a fickle maliciousness sure to leave the living wondering:
“Why not me?”
“Why am I still here, alone?”
I hear their voices. From my skin come murmurs. Shouts. Coded ticks and great white roars of EM noise, and always, lovely Death drinks in their glorious misery.
“Abandon your station… now…!”
“Attack… now…!”
“Do you see them… no… not yet, no…!”
“Hold—”
“Not there, you need to be… by the patch-and-pray shop… do you see, no…!”
“Retreat—!”
“Casualties… in excess of… eleven million in the bombardment, and twenty million displaced into basements…”
“They ambushed us at the assembly point, with machine-shop nuclears…”
“Kill me. If it comes to it.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Casualties eighty percent. Swarm still functioning.”
“Fall back, and dig…!”
“We have a reactor sabotaged. Off-line. Request engineers.
How about it? A quick screw?”
“Prisoners will be assembled here. Ranked according to their likely knowledge here. By me. Then taken home for interrogation, or disposed by standard means…”
“Fanatics.”
“Maniacs.”
“Soulless fucks.”
“How about a really quick fuck?”
“Come see, come see! I want to show all of you. These are cyborgs, my friends! Much as the Bleak were! Nothing but machines with odd guts shoved inside them. Here, touch their guts. Touch them, and smell them. Make yourselves clothes with this odd flesh. Cut up their shells for trophies. Machines and meat, and a great evil, and nothing else. I promise you-!”
“Casualties, ninety-two percent. Swarm effectiveness diminished.”
“Escape wherever you can, however you can…”
“NOTICE: WITHIN THE LAST SHIPMENT OF PRISONERS WAS A CAMOUFLAGED FINGER OF ANTIMATTER. ALL PRISONERS MUST BE EXAMINED THOROUGHLY BEFORE EMBARKING—”
“Retreat again… with all available skimmers…!”
“They’re the Bleak, reborn! And this is our duty, and our honor, to chop them open and kill them slowly-!”
“Our last city… Wune’s Hearts… abandoned…”
“NOTICE: PASSENGERS ARE NOT SUBJECT TO THE SAME TREATMENT AS REMORAS. THEY MAY NOT BE SUMMARILY EXECUTED, REGARDLESS OF BEHAVIOR. CIVIL CODES WILL REMAIN IN EFFECT. ALWAYS. FROM THE OFFICE OF THE MASTER CAPTAIN—”
“I won’t tell you anything, Bleak! Ever!”
“They’re calling us the Bleak now. Whatever that is. I don’t know. Considering, maybe we should be insulted…”
“Press them! Run them!”
“I’m finished, and you promised.”
An EM crackle, then a solid whump.
“Good dreams, friend.”
“My swarm’s gone. No one else alive. My family, most of them, are in Happens River. Tell them—”
“All right you shits! I’m a Bleak. We’re all pretty fucking Bleak in here. Does that scare you? Does that make you want to drip your piss? Because we’re going to keep holding our positions, you fucks, and if you want to take us, you’ve got to follow your piss down into our hole-/”
“All engines secured!”
“Reactors, on-line!”
“Waywards, they keep coming… new units keep coming… there’s more Waywards than we’ve got stars…”
“Again, retreat. You know how!”
“PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: FIGHTING SLOWS IN THE INSURRECTION’S LAST HOURS. THE SHIP’S TRAILING FACE IS SECURE. ESSENTIAL SHIP OPERATIONS HAVE NEVER BEEN IMPAIRED. PASSENGER DISTRICTS HAVE NEVER BEEN ENDANGERED. FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND YOUR BLESSINGS, THANK YOU. FROM THE OFFICE OF THE MASTER CAPTAIN—”
“So we’ve got some time. How about a slow screw?”
“Sounds nice.”
“Doesn’t it, now?”
Forty-five
One of the generals said it first, and said it badly.
“The Remoras are just about beaten,” he declared, standing over the latest strategic holomaps. When he realized that the Master had overheard his audacious words, he straightened his back and squared his shoulders, adding, “We’ve destroyed every one of their cities, imprisoned or killed most of them, and pushed their refugees out onto the ship’s bow. Without cover, and with only a fool’s hope left to them.” Then he said, “Madam,” with a minimal bow, smiling in the Master’s direction while his pale eyes kept careful track of Till.