A reprimand was in order.
Something blunt, and powerful, and lasting.
Miocene showed a narrow grin, and in a near whisper, she assured her officer, “There is nothing to celebrate here.”
“Of course, madam.” Again, the little bow. “I simply meant—”
She stopped him with a crisp wave of the hand, and said nothing.
Instead of the expected words, Miocene stared at each of her generals, and Till, then conspicuously looked at no one when she said, “When we first arrived here, I noticed a man. A human male standing outside the bridge, wearing nothing but a handwritten sign.”
Silence.
“The End Is Here,” she quoted.
The silence grew less sure of itself.
“I’m a busy person, but I still have time enough to ask simple questions.” She shook her head, telling everyone, “He was a fool, obviously. One of those poor souls whose focus narrows too much, who can’t work free of some consuming, pathetic idea. For the last six centuries, that fool wore his sign in public. Outside the Master’s station. Did you know that? Did you know that he painted those words on fresh parchment every morning, careful to never repeat the curl and color of any letter. Why that was important to him, I can’t say. Two days ago—the last time I left these quarters—I could have stopped for a moment and asked him those questions. I could have let him explain his passions to me. ‘What makes it so important, sir, that you’re willing to invest hundreds of years in what looks futile to a normal soul…?’ ”
Miocene sighed heavily, then admitted, “Even if I wanted, I couldn’t ask him any questions now. Nor could I help him, if that’s what I thought was best. Because he has vanished. More than two hundred thousand mornings of rising before dawn and painting his important pronouncement according to his difficult, choking logic… and for some reason, the fool couldn’t stand on his usual ground two mornings ago. Or yesterday morning. Or today, for that matter. I can’t see him through any of my security eyes. Quite simply, he has vanished. Now don’t you think that is odd?”
One of the Wayward generals—Blessing Gable—cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and started to say, “Madam—”
“No. Shut up.” Miocene shook her head, then warned everyone, “I’m not interested in anyone’s reasons. Not for this or for that. And frankly, the fate of one odd soul is not particularly compelling to me. What sickens me is knowing that someone made assumptions, not asking simple questions first. What worries me is my own simple question: ‘What else are my arrogant, inexperienced generals forgetting to ask themselves and each other?’ ”
Till stepped forward. This staff meeting belonged to him. For sturdy and obvious reasons, Miocene had given her First Chair responsibility over the war. She had too many new duties of her own to embrace just now. Besides, these events were too large and much too savage to directly involve a Master. Better her son than her, yes. Not one nanogram of self-doubt gnawed at Miocene now.
“You’re right, madam,” Till allowed. Then he showed the generals how to bow, saying to the foot-worn marble floor, “It’s too soon to call anything won, madam. Victory comes at a terrible cost. And of course the Remoras may only be the first of our enemies.”
She said, “Yes. Yes. Exactly”
Because this wasn’t her meeting, she was free to leave it. A show of power was her only agenda, and she turned suddenly, strolling toward one of several hallways leading into the back of the Master’s mazelike apartment… telling her son on a private channel, nexus to nexus, “When you’re finished here, come see me…”
“Yes, madam,” said a crisp voice. While the voice on the private channel promised, “It won’t be long, Mother.”
Miocene thought to glance over her shoulder. But no, that would do little good. She knew from experience that she wouldn’t see unexpected emotions in those faces. Ask all the simple questions you want, she told herself. But don’t waste precious energy when you know that the answers, pleasing or bitter, will simply refuse to show themselves.
The apartment had always been familiar terrain, and a weaker person, infected with self-doubts, might have avoided these rather small, always comfortable, and purposely ordinary rooms. But the new Master had never considered living anywhere else. If she deserved the old Master’s chair, then why not the woman’s home? Indeed, after these first weeks, the hallways and alcoves, potted jungles and even the old expansive bed, made Miocene feel nothing but at ease.
Her bed already had an occupant.
“The meeting-?” he began.
“Everything is fine,” she replied. But to be certain, she linked herself to security eyes and ears, the constant bark and flutter of her generals interrupted by the quieter, more forceful growl of Till. After a moment of satisfied eavesdropping, she asked, “Is there progress?”
“Of a slow sort,” Virtue replied. “Yes.”
The Remoras knew how to damage the ship. It seemed that Wune’s professed love for this machine didn’t mean much, and they were attacking it with the same zest with which they fought her office and her authority. In an instant, Miocene consumed the latest damage reports and repair predictions, one of her nexuses failing to give her the data on her first try.
In a crisp, angry voice, Miocene said, “That problem’s surfacing again.”
“That’s what I warned you about,” he replied. Virtue regarded her with bright gray eyes, too big for his face and too open to hide anything. “What we’re doing to you… well, it’s never been done. Not to a human. Profound changes—”
“ ‘—in a profane amount of time.’ I remember what you, and everyone, has told me.” She shook her head regardless, then casually told her uniform to melt at the shoulders, the fabric collapsing onto the living rug, leaving her wide and deep and lovely body shining in the bedroom’s false sunshine.
She sat on the edge of her bed.
Virtue moved nearer, but it took him a moment to find the strength to touch her on the bare breast. Of course he didn’t like her new body, and of course she didn’t care. Nexuses needed room and energy, and her body had to increase proportionally to her responsibilities. Besides, Virtue’s timidity had a charm. A sweetness, even. She couldn’t help but smile, eyes dropping, watching those little fingers desperately caress the brown expanse of her left nipple.
“We don’t have time,” she reported. “My First Chair will be here soon.”
Virtue was thankful for that, but he had poise enough to make his hand linger for a moment longer, fingers feeling the nipple swell with blood and newer fluids.
When his hand vanished, she told her nightgown to dress her.
Afterward, speaking with a quiet concern, Virtue reported, “You look tired. Even more than usual, I think.”
“Don’t tell me to sleep.”
“I can’t tell myself to sleep,” was his reply.
Miocene began to smile again, her head turning and her mouth opening, a compliment phrased and ready to be uttered. “I wish you were as good with my nexuses as you are with my mood.” She fully intended to say those words, but an abrupt, unexpected urge became a coherent flash inside one of her working nexuses… and she hesitated after saying only, “I wish…”
Virtue waited, ready to smile when it was his turn.
She focused on something no one else could see.