'Reasonable or rash,' she answered, 'it's the Master's responsibility. Which means that it's my decision to make.' Till sighed heavily, then forced a wide smile. 'Make it,' he coaxed.
A universe of data begged to be noticed. In a
mostly
thorough, near light-speed fashion, Miocene assigned degrees of importance to each bit of news, real or rumored, then absorbed and digested what seemed critical. Small protests were being held in scattered parts of the ship. Weapons had been discharged in half a dozen public venues. But
mostly
as warnings. With billions of passengers, there was the guarantee that a few of the fights were simply criminal. There was always a perfe
ctly
normal trickle of violence. Locke was still missing, a thousand little whiffs of evidence implying that he was killed on the first day. Then she focused on the teams that Till had dispatched to the Remoran city: their makeup; their training histories; their inadequate experience. They were as good as some units, no better than most. But wouldn't this work demand the best? Sending a few bodies into an enemy-held city seemed like such a blatant waste, and dangerous . . .
She lingered on that one telling word.
Waste.
Then again, she examined the damage through the scut-debug's eyes. She took a deep breath of the blistering plasmas, thinking about the ancient machines that had been slaughtered for no worthy purpose, and she calculated the numbers of engineers and drones that these repairs would demand. Wayward engineers, probably. Since she still didn't yet trust her own corps. And when she was angry enough, her living mouth dropped open, remarking to her First Chair, 'I'm going to let your orders stand.'
'As you wish, madam.'
'Also,' she continued, 'I want a full weapons array positioned nearby. In case our troops are attacked. Where we were when the rockets fired . . . that would be a natural vantage point, and nicely ironic. Don't you think?'
Till's face brightened, and he said, 'All in your service, madam.'
Then he bowed.
Bowed to Miocene, she could only hope.
Forty-three
An army of
tiny bone-white toadstools stood on a carpet of something dark and wet, with warm, feathery vapors rising into the bright damp air.
For a long while, nothing happened, nothing changed.
Then a fissure opened, and a filthy hand and wrist pushed up into the light, the elbow exposed, the arm bending one way, then the other, fingers obliterating the delicate toadstools with groping motions growing more desperate by the moment.
Finally the hand retreated, vanished.
A half-instant passed.
Then with a sloppy, wet sloosh, the ground spilt wide, and a naked body sat up, spitting and gasping, then coughing with a choking vigor that after several painful minutes fell away into a string of quiet moans.
The man stared at his surroundings.
Surrounding him was a forest of thick-bodied mushrooms, each as large as a full-grown virtue tree. His face was amazed and dubious and frightened, and even when he should have recovered from his suffocation, his breathing remai
ned elevated, and his heart rattl
ed along with an anxious gait, and no matter how many times he wiped his eyes with the dirty heels of his hands, he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing.
Under his ragged breath, he muttered, 'Where? Where?'
At the sound of his voice, a tall man stepped from the mushroom forest. The man was wearing the uniform of a Submaster, but the mirrored fabric was wrinkled and tired, the sleeves frayed, a vertical gash exposing one of his long pale legs. He was smiling, and he wasn't. He approached to a point, then knelt and said, 'Hello.' He said, 'Relax.' He said, 'A name. We usually start with a name.'
'My name . . . ?'
'That might be best.'
'Locke.'
'Of course.'
'What happened to me?' Locke sputtered.
'You were there,' the other man remarked. 'Better than me, you would know what happened.'
Like a person suddenly cold, Locke pulled his knees out of the stinking black earth, grabbing them and holding tight for a long moment. Then he quietly, quietly asked, 'What is this place?'
'Again,' said the man, 'you would know that answer, too.'
Locke's face seemed quite simple, and for the moment, very young. After a thoughtful gasp, he said, 'All right,' and forced himself to look up with a mixture of resignation and hopefulness. 'I don't know you,' he admitted. 'What's your name?'
'Hazz.'
Locke opened his mouth, then closed it again.
'I'll take that as a sign of recognition,' the long-dead man responded. Then he stood and beckoned, telling the newcomer, 'Clean yourself. Tell me what you want for clothes, and they'll appear. Then if you wish, follow me.' The dead man smiled in a knowing fashion, saying,
'I know someone who very much wants to see you.'
Locke must have
been hoping for someone else.
Wearing a Wayward's leather breechcloth, he followed Hazz out of the mushroom forest, and the s
imple young face vanished abruptl
y. He was angry now. His back stiffened. His voice failed on its first attempt. Then he forced himself to say, 'Father,' with a pure, unalloyed bitterness.
Diu sat on a petrified toadstool outside a simple shelter, wearing the same gaudy clothes in which he had died. Gray eyes danced. A mischievous look came
over his craggy features. Quietl
y, mockingly, he asked, 'So who murdered you? One of your sons, I can hope.'
Locke stopped short, his mouth grim and determined.
Diu laughed and slapped his knees, then said, 'Or it wasn't. But I bet it was some distant relative. Your own blood, almost assuredly.'
'I had to do it,' Locke grunted. 'You were killing Mother—'
'She deserved to die,' Diu replied, framing the words with big shrugs. 'Escaping from Marrow that way. Too soon, and without warning anyone. Nearly alerting the Master to our presence. How did that help the Wayward cause?'
Locke opened his mouth, and waited.
'She was dangerous,' Diu assured. 'Everything you want and deserve was at risk because of her and because of Miocene.'
A deep breath filled Locke's chest, then lay there growing stale.
'But let's forget your mother's despicable, endurable crimes,'
Diu continued.
'There's another offender. Someone who's potentially far more dangerous to the Waywards, and to the Builders' great cause.'
'Who?'
Diu growled, 'Please,' and shook his head in disgust.
Then he rose to his feet, saying, 'You had an assignment. A clear duty. But instead of doing your duty, you rushed off to that alien house as soon as you had
the
chance. And I want to know why, son. Why was it so fucking important to go there?'
Locke turned in a quick circle, but Submaster Hazz had vanished.
'Tell me,' Diu pressed.
'Don't you know why?'
'What I know,' he replied with a rasping voice,'is inconsequential. What I don't know, and what matters here, is your response.'
Locke said nothing.
'Were you hoping to find your mother?' Nothing.
'Because you couldn't have. You and Till couldn't recover her body more than a century ago. What good could you accomplish by going there alone?'
'I don't need to explain—'
'Wrong!' Diu interrupted. 'You do! Because I don't think you know what you want. For this last horrible century, you've been nothing but lost.' His father shook his head, saying, 'I'm not asking these questions to soothe my arrogant soul. I'm asking for the sake of your miserable one.' Then he laughed in a large, tormenting way, adding, 'What? Did you think that being dead was easy? That the Builders would simply ignore your last-breath crimes . . . ?'
'I did nothing wrong!'
'The old Master was digging her way toward Marrow, but the Waywards never knew how she found the old hole. Chances are, a routine search had turned up that hidden doorway' Diu closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he opened them again, acting angry to find his son still standing before him. 'You went to that leech house . . . you went to see if the old Master had been there first. Because if she had been, then she might have realized where Washen was. And maybe, just maybe, your mother had been rescued. Admit that much to your father, Locke. Go on.'
'Fine. I admit it.'
'Maybe you were afraid that nobody had found your mother, and you wanted to help her. A noble sentiment, always.'
Nothing.
'Because a long burn was coming,' Diu continued. 'The longest in many centuries. And what if her remains were piped into one of the engines, then incinerated? What if that happened before you, the dutiful son, could pull her to safety?'
Locke took a new breath, holding it close to his panicking heart.
'Tell me that's the truth,' Diu snapped.
'It's true.'
The Diu said, 'You're lying,' with a crisp, dismissive confidence. 'Don't try to fool your old father, Locke. I know a little something about telling lies.'
Trembling hands tugged at the breechcloth.
'The fuel tank is a vast ocean of hydrogen - one of several - and what are the odds that Washen would be yanked out of her grave?' Diu rose and took a step toward Locke, and with the gray eyes staring, he asked, 'What are the odds that she would ever be found? Shattered and scattered like she was
..
.Washen could have lain in the depths forever, and except for you and Till, and Miocene
..
. who would have known . . . ?'
Locke didn't reply.
'About your mother's little clock,' said Diu.
Locke's eyes grew large and simple, and exceptionally sad. Softly, almost too softly to be heard, he asked, 'What do you mean?'
'You and Till cleaned the leech house. It took days and you had minimal resources, but you did an exemplary job of things. Considering.' Diu smiled as if he could see everything, and he remarked, 'It's so very odd, isn't it? Such a good job of hiding your tracks, yet that one critical clue went unnoticed. Left behind, buried deep in the plastic leech wall—'
Locke gave a low, pained moan.
'It makes a person wonder,' his father continued. 'Was it overlooked by chance? Or was it purposely ignored?'
Wide shoulders slumped forward, and Locke stared at his bare toes.
'Or did someone find her clock . . . hold it in his own hands, perhaps . . . then willfully leave it where someone else would have to eventually come across it
...
? Which is precisely what you hoped would happen, isn't it . . . ?'
'Am I right about that, son . . . ?'
'Till wasn't watching your work, because he trusted you. And you left behind a sign. A marker. Because you wanted very much for your mother to be found . . .'
Locke opened his mouth, then closed it. Then with a new defiance, he screamed, 'No. I won't tell
you—!'
But Diu wasn't standing before him. Not anymore.
Locke blinked and felt his body sagging, hopelessness mixed with relief. Then a warm hand took him on the bare shoulder, and he turned into her, knowing it was her, crying in the soft angry way of a man who knows that he has been fooled and who discovers that really, at the heart of things, he doesn't even care . . .
'What is this
place, and these dead men . . . ?'
'Just another corner of the ship,' Washen assured him, holding him tight around his back and the back of his head. 'Pamir found it before he found my clock. An AI lives here. With my help, it created Hazz. And your father. With its help, I watched your reactions, and parts of your nervous system.'
'You read my mind?'
She said, 'Never,' and relaxed her arms, letting him pull away and look into her face before she confessed, 'You didn't see Wayward soldiers. No one shot at us. That was a different performance, existing as false data fed straight to your eyes and ears. And you're certainly not dead now'
Relief bled into a guilty, self-aware grimace.
'It's just us,' she promised.
'Pamir?'
'He's doing other work now.' She sat on the petrified toadstool, never taking her eyes off Locke. 'There's nobody else. Tell me what you want to tell me. Then if you wish, I'll let you go back to Till. Or just sit here.' She waited a half-moment, then added, 'And if you don't want to tell me, I'll accept that, too. All right?'
Locke sighed, glancing at his own empty hands.
Finally, quietl
y, he announced, 'I think I will. Explain things. Maybe.'
Washen struggled to say nothing and to choke down her excitement. Instead, she nodded, and with a
gentle
voice asked, 'How is our home?'
'Changed,' he blurted. Wide, astonished eyes lifted. 'You don't realize, Mother. This has been a very long century . . . !'