Anvil of Stars (7 page)

Hans Eagle spoke out. "If the Killers live here, did they send out machines before or after they made these changes?"

"Probably before," the first mom said. "In our experience—"

"Nobody knows how much experience you've had, or how long," Ariel said, voice chilly.

"Please, Ariel," Hakim said, infinitely patient.

"In our experience," the mom continued, "beings who build killer probes usually do so before they have mastered the techniques necessary to perform large-scale stellar reconstruction."

"Then it's been thousands of years since the probes were launched," Hans continued.

"Very likely."

Hans nodded, satisfied.

The last display traced the paths of intercepted killer machines, but covered a thousand light years rather than a dozen; their known and postulated victims were marked by red dots, and the systems they had merely passed through glowed green. Approximate dates relative to Earth's death and distances of these events from the three-star group were given in flashing white.

Martin was astonished by the wealth of data; a partial answer to Ariel's doubts. His mind raced to gather the implications: sometimes the Ships of the Law did break silence, to transmit the locations of killer machines, to broadcast their captures and triumphs. The transmissions would not have been hidden; the distances are too vast for the noach… They would have risked revealing themselves…

Hakim concluded by placing all the displays around the star sphere for their contemplation. "That is all we have for now," he said.

Again, the children did their momerath, and the schoolroom fell silent.

Martin visualized the spaces of probability behind tight-closed eyes, hands opening and closing, seeing the numbers and the paths, making them converge and diverge. Each time he repeated the momerath he concluded there was a high probability—perhaps ninety-five percent—that the Killers came from this stellar group. The probes had probably been manufactured in the system of the Buttercup, the near yellow star.

After sufficient time had passed—perhaps two hours of steady concentration, in complete silence—the moms gathered at the center of the schoolroom, and the first mom said, "What is your judgment?"

"Comments first," Paola Birdsong insisted.

The comments were more expressions of personal involvement and emotion than substantive questions or objections; this much Martin had expected. He had watched the group reach consensus on other matters far less important than this, and this was how they worked: speaking out, finding individual roles.

Mei-li Wu-Hsiang Gemini, a small, quiet woman with the Starsigns family, asked whether there were other civilizations within the close vicinity of this group. Hakim called up a display already shown: all stars that might have harbored planets with life, within twenty-five light years of the group. None had shown even the most subtle signs of civilized development. That was not conclusive evidence one way or another; left alone, the planets might not have developed intelligent life—though the chances were two in five, for so many stars, that at least one civilization would have evolved.

There was always the possibility that the intelligences might have been smarter than humanity, keeping silent even in their technological youth.

But added to the other evidence, the lack was significant.

"What are the chances that civilizations would die off or abort themselves, in so many planetary systems?" George Dempsey asked.

The first mom said, "Given the number of systems with planets, and the probability of life arising, and the probability of that life developing technological ability—" The figures flashed before them again. Martin did not bother doing the momerath; he had done it already, the first time around. Chances were, so had Dempsey. This was socialization, not serious cross- examination.

Time of accepting what they all knew must come next…

More questions, for yet another hour, until Martin's eyes and tense muscles burned. He could sense the group's fatigue. He glanced at the remaining children in his mental queue, decided they would not have anything substantive to add, and said, "All right. Let's get down to it."

"You're prepared to make a decision?" the first mom asked.

"We are," Martin said.

Grumbling and rustling, the children rearranged themselves into their families and drill groups. They felt much more comfortable among their chosen peers; this was not an easy thing and none was happy to be hurried along.

"You are deciding whether to decelerate, at substantial fuel cost, and direct this Ship of the Law into the stellar group we have observed, to investigate the intelligent beings there, and to judge whether they built the machines that destroyed your world," the first mom said. "Pan will count your votes."

One by one, they voted, and Martin tallied. There could be no more than ten abstentions in the entire group, or the process would begin again. Seven abstained, including Ariel. Sixty-one voted to go in and investigate. Fourteen voted to pass the group by, to search for something more definite.

"We need an opposition Pan," Ariel insisted. Paola Bird-song, who had voted to investigate, disagreed.

"We've followed procedures," she said. "It's done."

"We've followed the moms' procedures," Ariel said.

"They train us and instruct us," Ginny Chocolate said. "I don't see what you're after."

"Are we puppets?" Ariel asked, glaring around the groups.

The other children seemed confused. The grumbling increased. Martin felt his stomach twist.

Jorge Rabbit intervened. Olive skinned, with thick black hair, quick with jokes, Jorge was popular in the group. "This is enough, poor children, Martin is right. We are here to do this work. We are not puppets; we are students."

Ariel tightened her jaw and said no more. Martin felt a sudden perverse tug for her.

"It's done," he said. "The children have voted. We go."

Martin ate in the cafeteria with the day's drill group when the maneuvers began.

The children felt it first as a deeper vibration through the ship, singing in their muscles and bones.

"Oh, man," Harpal Timechaser said. He brought out his wand and let it drift in the air. Slowly, precessing this way, then that, as the ship maneuvered to bring its drives to bear, the wand spun slowly, drawing their complete attention.

The vibration increased. The Dawn Treader's hull made a melodic singing noise, deep and masculine, as all the stresses of the drive pushed through its fabric. The wand began to settle, first toward one wall. They felt themselves "pushed" with it, and they yelled with excitement, then groaned as the room oriented within the ship, as if spun on gimbals, one flat wall becoming a floor, the other a ceiling.

A gentle ten percent g as the drives came alive, stretched, clearing their throats.

"I'm going to be sick," Paola Birdsong said. "Why don't they smooth it for us?"

"Because we hate that more than this," Martin reminded her.

Half an hour later, the ship sang again, on an even deeper note. Martin saw the ship in momerath, felt its load of fuel decreasing steadily, flare of particles and radiation disappearing into the bottomless darkness of the ship's external sump, a way to conceal their wastes by scattering them across the surrounding light years as an increase in the energy of the vacuum.

They were going where fuel would be difficult to find.

Full gravity returned. The halls and quarters filled with complaints, more excitement; painted, half-dressed children running, stumbling, cursing, grimacing, trying to leap; falling, cursing again.

Two children broke bones in the first few hours. Their casts, applied by a mom in the dispensary after bone-knitting therapy, served as warning notice for the rest. Martin called a general meeting in the full-gravity schoolroom and the injured showed off their trophies.

The injured would be well within two days… The moms' medicine was potent. But until the casts were off, they could not participate in most of the drills.

The ship transformed itself subtly like a living thing, usually when no one was watching. Throughout, rooms oriented to the end of weightless coasting.

Once past their initial excitement, the children did not find the change disturbing. Psychologically, it was a return to the old patterns of the Ark, and to their year-long acceleration to near light speed away from the Sun. Not to mention their years on Earth…

More changes would come soon—two g's, a heavy burden—and if they decided to go for orbital insertion into the Buttercup system, the action would be spectacular.

They had never before experienced the Ship of the Law demonstrating its full power and sophistication…

The Dawn Treader was a single virus about to enter a highly protected and extremely powerful host, with unknown capabilities. Martin would report to the moms every day now, and a mom would be constantly available in the schoolroom; the same mom, with an identifying mark painted on it by Martin, at the suggestion of Jorge Rabbit and Stephanie Wing Feather, who thought it would boost morale.

The marking ceremony was attended by all the children. Just before his suicide, Theodore Dawn had written of this expected time: "We'll get dressed up in war paint and war uniforms, and we'll swear an oath, like mythic pirates or the Three Musketeers, and it won't be all nonsense, all childsplay. It will mean something. Just wait and see." The search for a meaningful ceremony had come too late for Theodore, Martin thought.

But now that moment had come for the rest of them.

The children gathered on the tiers of an amphitheater that had risen from the floor of the schoolroom at Martin's command. They wore black and white paint on their faces and forearms, "To eliminate the gray feelings, the neutralities, the indecisions." Even Martin wore the paint.

A mom floated near the middle of the schoolroom. Within the star sphere, a red circle blinked around the white point of the Buttercup star. Martin approached the mom with small pots of black and white paint in one hand, and a brush in the other.

"To show our resolve, to show our change of state, to strengthen our minds and our courage, we appoint this mom a War Mother. The War Mother will be here to speak with any of us, at any time.

"Now is our time."

Martin applied the brush thick with white paint to one side of the mom's stubby, featureless head. The other half he carefully painted black. Then, to complete the effect—something he had thought of himself—he painted a divided circle where the "face" might have been, reversing the colors, black within white, white within black. No grays, but cautious judgment of alternatives.

Painting completed, the War Mother decorated, Martin turned to the children on the risers. They stood quietly, no coughing, breathing hardly audible in the stillness, strong and beautiful and grim-faced with thoughts and memories. He stood before them, looking into their faces.

"Luis Estevez Saguaro and Li Mountain of the search team have suggested names for the star systems. They think the Buttercup star should be called Wormwood, the Cornflower Leviathan, and the Firestorm, Behemoth. Any other suggestions?"

"They're good names," Joe Flatworm said, scratching his sandy growth of beard.

No one objected.

"We've been training for years, but we've never exercised outside, in real conditions. I'm making a formal request of the moms, right now, that we begin external exercises as soon as possible, before this day is out if we can."

The moms had always turned that request down. Martin had not conferred with them; by asking them now, in front of the children, he was taking a real risk, operating only on a hunch.

"You may begin three days of external drill," the War Mother replied. "You may conduct a full-level exercise in the region around the ship."

Hans' face lit up and he raised his fist in a cheer, then turned to the children behind him. All but Ariel cheered, even Erin Eire. Ariel kept her face blank.

"We're in it now," Hans said to Martin as the group broke up. He smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together. "We're really in it!"

"What kind of drill are you planning?" Martin asked the War Mother when the room was almost empty.

"That must be determined at the time of the exercise," the War Mother said. Martin backed away, confused.

"No warning?"

"No warning," said the mom.

During the coasting, Martin's primary quarters—once shared with Theodore—had been spherical, nets at one end filled with the goods manufactured by the moms to give the children a feeling of place and purpose: paper books, jewelry. Since the deceleration began, Martin had redesigned the quarters to have several flat ledges he could sit on or brace against. His sleeping net had been swapped for a bag and sling hung between two pillars.

Theresa came to him in his primary quarters in the second homeball after a ten-hour period of self-imposed isolation. She stood at his closed hatch, inquiring discreetly through his wand whether he was available. With a groan, conflicting emotions making him ball up his fists and pound the yielding floor, he swung down from a ledge and opened the door.

"I didn't want to bother you…" she said, her face tight, hair in disarray, skin glistening. "We've been exercising. Harpal and Stephanie told me you were here…"

He reached out for her and hugged her fiercely. "I need you. I need someone to balance me."

"I'm glad," she said, burying her face in his shoulder. She wore workout cutoffs, blue shorts and loose-fitting top. "The exercises are good," she said. "We're really into them."

"I'm in the boneyard," he said, sweeping his free arm at electronic slate and books piled into his sleep corner. What they called boneyard was everything human stored in the Dawn Treader's libraries.

"Tactics?" she asked.

He grimaced. "Call it that."

She hugged him again before moving away to riffle through the stack and pick up the slate. He didn't mind her curiosity; she seemed interested in everything about him, and he was flattered. "Marshal Saxe," she said, scrolling through the slate displays. She lifted a book. "Bourcet and Gilbert. Clausewitz, Caemerrer, Moltke, Goltz." She lifted an eyebrow.