Expendable

Part XIV TRANSITION

Camouflage

For a moment, my mind went blank. I wish I could say I wanted to hit him, kick that stupid grin off his face; but I was too stunned even for anger. The limp flap of skin lay in his dirty glove like a rag of brown linen… and he thought I should put that on my face?

"I can see you're pleased," he said. "And I promise, it's everything you hope for. Self-adhesive… porous to let sweat out and air in… even designed to adapt to your skin color like a chameleon."

"My…" I swallowed hard. "Yes, Phylar, that's just what I want. A scrap of synthetic I can put on my cheek and watch turn purple. The height of entertainment."

"Ramos, the League designed this stuff to hide crap like that shit on your face. Hiding is what Melaquin's all about. Let me tell you, I had one fuck of a lousy scar as a memento from an old exploration mission. Now it looks as smooth as a baby's bottom." His voice was loud with booze, and he must have realized it. In a softer voice he said, "Listen, Festina — maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. Who knows how the skin will respond to your… condition. But when I use it to cover a bruise, it doesn't turn the color of the bruise. And I'll tell you a secret: I put some of this fake skin on my nose. It hides the…"

He waved his hands vaguely — too squeamish, I suppose, to say that his nose had once been the ravaged red of a drunkard, florid with prominent blood vessels. Now that I looked, Tobit's nose was a healthier color than at the Academy: smooth, not pitted or flushed. It was still unnaturally bulbous, but the skin itself looked… good.

"See?" he said, proudly turning his head to show off his physiognomy. "Maybe the skin can help you too."

He pushed the pathetic brown tissue toward me. I didn't take it.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. "You aren't the sort of woman who uses her face as an excuse, are you? The kind who blames every little problem on an accident of birth, and won't try to fix things for fear it might work. You can't be worried that without the birthmark, you won't have reason to bitch and moan—"

"One more word," I told him, "and the skin I take off you won't be that piece in your hand."

The Morlocks roused themselves stewishly and made a show of brandishing their spears. Their attempt to look threatening was pathetic. I felt like showing what a tiger-claw strike could do to someone's face, fake skin or no. But Oar put her hand lightly on my arm, and said, "Do not be foolish, Festina. This man says you can be less ugly. It would be better if you were less ugly. People would not feel so sad when they look at you."

"Do you feel sad when you look at me, Oar?"

"I am not such a person as cares how others look," she answered. "But there may be people who see you and feel like crying, because it is wrong for the only nice Explorer to look so damaged."

Ouch.

Ouch.

"All right," I said, holding out my hand to Tobit. "Give me the skin."

Shading

It felt like a scrap of silk stocking — a mesh so fine and smooth, I wanted to stroke it with my fingers. The color was close to my own skin already: a shade darker, that was all. Even if it stayed the same color when I put it on, I could have a whole face; I'd just have to darken the rest of my skin with a modest amount of makeup.

That assumed the skin didn't turn magenta to duplicate my birthmark.

"How fast does it change color?" I asked, not looking at Tobit.

"About an hour."

"I'll see you in an hour," I said, and left the room.

Punch Gently

Oar trotted at my heels. I didn't really want company, but it was safer this way — if the Morlocks turned belligerent with liquor, she'd be in trouble on her own.

Once we had left the building, I set a fast pace across the plaza toward the outskirts of the town. "Where are we going?" Oar asked.

"To find a mirror." As if I needed one, surrounded by so much glass; if necessary, I could put on the patch using my slight reflection in Oar's own body. But I wanted to put distance between me and Tobit, to leave his leers behind. If this worked, his smugness would be obnoxious; but if I didn't even try, he'd be utterly unbearable.

If I didn't even try…

Listen. My stomach had the same nervous flutters as the night I decided to lose my virginity: balancing on a razor's edge of desire and fear. I wanted to see myself whole. I yearned for that. Yet I was afraid of being disappointed, and even worse, of being changed. My life sometimes felt like a war to hold on to what I was; to remain me. I was terrified of turning into something different — of losing my definition.

It sounds childish. It sounds glib. I only have words to describe the superficial issues. Even to myself, I can't express the depths of my fear. Nor can I express the depths of my longing. You'd think it would be easy to explain why I wanted to cure my disfigurement; that's obvious, yes? Obvious why I'd want to look like Prope and Harque and everyone else whose glances of fascinated revulsion had humiliated me all my life. Why should I feel ashamed of wanting to look like them?

And Jelca… pathetic to think of him at a time like this, but how would he react? Would he be delighted to find a real, unblemished woman on Melaquin? Or would he regard me the way Explorers always regarded the unflawed: as shallow and vain, pretty objects but unworthy of deep attention.

"You look sad," Oar said. "Why are you sad, Festina?"

"Because I'm foolish," I replied. "Very foolish. I want to be me, but I also want to be some other woman I'm afraid I won't like."

"That is foolish," Oar agreed. "If you turn into an un-likable woman, I will punch you in the nose; then you will know you have to turn back into my friend."

Laughing, I kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks. But punch gently, okay? My face has enough trouble without a broken nose."

In Front of the Mirror

We found a blockhouse, much like the one where Jelca had made his home in Oar's village — the same layout anyway, but without the clutter of cannibalized electronics. The bathroom had a mirror. After asking Oar to wait outside, I stared at my reflection.

Memorizing a face I'd often wanted to forget.

"This may not work," I said.

"I can always take it off," I said.

"This patch may be too small," I said.

It was big enough. In fact, it needed some trimming. I used the scalpel from the medical kit, but I spent a long time washing the blade first.

My Appearance Revisited

The skin eased down onto my cheek. I patted it into place. For a moment I could feel its light touch, but the sensation slowly vanished — like the residue of water after washing your face, disappearing as it dries into thin air.

When I first laid out the patch, its edges were visible. I spent a minute trying to smooth them down; but as I watched, I could see the outer fringe knit itself into my own skin, bonding, becoming part of me. I brushed the intersection with my finger: it was barely discernible. It was still possible to see where the patch ended and my own cheek began — the patch was darker — but within minutes all trace of a join was gone. Like a parasite affixing itself to a newfound host. Yet I did not feel any revulsion. My cheek had the texture of smooth, perfect skin. When I looked closely, I could see fine hairs peeking out of it. Were they my own hairs, protruding through the mesh? Or did the material have hairs of its own, mimicking real tissue?

I didn't know. I couldn't remember if hairs had grown up through my birthmark. After only three minutes, I was forgetting what my birthmark looked like. I shivered.

With sudden energy, I snapped myself away from the mirror and strode into the next room. "Let's go for a walk," I told Oar.

"May I touch it?" she asked.

"No. Walk."

Hard

We began to stroll the circumference of the habitat dome — keeping to the edge of town let me avoid being surrounded by glass buildings. In an hour, I would look at my face; before then, I didn't want to catch any chance reflection. Therefore, my gaze was turned toward the black dome wall as we walked. There was nothing to see, and that was good.

From time to time, I could feel Oar glancing at me. I was deliberately walking on her right, so she could only see my good cheek; her furtive peeks were attempts to watch the new skin change. Or perhaps she was only trying to gauge my mood. After minutes of tentative silence, she finally asked, "How are you feeling, Festina?"

"I'm fine." The words came out automatically. "I'm always fine," I said.

"You are not fine, you are troubled. Must I punch you in the nose so soon?"

I gave her a rueful grin. "No." It was tempting to face her, but I didn't. I could feel nothing special in my cheek, yet it seemed to be the center of all my consciousness. "This is just hard," I said.

"Why is it hard? Either you will stay the same, or you will look less ugly. You cannot lose."

"I might have an allergic reaction."

"What is an allergic reaction?"

"It's…" I shook my head. "Never mind, I was just being difficult." I turned my gaze to the crisp white cement beneath our feet. "This is hard," I said again.

We walked another minute in silence. Then Oar said, "I know how to stop you being sad. We can find the Tower of Ancestors in this place."

She looked at me expectantly.

"And that would cheer me up?" I asked.

"It feels good inside the Hall of Ancestors."

"Only if you feed off UV and X-rays," I told her. "I'll pass."

"But if we go to the Tower of Ancestors," Oar insisted, "we can find the foolish Prophet those Morlocks follow. Then we will walk up to him and say, 'Pooh!' Just like that: 'Pooh!' Someone should have spoken to him a long time ago. 'Pooh!' "

I smiled. "You have a knack for theological argument. Good thing you didn't try it with the Morlocks themselves."

"The Morlocks are all very foolish," she replied. "It does not make sense to wear skin when it only looks ugly. Ugliness is bad. You know that, Festina. You will never be beautiful, but you are trying to look better. That is wise. That is correct."

"Thank you," I answered drily. "But even if the new skin works, I may not wear it forever. I just put it on for curiosity's sake. An experiment, that's all. No self-respecting woman places much value on mere appearance…"

Such babble. Even Oar knew I was talking for my own benefit. She gazed at me with gentle pity… and perhaps I would have prattled on to greater depths of humiliation if a naked man hadn't materialized two paces in front of us.

The Naked Man

He didn't step from behind a building. He didn't rise out of the ground or appear in a puff of smoke. One moment the space in front of us was empty, and the next it was occupied. As instant as a scream.

The man was short and brown and hairy. His head was thatched with crinkly salt-and-pepper hair, and his mouth surrounded with a bushy silver beard. Graying curls dappled his chest, arms, and genitals. Beneath all that hair was a wiry body marked liberally with scars — wide slashes of whitened tissue, the kind you see on Opters fanatical enough to refuse stitches, no matter how serious the wound. His eyes had a yellow tint to them, but were still bright and alert. He looked straight at me for a moment, then slammed his fists on his stomach and spoke in a melodious language I didn't recognize.

I looked at Oar to see if she knew what he was saying. She returned my gaze in bewilderment.

"Okay," I sighed to the little man. "Greetings, I am a sentient citizen of the League of Peoples, and I beg your Hospitality."

"Why do Explorers always say that?" Oar muttered. "It is very annoying."

"Blame it on boundless optimism," I told her. "Someday I'll say it to someone who doesn't run screaming or try to kill me."

The man did neither. Instead he spoke again, this time guttural words with phlegmy rasps in the throat. It sounded so different from his first speech, I guessed he had changed languages in an attempt to find one I understood. Good luck, I thought to myself. No Explorer bothers with linguistic training; it's taken for granted we'll never understand the native tongues of the beings we meet. If they don't understand our "Greetings" speech, our only recourse is to play charades… very careful charades, trying to avoid gestures that would be misunderstood as hostile.

Accordingly, I lifted my hands, palms out, facing the man. "Hello," I said, more for Oar's benefit than his. "I am unarmed and friendly." To back my words, I smiled, making sure to keep my mouth closed: for many species, baring the teeth means aggression. The man in front of me appeared to be one hundred percent Homo sapiens — the kind with real skin, not glass — but it would still be a mistake to assume too much cultural common ground.

Before the man could respond to my gesture, Oar took her own stab at communicating: a gush of words in her own native language, a flood of syllables that went on for more than half a minute before she paused for breath.

The man blinked once, then turned back to me. His attitude said he didn't understand Oar, and had no interest in trying. He ventured another smattering of syllables, this one a type of singing that reminded me of Gregorian chant. The words, however, weren't Latin — I don't speak the language, but a zoologist knows enough scientific names for animals to recognize Latin when she hears it.

"Listen," I said, keeping my voice soft and friendly, "we aren't going to understand each other this way. Maybe if we…"

I didn't finish my sentence. At that moment, the man flickered in and out of existence like heat lightning.

Flicker

The effect only lasted a second: his image breaking into a moire pattern of optical interference, then righting itself again into a seemingly solid man. It didn't matter how brief the disruption was — it told me two things.

First, the man was a hologram: a good hologram, since it's extremely difficult for projections to fool the eye at a range of three paces. Nevertheless, I knew he was just a constructed image… something I half-expected already, since corporeal men don't appear out of nowhere. (Some members of the League are rumored to have perfected teleportation, but no one with that technology has ever contacted humans.)

The second thing I knew was that Melaquin had started to live on borrowed time. The flicker in this image could only mean some machine somewhere had acquired a fault. It might only be a small malfunction in a nonessential system — the hardware for projecting pictures of naked men was unlikely to be crucial for survival — but even a tiny glitch meant things had begun to break down. No one, not even the League of Peoples, could build equipment that lasts forever; all the automated repair systems in the universe can't hold back the patient creep of entropy. If four thousand years was the lifetime for the systems here on Melaquin…

…the lifetime of the people wouldn't last significantly longer.

Fluent Osco-Umbrian

The man in front of me behaved as if nothing unusual had happened. He launched into another speech in another language — no language I knew, no language I cared about. I bided my time till he finished, then held up my hand to stop him from trying again.

"Don't bother," I said. "Whatever message you want to convey, it's four thousand years too late. You're a simulation, right? Probably the interface projection for an artificial intelligence that oversees this town. Computer-controlled and designed to relate to the first people who came here. To them, you must have looked like a wise old man… someone they'd naturally respect. But to me, you're evidence of the AI's imminent breakdown. Trying to reach me with languages four millennia old; you can't understand Oar, so you haven't kept up as the people here changed. Anyway, I've never liked talking to AIs — they're always smarmy and unctuous."

The man said nothing. He stared intently, as if sheer force of will could make my words intelligible.

"Oar," I said, "you'd better fetch Tobit. He might know how to deal with our friend. If Tobit has lived long enough in this town, maybe he's learned Osco-Umbrian."

"Tobit…" the naked man whispered.

"Ah," I said, "a name he recognizes."

"Tobit," the man repeated.

"You're friends with Tobit, right?" I said. "Maybe you two get lit up together."

"Tobit," the man answered. "Tobit. Toe… bit… toe… bee… or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune—"

"Shit," I said. "Or rather, Zounds."

Speaking Trippingly From the Tongue

"Hail and well-met!" the man said with a flourish of his hand. "I have in timely manner found your tongue within my mind."

An ugly anatomical image, I thought. Aloud, I replied, "You've finally identified my language in your data banks."

The man nodded. "This blessed talk, these words, this speech, this English."

"What is wrong with him?" Oar asked in a whisper. "Is he simply foolish, or is there something chemically wrong with his brain?"

I shook my head. "The League of Peoples obviously drops in now and then to update the local language databases. The good news is that the records are recent enough to include English; the bad news is—"

"It is a foolish kind of English," Oar finished.

"Let me not to the intercourse of true minds admit impediments," the man replied. "My tongue may be rough and my condition not smooth—"

"Enough," I interrupted. It annoyed me he understood my contemporary English but continued speaking his Elizabethan version. That's an AI for you: probably trying to "uplift" me by setting an example of "correct" speech. "Let's keep this to yes-or-no questions," I said. "Are you a machine-created projection?"

"Yea, verily."

"So I'm essentially talking to an artificial intelligence?"

"Aye, milady." The little man displayed a smile of delight — the indulgent smile a pet-owner wears when the family dog rolls over. As I said, AIs are all smarmy.

"And there's some good reason you've approached me?" I asked.

"E'en so."

"What reason?"

"To lay this thy kingdom at thy feet. To bid you take up the scepter. To hail you as lord, and queen hereafter."

And he knelt before me, lowering his head to the pavement in respectful submission.

The First of My Kind

I had never been offered the title of queen. I did not want it now.

"Do you say this to everyone who comes by?" I asked.

"Only you," the man replied. "You are the first of your kind to walk here since the dawn of this era."

"He means you have occluded skin," Oar said helpfully.

"A diplomatic turn of phrase," I told her. Turning back to the man, I said, "I'm not the first of my kind to come. What about Tobit? Or the other Explorers who've visited this town?"

"Pretenders have been legion," the man admitted. "Many a child," he gestured toward Oar, "has tried to usurp the throne, clad in borrowed rags." I realized he meant glass people wearing artificial skin. "Another who dwells in this place appears to have the proper bloodline, yet has knitted himself to unliving metal and is therefore discounted." That had to be Tobit, "knitted" to his prosthetic arm; the League disapproved of cyborging, and had obviously programmed the AI to disqualify anyone equipped with any augmentation.

"Some too," the man continued, "have arrived with unverifiable claims, hidden as they were behind impenetrable armors."

"Ahh!" The other Explorers to pass this way had all been wearing tightsuits. The suits must be sufficiently shielded that the AI couldn't tell whether the wearers were fully human. I, on the other hand, in my knee-high skirt…

"Why are you laughing, Festina?" Oar asked.

I answered, "How many women ever became queen because of their legs?"

Probably a lot, I reflected. Especially if kings had anything to do with it.

The Powers of the Queen

"What does being queen entail?" I asked the little man.

"All this realm's resources lie at your command," he replied.

"Which realm? This dome? Or the entire planet?"

"All that lies beneath this most excellent canopy, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof—"

"The dome," Oar explained.

"I got that," I nodded. "Not much of a kingdom," I told the man-image. "And not much of a distinction either. What can a queen do that a commoner can't? Anyone can work the synthesizers to get food, artificial skin, you name it. What else is there?"

"Only one thing more. Follow me, your majesty."

I shrugged. "Lay on, Macduff."

The man rose gracefully from his knees and after a courtly bow, led us forward, keeping to the circumference of the dome. Although his legs were half the length of mine, he had no trouble walking at our pace, since his image could skim over ground as quickly as necessary.

As we walked, I passed the time scanning the area for the projectors creating the man's image; but I soon realized my search was pointless. Whether the machines were mounted on the dome, on a tower, or shining straight through the walls of nearby buildings, it didn't make a real difference. He was here. He was projected. Everything else was a technicality.

After another minute of walking, the man turned to the outside wall of the dome and threw up his arms, shouting, "Behold, O Queen!" A moment later, a section of dome wall thirty meters wide and twenty high popped backward with a soft hiss. I tensed, fearing a deluge of water might suddenly pour through the breach. No such flood occurred; and as we watched, the wall dropped back four more paces, then slid sideways on guide tracks, revealing a large, well-lit chamber.

Or more accurately, a large, well-lit aircraft hangar.

Daggers Before Me, Handles Toward My Hand

Five fliers stood in a perfect line before me, each fashioned to look like a chiseled glass bird. The closest was a goose, wings and tail outspread, head stretched straight forward; it ran twenty meters long, with space for two riders, side by side in the middle of the bird's body. The next plane was an eagle, then a jay, then an owl, and lastly a generic songbird which the little man said was a lark. All were stylized, their feathers mere suggestions, their shapes trimmed and streamlined for better aerodynamics… but then, the same was true of Oar. Like her, these craft were Art Deco versions of living creatures.

Yet they were also working airplanes: jets, by the look of them, though the tiny engines were artfully incorporated into the wing structures to look like fluffed regions of feathers. I counted four such engines on each wing, plus two more on the tail. Each was small, but their combined power must pack a kick if you really needed propulsion.

Only one thing spoiled the planes' sleek, birdlike appearance: each had four charcoal-gray cylinders mounted on their bellies. Fuel tanks? I wondered. No — they were impractically long and slender. Rockets for extra boost in emergencies? Sensor arrays?

Then the explanation came to me — an archaic concept dating back to the earliest days of aviation. The cylinders were missiles. Weapons. Designed to be shot at other planes or ground targets where they would explode on impact.

"Bloody hell," I murmured. "Where did those come from?"

"Fashioned at behest of the first generations," the AI-man answered cheerfully.

"That's hard to believe," I snapped. "The first generations must have been primitive hunter-gatherers. They didn't wake up one morning, saying 'We'd like some war-planes, please.' "

"You have the right of that," the man conceded. "But the League took in hand the education of those who came to this place. One generation followed hard on another; and within a handful of centuries, they advanced to devices like these."

He waved proudly at the killer birds.

"You actually built them weapons on demand? Of course, you did," I went on without letting him answer. "The synthesizers made that axe for Oar. As long as no one took weapons off-planet, the League didn't care."

"They cared, O queen," the man replied. "All violence cuts them to the very quick. Yet they grant each species the right to choose its course, within the containment of its proper sphere."

"So you helped this town build… wait a second. I thought you only followed instructions from people with skin. After the first generation, wasn't everyone made of glass?"

"By no means," he answered. "Though many firstcomers chose to be so altered that their children gleamed with health, others held to the frailty of flesh. That path was hard; what mother can watch her child ravaged by fever without vowing her nextborn shall not suffer? What father can bear the bitter spectacle of his children continually bested by those swifter of mind and foot? Pricked by such thorns, more chose the way of glass with each passing year; yet not all. Not all. And those who walked with hollow-eyed Death bedogging their steps like a shadow, those stubborn folk of deliberately mortal flesh… why, they saw devils in every dust mote and knives in every open hand. What wonder that they demanded fearsome engines of war? Death was the currency of their lives: the only coin they had to spend, the only coin they could demand of their enemies. And so it continued until the last such purse was emptied."

I stared at him. "You mean the people of flesh warred themselves into extinction?"

"That overstates the matter," he replied. "They fought but little, for their numbers were small. Yet they forged their arsenals with the diligence of fear; and fear, more than all, became their undoing. Frighted people yearn to protect their families. What better protection could they find than immortality? Wherefore, as voices of war grew clamorous, more among their number claimed the gift of alteration… until there came a day when every child was glass, and no new flesh was born. The drums of anger fell into silence; and if the crystal children wished to continue their parents' hates, I stopped mine ears to their cries. I and my kind do not serve them — they need no such service. But you, milady… you shall I serve and right gladly."

My mouth was open, ready to snap back a retort — as if I wanted an AI to put killer jets at my disposal! — but I stopped myself from hastiness. With a flier, Oar and I could reach the southern mountains in short order: no long days carrying packs, no frigid river fords, no confrontations with wolves.

And (my stomach fluttered) I might be face to face with Jelca before nightfall.

"Which plane can I take?" I asked.

The AI-man beamed. "The lark, milady; the herald of the morn."

The First Farewell

Short minutes later, I stole past the dirt-worn banners of Tobit's home, hoping I could sneak in and back without being noticed. Through the glass wall ahead, I could see our equipment: my pack and the food synthesizer. I could also see the four Morlocks and Tobit, sprawled in comatose luxuriousness, passed out from drinking. It was just the way I wanted to leave them.

Not that I expected them to stop us from getting away — they'd let the other Explorers go — but I didn't want them to know how we went. The AI had kept the hangar secret because its planes were only intended for flesh-and-blood human use. But Tobit was as much flesh-and-blood as I was; if he detached his prosthetic arm, he could command the AI like a despot. Melaquin had enough troubles without a souse in charge of a fighter squadron.

My pack was close to the door of the room; also close to a Morlock woman with a slosh of booze in her stomach. Tendrils of brown extended threadlike through her abdomen, the alcohol slowly becoming part of her, diffusing into the background transparency. The zoologist in me felt fascinated, curious to stay and watch the complete process of digestion — but the prospect made me queasy. How could these people watch such a thing happen to themselves?

But they didn't watch it. They were out cold.

Or so I thought.

"Leaving so soon?" asked Tobit as I lifted my backpack.

He lay spreadeagled on the floor. He had not moved a muscle except to open his eyes.

"I have the chance to go," I told him. "I thought I might as well."

"Another shark came in?" he asked. "Or is it two sharks: one for you and one for your… friend."

"Something like that," I said.

"You can keep the sharks from leaving if you want to spend more time resting from the road. There's a toggle-switch on the airlock door; flip it and the machines won't go till you're ready."

"Still…" I said.

"You want to leave," he finished my sentence. "Of course you do. There's nothing that interests you here."

He lowered his gaze to the floor. A good actor could have made the moment poignant, but Tobit was too drunk for that. The line between tragic and maudlin is too thin.

"You can leave too," I told him. "Hop a shark. Go south. The other Explorers will be happy to see you."

"You think that, do you?"

"Phylar," I said, with a trace of anger, "don't blame the world for your own sulkiness. If you're feeling lonely or hard done by, it's because you deliberately choose to isolate yourself. There's nothing genuinely wrong with you. You're perfectly all right. Stop bitching about your lot in life if you never make an effort to fix things."

He stared at me for a moment. Then he broke into deep gut-busting laughter, not mean or forced, but sincerely spontaneous. "What?" I demanded; but that just sent him into fresh gusts, long and loud — as if this was the first time in his life he'd been totally delighted.

I couldn't understand it. With burning cheeks, I heaved up my pack and stormed out the door.

Essential Maintenance

By the time I returned to the hangar, the place buzzed with service drones of all types: everything from an automated fuel truck filling up long-dry tanks to a bevy of chip-checkers no bigger than my thumbnail, crawling like beetles over the lark's hull in search of structural flaws. A gray haze around the craft showed there were nanites at work too, microscopically reconstituting any systems that had rotted or corroded since the last time such repairs had been made.

I wondered how often this flurry of maintenance had taken place over the past four thousand years. Once a decade? Once a month? High-tech equipment has a half-life comparable to fast-decaying radioactive elements — even in a sealed, climate-controlled storage chamber, components willfully break down as soon as you turn your back. Still, the AI in charge must have done its best to keep the craft functional over the centuries: replacing a circuit here and a rivet there, until each plane had been rebuilt completely several dozen times. The service checks taking place before my eyes were a matter of form, not necessity… I hoped.

(In the back of my mind, I couldn't forget how the AI's holographic projection had flickered that once. There were glitches in the system. I crossed my fingers that the nanites clouding around my plane were repairing faults, not causing them.)

Something beeped impatiently behind me. I stepped quickly out of the way of a flatbed dolly that wheeled itself under the glass goose. Already waiting there were a frame-mounted pair of robot arms, patiently holding a missile they had detached from the plane's belly. With commendable gentleness, the arms lowered the payload onto the dolly then went to work on the next missile. As newly anointed queen, I had given strict orders to the AI: no more weapons, now or ever. The missiles were to be removed and dismantled as fast as safety allowed. For all I knew, their firing mechanisms might already be dead — a team of nanites could gut several kilos of wiring in seconds.

The naked man bloomed into existence in front of me. "All proceeds apace, milady. You and your daughter may soon depart."

"And you're sure I'll have no trouble piloting?"

"Do you but speak your smallest wish, and on the instant, your craft will obey."

"Good." I had no objection to voice-controlled flight. My teachers at the Academy claimed there was no technical barrier to creating an automated starship that would outperform human operators on every scale. However, the Admiralty would never allow such a ship to be developed. If you did away with Vac crews, you couldn't help seeing that the only essential personnel in the Fleet were Explorers!

ECMs. Essential crew members. I liked the sound of that.

Flightworthy

Oar stood against one wall of the hangar, her eyes wide at the sight of so much hustle and bustle. I walked over and said, "Impressive, isn't it?"

"I do not like machines that move," she answered. "Especially the small ones. They are like stupid little animals."

"They aren't so stupid," I told her. "They're making sure we can fly."

"We will fly inside that bird?"

"Yes."

"How far can we fly, Festina? Can we fly to your home in the stars?"

"These craft look strictly atmospheric," I answered, "but you bring up an interesting question." I motioned to the hologram man. "If I asked you to build a starship, could you do it?"

"Nay, good queen. That is forbidden me. Those who dwell on this planet are rightly granted dominion over their native land and seas; but to step beyond, into the vasty deeps of night, you must make your own way."

"Pity," I said, though his answer didn't surprise me. The League views interstellar space as sacrosanct — closed to undeserving races. If you weren't advanced enough to reach space on your own, it was only logical that the League wouldn't help you. Transporting ancient humans to a safe haven on Melaquin was one thing; giving them the means to gad about the galaxy was something else.

"How much longer before the bird can take off?" I asked.

"But a moment's time," the hologram replied. "Mayhap you would care to enter now, that your departure can be more swift."

I gave Oar a look. "Ready to get in the plane?"

"Will we truly fly?" she asked.

"I hope so."

"Milady," the hologram said with a chiding tone, "how can you doubt me? My heart beats to the rhythm of the League of Peoples; shall I then place sentients in harm's way?"

I didn't answer. An AI of the League would never invite a sentient to board a plane that wasn't safe… but did that really guarantee anything? The AI was not in perfect repair. Would it even know if the aircraft was flightworthy after four thousand years? Or would the sculpted glass wings fall off before we hit cruising speed?

As if you ever expected to die in bed, I told myself. "Come on," I said to Oar. "Let's board."

Straps

The cockpit had two swivel seats, with enough space between them that passengers wouldn't block each other's view through either side of the glass fuselage. To aid in sightseeing, there were no clunky controls to get in the way: no steering yoke, no pedals, no levers or dials or switches. That lack disturbed me; voice operation was one thing, but no manual backup was something else. I had no skill flying aircraft, but if we were crashing, I wanted the chance to wrestle blindly with the controls.

It would give me something to do.

Oar plopped into the right-hand seat; I helped buckle her in before I took the other chair. "These belts are interesting," she said, plucking at the X-shaped bands crisscrossing her chest. "Can I make them very tight?"

"If they're too tight, you won't be comfortable."

"How tight is too tight?" She yanked on the drawstrap hard enough to jerk her back against the seat. "Is this what wearing clothes feels like?"

"Depends on the type of clothes," I answered diplomatically.

"Perhaps I should have some clothes. The other fucking Explorers said that clothes were a sign of civilization." She gave another yank on the drawstrap.

I swiveled my seat away. Although I tried to concentrate on the activities of the maintenance bots outside, from time to time I heard a soft grunt as Oar jerked the straps tighter.

Ventilation

The hologram man suddenly appeared beside me, hovering a centimeter above the floor. Bad sign, I thought: evidence that the AI hadn't accurately calibrated the image to match the height of the cockpit.

"Gird ye for takeoff," the man said. "All is in readiness."

"How is this going to work?" I asked.

"Thy carrier bird will ride chariot-like to the next chamber," he answered, pointing toward the far end of the hangar. A set of doors had begun opening down there; the room beyond was pitch black. "From thence you will pass into the waters that surround this, mine abode."

Obviously, the far room was an airlock — a staging point before plunging into the river beyond. "How well does the lark work underwater?" I asked.

"It was fashioned for that very purpose. Your craft will ascend full fathoms five 'til, cresting the surface, it cleaves the air and soars on high. Once safely borne upon the wind, you may speak to it, guide it, wheresoever you will."

"Good," I nodded. "You'll shut the door to the main dome once we're gone?"

"As you have commanded."

"You can't close up any earlier?"

"Alas, no. This your conveyance exhales fierce vapors which must be allowed exit into the larger space beyond."

"Ventilation — fair enough." I glanced out the window and saw maintenance bots scurrying away. "Looks like we're ready to launch."

"Just so," the man bowed. "Now prepare thyself. The lark is ready and the wind at help, thy associate 'tends, and everything is bent for the Southland."

He winked out instantly. The next moment, the room erupted with the roar of engines.

An Open Door

The sound was enough to deafen granite. Instinctively I slapped my chest, right where the MUTE dial was on a tight-suit. If I'd been wearing my helmet, it would have begun generating a similar roar 180 degrees out of phase with the original, canceling the thunderous noise. Without that protection, all I could do was cover my ears and yawn in an attempt to equalize pressure.

Oar had her mouth open too. I think she was screaming, but I couldn't hear.

I prayed for the lark to start taxiing toward the airlock chamber. Once we were surrounded by water, the din would be muffled to a more tolerable level.

But the lark didn't move.

It's just warming up, I told myself. I tried to remember if jets had to reach a certain heat to operate or if that was some other type of engine. Too bad the Academy avoided giving us even a rudimentary introduction to aviation. Vacuum personnel wanted to keep their monopoly on aeronautics knowledge.

The roar continued. It must be raising an unholy ruckus in the main part of the habitat — a booming clamor echoing off the dome, reverberating in the closed space.

"Shit," I said without hearing my voice. "Tobit will wake up for sure."

I faced the main door, my hands pressed hard against my ears. Maybe Tobit would dismiss the sound as a delusion — some DT nightmare, to be avoided, not investigated. But the Morlocks would wake too, asking, "What's that noise?" in whatever language they spoke. Tobit would know he was missing something.

"Close, damn it," I told the door. "Close."

The lark moved: an unhurried circle to aim its beak toward the airlock. I swiveled my chair to keep watch on the other door. If it closed before Tobit arrived, he would never figure out what had happened — he would shrug it off and take another swig from his flask. But if he saw a previously hidden door in the side of the dome…

He was a drunk, but he was also an Explorer. He had a good brain, no matter how many neurons he'd pickled. In time, he'd find the truth… especially since the solution was as easy as detaching his prosthetic arm. The AI would acknowledge him as completely flesh and kowtow to him, laying the town's resources at Tobit's feet.

Tobit with an air force.

If he came to the door now, he might even catch sight of the missiles. It wouldn't matter that the weapons were disarmed. He could just instruct the AI to make more.

Maybe the next Exploration Team to visit Melaquin wouldn't find the surface quite so unspoiled.

The Second Farewell

Languidly, the lark wheeled forward. The light of the hangar gave way to the darkness of the airlock area. At least we're clear, I thought. No matter how angry Tobit may be that I kept this a secret, he can't catch us now.

The airlock door started to close.

We might make it, I thought.

Stupid.

Tobit and his disciples raced into the hangar. A Morlock pointed her finger at our plane — the source of the noise. Tobit's face twisted with fury. I had let him believe Oar and I were leaving in sharks, not a flier. He fumbled out his stun-pistol and pointed it in our direction.

His hand shook. I couldn't tell if it was a meaningless tremor or if he had pulled the trigger.

I remembered what my stunner did to the shark.

The lark vibrated. It had been vibrating all along, trembling with the roar of its engines.

Had he fired? Had we been hit?

The airlock door squeezed shut, cutting off the light from the hangar. We were in darkness.

The jet noise choked to burbling as water flooded into the airlock chamber. The roar in my ears faded to a damp hiss — not a real sound but an aftermath of the aural onslaught, my eardrums stunned into a bruised sensation of white noise.

I lay back in my seat panting. Behind me, Oar moaned; my hearing was so battered, I couldn't tell if her whimpers were loud or soft.

Should I unbuckle myself and go to her? That was dangerous… especially if the lark suddenly shot forward when the other, airlock door opened.

"Please," I said aloud to the plane. "Can we have some light? I want to see how Oar is."

A soft blue glow dawned around the edge of the floor — a ribbon of illumination barely the width of my finger.

It was enough; tears trickled down Oar's glass face, but she gave me a look of determined bravery. I almost laughed — she sat bolt upright in her chair, strapped in so tightly she could only move her head.

She would be all right. She was built to be immortal.

I turned away. With dim light inside and blackness out, I saw my reflection in the cockpit's glass.

My face was perfect. My cheek was perfect.

I was whole.