Anvil of Stars Page 8

  They played their game for several hours, caught in the raw high-speed spaces between the stars, between engagements.

  They were growing weary when the Dawn Treader finally returned to retrieve them. Martin felt at first a neck prickle, before the ship alerted them to its presence; their sensors could not otherwise detect the great dark larval form hiding; then he felt a flood of giddy relief, apprehension, and finally a resurgence of shame.

  They joined all their deactivated comrades and returned to the third homeball, flew to the outer hatch, connected to the pylons, pulled into the weapons store.

  Their water drained, fields switched off, and membranes withdrew. Martin left his craft with an erection from the membrane’s intimacy. They laddered to the hatch and walked out bleary-eyed. Silent, they parted to get cleaned up, to rest for a few minutes before meeting in the schoolroom to receive Martin’s evaluation, to meet with Hans who had been in charge of the Dawn Treader, and then to receive the War Mother’s critique.

  Hans met with Martin alone in the second neck.

  “That was a royal slickup,” Hans commented drily. “Your outside teams were obliterated. We barely had time to get the ship to safety…We weren’t prepared at all.”

  “First time out,” Martin said. “Not that it’s any excuse. We’ll have to do better.”

  “Obviously,” Hans said drily.

  The children gathered in the schoolroom, subdued, to receive the critique. The War Mother waited while Hans and Martin went first, taking questions from the children, actually more confessions than questions. Some were close to tears. Those who had been deactivated in the early stages of the drill were particularly somber. They had been shut out, and Martin could feel their resentment and brooding anger.

  Ariel, who had stayed aboard the Dawn Treader in charge of the team responsible for tracking radiation, was sharply critical. “You were doing nothing but slicking it out,” she said, looking at Martin sidewise, lips downturned. “You could have been detected! Your acceleration flares were too damned bright—what are we doing, letting an exercise give us away?”

  “The acceleration flares were too small to be detected by any known or postulated methods from the distance of Wormwood,” the War Mother said. Hakim agreed. Ariel fell silent.

  Martin swallowed but said nothing. All voices must be heard. The string of confessions continued. William took his turn after the last craft pilot had spoken, and said, “It was our first time out. We shouldn’t be so hard on ourselves. The moms gave us a blank deck and we played it.” He glanced at Martin in the center of the formation, winked one eye as if with a slight tic, folded his arms and legs and stepped to one side.

  “These evaluations are useful,” the War Mother said when the silence had stretched for fifteen seconds. “There was no detailed structure to this exercise. The external team showed initiative in providing a structure, but they were ineffective in the opening moments of the engagement. What is the Pan’s evaluation?”

  Martin’s anger leaped to several sharp answers but he held them back. “The exercise shows us what we need to learn. We did badly. The simulation was confusing, but reality will be even more confusing.”

  “And if we learn how to die before we accomplish anything, what good is that?” Ariel asked. She leaned her head to one side, eyes distant.

  “We learn all we can on our own,” Martin said, voice betraying his exhaustion. “The moms have told us that repeatedly. That way, when we pull the trigger, it’s our act as much as possible, not theirs.”

  “When do we go out again?” Erin Eire asked, wrinkling her face as if puzzled.

  “As soon as possible,” Martin said, suddenly aware he had not conferred with the War Mother. He glanced at the robot.

  “In nine hours,” the mom said. “Time for sleep and food and independent study.”

  Martin nodded. “Everybody out,” he said. “Private time with the War Mother. Ex-Pans, I’ll need to confer with you after I’m done here. Please wait for me outside.”

  “It was our first exercise,” Martin said to the War Mother when all the children had left. “We thought there would be some structure to it…We didn’t expect to be stranded and have something completely random thrown at us. That’s why we did so badly.”

  “We are no longer your teachers.”

  Martin stared at the divided circle where the War Mother’s face might have been. “Beg pardon?”

  “We are no longer your teachers. You are in charge of carrying out the Law. You tell us what to do. Now you train yourselves, and we help, but we do not lead.”

  Martin’s astonishment was a painful black pit, and it took him a while to cross over it. “Who decided we’re ready?”

  “There have been five years of training. You are ready.”

  “I know you want us to carry out the Law of our own free will, but you can’t abandon us now, leave us all on our own…”

  “You are not abandoned. We provide the necessary information. We provide the tools. You use them. That is the Law.”

  “Slick the Law!” Martin shouted. “You can’t just jerk everything out from under us!”

  “You have been informed from the beginning what would be required of you. We have now entered a situation where you must be in control, not us.”

  “You warn us by letting us slick up on our first drill?”

  “We do not make these choices. They are dictated by circumstance.”

  “So we take over from here…all the way?”

  “It is the end of our role as teachers.”

  “There should have been warning,” Martin said.

  The War Mother said nothing.

  “This will be a shock…it’s a shock to me.”

  Still silence.

  Martin fumbled for a means of explaining to the children what he had just heard, a rationale. “You’re trying to knock us into action, break us out of our lethargy? You think that’s psychologically appropriate?”

  “It is necessary. We can lead you no further.”

  For the first time in his life, Martin became so furious with a mom that he felt he might lose control. He turned and ran from the schoolroom.

  There had been five previous Pans, one for each year of their voyage. They had finished their year-long terms and returned to their groups and families, equal with all the children, but Martin always felt their eyes upon him: Stephanie Wing Feather, the first Pan, and her successors, Harpal Timechaser, Joe Flatworm, Sig Butterfly, Cham Shark.

  All five followed Martin from the schoolroom to his quarters in the second homeball, saying little as they laddered and walked. This gave him time to calm down and frantically think. Everything’s skewed now, all our frames bent. How do we lead in this mess? How do I lead?

  In Martin’s quarters, the ex-Pans took up positions in the center, in a cubicle of flexible tubes that Martin had made several years before. In zero g, the cage was for floating in while awake or exercising, or for guests to be close without being jammed together. Now that up and down had settled, the cage was just large enough to seat six.

  “I’m going to need more help,” Martin said.

  “Why?” Stephanie asked. She was a year younger than Martin, a muscular gray-eyed woman of medium height with fine black hair tightcurled in a single ball that when liberated stretched a meter and a half. She was proud of the hair and took scrupulous care of it; Theresa would have said it was her thread.

  “The moms expected something from us and I didn’t provide it; they wanted us to design the exercise before we went out, to test our own skills and find our own weaknesses. That’s why the drill was such a mess. They aren’t going to make up any more tests for us.”

  “They should have told us earlier,” Harpal said.

  Martin shrugged. “I should have guessed. They want us to be more independent. Hell, I’m sorry. I’m not stating this exactly. I still can’t believe it. They’re not going to be teachers any more. We’re on our own. We design strategies based o
n what they’ve taught us, and we control the Dawn Treader and all the weapons. They say they’ll answer questions, give us information, but…”

  “We’ve had trouble with their stinginess already,” Harpal said. He was of medium build, black, with a long, sympathetic face. He wore wraparounds rather than overalls, and within his wraparounds he had hidden pockets that constantly carried surprises. Now he pulled out an orange and peeled it. They hadn’t been fed oranges for fistfuls of tendays. He must have put several away in personal storage.

  Stephanie shook her head in wonder. “They could have pushed us into this more gracefully,” she said.

  Sig Butterfly was less constrained. “God damn it all to hell,” he said slowly, softly. Sig, dark-skinned, with generous features and long hands that wrestled with each other as he spoke, continued, “I thought they understood human psychology. This is devastating. We screwed up thoroughly, and now they tell us we should have…” He shook his head and closed his eyes as if in pain.

  “Maybe they do understand our psychology,” Joe Flatworm said. Joe reminded Martin of California surfers, minus the tan. He kept his light brown hair shaggy above a friendly face that simply inspired friendship and confidence. When Stephanie groaned, Joe cocked his head to one side and smiled. “I mean it…playing Devil’s advocate.”

  “I feel like I’ve dropped it all,” Martin said. “I should have seen this coming.”

  “Nobody saw it,” Harpal said. “Ariel’s not too far wrong. The moms are starting to get on my nerves.”

  Martin frowned. “They’re doing what they should be doing—getting us prepared.”

  Stephanie spoke again, but her words collided with Cham’s. Cham Shark, coffee-colored, long-jawed, hair cut close to his head, had been a tough Pan, not very popular. During his time the children had been tense and unhappy and now he seldom said anything. He looked at Stephanie, but she waved him to continue, surprised he was speaking at all.

  “They’re making us prepare ourselves,” he said. “They’ve given us the tools but we have to use them ourselves, and that means we make up our own large-scale strategies…Our games have always been weak on general strategy.”

  “So you said when you were Pan,” Joe Flatworm pointed out.

  Cham blinked, nodded, and folded his arms.

  “If Cham is right, they won’t let us in on any more strategies for the same reason they don’t tell us everything about their machines…” Stephanie paused. “They may say it’s because the Law requires we do the dirty work…But why not take multiple advantage? I’ve been speaking with Ariel. I don’t want to second-guess you, Martin, but she’s sharp and you haven’t brought her into the fold enough. I see why she’s frustrated.”

  “She’s a pain,” Martin said with uncharacteristic bluntness.

  “You’re spending too much time slicking between William and Theresa,” Stephanie said, with typical candor. “Pull your wire in and open your eyes. She told me what you’d said about the moms’ knowledge being too sensitive for them to explain everything. She thinks you’re probably right, but she doesn’t feel as complacent about it as you do.”

  “I’m not complacent,” Martin said. “I just don’t know what we can do about it. Fighting among ourselves, or fighting the moms, won’t help.”

  “They want us to finish the Job as much as we do. They must,” Joe said.

  “Then they should trust us more,” Cham said. “Our ignorance has been a constant frustration.” He blinked again, looked around at the others, who regarded him with more surprise. “I’m no brick. I care about all this, too.”

  “Martin,” Stephanie said, “if we’re on our own, we should be equal partners. We should have a council of the children and take a vote. If we don’t get what we want, what we think we need, we stand down on drills.”

  Martin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I…we can’t just stand down after voting to go in. They must have reasons for doing what they’re doing.”

  “Maybe,” Cham said, “but the moms are robots. Maybe they just can’t care, or can’t understand us well enough to give us what we need.” His reticence shattered, Cham had become voluble.

  “Ariel is a rebel,” Martin said, hating the thought that the children might support her over him. “She’s sharp, but she’s not wise. We can’t just defy them. Who else do we have out here but the moms?”

  “We have to get this resolved,” Stephanie said.

  “Agreed,” Harpal said. “Martin, I concur with you about Ariel. She’s all mouth and not much common sense. I even agree that the moms might know what they’re doing. But we’re alive and they’re not. We have the most to lose.” He leaned over and took Martin’s shoulder in one hand. “My sympathies. It’s a tough watch.”

  “You want me to confront the moms, threaten to stand down?”

  “We need full disclosure,” Stephanie said. “Especially now.”

  Martin made a small shiver. “After what they’ve done for us, threatening something so drastic…seems like sacrilege.”

  “We have to be equal partners, not just trigger-pullers,” Cham said.

  “I hope you don’t think we’re ganging up on you,” Harpal said. “You asked for our advice. Consult with Hans.”

  Martin lowered his head, his misery evident. Stephanie touched his chin with a finger, then stroked his cheek. “I’ll go in with you,” she offered.

  “No, thanks,” he said stiffly. “Something has to be done. We need to know what’s required of us…“

  “Martin,” Stephanie said, irritated.

  “Damn it, I’ll do it! I’m just thinking out loud…We’ve always assumed…or rather, our parents always assumed the Benefactors were infallible, so much more powerful, our saviors, and not human. Like gods.”

  “Gods aren’t made of metal,” Harpal said.

  “How do you know?” Joe said, again playing Devil’s advocate. That had been his flaw when he had been Pan—an inability to settle on one course of action, to see all sides yet still concentrate on one plan. Martin saw that Joe sympathized with him, and double-saw himself through Joe’s eyes, and felt a puff of annoyance.

  He was being pushed by forces he could not resist to take actions he had not thought through and might not agree with…The fate of a Pan. The fate of all leaders. The group never tolerates completely individual planning and initiative, not even in dictators, if his readings in human history were any guide.

  Human history. What sort of history had the Benefactors lived through?

  Know your enemy. Know your Benefactors.

  “I’ll go to the War Mother,” Martin said.

  “Talk with Hans first,” Stephanie suggested again. “Never take full responsibility.”

  All but Cham nodded agreement.

  “Somebody who’s never been a Pan can’t understand what it’s like,” Harpal said.

  “Somebody’s going to scream at you that you questioned the moms,” Cham said.

  “They’ll find some reason to scream, no matter what,” Joe said.

  Theresa stood with arms outstretched under revolving spheres of sunbright light. She kept her room small and tidy, a scholar’s room she had once called it, and Martin liked the style, although it differed completely from his large, messy sprawl. He stood in the open hatch before announcing himself, pleased just to be near her.

  “Hello,” she said. She came forward and he hugged her, nuzzling her neck. His response was not immediate; he felt a sour burn in the deep of his stomach.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” she said. He lowered himself to his knees and she combed his hair with her fingers while he kissed her navel and belly. “The first drill, I mean.”

  “It was awful,” Martin said. He pressed his cheek against the warmth of her stomach, chin nuzzling curled hair. “I’m going to speak with Hans now, and then I’m going to the moms.” He stood, head bowed, and she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  “No time?” she asked, teasing him with her fingers, rubbing
the overalled cleft between his buttocks. She pressed his coccyx. “I’m sorry,” she said, still touching him. “Not making it any easier.”

  “No,” he said, sighing. “Are you going to a Wendy party this evening?”

  “There is one,” she said. “I’d like to. I’ll stay for you.”

  “I won’t be done until then, I think,” Martin said. “But we’ve been together so much, I don’t want to wear you out.”

  “Do I act worn out?” she asked, lip-tugging the tip of his nose.

  Martin bowed awkwardly and curled his face into her breasts and felt for the nipples. Lip-tugged and suckled. Her breasts were small and firm-looking, yet still soft to his touch. He thought about other Lost Boys touching her, felt vaguely neutral for an instant, realized he did not like that thought, bit her gently to emphasize his presence. “I don’t want to bore you,” he said.

  “Do I act bored?”

  She held on to his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his hips and moved her pubis against him. His erection was quick despite the distractions and he pushed her back to the pad.

  “Don’t ruin me,” he said.

  “Touch touch,” she said, “then you can go.”

  He touched each thigh with two fingers on his left hand, lifted her easily to his lips, tongued her lightly. Then he let her go and Theresa slid to the floor.

  “Delicious,” he said. “After the party?”

  “Sleep here.”

  “Pans sleep in quarters where they can be found.”

  “Set their wands. They’ll know.”

  Martin had always been shy of announcing the obvious. “Maybe,” he said.

  Theresa turned back to the revolving lights. For a moment he thought she might have completely forgotten him, so swift and decisive was her motion; as if he were easily dismissed. But she smiled and said, “Go now. Come back when we both have time.”

  Martin hesitated by the door, then passed through, walked down the hall, found a main shaft and laddered outward to the level where he would meet with Hans.