Silence.

The Master Captain interrupted, saying, “We just want to know, dear. Do you have any idea what they’re trying to accomplish?”

Again, silence.

“And the Blue World,” said Pamir with a stern voice. “Your parent. She must have sprouted some kind of engine, too. Because after we passed by, she began flinging a huge hot jet of her own into space. She’s approaching us from behind, at a fantastic cost of mass and energy.” He sighed, then said, “At current rates, she’ll catch us just before we get clear of the Sack …”

His voice trailed away.

The other Submasters rose to their feet. But since none of them were physically present—why accept all the risks of placing everyone on the exposed hull?—it was Pamir’s duty to walk across the face of the new crater, grabbing the emissary by her shoulder and tugging hard enough to make her lifesuit collapse at its knees.

Key enzymes had failed, bringing the hoary old Kreb’s cycle to a halt.

The emissary had died, while the sky above was filled with countless thousands of relentless, utterly determined giants.

DELUGE

The trickle crawls out from between two carved faces, and for a long little moment perches on the lamellated fringe of a pink granite beak, gathering itself, forming a bulb of clear cold water that borrows its color from the stone and its brilliance from the sky. It sparkles and shivers as its growing mass wrestles with the surface tension of its skin. Then a nearby voice speaks. The simple vibration is enough to shake the drop, causing it to flinch and break free and silently fall. The voice says, “We trust all the captains. Always, always.” The glistening drop plunges into a smooth and polished pocket at the base of the two stone Janusian faces, mixing with a thousand other drops. “But we trust her most,” says the voice. “Washen,” says a voice much like the first. “Though it’s good to have the Master Captain still at the helm,” says the first. “Of course we think that way” the second adds. Then after a lengthy pause, both voices declare, “Look into their one-faces. Nothing is more obvious than their best intentions.”

Janusians are born with just a single face, but upon maturation they find a worthy mate, and following a process older than their species, the tiny male lashes himself to his lover’s back with an array of elaborate and viciously hooked limbs. The hooks burrow deep, releasing anesthetics and sperm. The first merging takes several seasons. Immunologic systems adapt and marry. Two bodies link, blood vessels and limbs gradually joined. The position of the smaller head depends upon genetics and social conventions, but the male usually twists his head backward, watching for foes and missed opportunities. In ancient times, the two minds would remain separate and pragmatically unequal, the female ruling in every important circumstance. But then the Janusians embraced immortality. When two souls shared a single body and one set of circumstances, and did so for unbroken aeons, they gradually and inexorably grew into a single entity. Simple habit accounted for the shared philosophy and a unified outlook, while nexuses and adventurous neurons built permanent neural bridges. When her face looked at the pool of blessing waters, both could enjoy her reflection. Then their shared body turned, and both looked at his smaller, equally pretty face, and together, the shared voices repeated, “We trust Washen. Her one-face knows what is best for the ship, and for us.”

Seepage fills the pool and gives birth to a thin and nameless stream that follows a narrow fissure—an elegant and perfectly straight seam cut in the floor of the worship park. Evaporation and thirsty creatures nearly drink it dry. But the last slow dampness reaches a tiny stream that eventually leaves the park, following a conduit cut through a thousand meters of cold granite and two meters of bracing hyperfiber. The conduit helps fill a little reservoir that is carefully poisoned with heavy metals. An AI shopkeeper sells the toxic water to the appropriate clients. Several local passenger species, one of them truly gigantic, will pay dearly for the leaden flavor of home to slake their thirsts. But they are rare clients, and there are issues of freshness. The shopkeeper purges the reservoir every eleven days, filtering out the useful metals while allowing the pure cheap water to run out the tap and across his diamond-tiled floor, then into the little river that slides past his shop.

He is a passionate machine and experienced in his trade, which is selling fluids of all kinds to all kinds. And with a machine’s endless energy, he will talk about any subject to any passerby.

“For one, I love this detour that our ship has taken,” he claims, speaking to a human woman, wearing a little crewman badge on her trousers. “No voyage is a voyage without a gale pushing you into unexpected seas. That’s what I believe.”

To a towering harum-scarum, he says, “I am so fond of your species. And may I tell you, it was long ago when your sort should have been invited to sit among the captains!”

Staring in either direction, he can see a full kilometer along the avenue, and with a glance, he recognizes most of the species. If traffic is slow, and if he sees a potential client approaching, he will step back into his shop and reconfigure his artificial body. There is no doubt that he is an AI. Pretend otherwise, and certain civil codes are tested, not to mention the social norms. But just as any shopkeeper knows the value of manners and a smiling expression, this machine knows how to make clients feel comfortable.

With a whiff of pheromones, he tells a paddywing, “Nectar like you haven’t had since you were green! Come try mine, please!”

To a passing Boil-dog, he sings, “Piss for a lover, I can make you!”

Dressed like a gillbaby, he claims, “I can freshen what you’re living inside, if you need. And at a fair price.”

After that sale, he spies a lone captain approaching. Again he steps inside his shop and steps out again, smiling with a decidedly human face. “Hello to you, honorable and noble sir. I hope the day smiles on you.”

The captain says, “And to you, sir,” while glancing at the apron of wet stone.

“A little something for the tongue, sir? A broth? A liquor? A sweet drink of your own invention, perhaps?”

“I cannot drink,” the captain confesses. “Sorry.”

The shopkeeper hadn’t noticed until now, but the captain is a projection. He is real in the way that moonlight is real, and he has been sent by one of the higher captains—

“Pamir,” the figure offers.

“I know you well, sir. I have followed your astonishing career with interest, and may I say—”

“No, please. don’t want to hear anything about me.”

The shopkeeper nods, then asks, “What may I say then?”

“You hear things, I would think.” The projection wants to know “What is the mood of the ship?”

“Confident,” the AI replies. “Excited. Eager to see what waits—”

“Bullshit.”

Unsure of a response, silence is best.

Then the projection adds, “But thank you for that lie. I know you meant well by it.”

Again, silence seems best.

“There is something I would like to buy. If I recall, you have an optical trap under your countertop.”

“No, I do not, sir.”

The projection smiles, waiting patiently.

The AI knows captains. If they think they are right, no argument works. The only hope is to show them the idiocy of their ways. With that in mind, the machine walks inside his shop—a spacious side cavern with a round wall covered with assorted taps and nipples and false penises and mouths as well as changeable ports that can be configured in an instant to fit the needs and preferences of any likely species. The counter itself is a tiny raised platform carved from slick onyx. Behind it is an assortment of invisible cubbyholes, all of which contain exactly what they are supposed to contain. But when the AI begins to say, “As you can see,” his odd guest points with a long hand, asking, “What about that?”