Pirius peered around curiously at the wide-eyed children who smiled hopefully at him. He tried to imagine how it must be to have grown up in this claustrophobic environment of darkened corridors and whispers. But these kids had never known anything different; to them this was normal.
As they walked on, Boote proudly explained the origin of his name.
Of course there were no true families here, no heredity; that would be far too non-Doctrinal. This was a place of birthing tanks and cadres, like most military bases. But a tradition had grown up even so. The first Boote, centuries back, had been a fine Captain who had inspired loyalty and affection from all. When her successor had taken her name on his accession, to become Boote the Second, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world, a tribute that had become a badge of honor to the Captains who had followed, right down to this fine fellow, Boote the Forty-Third. Similarly there were “dynasties” among the engineers and medics, comm officers and pilots, and other specialist corps.
Nilis raised his eyebrows at Pirius, but said nothing. Wherever you went, a little deviance was inevitable, it seemed.
They were taken out onto the surface in a covered walkway. Nilis cringed from the crowded sky, but after that gloomy enclosure Pirius was relieved to be out under the healthy glow of the Core.
They surveyed earthworks dug into the ground. Teams of troopers in skinsuits were working in the trenches. They weren’t digging so much as refurbishing, Pirius saw. He had never seen earthworks so regular and neat — their walls were precisely vertical, their edges geometrically straight and dead neat. And he couldn’t see a trace of stray dust anywhere. The troops smiled as they worked, in precise formation.
In one part of the works the troops suddenly lunged out of their trenches and flopped onto the surface, across which they began to wriggle.
“They’re maneuvering,” said Pirius. “But it’s not an exercise. It’s more like a game.”
“Yes,” said Nilis. “And these earthworks are an ornamental garden. These folk have been isolated too long, Pirius. A trench is a place to fight and die. They have domesticated these trenches.”
Pirius slowly pieced together an understanding of this place.
Rocks were an essential element in most attacks on Xeelee concentrations; they provided cover, resources, and soaked up enemy firepower. But while most Rocks were purposefully deflected onto their required trajectories, Orion Rock, and a number of others, had natural orbits that took them into useful positions in the Core without deflection. So they could be used as cover, to mount covert operations.
But as the Core’s geography spanned light-years, travel times were painfully slow. The planners behind this place had been forced to think ahead, across no less than a thousand years — for that was how long Orion Rock would have to travel before it was in a position to be useful.
Nilis said gravely, “This is the scale of this war, Pirius. Orion Rock is like a generation starship sent to war: forty, perhaps fifty generations doomed to these dark tunnels, all the possibilities of their lives sacrificed to one goal, a strike on the Xeelee, a single assault that might be carried out in their children’s time, or their children’s children.
“A thousand years, though. On pre-Occupation Earth, a thousand years was a long time: time enough for empires to rise and fall, time enough for history. To us it is just a checkmark on a war planner’s chart!”
As the troops dug and marched and played at maneuvers, their mouths moved in unison, Pirius saw. They were singing again. But, thanks to some fault in the systems, he couldn’t hear their song.
They had been assigned a hangar, a huge one, beneath that paved-over crater where they had landed. Pirius went to inspect it. The hangar was big enough for a hundred greenships, let alone fifteen, and it was fully equipped with repair and maintenance facilities. Crisscrossed by walkways, full of hovering bots, the hangar was fully pressurized, although sections could be opened to vacuum when necessary. The working areas had been kept at microgravity — greenships were built for lightness, and were too frail to support their own weight under full gravity — but the floor and walkways were laced with inertial adjustors. Brightly lit by hovering globe lamps, it was a stunning facility by any standards.
But it didn’t have the feel of a workplace. It was too clean, too orderly. It didn’t even smell right; there was no electric ozone stink, or tang of lubricants, or the hot burning smell of metal that had been exposed to vacuum. It was like a museum; a place where you looked at greenships, rather than where you got your hands dirty working on them.
Pirius joined Enduring Hope, his ground crew leader. But Hope was accompanied everywhere by Eliun of the Guild of Engineers and a couple of that worthy’s aides. Since he had been outmaneuvered back on Arches, Eliun had barely let Hope out of his sight.
The party watched as their precious greenships, crudely modified, nestled into their graving docks.
Eliun punched Pirius in the shoulder, none too gently. “Look at that!” he said. “Pilot, these docks were built more than a thousand years ago. These greenships, on the other hand, are barely five years old — some of them younger than that. And yet dock and ship fit together hand in glove, every surface contoured to match, every interface locking, just as these ships could be lodged in any similar dock across the Galaxy. And why? Because of the Guild: I am talking about uniformity, sir, uniformity on galactic scales of space and time. How do you imagine such a war can be fought without this epic sameness?
Pirius was short on sleep and overstressed. “Engineer Eliun, I don’t know anything about procurement policy. You’ll have to talk to Commissary Nilis.” The Engineer wasn’t satisfied with that, but Pirius turned deliberately to Enduring Hope. “So what do you think?”
Hope shrugged. “Technically, the hangar’s perfect. But look at this.” He led Pirius to one of the graving docks, where the battered hulk of an Exultant greenship now rested. He ran his bare hand over the massive cradle of fused asteroid rock, metal, and polymer. “It’s worn,” Hope said, wondering. “It’s the same everywhere. Every bit of equipment in this place is worn smooth, until you can see your face in it. For a thousand years they’ve done nothing but polish everything in sight.” Hope grinned nervously. “This is the strangest place I’ve ever seen.”
Pirius grunted. “Well, I don’t care about the last thousand years. All I care about is the next twenty- four hours, because at the end of it I want this place set up for our operations. Now. What about the cannon gear? Do you think you’ll have to cut through that roof to get it in here?…”
They walked on, talking and planning. Engineer Eliun tailed them for a while, but Pirius didn’t acknowledge him further, and after a time Eliun gave up and stomped away.
After the first twenty-four hours, they had achieved only a fraction of what Pirius had demanded. He called a crisis meeting in Nilis’s office.
Bootes staff were an uninspiring bunch, soft, flabby-looking administrators and clerks who seemed to have no ambition save to replace the Captain one day. Boote at bay, though, had a glint in his eye, and Pirius had the feeling that he had a bit of steel in him, and would put up a fight.
It was yet another obstruction, just as they had encountered all the way from Earth. Pirius was hugely weary, impatient to get back to his ships, and he felt like biting somebody’s head off. The only thing he wanted, he kept reminding himself, was to get the job done.