The mood improved, at least a little bit.

With an appreciative nod, Washen invited the Master to speak again.

“Security,” said the reborn woman. “I’d like to hear its report now.”

One of the harum-scarums held that critical station. His name was Osmium—a massive and utterly imposing biped sitting comfortably on a rough lump of gray-black stone. Speaking loudly through his breathing mouth, he described the ongoing hunt for the last of their enemies and the reestablishment of a trusted security corps, pausing long enough for his eating mouth to consume an odd blond nut pulled from a leather sack set on a long-toed foot. Then with a low, gravelly voice, he announced, “I want the ban on new passengers to hold. And I want the authority to do what is necessary to give that ban a gizzard.”

Nothing bothered the Master more than having this particular species sitting in her inner circle. Harum-scarums were a difficult species, prone to violence and simple childish grudges. True, they were instrumental in saving the ship. But they were too fierce, too easily angered, and if anything, too much like the worst elements of human beings. She preferred nearly every other species before them. She could even embrace the idea of AIs joining the ranks of captains. But when her new security chief asked for more authority, the Master felt a keen appreciation. A genuine bond. She and the alien both understood what was important: that for as long as there had been a universe, nothing mattered as much as power.

“But there won’t be any new passengers,” the other harum-scarum remarked, sharply disagreeing with her colleague. “We are off course. Our ship has suffered civil insurrections and considerable damage, and in a few thousand years, we might leave the galaxy entirely. Unless he was an idiot, why would any simple traveler put his precious flesh at risk with us now?”

“Agreed,” the Master said.

Washen remained silent.

The Master nearly looked at her First Chair. Then with a visible tightening of her shoulders, she added, “Yet in the same vein, I think we should loosen our restrictions on emigrants. If a passenger wishes to leave us, and if we can come to an agreeable financial resolution, then perhaps a critical exception or two might be allowed.”

Pamir leaned forward.

“Madam,” he said, that single word dripping with an unusual respect. Then in the next breath, he explained, “Yesterday, I took a census of both passengers and crew—by an assortment of means, I counted everyone. We have more than a hundred billion souls on board. Depending on your definition of sentience, there might be many more than a hundred billion.” The heavy face nodded, eyes squinting. “I counted minds with my census, and I tried to ascertain the general moods of those minds—”

“Measured how?” the Master inquired.

“Sloppily,” he admitted. “I commissioned three different polls by three different species. I charted consumer interest in various escape entertainments and psychoactive drugs, plus the foot traffic in mating parlors. But most important, I asked for opinions. I prepared a holo of myself, and in the course of an hour, I interviewed nearly a million residents. And each of these studies came to the same ugly conclusion. We’ve got a lot of scared and angry souls, and most of our hundred billion would leap off the ship tomorrow. Or today. Although they would have preferred to have left years ago … before anybody ever heard about Marrow or the damned Waywards …”

There was a brief, tense pause.

Then one of the AIs spoke, reminding everyone, “But we lack the starships.” Behind the rubbery face lay a tiny consciousness—a quantum-computing mind smaller than the tip of a finger—and with that day’s face, it gave precise figures about the starships on hand and their limited capacities. Machine souls were the tiniest passengers, but even if they were packed like so much mindless sand, not even their ranks would be able safely to escape.

“Thank you,” the Master interrupted. “We don’t have enough lifeboats. We’re aware of that hard fact, and thank you.”

Had it said something wrong? No, it couldn’t find any factual errors. And none of the other Submasters were offering new information either. The AI threw back its false shoulders, and with a little too much humanity, it began to pout.

“Some of us have already escaped,” Pamir continued. “After the war and our dive past the old star … when it looked as if the ship was going to collide with the black hole … there was a small exodus. By my count, we’re missing two streakships and thirteen slow taxis—maybe fifty thousand passengers in all—plus another eleven or twelve or thirteen hundred souls riding inside emergency blisters.” Blisters were sacks of hyperfiber launched from the open hull. Possessing only alarm beacons and minimal recycke systems, they relied on their initial trajectory and the benevolence of others. “The blister cowards are screwed,” Pamir reported. “We’re crossing an empty stretch of space, in terms of friendly ports. If they could have fled before we changed course, they might have been all right. In another hundred years or so, we would have entered a thickly settled region. But most of those poor bastards left with some variation on our present trajectory. The wrong trajectory.” Streakships could twist their vectors, and with patience, even a slow taxi could eventually make it to someplace important. “But there aren’t fifty suns in the likely sweep path,” he continued. “M-class dwarfs, mostly. We know of six worlds with technological life. Four terraformed, two native-born. Maybe some have the resources to reach out and grab a few blisters. Maybe. But the prospect of applying a major fraction of their economy to save a motley collection of refugees … well, I know about luck and a little something about kindness, and there isn’t enough of either to save more than none of those crazy shits …”

Pamir fell silent, leaning forward in his chair. The sturdy wood creaked as the back legs lifted off the bare rock. Then with a quiet but massive urgency, he told his audience, “We need every last one of the remaining starships. Seventeen thousand-plus sitting in berths inside our ports, as my good colleague has reminded us. And as soon as it’s practical, we should build more ships. Faster, bigger, and better ships, if that’s possible. And we should never allow anyone to leave, for any sum—unless we can guarantee that the vessel eventually returns to us. Bearing critical cargo, if possible.” He shook his homely face, reminding them, “We’ve managed an ugly eighty-degree turn around the red giant and black hole, and now we’re charging into districts we do not know. That we never bothered to care about. In not too many centuries—if we cannot or will not return to our old course—we’ll cross into intergalactic space. Few suns, the occasional world, and next to no civilizations out there to help us.” His eyes narrowed, and with a shaman’s keen intensity, he said, “Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why. But I’ve got this feeling, this sense—”

“That we need every starship,” the Master offered.

“In part,” Pamir replied. “But I was thinking more about the passengers. Some of them, or all of them … we’re going to be glad that we’ve got so many of them, before this mess is over …”

EACH SUBMASTER WAS free to speak his mind, and most did, and votes were cast while the three supreme officers made the final choices. By the time the subject was exhausted, the day was done. The illusory sun was touching the sea’s far shores, and the night birds were flying, and two critical decisions had been locked into the ship’s codes: a nearly total ban on emigration, plus the conscription of every private vessel capable of long-distance travel. To entities accustomed to great spans of changeless time, this had been a very busy day. Gazing out at the sun with both of her/his faces, the Janusian asked, “What follows now? After these next few suns, what waits?”