For once, he was grateful for the War Mother's silence.

The Tortoise Tortoise coasted more quietly than any stone. Within, the children prepared, watched, listened to the natural whickerings of Nebuchadnezzar and Ramses and Herod and the high buzz and squeal of Wormwood, tracked the slow courses of the tiny points of light that were ships. coasted more quietly than any stone. Within, the children prepared, watched, listened to the natural whickerings of Nebuchadnezzar and Ramses and Herod and the high buzz and squeal of Wormwood, tracked the slow courses of the tiny points of light that were ships.

Drifting, drifting, around the shallow well of Wormwood, across its vast gently curved prairie of gravitation.

The children became quieter, more somber.

Theresa and Martin still found occasion to make love, but the love was peremptory, more necessity than enthusiasm. Ramses, slightly larger than Nebuchadnezzar, had once been covered with thick volcanic haze, high in sulfuric acid, still evident in traces in its soil. Some internal anomaly-a huge undigested lump of uranium, perhaps-had kept it hot and heavy with volcanism even into its late old age. It had been tamed only by the action of civilization, perhaps from Nebuchadnezzar if that was where life had first formed around Wormwood-perhaps from Leviathan, the closest star system, or even Behemoth before it became a red giant.

Martin studied the search team's reports on Nebuchadnezzar hour by hour. Hakim did not sleep; Martin ordered him to rest finally when he found Hakim slumped on a ladder field, hardly able to move.

Down, down...

Time pa.s.sed quickly enough, too quickly for Martin; there was no time to think the thoughts he needed to think, to reach the conclusions that had to be reached.

The purpose of their journey, perhaps the main purpose of their existence, approached all too rapidly.

The makers deposited in the pre-birth material around Wormwood converted rocky rubble into neutronium bombs sufficient to melt a single planet's surface.

After reporting their status to Tortoise Tortoise along channels mimicking the cosmic babble of distant stars, in low-information drones lasting hours, the makers became silent. Not even along channels mimicking the cosmic babble of distant stars, in low-information drones lasting hours, the makers became silent. Not even Tortoise Tortoise could detect them, or learn where they were; the time for giving them alternate instructions had pa.s.sed. could detect them, or learn where they were; the time for giving them alternate instructions had pa.s.sed.

Whether Tortoise Tortoise succeeded or not, the makers would stealthily drop their weapons into the system. The weapons' journeys would take years... succeeded or not, the makers would stealthily drop their weapons into the system. The weapons' journeys would take years...

Martin floated in a net beside Theresa. Both lay awake. For a long time-fifteen, twenty minutes-neither spoke, content, if that was the word, to merely stretch out next to each other, flesh warm against flesh, listening to their breath flow in and out.

"We're doing it," Martin said finally.

"You mean, it's almost done," Theresa said.

"Yes. The moms have trained us well."

"To destroy."

Martin snorted. "Destroy what? The Killers burned themselves out. Or they've left. How many thousands of years more advanced were they?" He snorted again, and stroked her arm. "Why did they kill Earth, when they still had their home worlds, and they couldn't even fill them them? Was it just greed?"

"Maybe it was fear," Theresa said. "They were afraid we we would send machines to kill would send machines to kill them. them."

"Everybody's afraid in the forest," Martin agreed. "Kill or be killed."

"Kill and and be killed," Theresa said. be killed," Theresa said.

"I don't like what I've become," Martin said after a pause. "What I'm doing."

"Do you like me me?"

"Of course I do."

"I'm doing the same thing."

He shrugged, unable to explain the contradiction.

"Do you feel guilty?" Theresa asked.

"No," Martin said. "I want to turn their worlds into slag."

"All right," Theresa said.

"Do you?"

"Feel guilty?"

"No. Want to watch."

She didn't answer for some time, her breath regular, as if asleep. "No," she said. "But I will. For those who can't."

Falling, falling. Into the bright bas.e.m.e.nt of Wormwood, around the furnace, a hundred million kilometers from Nebuchadnezzar, silent as a ghost, smaller than a midge, with snail-like slowness, observing, Hakim and his team concentrating on the five inner dark ma.s.ses, Martin concentrating on the discipline, on the Job, keeping their minds tightly wrapped around this one thought.

Going from child to child, Wendy to Lost Boy, talking, encouraging, until his throat was hoa.r.s.e and his eyes bleary; talking across the days to all at one time or another, maintaining the contact, as his father would have done, across that unreachable spatial and temporal gulf, where simultaneity had no meaning but in the deceived, dreaming mind.

All like a dream, eerily unreal; the new s.p.a.ces of Tortoise Tortoise working against their sense of having belonged, triply removed fron the realities their bodies had come to understand: Earth, Ark, working against their sense of having belonged, triply removed fron the realities their bodies had come to understand: Earth, Ark, Dawn Treader. Dawn Treader. They belonged nowhere but in their work. They belonged nowhere but in their work.

Theodore Dawn would have hated this, Martin thought. He would have chafed at the single-minded life-in-illusion; he would have demanded some bridging truth, some connectedness of purpose between what they had once been, on the Ark, and were now, purpose and connection gone missing. He would have done poorly Martin thought; or he would have changed as they had changed, as Ariel had changed, subduing her obvious doubts, hardly ever complaining, drifting with them all on the descending sweep of Tortoise's Tortoise's...o...b..t. orbit.

Theodore would have done well, Martin thought later; better than I have done, he would have been chosen Pan, he would have this responsibility; he would miss his ponds and chaoborus, chaoborus, wonderfully gla.s.sy ugly denizens of Earth, but he would bear down and focus his energies. The children would respect him and he would not expect them all to wonderfully gla.s.sy ugly denizens of Earth, but he would bear down and focus his energies. The children would respect him and he would not expect them all to like like him. him.

The Earth did not speak for revenge. It spoke for survival.

Down, down.

Martin went from child to child through the Tortoise, Tortoise, the image of his father and mother leading, trying to be to the children what the moms could not. the image of his father and mother leading, trying to be to the children what the moms could not.

Strangely, Martin found old experiences opening to him as he spoke to his shipmates, flowers of memory suddenly revived: sucking on his mother's breast, the warm rich smell of her like roses in a gymnasium, the smile on her face as she looked on him, cradled in her arms, an all-approving smile the moms could not produce, all-forgiving, all-loving, the soft ecstasy of her milk letting down.

He remembered the discipline and love of his father, less gentle then his mother; the guilt of his father when he punished Martin, especially when Martin provoked a spanking; his father's solemn depression for hours after, locking himself away from wife and son while his mother sat quietly with Martin. The later years, spankings much less frequent-none after he was six-and the days of togetherness in the summers before Earth's death, after his father's return from Washington, D.C., investigating the river in a raft, exploring the forest around the house, talking, his father taciturn and solemn at times, at other times ebullient and even silly.

Arthur's love for Francine, filling Martin's childhood as a constant like sunlight. Martin did not forget the arguments, the family disputes, but they were as much a part of the picture as wrinkles in skin or mountains on the Earth's surface or waves on the sea...ups and downs of emotional terrain.

The memories helped Martin keep that sense of purpose they had had when they left the Ark and climbed out of the sun's bas.e.m.e.nt, up into the long darkness.

"We still haven't found anything that is obviously a defense," Hakim p.r.o.nounced on the eighteenth day. The children of Tortoise Tortoise floated around him in the cafeteria, listening to the latest search team report. "Planetary activity hasn't increased or decreased. We haven't been swept by electromagnetic radiation of any artificial variety we can detect. We seem to be catching them by surprise." floated around him in the cafeteria, listening to the latest search team report. "Planetary activity hasn't increased or decreased. We haven't been swept by electromagnetic radiation of any artificial variety we can detect. We seem to be catching them by surprise."

Martin hung with legs crossed at the rear of the group, Theresa beside him. He laddered to the center of the cafeteria when Hakim had finished.

"We have some choices," Martin said. "We can drop makers and doers into Nebuchadnezzar first, then the same to Ramses, and hope they find enough raw material to do the Job. Or we can convert all of our fuel and most of the ship into bombs and concentrate on skinning one planet. Because of the lack of volatiles, we probably can't do much damage to more than one, not right away. Just to skin one planet will probably take most of our fuel and large chunks of Tortoise Tortoise itself. Or we can sleep and wait for the makers and doers in the pre-birth cloud to send their weapons down." itself. Or we can sleep and wait for the makers and doers in the pre-birth cloud to send their weapons down."

"Let's vote," Ariel said when he paused.

"No." He shook his head patiently. "This isn't a matter for voting."

"Why not?" Ariel asked, her expression languid, without pa.s.sion. We all wear killing faces. Faces showing n.o.body home, n.o.body responsible. We all wear killing faces. Faces showing n.o.body home, n.o.body responsible.

"Because the Pan makes all decisions now," Stephanie Wing Feather reminded her.

Martin half-expected Ariel to leave the cafeteria in anger, but she did not. She relaxed her arms, closed her eyes, sighed, then opened them again and watched his face intently.

"This is a tough one," Martin said. "If we wait long enough, we might learn whether we should hit Herod, or even focus on it. If there are no defenses, if the risk is low, we can suck out all of Nebuchadnezzar's atmospheric volatiles before before the planet is destroyed-much easier and faster than after blowing it up..." the planet is destroyed-much easier and faster than after blowing it up..."

"Strip the atmosphere..." Andrew Jaguar said, shuddering. "Like vampires."

"We're going to blow it to dust anyway," Mei-li reminded him, small voice like a bird's chirrup.

"Hakim, how close do we need to be to investigate?"

"I don't think there's any real gain from being closer than a few thousand kilometers. If need be, we can send out remotes at this distance and create a bigger baseline, gather as much information as we would if we flew right down to the surface...But obviously, we could make a bigger blip in whatever sensors they have."

"What kind of baseline?" Martin asked.

Hakim conferred with his team for a few seconds. "We think at this distance, about ten kilometers. We could resolve down to bugs in the air, if there are any."

"The makers and doers have to be delivered from a distance of no more than one hundred kilometers," Stephanie said. "The bombships, fully fueled, have a range of forty g hours, and that can translate into however many kilometers of orbit we wish, if we're patient...We know that none of us can live in a bombship for more than about four tendays without going crazy. We could induce sleep, but that wouldn't be optimum."

The parameters were now clear to all the children. Each advantage had to be weighed against risk; Martin had worked through the momerath days before, and found several courses equally matched for danger and benefit. Theresa had checked his calculations, as had Stephanie Wing Feather and, he presumed, Hakim Hadj.

"We send out remotes and expand our baseline," he said. "That seems to involve the lowest risk. We can gather all the information we need in a few days. We pull in the remotes, coast in quietly, release the bombships, pick them up again after they've injected the weapons into Nebuchadnezzar, drop our doers to gather volatiles in the ruins, accelerate outward to Ramses as fast as possible, and execute again. If we haven't found any further signs of activity on Herod, we rendezvous with the robots after a fast orbit around Wormwood. Then we measure our resources, report to Hare, Hare, drop doers to mine what few resources there are on Herod, and boost out. The best estimate for a rendezvous with drop doers to mine what few resources there are on Herod, and boost out. The best estimate for a rendezvous with Hare Hare is two years. Another year to swing back to Wormwood to gather up the robots and their gleanings." is two years. Another year to swing back to Wormwood to gather up the robots and their gleanings."

The children groaned. They had done much of the momerath themselves, but hearing it from Martin-losing all hope of fast action and sacrifice of fuel to boost up and out-knowing what they had already suspected, that he would choose the most conservative and practical course, however time-consuming-brought the truth home hard.

Over three years. Awake and vigilant. And then, unlikely to have enough fuel to accelerate to near-c, perhaps centuries to move on to Leviathan... Awake and vigilant. And then, unlikely to have enough fuel to accelerate to near-c, perhaps centuries to move on to Leviathan...

At the very least, under those circ.u.mstances, they would have to sleep. There were dangers in such a long sleep; even a Ship of the Law could grow old.

Saying the plan aloud, when he had hardly thought it through clearly himself, made it seem both more real and strangely beyond real. Young human beings saying such words, planning such things.

As if to highlight the absurdity, Mei-Li giggled. Her giggle died quickly and was not picked up around the room.

"We will be in position to release the bombships in six days," Hakim said.

Nebuchadnezzar was easily visible to the naked eye, a bright diamond among the lesser points of stars. Day by day, it became even brighter, and Martin ordered a star sphere expanded in the cafeteria. As they ate their meals, or gathered in quiet social groupings, they watched their target grow.

The remotes spread their photon-intercepting fields like webs and gathered in clear images of the brown world, as if opening an eye ten kilometers wide.

There were no bugs in the atmosphere-no life crawling on the surface, no organic chemical activity within the upper layers of soil.

Nebuchadnezzar's subtle motions resembled a feeble, irregular heartbeat, but the profiles of the internal vibrations did not match tectonics. Unlike Ramses, Nebuchadnezzar's heart was cool; any internal heat had fled long ago.

Martin finished examining Hakim's figures while the other children slept, two days from H-hour.

The five inner ma.s.ses remained enigmatic. From this angle to the ecliptic, they could not measure the objects in transit across Wormwood, but a chance star occultation allowed Hakim to confirm that one of the dark objects was three thousand kilometers in diameter, with a ma.s.s of approximately fourteen billion trillion kilograms, and only as dense as water. The dark objects might be cl.u.s.ters of neutronium with large s.p.a.ces between, surrounded by a sh.e.l.l...or they might be balloons filled with water, a tantalizing idea, but unlikely.

"I have no idea what they are," Hakim said, shaking his head, expression grim and exhausted. "They worry me greatly, Martin."

Martin replayed the inner ma.s.s star occultation and a.s.sociated graphics and measurement reports, trying to glean with supernatural intuition what could not be seen. "The War Mother has no suggestions?"

"The objects are outside the moms' experience, I think," Hakim said. He looked as if he were thinking, but would not say, Or they will not tell us. Or they will not tell us.

But that would be absurd.

"We should pull in the remotes now," Martin said, shivering slightly.

"Still no signs of defense, no awareness of our presence-no preparation to fight," Hakim said.

"Nothing we can detect," Martin added.

"I would appreciate more time with the remotes-more time to find something..."

Martin thought that over for a few seconds, then nodded. "Another twelve hours. But let somebody else keep watch. You sleep."

"No," Hakim said. "This is my only duty. I watch, I calculate, I keep you informed...For now, I do not need to sleep." His eyes stared up at Martin out of sunken orbits. His hair tufted on his scalp, his face gleamed with oil, he smelled faintly sour.

"Sleep for five hours, and get cleaned up," Martin said, touching his cheek with one hand. "You'll make mistakes if you push yourself too much. We don't need mistakes."

"I will get along with two hours of sleep," Hakim said. Then, smiling his angelic smile, "And I will take a shower, not to offend."

"All right. Put Jennifer in charge. She'll keep an eye out."

"It is because I am so worried," Hakim said. "What we do not know..."

When the remotes had been withdrawn, Martin conferred with Stephanie Wing Feather and Harpal Timechaser. Theresa and Jorge Rabbit hovered on the periphery in the otherwise empty quarters, representing the children aboard Tortoise Tortoise in this final meeting of Pan and in this final meeting of Pan and Tortoise Tortoise's, share of ex-Pans.

"Stephanie..." Martin said. "Your thoughts. Twelve hours and we release the bombships. What have I neglected to do?"

"Nothing," Stephanie said.

"Harpal?"

"Nothing. We've done everything we've been taught to do, everything we know how to do...But..."

"It's too good," Stephanie said. "No defenses, no reaction, quiet and almost dead. Nothing like what we've been led to expect, what we've trained to fight. And..."

"No volatiles," Harpal said. "It's going to be d.a.m.ned difficult to refuel."

"Right. If there's anything here at all, it's a tired old civilization dreaming in its own high-tech grave," Stephanie said. "Not much satisfaction killing an old codger who doesn't care."

"Wormwood doesn't fit any profiles, does it?"

"It doesn't," Martin said. "The War Mother has nothing to suggest, except that this could be-"

"A sham," Stephanie said. "Something to draw us into a dead system we can't pull out of, something to waste our energy and time. Flypaper, baited with nasty evidence of past sins."