Anvil of Stars

She hugged him again before moving away to riffle through the stack and pick up the slate. He didn’t mind her curiosity; she seemed interested in everything about him, and he was flattered. “Marshal Saxe,” she said, scrolling through the slate displays. She lifted a book. “Bourcet and Gilbert. Clausewitz, Caemerrer, Moltke, Goltz.” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Their armies could see each other, make sorties against each other,” Martin said. “We don’t even fight with armies.”

“These are the people T. E. Lawrence studied when he was young,” Theresa said, surprising him yet again. “You’ve been reading Liddell Hart.”

He smiled in chagrin. “You, too.”

“Me and about twenty others. I asked for crew access records.”

Martin grinned ruefully. “I should have thought of that. To see what they’re… thinking, preparing for.”

“Most are just doing your exercises. They respect you. They think you know what you’re doing. Hans is doing a lot of extra research. Erin Eire. Ariel.”

“I’m glad they’re keeping me on my toes.”

“We can’t afford to take chances, even with you, Martin.”

Theresa had never spoken to him in such a tone before; was she implying lack of confidence? She smiled, but the question was raised, and she looked away, aware she had raised it.

“I’m not criticizing you, Martin, but you—we—won’t find many answers in Earth strategy books.”

“Right,” Martin said.

“We can’t keep looking back.”

“It’s all we have,” Martin said.

“Not so.”

Martin nodded. “I mean, it’s all we have that’s our own.”

Theresa put the books back and returned the slate to the text he had been reading. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t come here to talk about this.”

“I’m not just looking at Earth histories and texts,” Martin said. “I’ve been going over everything the moms taught us. They haven’t made up a drill for the external exercise—they seem to want to surprise us. I don’t like that, but I see their point—”

“Martin. You need a break.”

“There’s no time!” he shouted, fists clenching again.

“Are you thinking clearly?”

He paused, shook his head, squeezed his palms against his temples. “Not very.”

“I’m here.”

He closed the entrance, reached for her, put the wand into quiet mode, kicked the books and slate aside as they moved against each other. “I don’t want to be away from you for a second, not an instant,” he said. “That’s the bad part. I want to be someplace else with you.”

She looked at him intently, face showing none of the insinuation of her undulating body, lower lip under her teeth; hips moving with graceful need. He felt the motion of her stomach against his, the press of her curly hair, the flexing wet warmth startling, her small breasts hard against his chest; sought her neck behind her ear, knew she had closed her eyes, face still blank but for the bitten lip.

The experience was more effort, less ethereal, with up and down reestablished. It was also more familiar to his inner mind, flesh and bones; somehow more real.

They rolled from the ledge with half-purpose, falling into a glowing ladder, and were lowered gently to tumble down a slope into a pile of Martin’s clothes.

“I want to live with you always,” Martin said.

“I didn’t mean to make you think I…” Tears came to her eyes. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. I trust you. It’s pretty amazing how they trust you. The past Pans—Harpal, Stephanie, Sig, Cham…Joe— They’re right behind you.” She smiled. “Hans is just doing his job, I think. I can’t read Hans all the time. He seems to hide everything important. Ariel seems either angry or sad all the time.”

“Is that why you’re with me, because I’m trusted?” he asked quietly. That’s a stupid, stupid thing to ask.

“Not at all,” she said. “I don’t slick for status.”

“I know you don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He stroked her face. “I wouldn’t call this slicking.”

“Oh, it is,” she said. “The very best. Don’t be afraid of it.”

“Of course not,” Martin whispered, edging closer, careful not to let the slight weight of his body oppress her. “I want you to live with me.”

“Dyad?” she asked.

“I want more than that,” he said. “I want to eat you up.”

“Ah ha.”

“I want you so much it hurts not to have you near me.”

“Oh.” She looked away, pretending embarrassment even as they moved against each other.

“I want to marry you.”

She stopped their rolling and lay quiet beside him, breasts moving up and down, eyes flicking over his features. “We don’t marry,” she said.

“Nothing stops us.”

“We’re Lost Boys and Wendys. Pans don’t get married.”

“We could get married in a new way. No priests or churches or licenses.”

“Married is something different. It’s for Earth, or back on the Ark. People got married on the Ark.”

“I doubt we’ll ever go back,” Martin said.

“I know,” she said softly.

“We’re our own Ark. We have all the information here. All the living things in memory. They’ll make every living thing we need, once we do our Job. We’ll be like war dogs.”

“War dogs?”

“Too vicious to be taken back. Because of what we do. We have to rely on ourselves alone. That means we can get married, whatever being married means out here.”

“We’ve only been lovers for a few tendays.”

“That’s enough for me,” Martin said.

Theresa drew back to him. “Slicking is so much simpler.”

“We make love,” Martin insisted.

Theresa suddenly put on an innocent look. “Do you remember,” she said, pushing tongue behind her lower lip, pushing it out, gazing at him intently, “how serious this would be on Earth? How fraught with meaning, making love or slicking?”

“It isn’t serious here?”

She put fingers to her lips, holding something: a cigarette, he remembered. Lowered her lashes, looked at him seductively, deep sensual meaning, smiling, drew back, flung back her hair. “I could be a temptress,” she said.

“Harlot,” he said.

“We would spend ever so much time worrying, once we were married, on Earth, about whether we were doing it right, whether we were in style.”

“We have styles here,” Martin said.

She made a bitter face, tossed the ghost cigarette away. “I read about it. In some places, we could have been arrested for…” She touched his limp tip with a finger, brought a drop of wheyish moisture to her mouth. “We could have been arrested for…” She reached into his mouth with the finger, and he obligingly tongued it. She moved the finger up her thigh, touched herself, moved without effort into a melodramatic vamping posture. “How can we be married without thousands knowing and approving or disapproving? Looking at us in our little home, approving or disapproving.” She whispered the words again, but there was a strain in her face. “All those people. But it’s okay.” She looked at him directly, struggling to hold back more tears. “And we know we can make children. That’s serious.”

Martin smiled. His eyes focused not on her now, but on far dead Earth. He had never thought or imagined