Anvil of Stars

facing defeat and death, and sought to study one individual’s response. If so, they found Martin taciturn.

He had suffered no ill effects from the long cold sleep. He thought he much preferred sleep to years between the stars, these brief silent deaths between bright lives.

But there was a handicap to cold sleep. They would all awake with disaster fresh in their minds, their emotions raw, and immediately have to go to work. Martin was angry and frightened and twisted to such an extent he wondered if he was ill. How much psychological damage had he sustained? He could not know; there was no time for grieving and readjustment.

None of the moms carried a mark of paint. Either the marks had flaked away completely during the ten years, or the War Mother had returned to the bulk of the ship, emerging with Martin from a different kind of sleep.

Martin completed his inspection in five hours. A mom accompanied him to the chamber where the crew slept. “It is time to awaken everyone,” it said. “Final deceleration will begin before they are revived. We will approach the inner worlds within two tendays.”

“Good,” Martin said. “Let’s go.”

He listened to the winds blowing through the ship as atmosphere and warmth returned. Isolated in a small room next to the sleep chamber, he felt weight return, and stood on his feet for the first time in ten years.

The others came awake in groups of five, were tested by the moms for any health problems, cleared, and gathered slowly, quietly, in the schoolroom.

The ship’s floor felt cool to their bare feet.

Martin stayed away from the crew until they gathered in the schoolroom. His mind wandered; he thought of the children’s pets, which would not return; Dawn Treader did not have reserves to spare. Martin did not know how this would affect morale; he thought they had other and larger griefs to deal with first.

He could hardly bring himself to face the crew and tell what had happened; he did not want to feel their grief as well as his own.

But duty at least remained, if no direction or feeling, and he spoke to them, to start and to finish, to do what he knew must be done.

“We’re no longer children,” Martin told them. The schoolroom at least had changed little, with a star sphere at the center, filled with thirty-eight men and thirty-seven women. “We’ve fought and lost. We may not be mature, or very smart, but we’re no longer children.”

The crew listened in silence.

“I’ve fought and lost,” Martin said. “I missed what should have been obvious.”

“The moms missed it, too,” Hakim said, but Martin shook his head.

“A decade has passed. My term as Pan has long since expired. It’s time to choose a new Pan. We should do that now.”

Ariel sat looking at her folded hands.

“I nominate Hans,” Martin said. “Hans is my choice for Pan.”

Hans stood in a group of Hare’s crew, big arms folded, lips tightening slightly, pale skin reddening. “We usually measure time by how long we’re awake,” he said. “By that measure, you still have some months left.”

“Hans did a fine job commanding Hare,” Martin said, ignoring the comment. “His instincts are better than mine.” He looked briefly at Hans: Do not make me say it more clearly. Hans looked up at the ceiling.

Alexis Baikal seconded the nomination.

“We’ll take any other nominations,” Martin continued.

The crew looked among each other, then Kimberly Quartz said, “I nominate Rosa Sequoia.”

Rosa’s broad face flushed but she said nothing. Decline, Martin silently suggested, swallowing back an even deeper sense of dread. No sane person would nominate Rosa.

“I second the nomination,” Jeanette Snap Dragon said.

Martin surveyed the crew.

“I nominate Hakim Hadj,” Paola Birdsong said.

That was a pretty good choice, Martin thought. Hakim looked up in surprise and said, “I decline. I have my place, and it is not as Pan.”

“I renominate Martin son of Arthur Gordon,” Joe Flatworm said.

“Decline,” Martin said.

There were no further nominations.

“Vote through wands,” Martin said. The voting was quick: sixty-seven for Hans, eight for Rosa. Martin projected the results, then laddered forward to offer his hand to Hans. Hans shook it lightly and broke the grip quickly.

“Hans is the new Pan,” Martin said.

“I don’t want any ceremony,” Hans said. “There’s work to do. I appoint Harpal Timechaser as Christopher Robin.”

“Decline,” Harpal said.

“The hell you will,” Hans said. “We’ve had about enough emotional shit. Take the job or we’re all damned.”

Harpal gaped. Without waiting for his answer, Hans pushed through the crew to the edge of the schoolroom and the door, twisted around with feline grace, and said, “Martin’s right. We’re not children. We’re scum. We’ve failed and we’ve lost friends. I condemn us all to hell until we kill these goddamned worlds, all of them. We’re already dead; there isn’t enough fuel to get out of here and go any place decent. Let’s take these sons of bitches with us.”

The crew began to look at each other now, shyly at first, then with a few reckless grins.

“God damn it,” Paola Birdsong said, as if trying out the word for size. It was much too big a word for her, but the solemnity passed from her face, replaced by a grim, lively determination.

Rosa Sequoia floated as still as a statue, face as impenetrable as a mom’s.

“Let’s go see what’s up,” Hans said.

Hakim approached Martin as the crew echoed and laddered out of the schoolroom. “There have been changes,” he said conspiratorially. “I would like you to be on the search team.”

“Hans should—”

“Hans has no say, unless he wishes to disband the search team and start over. I do not think he will ask for that, Martin. I would enjoy working with you.”

“Thank you,” Martin said. “I accept.”

Hakim smiled. “My friend,” he said, touching Martin’s shoulder.

There had indeed been changes. “I do not think we wasted our time,” Hakim said as Hans, Harpal, and the search team gathered in the nose before the star sphere.

Nebuchadnezzar was no longer a brown world. Marked by streaks of bright red running longitudinally from pole to pole, dark lines like cracks covered the surface.

“It looks sick,” Thomas Orchard said.

“It is sick,” Martin said in wonder. “Some of our makers and doers got through.”

Hans regarded the star sphere image with chin in hand, frowning. “I thought everything we sent down turned to anti em and blew up.”

“Three pods got through,” Martin said. “We assumed they were destroyed some other way, but apparently they weren’t.”

Hans said nothing for a few seconds.

Hakim glanced at Martin almost shyly, as if preferring still to think of him as Pan. “Perhaps not all is lost,” Hakim said.

“Bullshit. We’re dead,” Hans said. “But we may not die in vain.”

“Perhaps that is what I mean,” Hakim said.

“All right,” Hans said. “How long would it take for seeds to come down from the outer haloes?”