Anvil of Stars

“We’re going to investigate—”

“Not that,” William said. “That was a foregone conclusion. I mean, have you decided who you are, what you are?”

“I don’t understand,” Martin said.

“It’s important for you.” William looked away. “And for Theresa.”

“I thought you approved.”

“I said I approved, but then we made love again, for the first time since you started this thing with Theresa —and I saw things a little differently.”

Martin settled grimly in an opposite corner, as if he were about to be forced to take medicine. “Explain.”

“Your heart wasn’t in it.”

“I’ve always enjoyed you.”

“Martin, how many lovers have you had?”

Martin looked away. “I’m not a fruitpicker,” he said.

“Right. You’re not shy, you’re just a little afraid… of hurting somebody, of being hurt.”

“Wise William,” Martin said.

“Slick that,” William said, not unkindly. “You picture me as some sort of brotherly saint, Saint Francis maybe. I’m not. I’m a fruitpicker. Most of us are. You… and Theresa… are not.”

“She’s had and been had,” Martin said, eyes rolling.

“Right. But nowhere near the average.”

“More than I,” Martin said. Weak defense.

“So how many have you had?”

William had never asked before; such things were seldom mentioned, being almost common knowledge in a group so small and tightly knit. “It’s not important.”

“Some say you’re a bad choice for Pan because you lack connections. That you have to slick with somebody to understand them, and you haven’t made love to enough of us to know who we are.”

Martin frowned. “Nobody’s said it to my face.”

“They wouldn’t, because they’re gossips and cowards, like all the humans on this ship.”

“I’m not human?”

“You try not to make mistakes.”

“Oh, Christ, William. What are you talking about?”

William spread out his muscular brown arms and legs. Martin noted the play of muscles, the ripple of skin on strong arms, the beautiful sheen of upper thigh—and felt nothing physical—a mental admiration, a brotherly recognition and approval of William’s health and supple vigor. “I’m homosexual, most of the time,” William said, “one of eight males and seven females among the children. You’re a crosser. You can slick or fall in love or whatever you want with so many more people… But I know something about you, Martin—you’re probably more passionate than I am. I’ve crossed, and found the experience enjoyable but not fulfilling—so I’ve slicked with maybe twelve of the children. You’ve had five or six, I’d guess. What are you afraid of?”

Martin pushed from the corner, angry again.

“You hate the idea of rejection. You really don’t like understanding people, accepting them for what they are. Why?”

Martin’s face muscles worked. “You’re not in a good mood,” he said, kicking off the opposite wall, rolling past William.

William laughed. “I’m not?”

“You’ve never been cruel before.” He put out a hand and stopped himself on the edge of William’s door.

William’s face contorted. “I’m not being cruel,” he said sadly. “I just know what’s going to happen, and I hate for you not to know, when it affects you so much… and Theresa. You’re one of our best.” William’s expression warmed, as it always did when he praised Martin. “At least I think so, and the children voted you Pan.”

“You’ll be next,” Martin said, avoiding his eyes.

“No, I won’t,” William said, very subdued. “Hans maybe. He wants it. I fantasize about it, that maybe it’ll make more Lost Boys willing to cross… But it won’t be me. I’m a soldier, not a general. You’re a general. You don’t believe it, though, do you?”

Martin shook his head. “I never wanted to be Pan.”

“You didn’t turn it down. You know what a general does? Contrary to the gossips’ wisdom on this ship, he doesn’t slick with all the troops. He watches them from outside, and he learns how to use them. How to keep them safe. And how to sacrifice some of them to save the rest, or sacrifice all to get the Job done. Any child who reads history knows that. You read history, Martin. Do you agree?”

Instinctively, Martin did not agree, but he had never voiced his instinct.

“Do you agree?” William asked again.

“One for all, and all for one,” Martin said, knowing that was not quite the same thing. William seemed to think it was.

“Good. You need someone to stand beside you.”

“William, this is so much drift, I can’t be isolated and be any good…”

“Not isolated. Just outside a little bit. With a partner who can trim your sails now and then. I approve of Theresa, but you can’t—I suppose I’m getting around to what I really want to say, finally—you can’t be what you were with me, and have something even stronger with Theresa.”

“I don’t want to lose you, or hurt you.”

“You don’t want to lose anything or hurt anybody,” William said. He floated forward with an ankle kick against corner pads and took Martin’s shoulders. “But you’re still a general, and you’ve got to do both.

“Listen to wise old William. Here’s your fault, Martin. You think that if you slick with someone, you must fall in love with them, and they must fall in love with you. You think that if you lead someone, you must be gentle, and never hurt them, or make them angry.”

“Bolsh,” Martin said sharply, jerking his head back.

“And if they don’t love you, you feel rejected and hurt. You want to love everybody, but you don’t, and that’s hypocrisy. You want too much, I think. You want your lovers’ souls.”

“Not so wise, William,” Martin said. He pushed him back with an ungentle hand. “You’ve completely misunderstood me.”

“Theresa’s perfect for you,” William said. “She’s a little smarter than you and a little looser, and she sees something in you that I see as well. But I’ll stand aside. I don’t want to be second with you; it’s a losing game.”

Martin saw the tears in William’s eyes and reacted with his own. “I’m sorry,” he said, floating closer. He stroked William’s cheek. “You’re a brother to me.”

“Brothers we’ll be, but don’t give me charity slicks, “William said. “Respect me enough to believe I can get along without you.”

“You still don’t make sense, but if that’s what you want…”

“That’s the way it already is,” William said. “We’re going to be soldiers and generals, and we have a Job to do, and I think it’s going to be tougher on all of us than we imagine or fear. So no nonsense, no drift. We’re not really our own masters, Martin, whatever we like to believe, whatever the moms do or don’t do, except in whom we love and whom we call brother and sister.”

Martin opened the door, rotated in the frame, and said, “Please don’t avoid any more meetings.”

“I won’t.”

Erin Eire was a puzzle to Martin; intelligent, reasonable in conversation, clear-eyed, agreeable for the most part, but with a strong and sometimes arrogant streak of independence. Martin found her in the swimming hall, filter mask strapped over her mouth against the spray. He had to call her twice to get her attention.

“Sorry,” she said. She paddled out of an oblong of water and across the green ladder field that kept water and spray from the anteroom. The water rebounded through the spherical space; one swam in air sometimes, in water most of the time, the rest of the time in spray and fine mist like clouds.