Federations

“Not quite. When the time’s right the splinters will return to the Swirl. Only there won’t be one anymore. There’ll be a solar system, fully formed. When the colonization does begin, it will be of new worlds around Fomalhaut, seeded from the life-templates held in the splinters.”

I raised a hand. “I was following you there . . . until you mentioned life-templates.”

“Patience, Spirey.”

Wendigo’s timing couldn’t have been better, because at that moment light flooded the train’s brushed-steel interior.

The tunnel had become a glass tube, anchored to one wall of a vast cavern suffused in emerald light. The far wall was tiered, draping rafts of foliage. Our wall was steep and forested, oddly curved waterfalls draining into stepped pools. The waterfalls were bent away from true “vertical” by Coriolis force, evidence that—just like the first chamber—this entire space was independently spinning within the splinter. The stepped pools were surrounded by patches of grass, peppered with moving forms that might have been naked people. There were wasps as well—tending the people.

As the people grew clearer I had that flinch you get when your gaze strays onto someone with a shocking disfigurement. Roughly half of them were males.

“Imported Royalists,” Wendigo said. “Remember I said they’d turned feral? Seems there was an accident, not long after the wasps made the jump to sentience. A rogue demon, or something. Decimated them.”

“They have both sexes.”

“You’ll get used to it, Spirey—conceptually anyway. Tiger’s Eye wasn’t always exclusively female, you know that? It was just something we evolved into. Began with you pilots, matter of fact. Fem physiology made sense for pilots—women were smaller, had better gee-load tolerance, better stress psychodynamics, and required fewer consumables than males. We were products of bioengineering from the outset, so it wasn’t hard to make the jump to an all-fem culture.”

“Makes me want to . . . I don’t know.” I forced my gaze away from the Royalists. “Puke or something. It’s like going back to having hair all over your body.”

“That’s because you grew up with something different.”

“Did they always have two sexes?”

“Probably not. What I do know is that the wasps bred from the survivors, but something wasn’t right. Apart from the reversion to dimorphism, the children didn’t grow up normally. Some part of their brains hadn’t developed right.”

“Meaning what?”

“They’re morons. The wasps keep trying to fix things of course. That’s why the Splinterqueen will do everything to help Yarrow—and us, of course. If she can study or even capture our thought patterns—and the demons make that possible—maybe she can use them to imprint consciousness back onto the Royalists. Like the Florentine architecture I said they copied, right? That was one template, and Yarrow’s mind will be another.”

“That’s supposed to cheer me up?”

“Look on the bright side. A while from now, there might be a whole generation of people who think along lines laid down by Yarrow.”

“Scary thought.” Then wondered why I was able to crack a joke, with destruction looming so close in the future. “Listen, I still don’t get it. What makes them want to bring life to the Swirl?”

“It seems to boil down to two . . . imperatives, I suppose you’d call them. The first’s simple enough. When wasps were first opening up Greater Earth’s solar system, back in the mid-twenty-first century, we sought the best way for them to function in large numbers without supervision. We studied insect colonies and imprinted the most useful rules straight into the wasps’ programming. More than six hundred years later, those rules have percolated to the top. Now the wasps aren’t content merely to organize themselves along patterns derived from living prototypes. Now they want to become—or at least give rise to—living forms of their own.”

“Life envy.”

“Or something very like it.”

I thought about what Wendigo had told me, then said: “What about the second imperative?”

“Trickier. Much trickier.” She looked at me hard, as if debating whether to broach whatever subject was on her mind. “Spirey, what do you know about Solar War Three?”

• • •

The wasps had given up on Yarrow while we traveled. They had left her on a corniced plinth in the middle of the terrazzo, poised on her back, arms folded across her chest, tail and fluke draping asymmetrically over one side.

“She didn’t necessarily fail, Spirey,” Wendigo said, taking my arm in her own unyielding grip. “That’s only Yarrow’s body, after all.”

“The Queen managed to read her mind?”

There was no opportunity to answer. The chamber shook, more harshly than when Mouser had exploded. The vibration keeled us to the floor, Wendigo’s metal arms cracking against the tessellated marble. As if turning in her sleep, Yarrow slipped from the plinth.

“Home,” Wendigo said, raising herself from the floor.

“Impossible. Can’t have been more than two hours since Mouser was hit. There shouldn’t be any response for another four!”