"Trojan horses," Aarhus murmured. "Gifts that slowly but surely neutralized any race who was close on the Shaddill’s heels. Turning us all into vapid idiots like the Cashlings." He turned toward me. "Or even worse, what they did to your people on Melaquin. You might have been the Shaddill’s substitute children, but your creators didn’t want you growing up and becoming serious competition. So they damaged you mentally — made certain you’d never mature."
"Yes," Nimbus told me, "by keeping your people childlike, the Shaddill eliminated you as a threat and made you all the more endearing: a society filled with happy healthy kids, rather than the usual messiness of a civilization run by adults. When your brains get to the critical point of Grow up or shut down… you’re designed just to go to sleep."
"Not much better than dying," Uclod growled.
"But," Nimbus replied, "less distressing as the Shaddill look down from the sky. That cute little boy they watched three hundred years ago… he’s not dead, he’s just at a slumber party with his friends. Perhaps the Shaddill could give him a stimulant so he’d get up for a while, walk around, show off the sweet little mannerisms that made his creators feel so fond. Then away they’d go again until the next time they felt like visiting the kids for a few hours."
"Bloody hell," Festina whispered. "Very neat… and despicable." She gave my shoulder a squeeze. "If all this is true…"
I waited to hear how she would finish the sentence. But what could she say? If all this is true, poor Oar, poor you! It is too bad you face a malfunctioning brain because your creators wanted you lovable but helpless. We too find you lovable, and are charmed by your naive innocence; we will be very most sad when you finally fall to the ground and do not get up.
In the end, all Festina could do was give my shoulder another squeeze.
My Vow
I looked around at my companions — their somber faces, their eyes shifting away from me as if I were already some walking dead umushu whose gaze they could not meet — and for one brief moment, I nearly lost heart. These were my only friends in the universe, and they believed I was doomed: a wind-up toy to amuse foul aliens, and now I was running down. They thought of me as a frivolous child who did not understand the world, a person who had not grown up and could not grow up. For one brief moment, a great sorrow washed over my soul, as I feared they were correct.
Perhaps I was not a glorious heroine, destined for grandeur.
Perhaps I was just a silly girl-child who had filled her own head with nonsense — deluded herself into thinking she was special.
For I had to admit, my brain was getting Tired. It had been that way for the past four years. Recent events had temporarily stirred me from my stupor… but over and over again, I had almost slipped back to nothingness. How long before I reached the point of no return?
If the Pollisand was telling the truth, I could still be cured — provided I embraced his cause to "wipe the Shaddill off the face of the galaxy." When he first made his proposition, I had glibly answered, Yes, I shall help; but I had understood so little of who and what the Shaddill were. Even now… even now, there were only conjectures. I did not know. But if all those conjectures were correct…
…I wished to do more than just punch the Shaddill in the nose. I wished to keep punching and punching until they said they were sorry, and even then, I did not think I would stop. I truly wished to hurt them, not because I wanted to win favor with the Pollisand, but because it was what such villains deserved.
After all, working with the Pollisand might not save me why should I trust an alien to keep his word? The universe was full of betrayal. And what would it mean to be cured? Who would I become? A tedious plodding grown-up? A stodgy sighing person who did not fall down from Tiredness but who went around three-quarters Tired all day, pretending that because her feet were moving, her brain must still be alive?
Nimbus suggested I must become adult or become nothing; I did not know which option I feared more. But whatever happened to me, I swore I would not succumb to oblivion until I had made the Shaddill regret what they had done.
That was my vow. That was what I solemnly promised to the universe: to every glass elder lying comatose in a tower, to my original flesh-and-blood ancestors, and even to alien races like the foolish Cashlings whose brains were crumbling wrecks. Somehow, I thought, this must all be avenged.
Therefore, in my most secret inner soul, I swore a terrible oath to do so.
"Come now," I said to my friends, "we are wasting time, and perhaps I have little time left. Let us perform at least one great deed in our lives before we vanish forever."
I did not wait for them to answer — I strode down the dirt-caked tunnel, trusting that somehow I would find the Shaddill. My friends hesitated a moment, then followed close behind me.
24: WHEREIN I EXPLORE THE ENEMY’S LAIR
In The Tunnels
The entire stick-ship seemed filled with tunnels: some narrow with little head-room, some wide and reaching up into darkness. Darkness was indeed the most salient feature of these tunnels; there were occasional lights — dim orangey plates the size of my palm, set into the wall at waist level — but I counted a full twenty-two paces from one plate to the next, and considering the lights were scarcely as bright as a single candle, they did not provide substantive illumination. Their sole function must have been to prevent one from getting lost in total blackness.
Festina still had her glow-wand, but she used it sparingly: she only activated it when we came to an intersection. Since the floor was dirt, one could see which tunnels were more frequently used than others — the ones where the soil was tamped down more solidly, with the occasional discernible footprint. (The footprints were always from human boots, their tread identical to those worn by the robot admirals.) We always chose to follow the direction of greatest traffic, on the theory that this was most likely to lead us to Shaddill.[13]
[13] — At every intersection, we made clear deep gouges in the soil, pointing back the way we had come. Festina called this "our trail of bread crumbs"… which does not make me eager to eat Earthling bread.
Of course, the stick-ship did not merely consist of earth-lined tunnels — there were also multitudinous rooms opening off the tunnels. Many of these rooms did not have doors, just open entranceways… but the rooms were even darker than the tunnels, so peeking inside only showed bulks of anonymous machinery enclosed in metal shells. From time to time, we saw robots scurrying in the darkness, things that were no more than wheeled boxes with arms sprouting out of their tops. The robots took no notice of us; they were too busy with their programmed tasks to worry their mechanical brains about strangers.
As for the rooms with closed doors, we did not attempt to open them. I had no time to waste on side trips, since I did not know how much longer my brain would stay active. Besides, as Festina pointed out, doors are often closed to protect passers-by from dangerous things on the other side, whether those things were wild beasts, aggressive nano, or machines that produced incinerative quantities of heat. (Nimbus assured us he was keeping watch for high concentrations of nano; according to him, there were light sprinklings everywhere we went, but the nanites showed no more interest in us than the boxy robots.)
Minutes slipped by and still we did not see anything that might have been a living Shaddill. Of course, the stick-ship was huge; there might be millions of Shaddill in some other part of the craft, a residential section that was kept separate from the place where they imprisoned captives. But as time went on with no sightings, I wondered where the great poop-heads were. Was the entire stick-ship run by robots and nanites? Did the machines need no supervision at all? And if the ship could run itself, what about other Shaddill projects?