It was a swarming mass of youth and energy, an animal mass; Pirius had never seen anything like it. It was more like a nursery than a barracks. But some of these children were already veterans of combat. You could tell, he was starting to learn, by the gleam of metal in their eyes.
They reached a little block of bunks. One of the bunks was occupied by a man who lay on his back, hands locked behind his head. He said, “Welcome. Pick a bunk! It doesn’t really matter which…” He was old — at least twenty-five, old compared to the population of this chamber anyhow. He even had a little gray at his temples.
On three of the bunks sat small stacks of clothing: coveralls, underwear, a skinsuit each. The clothing was clearly ancient, much patched, and lacked any sentience whatsoever, just a one-size-fits- all design with crude expansion joints at elbows, knees, waist, and neck. You even had to do up the fastenings yourself. But the coveralls were at least clothes, and the flyers grabbed at them.
The swarming cadets crowded around, grinning, curious, malicious, heads shaven, their faces slick with sweat. Pirius towered over them. Some of them were so young he couldn’t tell if they were male or female. As small hands plucked at his coverall, he forced a grin. “Sorry to disappoint you. The surface crew took everything we had — hey!” Somebody had grabbed his balls. He backed up quickly and closed his coveralls.
Although the others were just as mortified, neither of them had raised a hand at the swarming cadets, which really would have been disastrous. He felt obscurely proud of them.
The older man on the bunk swung down his legs, stood up and clapped his hands. “Come on, give them a break.”
“Fresh meat,” one cadet giggled. She, or maybe he, had sharpened teeth.
The man stepped forward, arms extended. “Yeah, but they’ll be almost as fresh tomorrow. Come on, come on…” He herded the recruits away, like guiding unruly children, and they reluctantly acquiesced. But a circle of them stayed, staring at the newcomers and whispering.
“You’ll get used to it,” the older man said.
“I doubt it,” said Enduring Hope, as he struggled into a coverall that refused to fit.
Cohl was investigating her blankets. “These aren’t clean. Lethe, they’re warm.”
“You’ll get used to that, too. There’s a rather high turnover here.”
Cohl said, “What happened to her?”
“Who? Oh, the last person to sleep in those blankets?… You don’t want to know.” He wore a green- gray coverall, open to the waist; his body was taut, fit. He was handsome, Pirius supposed, with a lean, well-drawn face, a small nose, thick hair he wore swept back from his brow, and a quick smile. Pirius’s immediate impression was of weakness, oddly, despite his appearance. But his manner was relaxed as he welcomed the crew. And, like the other veterans here, his eyes shone silver.
Pirius walked up to him, hand extended. He introduced himself and his crew.
“I used to be a flyer too,” he said, “before I found my calling shovelling shit on this Rock. My name is Quero.”
Hope was staring at him. “No, it isn’t.” He lumbered clumsily up to Quero, and, hesitantly, touched his sleeve. “I know your true name. Everybody does.”
Cohl growled, “I don’t.”
Quero said, “I call myself This Burden Must Pass.”
Cohl said, “Oh, terrific. Another Friend.”
Burden laughed. “Why do you think I got busted down here? And why I keep on being busted back?”
“You’re a heretic. You deserve it.” Cohl threw herself back on her bunk bed. She covered her face against the glare of the drifting light globes, turned on her side, and curled up.
“If you say so,” Burden said gently.
Hope was captivated. “Pirius, you don’t know who this is, do you? This Burden Must Pass is the leader of the Friends.”
Burden admonished him gently. “Now, you know we don’t have leaders. But I’m flattered you know me.” He placed a hand on Hope’s shoulder, and gazed into his eyes. “You’ve had a tough time. I can’t promise you it’s going to get any easier. It never does. But just remember, none of it matters. And at timelike infinity—”
Hope’s eyes were wide. “Yes. This burden must pass.” Pirius saw his lower lip was trembling.
Burden turned to Pirius. “I take it you’re not a believer.”
“No. And you’re very trusting to break Doctrine in front of three strangers.”
Burden shrugged. “Look around. What else can they do? And are you going to inform on me?”
“No,” said Pirius. He glanced at Hope, who was sitting on his bunk, face blank. “If you can keep him happy, that’s fine by me.”
“You’re loyal to your crew. And wise. I like that.”
“I don’t need your approval.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“And if I was wise I wouldn’t be here…”
Cohl yelped and sat up. She pointed at a row of bunks opposite. “Did you see that?”
Pirius turned, saw nothing. “What?”
“A rat!”
Burden laughed gustily. “Oh, you’ll soon get used to the rats!” A klaxon sounded harshly, and the lights briefly dipped to green. Burden said, “Have you eaten? How long were you traveling?… Well, it doesn’t matter. I’d advise you to get some sleep.”
“Why?”
Burden started pulling off his coverall. “You’ll need it. In the morning your training will start in earnest. It’s usually quieter in here at this hour; you created a stir.” He glanced at Pirius warningly. “This isn’t a pilot school. It’s not exactly intellectually demanding. But—”
“We already had a taste of it.” Pirius began to explore his grubby blankets, and wondered how he could get them washed.
He checked on his shipmates. Cohl, still curled up, might not have been sleeping, but if not she was faking it well. Enduring Hope, physically exhausted and now apparently emotionally drained by his meeting with this enigmatic spiritual leader, slumped into his bunk.
Pirius lay back and closed his eyes. But the light was shifting and bright, the noise clamoring and disorderly. He had never thought of an Arches Base Barracks Ball as particularly peaceful, but so it seemed compared to this. He forced his aching muscles to relax, and he tried not to count down the minutes until he had to rise again.
In the hour before reveille, the general clamor seemed to subside. The talking, screwing, and wrestling was done for the night, it seemed, and people were drifting into sleep.
And in that last still hour, Pirius heard an odd noise. It was a scratching, a rustle, a whisper. Then a soft piping rose up from all around the dorm, a chorus of tiny voices joined in near harmony.
Later, Burden told him it was the rats, calling to each other from around the barracks. Having traveled with humans twenty-eight thousand light-years from Earth, the rats had learned to sing, and humans who had never heard birds had learned to enjoy their song. For the rats it was a survival tactic; they had become lovable.
When the klaxon sounded, the soft singing was overwhelmed.
Chapter 8
As Nilis’s corvette approached Sol system, even while it was still under FTL, it was bombarded by a whole series of Virtual messages. The Virtuals were like shrieking ghosts, liable to erupt into existence anywhere in the corvette at any time. Some of these messages were sanctioned by the various authorities; others, it seemed, were not, but had been able to punch their way through a Navy ship’s firewalls anyway. Torec was freaked by the whole experience.