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prolonged distant one. Wouldn't you agree?'
    The hairs of each eye pulled closer together, as if squinting. Then the deep voice said, 'No, frankly. I don't agree.'
    She said nothing. Waiting.
    'What would be best,' Orleans informed her, 'would be for us to get the flick out of this spiral arm, and away from every damned obstacle. That's what would be best, sir. If you don't mind my saying.'
    She didn't mind, no. By definition, an inconsequential sound can easily be ignored.
    But this Remora was pressing her more than tradition allowed, and more than her nature could permit. She gazed across the bland landscape of hyperfiber, the very distant horizon perfectly flat, and the sky filled with swirling purples and magentas, the occasional burst of laser light visible as it passed through the ship's shields. Then with a quiet, calculating rage, she told the Remora what he already knew.
    'It's your choice to live up here,' she said.
    She said, 'It's your calling and your culture. You're Remoran by choice, as I recall, and if you don't want responsibility for your own decisions, perhaps I should take possession of your life for you. Is that what you want, Orleans?'
    The hairy eyes pulled into hard little tufts. A dark voice asked, 'What if I let you, madam? What would you do to me?'
    'Take you below, then cut you out of your lifesuit. To begin with. Rehabilitate your body and your mangled genetics until you could pass for human. And then, to make you especially miserable, I would turn you into a captain. I'd give you my uniform and some real authority, plus my massive responsibilities. Including these occasional tours of the hull.'
    The gruesome face was furious.
    An indignant voice assured her, 'It's true what they say. You've got the ugliest soul of any of them!
    Quietl y and furiously, Miocene said, 'Enough.'
    She informed Orleans, 'This tour is finished. Take me back to Port Erinidi. And in a straight line this time. If I see one more memorial, I promise, I'll carve you out of that suit myself. Here, and now.'
    I n an accidental fashion, the Remoras were Miocenes creation.
    Ages ago, as the Great Ship reached the dusty edge of the Milky Way, there was a critical need to repair the aged hull and protect it from future impacts.The work swamped the available machinery — shipborn and human-built. It was Miocene who suggested sending the human crew out into the hull. The dangers were obvious, and fickle. After billions of years of neglect, the electromagnetic shields and laser arrays were in shambles; repair teams could expect no protection from impacts and precious little warning. But Miocene created a system where no one was asked to take larger risks than anyone else. Gifted engineers and the highest captains served their mandatory time, dying with a laudable regularity. Her hope was to patch the deepest craters with a single warlike push , then the surviving engineers would automate every system, making it unnecessary for people ever to walk the hull again.
    But human nature subverted her meticulous plans.
    A low-ranking crew member would earn negative marks. They might be minor violations of dress, or moments of clear insubordination. Either way, those offenders could clean up their files by serving extra time on the hull. Miocene looked on it as an absolution, and she gladly sent a few souls 'upstairs* But a few captains confused the duty for a punishment, and over the course of a few centu ries, they banished thousands of subordinates, sometimes for nothing worse than a surly word heard in passing.
    There was a woman, a strange soul named Wune, who went up onto the hull and remained there. Not only did she accept her duties, she embraced them. She declared that she was living a morally pure life, full of contemplation and essential work. With a prophets manipulative talents, she found converts to her newborn faith, and her converts became a small, unified population of philosophers who refused to leave the hull.
    'Remora'