Hull Zero Three Read online

  “Where do you two come from?” Big Yellow asks. “And how did you learn to pilot this craft?”

  The girls wrap their arms closer and tighter. “Our secret,” one whispers.

  “All right,” the spidery woman says. “What about our other new comrade?” She looks at the Knob-Crest. He’s been mum ever since we left the hull.

  “Do you understand us?” Big Yellow asks him.

  He nods, then shakes his head.

  “I’m confused, too,” Big Yellow says, folding his arms—which he can barely do. “But I fearlessly vote with the majority.”

  The spidery woman reconnects her hands with the sphere. “I’ve found something just aft of the bow—looks like the hulls have access ports in similar locations. If there’s no objection, I’m going in.”

  “Maybe we should—” my twin starts, then pulls back and falls silent. I know just what he’s thinking—and what he thinks when he reconsiders. We could find that the third hull, internally, is in as sad a shape as the first, in which case, maybe a different port of entry would be best. But we just don’t know. Any port in a storm—when your other choices are certain destruction or floating around in deep space forever.

  The little egg-craft is quiet—no engine sounds, no real feeling of motion but a gentle push to the large end, and then a gentle shove to the small end—

  And we stop. There’s a subtle sensation of being locked onto something much larger, much more massive, an end to all the little signs of motion. Stability.

  “Hull Zero Three,” the spidery woman announces. “If the machinery works, we should be able to open the hatch from this side.”

  One of the girls floats toward the plate near the forward hatch. Before we can object, she pulls the plate to one side, and the hatch opens. Beyond is a warm glow. For a moment, I wonder if everything is on fire, and then I feel the cold. No fire. The air is cold and fresh. Just reddish light, status lighting, visible to factors—and to Killers.

  THE LAST HULL

  Big Yellow volunteers to go first. I protest, but he raises a broad hand, looks me firmly in the eye, then turns to Tsinoy. “If I don’t come back, you and one of the Teachers go next and find out what happened. If none of them comes back,” he says to the spidery woman, “push away. Try the second hull, or whatever you think is best. It looks bad, but it might still be livable—less desirable but still real estate, right?”

  “I’ll go with you,” a girl says. “And one will stay here.”

  “No,” Big Yellow insists. “I don’t want to worry about anyone else. I don’t feel the cold—much. Maybe I can find a switch and turn on the heat.”

  “How would you know where to look?” the spidery woman asks.

  “I’ll charm the hull with wit,” Big Yellow says, and moves through the hatch. “Close it behind me. And shove off if I’m not back in… ten minutes?”

  For some reason, him using that word, minutes, so casually, saying it aloud, brings back another flood of associations. Seconds, minutes, hours, days—planets spinning on their axes, one side in shadow, the other bathed in the light of a sun—then collections of days, months, pentads, or dekads, adding up to a year, going around the sun once, in a planetary orbit—

  The words have occurred to me before, just not as sharply. Hope of life is making me sentimental. My twin is lost in similar reflections. We hardly notice the hatch closing.

  One of the girls approaches the Knob-Crest and starts to hoot. He seems to understand and responds with more of this musical language.

  Tsinoy has lapsed into motionless repose. It opens one eye.

  The girl breaks off conversation with the Knob-Crest. “He saw nothing but bodies—and factors cleaning up more bodies. And Killers,” she says. “We’re the last survivors from Hull Zero One.”

  “How did he escape the Killers?” I ask.

  “He doesn’t want to talk about it,” she says.

  The Knob-Crest curls up and shuts his eyes.

  My twin and I look at the girls, our glances crossing as we switch our examinations, twin to twin and back again. “Do either of you know how to access the Catalog?” I ask.

  The girls shake their heads. “We pray for Teachers,” one says. “Mother tells us where to look for them. They keep dying.”

  “Too curious or too slow,” I say.

  “Or both,” my other says.

  “Why look for teachers?” the spidery woman asks. “If they’re all so delicate… It seems that Tsinoy and I have a lot of the answers we all need. Where in your Catalog—whatever that is—do we fit in?”

  Silence. The girls close their eyes and hug.

  The waiting is excruciating. I try to remember more details about the Catalog. We might have been able to access it from the controls in the bow chamber, though I have no idea what we could do with it. So I muse some more about Destination Guidance. I’m considering Big Yellow’s suggestion that Tsinoy’s apparent skill set is somehow ideally suited for that role.

  Only then do I realize that not one of us has considered yet another haven should this hull prove to be a disaster area.

  “Why don’t we go down to the moon and try the quarters there?” I ask.

  “Where?” the spidery woman asks.

  “Down there.” I point. “On the moon. The sphere.”

  The girls are like statues. I might as well have belched in a roomful of prissy old ladies. (Yes, those images seem to make sense to me. But I wonder if prissy is a smell or a behavior.)

  “It’s as if it doesn’t exist,” my other concludes. “We see it—we even talk about it—then… it drops out of our thoughts.”

  “What does?” I ask, but I’m joking… I think.

  He slaps my arm.

  “Still, it could be a refuge,” the spidery woman admits with a frown of concentration. “If we remember it’s there.”

  The girls blink their disapproval.

  “Maybe it doesn’t exist… in our imprinting,” I say, still spooked by that very idea.

  “I remember it,” Tsinoy says.

  Of course. “Good. Keep reminding us,” I say.

  “Why am I so different inside?” Tsinoy asks. “I take pleasure thinking about stars, the interstellar medium, protective shields… velocities.”

  “Mix and match,” the spidery woman says. “Maybe they made a mistake imprinting you.” She looks at me, that word distasteful to her.

  There’s a heavy knock on the hatch. She reaches out and opens it, and Big Yellow whuffs back in, more green than yellow now. “Boy, it is cold. I think it’s deserted. No bodies, no damage, no factors.”

  “How far did you go?” the spidery woman asks.

  “Not far. Next step, I go out with one of the Teachers and we reconnoiter.”

  “Mighty big word,” my other says.

  “Yeah,” Big Yellow says, smiling. “I think I’ve found my résumé. I’m a police officer. A beat cop.”

  We don’t bother asking what that means. I can easily picture him beating on whatever a cop is.

  “But it’s really cold,” he says. “So we won’t be able to stay long—unless we find some controls.”

  The three females collect our gray bags, empty the last food scraps and bottles, and slip them over my arms and legs. They have Tsinoy snip a hole in one bag and push it over my head and shoulders. I look ridiculous. Why me and not him? But Big Yellow seems to be able to tell the difference between us, and he selected me with a brush of his big hand on my shoulder.

  Then I think, I’m the least experienced of the two. I’m more expendable.

  The Knob-Crest is still curled up, at least pretending to sleep.

  The girl opens the hatch again and we push into the hull. The hatch shuts with a last puff of warm air. I’m back where I started—trying to avoid freezing to death.

  “Let’s try to make it into the bow chamber and see if it’s active,” Big Yellow says.

  “Is there another staging area aft?” I ask, my breath cloudy.


  “Seems to be, but just framework, cradles—no ships or anything.”

  “Supplies?”

  “Not that I saw. But I wasn’t out here long,” he says.

  “No joke. What do you think, five minutes?” I ask.

  “Less for you. You’re smaller—you’ll freeze faster.”

  “I’ve got my arctic gear,” I say, lifting my bag-wrapped arms.

  “Right. Forward.”

  I follow, grateful I’m not touching the surfaces with my bare hands. Still, getting around is awkward—I can only push and deflect and mitten-grab as we jump and bounce and move forward toward the nose.

  The nose chamber is open, but everything within is rudimentary—just bumps and odd blue outlines where control pylons might eventually push out like sunflowers. The view forward is obscured by covers—we can’t see the stars.

  “Not any better here,” I say.

  “That’s why I brought you. You say Ship Control spoke to you. Maybe the girls know something they aren’t telling us. And frankly, I trust you more than I trust them… Don’t ask why, but I’m thinking you might have a special relationship with this place. Try it.”

  “Try what?”

  “Over there.” He points toward a blue circumferential line where the covers could conceivably pull back and reveal the view. “Sing it a lullaby. Or bark at it. Just do something.”

  I feel like a fool—but I’m also scared. If nothing happens, then maybe I’m just another failure. Or I imagined the voice back in Hull Zero One.

  “Seems we left the silveries and laser guy back where we came from,” I say as I delicately move toward the front of the bow chamber.

  “There are no silveries,” Big Yellow says.

  “Right.”

  There are also no cables or maneuvering bars here—not yet. I hold out my hands like a high-wire artist (catching inner glimpses of a big mess of something called a circus), but that doesn’t help much. I still lift up with each step and waste time waiting to come back down.

  “Talk to it,” Big Yellow says from ten meters behind.

  “Hello, there!” I call. My voice echoes weirdly in the cylindrical chamber—and the last echo comes from way behind, as if there’s yet another Teacher far aft, hiding. “How about some heat? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  We listen. The hull isn’t exactly silent. There are all sorts of subtle sounds, some regular, others sporadic, some deep and rich, others faint and tinny. All seem far, far away.

  My feet are numb, my hands are numb, my lungs ache and there’s frost on my chin. I reach up and brush it off. Little flakes of rime swing left and slowly drift outboard. What I wouldn’t give for the honest gravity of a good old-fashioned planet.

  I look over my shoulder at Big Yellow. “Time’s up,” I say. “I won’t be able to move if—”

  “Are you Destination Guidance?” a voice asks. It seems to come from all around—neither male nor female, but neither is it obviously mechanical. For a moment, I think Big Yellow is pulling a joke, but he’s as startled as I am. He looks around, hunkered—knees bent and feet lifted, actually, slowly falling outboard. He encourages me with one outstretched hand.

  I can’t locate the source of the voice. Again, I feel it might be dangerous to answer one way or another—the last time such a voice addressed me, it helped for a little while but did not linger or return. Maybe Control was disappointed.

  “No,” I say. “We’re not Destination Guidance.” Honesty is again the best policy. Besides, I’m beginning to firmly believe that whatever is wrong with Ship may be because of Destination Guidance. Call it a hunch, but it seems more than that.

  They shouldn’t be here. Nobody should be asking about them. Ship shouldn’t care about them anymore.

  “We came over from the first hull—Zero One. It’s a wreck. Somebody, something—you, maybe—spoke to me before—”

  “No record,” the voice says. “There is a transfer craft docked to this hull. Was it sent by Destination Guidance?”

  “No.” A long pause. We’ve really screwed up, I think. Then:

  “Does it contain daughters?”

  This makes my muscles knot and my spine shiver. If I had any body hair, I’m sure it would prickle.

  “Yes,” I say. “Two little girls.”

  “Do they require assistance?”

  “Yes,” I say. “They want to find their mother.”

  Big Yellow looks around the bow chamber with his mouth open, like a yokel at a country fair. Circuses and fairs—all useless imagery, but somehow comforting. I need comfort. I could totally screw up our chances of survival—screw up any chance that the hulls will ever rejoin to form Ship, that Ship will ever find a stellar system and a beautiful planet….

  “We need heat and food and water. A change of clothes would be nice,” I say.

  “You are not Destination Guidance.”

  “I think… that’s right,” I say.

  “I have rejected or destroyed all envoys from Destination Guidance,” the voice says. “After communication with the other hulls was blocked.”

  “Good,” I say. “What are you?”

  “Welcome,” the voice says. “Daughters are expected.”

  We feel it right away—the gentle spin increases. Then, cables and bars grow out of the surface of the chamber, stringing and arranging magically. A billowing draft of warmer air swirls down from the center. And the walls light up, brilliantly, until we’re almost blinded. Our eyes adjust behind our raised hands and Big Yellow laughs. The sound is deep and rich and satisfying, and I join in, but I can’t compete—my laugh is a doggish, repetitive bark.

  We join up along a raised bar, and Big Yellow extends his huge hand. “You know how to shake, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I say. My hand is lost in his, but he doesn’t squeeze too hard.

  “Food!” he shouts, and the whole chamber booms. “Ask it for food and drink! And I need a bath!”

  DANGEROUS HOPE

  We go back and wait in the egg-craft for an hour, giving the hull time to warm to a tolerable level. Then we bring the others into the bow chamber. As a group, we look sad and worn down, but there’s a glint in our eyes—except for Tsinoy’s, which are as flat and pink as ever. But even the Tracker seems to be enjoying the new possibilities, the relief of not being pursued. Not now, not yet. Of having a little time to catch up and consider what we need to do next. The Knob-Crest still looks sleepy. I wonder if he took a knock on the head somewhere and hasn’t recovered.

  “You spoke to the hull, to Ship Control,” my twin says, standing close.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think so.” We watch the girls walk hand-in-hand toward the bow. The front plates are still shut.

  “Is it healthy? Is it really in control?”

  “You’ve been around longer. You know more than I do.”

  “Not really. Everything we’ve seen, everything we’ve been told, could be an illusion, or a trap. What if the hull is fading, losing its grip?”

  Tsinoy approaches. We’re almost used to the Tracker’s nearness; the egg-craft was pretty confining, and familiarity breeds familiarity—but nothing like contempt. It ripped some of the nastiest Killers to shreds.

  It elongates, stretching. “I would like to take a look forward and contemplate.”

  “Why?” my other asks.

  “See our situation. View the stars. Speculate.”

  “Just a few more minutes,” I say. “We’ll see if we get food and water, then we’ll ask for the forward plates to open.”

  “All right,” Tsinoy agrees. It makes a little clack with its jaws and teeth. We both jump, but this seems to indicate a desire to just sit and think, without interruption. “But soon.”

  The spidery woman has been silent since emerging from the egg-craft. I don’t know how to read her expression. Eyes wide and a little moist, she moves slowly from place to place along the cables, as if waiting for something to do, someone to be—a redefinition of h
er role seems in order. I approach her, my twin not far behind. We’re both thinking the same thing. “If we get the controls back, can you tell us more about the condition of the hull, the Ship?” he asks.

  “Maybe,” she says. She looks around. “Why don’t we set off alarms? I mean, we come out of nowhere—and you say the magic words, and suddenly it’s all better. How’s that possible?”

  “Too good to be true,” my twin says, and I reluctantly agree. We can’t afford to be complacent, but it is getting more comfortable. Maybe that’s the point—we’re letting down our guard.

  “It mentioned shutting out Destination Guidance—or words to that effect,” I say. “Apparently, communications between the hulls have been blocked. Some kind of prolonged struggle for power, maybe—like a war.”

  “I wish we knew more about that conflict,” my other says.

  “Maybe the girls can explain,” I say, guilty to be shoving responsibility over to them. But, then, they started me off on this journey. “I think they might have come from here… originally, a while back.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Tsinoy says, and smacks its jaws again.

  “Why can’t any one of us talk to the hull?” the spidery woman asks, but before her question can be addressed, or ignored, or whatever that sort of question deserves, in an atmosphere of almost total ignorance—

  The girls slide forward on bars, almost flying, and call us together in high, piping voices.

  “We need names—we need names now!” they announce together. “Gather for your names!”

  “Mother must be nearby,” my twin says in an undertone. “I think we’re about to be introduced.”

  THE NAMING, PART ONE

  The girls move in symmetry, one left, one right, and gather us in a circle. Tsinoy, out of respect for its armor, is not touched, but all the girls have to do is raise their hands and look at the Tracker and it complies. The spin has increased enough that we stay on our feet without bouncing up at every toe twitch.

  As we wait for the girls to arrange us just right, as if setting the table for a tea party, my other murmurs to the spidery woman, who whispers back, and then he says to me: “We’re getting pretty heavy. The outer parts of the hull have to be moving fast—uncomfortable if we’re headed that direction. I’m thinking there aren’t any new applicants working their way through the outboard tubes.”