Killing Titan Page 16

  Back in Chula Vista, we went our separate ways, except for me and Joe. Famke flew off to work in Africa. The other guys melted into the southland. Joe kept the mummy in his parents’ garage until his mom opened the box one morning, pulled out the brush, and screamed. His dad called the cops. No charges were filed. Nobody could figure out how many laws we’d broken, or what to charge us with, and besides, by then, we’d already joined the Skyrines. The authorities ended up putting the mummy in a museum in San Diego. Strange days.

  I slide from kid-flick memories into deeper sleep. It seems to go on longer than the few minutes left before our rendezvous. Some part of the kid flick is still with me, because I see piles of old comic books spread out on a narrow little cot in a room with a crazy, leaning roof—an attic bedroom not much bigger than a closet and filled with shelves bent under loads of books and boxed comics, an old tablet with a cracked screen, another tablet with a keyboard that projects from the front onto a desk, so I can write stuff—not that I write much. A few essays. Once I tried to write a comic and draw it as well, but didn’t get very far. I remember I loved Silver Surfer. The freedom, the audacity, that chrome-shiny body. Kind of like T-1000 on a surfboard.

  I never liked Silver Surfer. I never had an attic bedroom. I’m trying to wake up and not succeeding.

  This isn’t about you. They’re shutting me down slowly, and I just want to move around a little before I’m done.

  I see the Silver Surfer float along the aisle of the lander, and he’s conversing seriously with Batman. Jesus, I do not think they would ever get along. Alternate universes. Two different kinds of bad attitude. One cosmic, the other…

  I tell myself over and over, I never read Silver Surfer. I never had an attic room. Never wanted to write comics. So who loved him, and who could imagine him hanging out with Batman?

  It’s Coyle. Coyle is dreaming inside my head. She’s decided to share.

  “Stop it,” I say. “Please.”

  You and your fucking train—and Jesus, that mummy! I want out. I don’t know how to get out! I don’t know what I am.

  “You’re a ghost,” I say.

  I’m not dead. You know I’m not.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  I’ve been sucked in and I’m being stored away. Like all the others, only slower. Something seems to think I’m useful like this. Still active.

  I can feel my lips moving. I’m mumbling, but I can’t wake up. “They’re all glass now.”

  It’s not glass.

  “What the hell is it? Silicon?”

  Not that, either. If the crystals are threatened, they reach out and absorb. That’s how they learn about threats—by absorbing the things that threaten them. I threatened them. Now, I’m getting stiff. Solid.

  “DJ says all of Mars could turn glass. Then you’d have lots of company.”

  I’ve already got company. You wouldn’t believe how much company.

  “Skyrines?”

  Yeah. Some Voors, some of my team. Others, Russians and Muskies, that didn’t finish before they were blown up in the Drifter. They’ve already been recorded. Stored. I try to avoid them.

  “Right.” I start to shiver. If I shiver enough, maybe someone will wake me.

  Coyle goes on: You saw me get absorbed. You thought I was dead. So did DJ. I still don’t know what happens after, except… before I’m done, I can still talk to you.

  “If you call this talking,” I say.

  Shut up and listen. This place I’m in, if it is a place, is filled with big stuff and little stuff. I think a lot of it is old. I mean, really old—billions of years or more. With my help, maybe you can access some of it. That’s what it wants. But I need you, as well.

  I just want her to go away. I want it all to go away so I can be as sane as I was before.

  “I’m already there,” I say to this craziness. “Ancient bug history.”

  Not just that. Really important stuff. With my help, you might be able to understand. Interpret. But right now… I can’t help. I’m locked out. There’s a kind of firewall that stops me from looking around and searching. Keeps me from being active.

  “Meaning what?” I ask.

  Batman and the Silver Surfer have parted ways and are now just floating. I see them despite the fact that my eyes are closed. But then, my eyes have been closed all along.

  I think this place needs a user to get it to open up. Someone alive. Really alive. Somebody with a need to know that deserves access privileges.

  “Is it a kind of library? Why don’t you check out a book or two?”

  I am a book, shithead! There’s only so much I can do. I’m becoming a record, and records are tightly controlled.

  “They don’t let books run the library, huh?”

  I refresh or something every little while, and I’m allowed a kind of exercise—meeting up with similar records—and that feels good, but… Oh, crap. I’m in the cage again. Time out. No more for now.

  I finally manage to crack my eyelids. Blurry, Joe and DJ hang over me.

  “You okay?” Joe asks. “We couldn’t wake you.”

  DJ smiles. “He’s okay,” he says.

  Ship attachment noises ring out around us.

  “We’re transferring,” Joe says.

  “What’s all this about turning glass and old records?” I ask DJ.

  DJ makes his “it hurts to think” face. “It’s pretty huge,” he says. “I don’t know how huge. When I hook in through one of the ones who turned glass, I just…” Again the pained expression. He shakes his head. “Let’s go over that later,” he says.

  “No, now,” I say.

  The ship lurches. Our Skyrines and the Russians grab couches and stanchions. Jacobi flows smoothly past, followed by Ishida. Borden is waiting in the alcove opposite, beside the stowed pod. Crew Chief follows the last of our group. “We’ve docked,” he says. “You got three minutes. I want you out of here as fast as possible. I will not stay connected to Spook for any longer than I have to.”

  “Got it,” I say, then focus back on DJ. Borden listens closely.

  “The tea hooks us in,” DJ says. “Nobody’s figured out how. But we’re guests. We don’t yet have full privileges.”

  “Coyle said the same thing,” I say.

  “Sir, that’s not Captain Coyle,” DJ says. “Everyone who turns glass shows up sooner or later. I don’t know if we can trust anything they say, because the records have their own motives. They need to help us to stay flexible. They need to be useful to a potential user.”

  Joe shows his puzzle face.

  “I can see the bugs, some of their history, their living back then, because the records want that,” DJ says softly. “But I don’t know what’s true and what’s propaganda—understand? The records cover everything. That’s all I got.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But where are they? In the glass?”

  DJ spreads his hands, nods, points his nose left, then right. “Kind of like that,” he says.

  I pull up from the couch. “Maybe Walker Harris knows,” I say.

  “Who’s he?” DJ says.

  “Came to visit me at Madigan. Could be a Guru.”

  “Amazing!” DJ says, totally credulous. “What do they look like?”

  “A guy. Let’s go,” I say.

  It’s DJ’s turn to stall. “Did you dream about Silver Surfer and Batman?” he asks.

  We both twitch.

  “Yeah, just now,” I say.

  “I’ve dreamed that so many times,” DJ says. “Bat and Surf keep arguing, never resolve anything. Is that Coyle?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, she doesn’t like me as much as you, but she’s stuck with us, right?”

  “I heard it different,” I say.

  “Ice Moon Tea, the records, whatever you want to call it, makes Coyle repeat that dream. I wonder she doesn’t get bored.”

  “She’s definitely irritated,” I say. “That sounds like emotion, doesn’t it?”


  DJ thinks this over. “Yeah,” he says. “But maybe that was her ground state when she was alive.”

  “We have to leave,” Borden says, listening, taking notes in her head. I’m still undecided about Borden but this part I definitely do not like.

  “Come on!” Crew Chief shouts, waving his arm. There’s a frantic note in his voice. Spook ship actually frightens him. “We’ve only got a few minutes!”

  We pass up the aisle and through the hatch into the accordion. Windows in the accordion’s long stretch show us a shiny, curvy, intricate white framework wrapped around long clusters of glowing spheres like Japanese paper lanterns—and surrounding everything, those shrouds, the bright outer skirts, pleated panels rippling like silk in a slow breeze. Doesn’t look practical, barely looks real.

  Kumar and Mushran and Litvinov meet us on the other side. “We get privilege of Star Gown,” Litvinov says. Russian name for Spook. “Three weeks to Titan—”

  “Excellent!” Kumar says.

  “Not so excellent. Departing Earth, Star Gown was attacked,” Litvinov says. “Three weeks may be nine weeks, or months, if she is not at full speed. There is damage to seeds, to weapons, and damage to two drives.”

  Kumar looks perturbed. With a shake of his head, as if dismissing this doubtful news, he moves ahead to the hatch opening into the bigger ship. All of us compete to twist and find a better viewing angle.

  Jacobi shoves her hand out. “Shit—there, and there,” she says. We see gray streaking the shrouds and, farther aft, curled and torn struts and vanes. Forward, on a long, twisted boom that once separated cargo from forward living quarters, shattered spheres bunch like smashed eggs in a carton. “Looks bad,” Jacobi says.

  We pull ourselves along ropes that suddenly acquire wills of their own, stiffening and then coiling, rudely tugging the last of the lander’s passengers into the Spook’s shadowy gray interior. I swing up beside Borden as we move into a pitch-black chamber. Sounds big in here. Long echoes from the squeak and whistle and snap of the ropes. Then the lights come on, and everything turns White. Even harder to see how big the space is. Distant bays, cubes, trestles hung with rounded transporters. Spook is big.

  “Can this ship still get us out there?” I ask Borden.

  She squints at all the whiteness. Everything here is spotless and clean, despite the outer damage. “We’re here. The settlers have made it to their frames. Everybody on the landers is safe.”

  “I’m turning you over to CWO Mueller,” the lander’s crew chief says behind us. We had forgotten he was still there. He makes a face at what he’s seen. “Then I’m taking off.”

  “Mueller isn’t here yet,” Borden mutters.

  “She will be.” Crew Chief makes another face, as if he’s glad to avoid the encounter, then tosses a quick salute, takes the rope, and grapples back to the hatch. The hatch hisses and snicks shut. Pressure pokes our ears—more echoing clangs and far-off, metallic scraping that seem to come from all around. The landers that delivered us are away. We’re on our own.

  Kumar hands his way back, sweating profusely. “Pilots say the ship is capable,” he tells us, “but threats gather, and to reach full speed this close to Mars will be difficult.”

  Borden asks, “Where in hell is Mueller?”

  The ropes slack and we transfer to grips along a series of parallel rails. We line up between the rails like a line of expectant gymnasts.

  “Here she is,” Borden says.

  The Spook’s crew chief swings down from a hatch overhead, arms and legs spread like a swimmer at the end of a deep dive, just before surfacing. She’s forty-something with a Persian-cat face and looks like a former beauty queen who’s spent too many years under the Texas sun—pretty in a rough fashion but hard. She wears a slender white crown that curls around her ears and seems to be listening to someone or something unpleasant. With a brisk nod, she removes the crown, lifts her pointed chin, and focuses her full attention on us.

  “I’m CWO 7 Mueller,” she says. “Beulah Mueller. Grunts call me Bueller. I’m go bitch on Lady of Yue, so listen up!”

  She’s a formidable presence. We listen.

  “We have an incoming Box that doesn’t want us to leave, and a squadron of disgruntled corvettes are about one-twenty K from us. They’ve been chasing us since NEO, they caught us once halfway to Mars—causing the damage you’ve just seen. We probably can’t afford another run-in.”

  “Losses?” Kumar asks.

  “All our gunnery mates, three out of four glider pilots. Fifty-six dead.”

  This news shakes Borden. “If we get to Titan, can we even begin our mission?” she asks.

  “We can try, Commander,” Bueller says. “Let’s worry about that after we finish Spook prep. Is this all of you?”

  “All,” Litvinov confirms. Borden sadly agrees.

  “We asked for a hundred and forty. I count thirty-one,” Bueller says. “Waste of a big ship!” She grabs a pair of handles and swings in ahead of Kumar. The bars lurch and haul us forward. “First phase is coming up. Anyone here rated for big weapons? Bolts and long-range disruptors?”

  Ishida, Jacobi, one of the efreitors, and Ulyanova raise their hands.

  “Good. Talk to me in a few minutes. Right now, all of you strip and we’ll get you right with Jesus.”

  The rails carry us forward to a more constrained space, walls dark with streamers of purple. I see little sparks in my vision. All of us going transvac experience cosmic rays now and then. But these sparks leave neon trails. They don’t look like cosmic rays. More like optical migraines. Just a hint of what’s to come.

  Bueller watches as we shed our skintights, this time without the help of gravity, a one-handed maneuver—other hand on a handle—that some accomplish with speed and grace, but which takes me longer.

  “I want to see you naked, Venn!” Bueller shouts.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bueller’s voice becomes painful. Worse, I find it difficult to look at her—I keep wanting to look away. There’s something off about her outline, her image. Is it me? The purple streaks and neon sparks? A weirdly opticked crew chief. She just doesn’t look real. The rest seem to agree. No one will look at her directly without a squint or shake of the head. Joe is off to my left. I catch his eye. He knows something we don’t. Christ, now I’m feeling like dried bonito—downright flaked.

  The shed skintights drift off to nobody seems to care where in the dark chamber. The rails drag us along, bare feet dangling, through a rectangular opening in the far bulkhead and into a space fully as large as an aircraft hangar. Here one rail takes half of us to the right, the rest to the left. Bueller hangs back and hovers, tapping heads to indicate right, left. The grunts do not appreciate the familiarity, but clearly, Go Bitch doesn’t give a damn. We’re all she’s getting and she’s not happy.

  Filling the center of the great white chamber is a steel wheel about thirty meters wide and two meters thick across, its inner rim studded with black bumps. The wheel is the first of three that form a tunnel or gantlet. I do not like this. Nobody around me likes this.

  “We have to go through those?” Jacobi asks.

  “Yeah,” Bueller says.

  “Why?”

  “Purge!”

  “What kind of purge?” Ishida asks.

  “Quantum,” Borden murmurs, but I’m the only one who hears her.

  Ishida rubs her temple. “Like castor oil, ma’am?”

  Bueller looks clown-sad. “Don’t you read our briefings?”

  “We’ve been busy, Chief,” Jacobi says.

  “It ain’t about your fucking bowels,” Bueller says. “Downsun, you’ve been hanging with bad company since before you were born. Pasts that never were, futures that will never be. They slow you down. Those wheels will start the process of getting you clean.”

  “Sounds like a tent revival,” I say.

  “Think of it as a cosmic car wash. There’ll be another at waypoint—if we make it, which is getting less and less
likely, goddammit! MOVE!”

  Bueller swims around us, effortless as a sea lion in an ocean swell. One by one, in two lanes, she guides us through what could otherwise be subway tollgates, closer and closer to the great studded wheels. The tollgate lanes end at two steel autopsy tables. Each is sprung from behind by a heavy piston. Five meters from the first wheel, Bueller taps me and Kumar and tells us to lie flat against the slabs. Not autopsy tables—more like human pinball paddles.

  Kumar looks at me with those mild, calm eyes. “I’m told it’s not unpleasant,” he says.

  “You first,” I say. He rewards me with the merest grimace.

  Behind us, Bueller taps Ishida and Jacobi next, then two Russians. Our sisters exchange finger-hooks and sharp dares and line up. The Russians clump, waiting to see what happens to us. Bueller swims back and jostles and jabs. This makes the Russians unhappy. Go Bitch doesn’t give a fuck. Neither does Litvinov. The Russian colonel looks terminally depressed.

  Kumar and I try to lie flat against the tables. Simultaneously, they hiss and not-so-gently shove us through the first wheel with just a half twist of spin. Kumar gives a little shriek, I clutch my balls, and both of us fly neatly through all three wheels. My hair stands on end. I don’t have much hair and what there is is short. My fingertips tingle, but most curious of all, my innards try to decide whether they’re properly arranged. I swear, it’s like a fucking math wiz wants to shuck my guts as a topological experiment—particularly my colon. Maybe I’ll just turn inside out. Won’t make a difference, even inside out, humans are still just donuts.

  The wheels ratchet three bumps counterclockwise and wait for the next pair. I let go of my balls. My muscles relax. My bowels stay tight and inside. I’m suddenly right with Jesus, clean and sparkly—renewed. Kumar’s source was correct—as weird as this is, the total sensation, once the purge is finished, is not unpleasant. I feel like a thunderstorm has blessed me with cool air and a lungful of charged ions. Maybe that’s it. Maybe we’re all being ionized. I’ve run into tech sergeants and engineers—including DJ—all Tesla freaks willing to swear that everything the Gurus provided had already been invented by their hero. Some insisted the Gurus weren’t real, that the government was just dosing out bits and pieces of the stuff Tesla did back in the twentieth century. I’m so invigorated I’m giving their crazy theories a new look.