Hull Zero Three Page 23

  But there is no way to know just what our writer looked like. We can only surmise that he resembled me. No way of knowing for sure.

  But I feel it. Something in the way he thinks, in the word-choices apparent even through the unfamiliar flow of characters.

  My partner is less pleased with her matching.

  “She seems impossible,” she says. “Have you found anything like her in the Catalog?”

  “No,” I say, but that isn’t precisely the truth. I have used data tools to recover parts of the Catalog that were not completely erased, and even to evaluate the theoretical potentials of the original Klados—of which our present Ship retains but a small selection.

  Once, Ship was so much greater—and yes, something like the Mother could have existed. We were sent to the stars fully equipped. If we had stayed that way, I’m convinced we would have died—Ship would have either killed itself or been extinguished.

  I’ve made my decision. I can trust my partner, but observing her disgust, her sense of loss and disappointment, I realize what I must do with the last book. I am responsible for the cultural training and morale of the colonists and, ultimately, the success or failure of our long, difficult journey. It’s shocking enough to read these first ten of the recovered books and begin to understand that our histories, our past memories, have all been manufactured. More shocking still to contemplate the amoral complexities of Ship’s designers, the desperate desire to succeed at all costs, against all odds—no matter what the consequences to other worlds, other lives.

  Evil.

  Yes, but we might have benefited…. Something still lingers in me. Something wrong, perverse. Lovely.

  I have held back the final volume—the eleventh—from my partner’s eyes. Even now, it burns in my thoughts… and yet pleases. Someday, centuries from now, the complete story will be revealed, and it will rock us all, so young and confident and strong.

  But only then.

  In the meantime, our world beckons—more beautiful than we could ever have hoped.

  I have replaced the eleventh volume in the bag, sealed it in sequestered storage, made certain that it will stay on Ship for as long as Ship is safely in orbit.

  If you have read these old texts and our wraparound analysis, then you are educated and mature. But be prepared for knowledge that could alter your perception of all we have accomplished, all that we are.

  We have lives to lead and worlds to conquer—figuratively, of course. We have found a fine new world, youthful and undeveloped. There are no civilizations, no complex ecosystems. We are already incorporating its biological wisdom into our plans.

  Ship has learned. Ship was taught….

  But the teaching was hard.

  ELEVENTH BOOK

  The peace and quiet of space, away from the hulls, heading inward, toward the little moon, still protected by the shields…

  Profound silence. Not even the little egg-craft makes a sound. We are adrift, breaths held—afraid to provoke another whim of fate, or perhaps afraid to alert Destination Guidance to the fact that we are still alive. That we are about to become visitors.

  Nell breaks this silence with a deep breath. “How old is Ship, do you think?” she asks, looking at me. As if I have an answer.

  I’m spent. I shrug. “Five hundred years,” I say, surprised that this figure sticks in my head. “Maybe.”

  “So it was launched from… where? Earth? Five centuries ago?” Kim asks.

  “From the Oort cloud,” Tsinoy says. She has shrunk to a more manageable size, to give the rest of us room, rearranging her muscles and “bones” to a less energy-intensive posture. She’s still in pain.

  “What’s a wart cloud?” Kim asks, perhaps to distract her from her pain.

  “O-O-R-T. It’s the afterbirth of our solar system, a big halo of leftover ice and dust,” Tsinoy says. “Some of the conglomerations are hundreds of kilometers wide. Ship was constructed among the inner planets, then sent out to the far limits. An Oort moonlet was selected, trimmed, and compacted. All this took fifty years. Ship was attached and launched five hundred years ago, as Teacher says. If we can believe any of it.”

  “Can we go back?” Kim asks.

  “No,” Tsinoy says, and lifts a paw-claw to lick. She shudders at the taste of her wounds. “Once launched, Ship is forbidden to return. Too dangerous.”

  Another silence, a long one. We are revolving, reorienting. Our short journey—a few dozen kilometers—is coming to an end. Nell and Tsinoy move toward the viewport. They almost bump heads. I marvel at the contrast.

  Our females.

  “First things first,” I say. “Will Destination Guidance let us in?”

  “Others have sought refuge before us,” Nell says.

  “What happened to them?” I ask.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “We’re about to connect,” Kim says.

  Sounds of joining, sealing. Our ears pop as pressures equalize. Tsinoy moves toward the hatch, our first line of defense.

  The hatch opens. We are flooded with cold air. Very cold. Frost plumes before our faces.

  SILVER AGE

  The disembarkation stage is a broad cylinder slung with cables and nets. The end of the cylinder is open—but beyond lies frigid darkness. The moon-bound sphere was never designed for spin-up. Whatever lived here, lived in eternal weightlessness. Did they also live in eternal cold?

  “Tell it to be hospitable,” I suggest to Nell.

  “All right,” she says. “A little help, please!”

  No response.

  “How about some heat?” she adds.

  “Sure you weren’t speaking to a ghost?” Kim asks, shoulders flexing. He drifts out of our hatch. No one wants to touch the frosted cables or netting. The air hurts our noses and burns our lungs. At least it’s breathable, aside from the cold.

  There’s a flash, a streak of light. It’s in my eyes, not from any illumination in Ship itself. Everyone makes a startled sound, even Tsinoy. We all saw it.

  “Cosmic ray,” Tsinoy suggests.

  But I’ve seen something like it before. My saving ghost. The one that can’t possibly exist.

  A small glow begins, blue-green, then brightens to a dim yellow. The interior of the chamber beyond the landing stage is equipped with tiny glim lights, like the walls of the hulls. I’m back where this all began—moving toward light, chasing heat.

  “I get it,” Nell says. “We were taught to fear Destination Guidance because Mother didn’t want us to come down here.”

  “Or because it’s dangerous. Maybe they aren’t even remotely like us….” Kim trails off on that idea, and we cringe at the rudeness of even suggesting such a thing, at this of all times.

  “That’s confusing,” Tsinoy says. “If we were chosen by Destination Guidance…”

  “We could still be dangerous,” I say. “We’re still Mother’s children. In a way.”

  Tomchin makes a humming proclamation I don’t catch.

  Another streak of light. Tsinoy whistles and begins to bulk up. We gather close as she puts out more heat.

  “Don’t cook the babies,” I remind her.

  She turns her eyes on me and blinks slowly—three different lids, all transparent. She doesn’t sleep, doesn’t stop seeing—ever. I know the babies are fine—warmer than us, but fine.

  We hold our ground, like children on the porch of a haunted house. Autumn leaves, moonlit October nights, long dirt roads alive with tree shadows, bags filled with candy… flickering candles in carved-out pumpkins. So much in the way of lost, false memory wells up at that comparison—haunted houses and small towns and Halloween—that I’m momentarily blinded by tears.

  Someone had fun with me way back when—had fun putting me together. Or perhaps I’m based on someone real, long dead, way back on Earth.

  I’m the haunted house. My brain is the ghost here.

  “Nothing,” Nell says. “You try.” She points to me, then around to all of us. “We’ll all try, one
at a time—but you first.”

  “A little help down here!” I call out, my breath turning to snow. More minutes pass. Nell raises her hand toward Kim, and then we feel a current of air lightly flow along the cylinder. The darkness begins to creak, snap, and then groan—long metallic groans underscored by a low whoosh. We move back toward the hatch, having had quite enough, thank you—just before the warmer air brushes our faces, circles us, caresses our hands, luffs at our clothing, rustles Tsinoy’s spines—and becomes a wind.

  The sphere is finally coming to life.

  A voice speaks. We all recognize the gentle, precise tones. “I await a decision,” it says.

  “About what?” I ask.

  No answer. Nell moves forward. “We need to shut down Hull Zero Three. We don’t like what’s happening there. How can we do that without damaging Ship?”

  “Ship is already damaged,” the voice says. Lights brighten. The darkness beyond the cylinder vestibule is filled with smoothly curved surfaces, volumes, in strikingly beautiful colors and patterns, some translucent, others pale and milky. It’s like nothing we’ve seen elsewhere on Ship, as if a mad artist began blowing huge glass shapes and arranged them to an irrational aesthetic.

  But this is just one tiny part of the sphere, which is at least half a kilometer in diameter. It could be a greeting, meant to impress—or a distraction to hold and confuse us while examinations are made; a 3-D psychological test that might determine whether we live or die, are welcomed, or are flushed back into space.

  “Did you make this?” Kim asks, and I see that of all of us, he’s the most affected by the unexpected elegance and beauty.

  “This space was designed by Destination Guidance,” the voice says.

  “Are you Destination Guidance?” Nell asks.

  “No.”

  “Are you Ship Control? You sound familiar….”

  The voice asks, “What do you not like about Ship and its operations?”

  This is a loaded question, obviously, and we need some time to think it over. We haven’t moved from the cylinder, our hole of relative safety on the edge of a coral reef of color and unfamiliar beauty. If we venture out, will something grab us while we’re distracted?

  Put an end to all our worries?

  “What do you not like about Ship operations?” the voice asks again.

  Nell swallows, presses her hand against her lips, and looks to me. They’re all looking to me.

  “We think there was a war to stop Ship from killing a planet. We’re refugees.” I stop, feeling foolish again and totally unprepared. And besides, who or what am I talking to? There’s nobody here, nobody visible. The space is warming quickly. Soon, we might be invited in… sit down for tea and cookies, discuss the local interstellar weather.

  “What is conscience?” the voice asks.

  But not until we pass our biggest test.

  “The willingness to sacrifice for a greater good,” I say.

  “Sacrifice what?”

  “Dreams. Plans. Personal stuff.”

  Nell is getting irritated. Tsinoy, on the other hand, is shrinking—pulling in, drawing back. I glance over my shoulder at her.

  “She’s designed to be a Tracker, a Killer,” I say. “But she refuses to give in to her design. There’s something better inside her. Inside all of us.”

  “Did she acquire that by herself, or was it put there?”

  “I own my feelings,” Tsinoy growls. “I am what I want to be.”

  “Absolutely,” I agree. “We’ve been through the wringer.”

  “Tell me what that means.”

  “Just wait a goddamned minute!” I shout. “We’ve been put through a living hell to get here. We’ve been chased and expelled and murdered and deceived….”

  “You were created by Ship,” the voice says. “Would you rather not have been created?”

  Tsinoy shrinks back as if kicked. We’re about to act like whipped dogs, all of us. Enough.

  “You want our gratitude?” I cry out. Nell touches my arm.

  “Ship has a mission. Would you have Ship continue on that mission if it guaranteed your personal survival—and if ending that mission meant your death?”

  Tsinoy says, “We are not the only ones here.” She lifts her spines and delivers the babies, still in their bags, then hands them to the rest of us, like talismans or shields. She’s offering up the little ones she’s protected and making the rest of us their protectors as well.

  Tomchin looks distressed and holds his bag out as if it’s a bomb. Kim tucks his in the crook of one huge arm. As we receive our own infants, Nell looks at me, and we move closer, until our arms touch. It’s an awkward, scary, strangely lovely moment. I almost don’t care if we live or die. We’ve made our peace with fate.

  “We’re all human here,” I say. “You can’t judge us. You’re just a machine.”

  “Machines have not been in control for a very long time. Come in. Finish birthing the young ones, and they will be fed. There is food for you as well.”

  Nell opens her bag. “What do you think?” she asks me.

  Tsinoy moves first. Her claw delicately slits one side of the membrane. The baby comes out, and along with it, a small stream of reddish fluid. Tomchin just about loses it and starts to babble a nasal protest, offering his gray bag—now quite active—to anyone. But he’s in this with all of us.

  The other membranes are tough, but one by one, the sacs are carefully cut open and the babies withdrawn.

  I massage mine instinctively, then turn it around with country doctor wisdom, hold it with one hand, and slap its bottom with the other. Fluid gushes from its mouth as it empties its lungs. Suddenly it draws breath and starts to pinwheel its arms, then cry.

  “It’s a boy,” I say.

  Nell follows suit, then the others—even Tomchin.

  “Mine’s a girl,” Nell says.

  We use the bags to wipe them down, dry them off. We compare our infants as if we’ve opened Christmas packages—another memory that only compounds my irrational joy. Three girls, two boys. My eyes stream with tears. It’s warm enough in the vestibule that we don’t feel the need to swaddle them.

  I clean gunk from my boy’s mouth, swipe his eyes clear, pinch his nose to squeeze out the last fluid. Hold him out with the others, to our judge, our sponsor—whatever it may be. A desperate, defiant act. We hope for sympathy in a violent, damning, world, all that we’ve known and experienced in real life—as opposed to phantom memory. We long for confirmation and completion and justification—and we also long to survive and learn that our reckless existence has meaning.

  The glass pillars light up and separate, showing a passage through alternating ribs of steel, into what might be a frozen jungle. I’m not sure I like that. And more glass, lit within by green sparkles, undulating through the interior of the sphere for a hundred meters or more.

  We carry the infants and move cautiously toward the center. Streaks of green and pink ripple over the inner wall of some sort of sanctuary.

  “Welcome,” the voice says.

  The wall melts aside. Within, all is frost-covered, leafy green. Furniture comfortable for weightlessness has been shaped and positioned in and around branches, much as in Mother’s bower. I see for a moment small eyes, in pairs and triplets—many of them, staring out from between the leaves, and expect we are about to discover another female like Mother, another trap, another challenge—followed swiftly by more Killers.

  But the eyes blink and withdraw. The lights rise, and a blue glow like terrestrial sky suffuses the glade, the tree house—that’s what this all reminds me of, a tree house deep inside a jungle.

  And at the atrium where guests might be greeted, welcomed, or captured, a curling flash of silver moves between the branches in ways I can barely follow, as if its time flows in a way different from mine. It’s like trying to watch a ghost made of sky and chrome, a glinting creature all thin limbs and curves, glassy apparel flowing around its lithe body like spilled mi
lk, decorated with jeweled beads, aquamarine and emerald. And rising above this splendor, a tall, slender head, humanoid in one respect—that there are eyes, nose, something like ears on the side of the head.

  Not part of my memory—not part of Ship. Something far outside the Klados.

  A silvery.

  “Welcome to Destination Guidance.”

  The apparition is not speaking—it isn’t the being behind the voice. For a moment, it looks at me, lifts a finger to its lips, and smiles the most frightening, beautiful smile. It has no teeth.

  It drops its hand—and melts away.

  For my eyes only. The others saw nothing.

  Nell notices my violent shiver. “Come on, it’s not that bad,” she says.

  I want to throw up, but there’s nothing to expel.

  Inner lights rise. A small space has been cut out of the branches. The space is partly walled with milky panels, slender wires forming what might have once been sleeping pods. Within two of the pods are dark brown robes, and almost hidden in the robes two figures, mostly black, with touches of grayish pink, still crusted with spots of ice and frost—but rapidly thawing.

  “Are you here to relieve and replace Destination Guidance?” the voice asks.

  I wonder how these shriveled bodies can make any sound. But it’s quickly obvious, from a rising sour smell, that neither of these cold husks is the one speaking. They’ve been dead a long time.

  “I spoke with Ship,” Nell says. “We need pure Ship—the one that woke us up, that taught us how to access the Klados and Ship’s memory. No go-between. No tricks.”

  “I am not that Ship,” the voice says. “A decision must be made, but I am not empowered to make it. A new destination has been found. Guidance team has been frozen and preserved. They will revive soon.”

  Kim studies the corpses. Nell keeps back with Tsinoy. All of us feel the danger. What fought against our birth, our survival? What made creatures to kill us? Mother, Ship, or these corpses?