Hull Zero Three

“Third try’s the charm,” the spidery woman says. “Come up here if you want to see what we’re up against.”

My twin floats toward the port, near the blue hemisphere. “There’s room for you, too,” she says to me, her voice silky. She enjoys being in control, in her element—who wouldn’t? She might even enjoy the company of me and my dupe. But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand the vast scheme of things any better than we do. She just knows her way around the hulls, and that’s the kind of knowledge we need right now. She’s more important than any number of Teachers.

I lay my hand next to hers on the blue sphere. Instantly, without benefit of the port, I’m out in deep space, no egg-craft, just flying in the emptiness, thick stars ahead and that awesome nebula to one side.

Something is glowing at the nebula’s core—several things, actually, almost unbearably bright.

I feel her fingers move mine, instructionally, and my point of view spins around. I seem to face the hulls, the moonlet, all in a broad sweep.

“Isn’t it grand?” she asks.

It is impressive. The glimpse through the observation blister in the first hull did not begin to do it justice— nor did my dream-vision. The totality of Ship is huge. Hundreds of thousands could live in the forward space of each spindle-shaped hull—but that isn’t what the hulls are for. They’re not meant to be big apartment buildings. They could be huge testing areas for the Klados, preparing for planetfall.

Klados. It’s a Greek word. Cladistics is derived from it —whatever that is. The Klados describes us, links us to everything that comes from the Catalogs. Where are the Catalogs kept? How are they accessed? Who controls the birthing chambers?

The egg-craft moves in toward the last uninspected hull. There’s its number, a big 03, painted on the outboard side. The paint—along with the hull’s entire surface—looks scarred and pitted and gray as we pass around the blunt nose, searching for another docking port.

I’ve learned enough about the sphere that I move my fingers and twirl around, facing forward. I’m not looking for the nebula or the stars, but for that other glow that spreads like an umbrella ahead of Ship.

I move to Ship’s outboard side, near the origin of a pale grayish beam emanating from the third hull. The beam shoots forward, then fans out into space. Similar beams radiate from the other two hulls, but the beam from Hull Zero Two flickers weakly. It’s not up to full strength.

The beams merge somewhere ahead and form a barely discernible gray shield that must be hundreds of kilometers wide. Every so often, the shield sparks—infinitely small glints spread across its surface, then travel down the gray beams. Spinning around slowly to follow the progress of a parade of these sparks, I notice that there are runnels or small channels carved aft along each hull—lots of them.

I tell nobody in particular, “Ship scoops up dust. I wonder if it scoops fuel?”

“Ship won’t get much fuel from the interstellar medium,” Tsinoy says behind us. Again, the Tracker’s expertise is surprising, almost shocking. “It’s too thin. Not much out there, actually. But if Ship encounters dust, it could use it to replenish hull surfaces. Lots of wear and tear. We’ve been traveling a long time.”

I pull my fingers away from the sphere. “Another sleeper awakes,” I say, impressed. “Maybe you should come up here.”

“My claws might damage it,” the Tracker says.

“Nonsense,” the spidery woman says. “Come try. You’re waking up faster than some of the rest of us.”

“Let’s not name names,” Big Yellow says.

“Come take the big view,” the spidery woman insists. “See what it means—what it brings back.”

Tsinoy unfolds and expands. Having seen the Tracker in real action, I cringe. I can’t help it, even after it saved our lives. I pull away from the hemisphere and give it a wide berth. Maybe that’s sad. Maybe it isn’t. We’ve all had a rough time of it lately.

The girls are awake and watch us closely.

Tsinoy places its front paws—claws, hands, grippers, whatever—on the blue hemisphere and seems to relax. All its muscles loosen, and some even let go of their holdfasts on the bones, creating that puffed-up look. The spidery woman doesn’t seem to have any difficulty staying close.

After a moment of remote viewing, it says, “We’re still at speed. We should be asleep—stored away.”

“Right,” my other says.

“Only the first hull is doing spin-up and spin-down. The second hull is dead—no motion. The third seems to be rotating at constant speed,” Tsinoy says. “Something’s happened, something bad. If Destination Guidance was supposed to find a safe harbor for us, they failed.”

The spidery woman says, “What…” but she pauses to choose her next few words, as if they take some effort. “What’s a nova, or a supernova?”

Tsinoy answers. “Remember what a sun is, a star?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Right. We shouldn’t ever come close to the kind of system where a nova could happen. A nova is a star disaster, a huge explosion. A supernova, even bigger—so powerful it could engulf hundreds of stars with deadly radiation in just a few years.” Tsinoy’s muscles rearrange again. It takes up a fresh, bunchy form, like a frosted hedgehog—yet another shape to haunt my dreams. A Killer—and a scientist. “This might be my specialty—stars, the interstellar medium.”

“Maybe you’re from Destination Guidance,” Big Yellow says. We all glare at him. “What?”

Tsinoy looks around some more, indicated by movement of its pink eyes, a slight nod and twitch of its canine head. “We seem to be emerging from one arm of a bright nebula,” Tsinoy says. “Those central stars, an empty space surrounded by brilliant strands… a pulse or wave front of radiation ionizing the interstellar medium. Recent supernova, perhaps. The explosion may be fifty years or more in the past. If we were within range, that could explain the damage to Ship.”

“Whoa,” Big Yellow says. “How could that happen?”

“Accident,” my twin says. “Or a major screwup.”

“Or sabotage,” the spidery woman says. Into our silence, she asks what option we’re going to choose—find a docking port on the last intact hull or return to our birthplace. She actually uses that word, birthplace. I don’t like it. But I can’t argue.

“We need Mother,” the girls say, not quite in unison.

“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