Hull Zero Three

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 resume. 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.