Hull Zero Three

“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 her 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.