Hull Zero Three

“Maybe,” she says. She looks around. “Why don’t we set off alarms? I mean, we come out of nowhere—and you say the magic words, and suddenly it’s all better. How’s that possible?”

“Too good to be true,” my twin says, and I reluctantly agree. We can’t afford to be complacent, but it is getting more comfortable. Maybe that’s the point—we’re letting down our guard.

“It mentioned shutting out Destination Guidance—or words to that effect,” I say. “Apparently, communications between the hulls have been blocked. Some kind of prolonged struggle for power, maybe—like a war.”

“I wish we knew more about that conflict,” my other says.

“Maybe the girls can explain,” I say, guilty to be shoving responsibility over to them. But, then, they started me off on this journey. “I think they might have come from here… originally, a while back.”

“Now there’s a thought,” Tsinoy says, and smacks its jaws again.

“Why can’t any one of us talk to the hull?” the spidery woman asks, but before her question can be addressed, or ignored, or whatever that sort of question deserves, in an atmosphere of almost total ignorance—

The girls slide forward on bars, almost flying, and call us together in high, piping voices.

“We need names—we need names now!” they announce together. “Gather for your names!”

“Mother must be nearby,” my twin says in an undertone. “I think we’re about to be introduced.”

THE NAMING, PART ONE

The girls move in symmetry, one left, one right, and gather us in a circle. Tsinoy, out of respect for its armor, is not touched, but all the girls have to do is raise their hands and look at the Tracker and it complies. The spin has increased enough that we stay on our feet without bouncing up at every toe twitch.

As we wait for the girls to arrange us just right, as if setting the table for a tea party, my other murmurs to the spidery woman, who whispers back, and then he says to me: “We’re getting pretty heavy. The outer parts of the hull have to be moving fast—uncomfortable if we’re headed that direction. I’m thinking there aren’t any new applicants working their way through the outboard tubes.”

Good information to have—maybe we’re alone, or maybe everyone important has been concentrated along the hull’s center axis.

“Or the hull’s trying to shed attackers,” I say.

“Wow. That’s a possibility, too.”

The girls walk around our circle, on the inside, and christen each of us in turn. “You are Kim,” one girl announces, tapping Big Yellow’s knee. Her twin, on the opposite side of the circle, brushes the spidery woman’s hand. “And you are Nell,” she says. The other girl taps the Knob-Crest and says, in a strangely comprehensible hoot, “Tomchin.”

To me, “You are Sanjay.”

And to my twin, “You are Sanjim. But we call you both Teacher. And you are Tsinoy, of course,” they conclude with the Tracker. “Now you all have names.”

“What about your names?” Nell asks.

“Mother knows. You do not need to know.”

“That’s not fair, is it?” Kim asks.

One girl pats his hand, and when he opens it, she folds herself into his fingers, then jerks her arms and head—up! He lifts her and holds her out high. This stirs something in my deep memory— something cultural, but I can’t quite place it. A monster and a girl. Anyway, he’s the wrong color, and so is she.

“We love all,” she says, high over our circle. “We have prayed you here. That is enough. Others will come later, if necessary.”

“Then who’s in charge?” Nell asks.

“Mother,” my twin suggests. “Maybe Mother and Ship Control are one and the same.”

“So far, no objections,” Kim says. “I’m going aft in case our host laid out a big spread and made up some beds, but forgot to tell us.” I follow Kim—such a little name for such a large fellow—and the girls seem to agree that exploration is in order.

Where the staging area had been in Hull Zero One, there’s a similar space, but—as we saw during our first reconnoiter—the interior architecture is nascent, rudimentary. Still, cables and rails are in place, and even ladders and crawling tubes with rungs. We can get around—we are being accommodated. We move aft and inboard, up, climbing through a tube to a hatch. The hatch opens as my hand grips the topmost rung. More warmth spills out. The smaller spaces are warming quickly. Then I smell something marvelous.

Food. Kim was right.

We enter a broad chamber, a giant pie section of the central bulge that pokes into the staging area. The chamber’s design is different from the broad, flat room in the other hull, but who cares? As we watch, teardrop extrusions rise from the floor and push out in rows from the walls. Little silver covers open in the rounded tops of each teardrop as we walk from one to the next.

Kim shakes his head and murmurs, “We can’t eat—not until we’re all here.”

“Right.” But my hands are twitching.

We go back and call the others. When all have assembled, we show them how the covers open and how food fills each dish. The food is in small cubes, beige and green and white, and smells delicious, but we are far from choosy. Each meal is enclosed in a flexible sphere. The sphere is transparent and allows our hands in and out, along with small bits—not burning hot. Something doesn’t want us to eat too fast or too much. Water and a sweet, reddish liquid are available from taps around the room, squeezing out little bulbs we can sip from.

The hull has laid out a feast.

Tsinoy eats what we eat and seems content.

Before we’ve had anywhere near our fill, the teardrops withdraw, but the spigots remain, dispensing smaller bulbs. We’re being rationed. We’ve been nearly starved ever since we were made—no sense overdoing it.

“Who do we thank?” Nell asks, licking her long fingers.

“Whom,” my twin corrects.

“Right. Whom do we thank?” she repeats archly.

The girls yell, “Teacher!” and laugh, musical tones that delight almost as much as the food—or the red drink. We all smile, even the Knob-Crest, Tomchin.

Now, soft, circular beds rise from the floor. On one side of the room, the teardrops and spigots are replaced by cylinders filled with running water. Steam puffs out from cuts in the pliable surround, slits that allow entry. Nearby, drawers open, with clothing folded inside. Small lights play across our faces, matching the color of our assigned shower stalls—and our drawers filled with changes of clothes.

We’ve each been measured and fitted.

“Mother provides,” the girls say. “All is well.”

One stall is even big enough for Kim, and a burning question is answered when another, bigger cylinder shapes itself, and Tsinoy climbs in to be sprayed down with water, like a great, horrible wolf.

The Tracker likes to keep clean.

“It’s not a big warm tub,” Nell says as she emerges, naked, furry gray patches slicked and glistening. “But it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.” Then she adds, looking between me and my twin, “In my young life, of course.”

STORYTIME

We lounge on the pads like campers under a giant tent—the pie-slice room even