Hull Zero Three

and inboard. It’s working. Or at least, something’s happening.

We look at each other, help each other to the safer positions in the chamber, but say very little, listening to the constant sound of our hull being sandblasted by the ghosts of unborn worlds. It’s a creepy sound. Twenty percent of the speed of light creates a hell of a slipstream.

At least two of us still have questions, of course. That’s our nature. But we don’t voice them. Maybe the girls have their own objections, their own agenda. But we don’t need to be any more frightened than we already are. As a team, we’ve matured at least to the extent that we know that much.

And that’s pretty impressive, considering how we all began.

Maybe the designers knew a thing or two after all, is one of the thoughts I’m thinking. But then there’s another: How could things have gone so wrong?

And part of my fictitious past comes up with a wise old professor teaching a literature class in starship prep: “If you want to ask how evil begins, just look to basic human nature. What’s good gets bent, and bad is the inevitable result.”

Right, but how do I have any respect for someone who may never have actually lived? I’m like a character in one of those plays we never studied—a character given flesh but no additional lines, and set loose on a weird, half- empty stage, in front of a critical audience we can’t see. Or don’t want to see.

“Crapola,” my twin says, and we nod and reach out and touch fingers, knowing we’re thinking much the same thoughts and reaching much the same conclusion.

“We’re real,” he says. “Just go with that much.”

“Amen,” I say.

Amen. Nell used it earlier but I didn’t connect. It’s a strange word with all sorts of connotations. Where’s the god we should pray to? Which direction? We do have a prayer, actually. We were taught one in that academy we never went to. There’s a religion that goes behind it, but I don’t want to cloud my thoughts with useless emerging details. The prayer, however, offers a hope of some relief from doubt and pain, if we can just say it right.

So I give voice.

“Creator of all
Bless those who are small
With wisdom and love.
Provide for our care
And Guide us as we voyage
Across vastness unspeakable
Toward bright new homes.
We honor space,
Which is your memory,
And seek the wisdom
That is our ration.
No more, no less.
Amen.”

By the third line, most of our group is following along—but not my twin. He’s watching closely but not saying the words. Our voices echo in the space. Common ground. We are family—most of us.

The girls have wandered off again.

We can feel the motion now—subtle and different. The noise is subsiding, though not by much, indicating that our forward profile might be altered, even reduced—whatever that implies. We don’t question small favors.

The forward viewports have become fogged and pitted. All it would take is something the size of a—

Grain of sand.

Crackling veins fly across the ports, and a squeal like something big and frightened draws our breath away, literally—air is being sucked from the bow. Then the panels fly up before there’s time to think. The squealing stops.

We can’t see outside now, except by venturing into the weird world of Ship Control, but we’re leaving that up to Nell for the moment. We huddle, all but Tsinoy, who is contented with just sticking a smoothed paw into the ring gathered within a safety zone.

Maybe we don’t want to know that we’re dying.

Maybe we’re shielded by the prayer.

Maybe…

After an indefinite time, Nell joins us. Fear leaves us empty. “First checkpoint,” she tells us. “They’ll have to talk if they want us to stop there.”

“Or?” Kim asks.

“Or we crush them and take our chances,” she says. “They got it wrong so far. Who can guarantee they won’t betray us all over again?” She looks at my twin, then at me. “Sound right?”

“Absolutely,” he says.

“We should find the girls,” Nell says.

“They know their way around,” Kim says, and Tomchin agrees.

There’s little to do. The noise keeps us from any rest. Our thoughts tumble. We’re half-delirious despite a ration of food from the tent-shaped chamber, brought to us by Tomchin and Tsinoy.

Nell keeps the hulls at the first checkpoint for what seems a very long time, and still, nothing has changed —nobody’s talking to us. Destination Guidance remains as aloof and unknown—and as silent—as ever.

Kim lets go of a guide cable and kicks across to me and my twin, landing midway between us and taking hold of another cable. Weightless, his movements are swift and efficient; I would have pegged him for the model of an occupant for a high-gravity world, stocky and strong, but surprises abound.

“We’re still being battered,” Kim says. “How much longer can we wait?”

Nell has stayed near the control panel and the hemisphere. She listens to our low voices through the grind and roar. The shivering suddenly increases, as if we’ve entered a particularly dense patch. The point is doubly made.

“Next checkpoint,” my twin says. “Show we mean business.”

I agree. “What have we got to lose? Nobody knows how much longer this can last.”

Tsinoy and Tomchin have collected the bulbs and spheres that held our meals and slipped them into a gray sack. Now they gather around. Tomchin is eager to ask questions, but we can’t catch his drift, and after a moment, he gives up, shaking his hands at the noisy air.

Tsinoy seems thoughtful. “I can’t be sure,” she says. “But I can almost feel the density out there. It’s very thin, but we’re moving very fast. There’s dust, there’s gas… There might be bigger chunks. If we hit one of those, we’ll be blasted to bits.”

“How long?” Nell asks.

“We’ve already survived for hours,” Tsinoy says. “I just don’t know how strong the hulls are.”

“The other hulls don’t matter,” Kim says.

“We can’t finish the integration if either of the other hulls is severely damaged—or lost,” Nell says. “Maybe that’s what they’re waiting for—one of the hulls to go.”

“Speed it up,” I say. “Can you?”

“Probably not, but I can move to the next checkpoint. An hour at most. We’re hunkering in, and from what I’m learning in the control space, parts of the hull are already adapting for the combination.”

“Maybe that’s making us more aerodynamic,” Kim says, but Tsinoy and Nell are unconvinced.

“Go for it,” I say.

“Go,” my twin says.