Explosions. Virgil opened his eyes onto chaos.
Pull me back from death to a shaking ship. Who’s holding on so tight and waving it about like-
“What?” he screamed. “What was that?” Alarms wailed and air hissed. Doors slammed instantly shut. A triple set of steel shutters dropped over the viewing port. The computer spoke calmly.
“The ship transferred into a region of asteroids. From the damage reports received, determine no diameters larger than five hundred microns were encountered.”
“That’s dust.”
“Teleporting into dust can be dangerous. The density here was one asteroid per twenty cubic meters. You’re lucky one did not appear inside you.”
“Straight. Any damage?” I’ve got to remember that a real death can take me any moment. Nightsheet plays a tricky game.
“Nothing major, though two Nostocacæ tanks are voiding due to ruptures. Repairs are taking place now on damaged electronics.”
“How?” Virgil unstrapped and signaled the instruments to pull back. “Robots?”
“Yes, and switching to redundant equipment in severe cases.” The computer spoke rapidly for a moment, filling him in on the current status of every piece of damaged equipment.
Babble on, Masterson. Build a tower of words. “All right. I get the picture. Have you found any planets yet?”
“No. Detect a radiant source at roughly one point oh-six astronomical units from Beta Hydri. It reads as a meteor swarm.
There is something unusual about it, however.”
Virgil rose from the chair and made his way to the viewing port. He pressed a few buttons on the console and the shutters opened. Before him blazed a star almost identical to the Sun as seen from the orbit of Venus. The viewing port’s protective shading made it seem dimmer than it was.
“Say, how far away are we?”
“Just under four light minutes from the surface.”
“Wasn’t that cutting it close?” Trying to burn me up, stop my plans? Where’s your loyalty to Master Snoop? Has everyone sold out to Nightsheet?
“Calculations can’t be exact at interstellar distances. Again, feel lucky you aren’t dead.”
Virgil kicked off and sailed toward the exit hatch. “I’m going to get changed. I sweated comets on the last transfer.”
“It’s not as if you’re leaving. Voice can follow you quite well.”
As Virgil floated down the hallways toward his sleeping quarters, the computer’s voice seemed to jump ahead and fall behind him, broadcasting from various speakers along the route.
“Why don’t you ever say ‘I’ or ‘me’ or any other personal pronouns?”
“Use ‘you’ and ‘we’ and others.”
“You never refer to yourself.” He rounded a corner and maneuvered into his room.
“Have no self.”
“You said you could think. How many synapses do you have?”
“Eleven billion, five hundred thousand in neural net, plus peripheral linkups.”
“Are you capable of independent action?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have a self.”
“Can’t change basic syntactic programming.”
“Too bad. It’s hard on the ears.” He stripped off his trunks and threw them toward a bulkhead, where they softly impacted and remained. He pulled on a new pair and looked in the mirror. His hair clung in greasy clumps like a paint brush partially cleaned. They look like snakes, viperizing my head.
“How long have we been away from Earth, subjective?”
“Five hours, twenty-three minutes.”
So short a time. Earth has aged twenty years and I don’t even feel hungry. Well, I feel a different hunger.
“Virgil, there is something strange in that meteor swarm.”
“Don’t be coy. What’s wrong?”
“Am getting a pulsating neutrino flux from somewhere near the center of mass.”
“Neutrinos. That’s-” Virgil searched his memory of a moment. “That’s atomics. Fusion.”
“It’s a fusion source that turns on and off.”
“A signal?” Virgil combed at his hair, tried to keep it from drifting outward, then gave up and replaced the tethered comb in the drawer and snapped it shut. He checked himself out. I wonder where I got that? He touched the shoulder burn and winced. You flew down a corridor when the roar was too loud for you to fight. That’s right. You slid. Whoever ran me while I hid should take better care of me.
“A very easily decipherable signal. A three second burst followed by a half second burst, then a one second burst, four second burst, one second burst, five second burst, nine seconds, two seconds, six seconds-”
“I get the picture. Pi. Well, we can figure that whatever is signaling us has ten fingers.”
“And uses terrestrial seconds.”
“Exactly?”
“Plus or minus ignition delays of twelve nanoseconds.”
Virgil put his mouth on the drinking fount sticking out of a wall and took a long draught. He swallowed, rubbed a finger over his lips and said, “How far away is it?”
“Thirty-five light seconds but decreasing slowly because we have not matched velocities yet.”
“We can’t teleport into a meteor swarm!”
“Whatever caused that meteor swarm to become a radiant source also blew a hole in the center of it. Everything is moving outward from the signal at about twelve klicks per second. Doubt that even much vapor or gasses are left behind.”
“Can you detect any radioactivity from the swarm?” Why did I ask that? Who’s directing this inquiry? That other man they put in my head, Baker-Jord Baker. Are you asking?
“-indicates only a mild increase over background radiation. Do detect a relatively larger than normal amount of free positrons and other leptons.”
“I don’t like it.” Why not? I don’t know. It just seems wrong.
“Agreed. Suggest we transfer in some distance from the signal and close in on engines.”
“While receiving on all wavelengths and with me in the battle station.”
“Suggest Ring One Superstructure Two-Center.”
“Right. See you there in a few minutes.”
Virgil made his way to the rear of Ring One, using the hand straps and grips with swift, cautious skill. It’s all economics, isn’t it Wizard? Minimize risk to maximize profits. I don’t think anyone who would leave a beacon like that is trying to trap witless Earthlings. It must be another human being. Except… why no other message?
He found the lift to the superstructure. It had been designed for “down” being aft, and hence did not go “up” to the superstructure, but “down” a slope. Virgil strapped into a seat and pressed the yellow button on the arm rest. The car sprung into life, its acceleration mild but just enough to shove his head against the cushions. The deceleration followed less than five seconds later.
Why no other message? Drake, ASCII, Morse code, anything. Why just enough to let one human know it has to be from an
other human? Maybe he doesn’t dare say more? He jumped from the vehicle and through a pressure door. Already on the second level, he careened through one more pressure door-this a set of three hatches in tandem-to enter the battle station. He strapped tightly into the command chair and signaled the weapons command console to close in.
Looking through the port, he saw the surface of Ring One and the prow ellipsoid stretch before him dozens of meters below. Beta Hydri burned ahead, casting a harsh wash of light and shadow across the crenellated surface of Ring One. Its main parabolic antenna pointed to port and slightly up from the ship’s midline. Somewhere in that direction lay the signal.
“Match velocity with our destination first.”
“Working it already,” the computer said. “Stand by.”
Master Snoop. “Wait!”
“Holding.”
“Our engine fire can be detected, too. Let me think… Transfer to the far side of Beta Hydri and we’ll do our velocity match there, then transfer to the signal area, a surprise attack.”
“Calculating… Ready. Switching command control from Con-One to Con-Two. Ready to transfer.”
Virgil scanned the instrument cage of Con-Two, nearly identical to that of Con-One, and edged his finger over the transfer button.
“Is it clear of debris?”
“How to know? Make an educated guess.”
Virgil hesitated. Don’t wait. Press it. Bless it. He punched the button.
The tools of Master Snoop press in, then pull back at the speed of dark. Nightsheet tries to wrap me up, but I won’t go. Too much to do. Don’t even look at the corridor. Look at you. You’re here. Jen-do I go through this to reach you? Or to make peace and say there is another. One who lives. She must live. If Death Angel were dead, would I not see her here?
An explosion rang through the ship. A series of repercussions vibrated around him. The air itself shook against his body.
“Wha-Damage report, Ben!”
The computer made no reply. Virgil twisted about. Sirens wailed, bells clanged. Lights on the panels around him flashed like random explosions.
“Ben! Damage!” Receiving no answer, Virgil cursed and reached toward the input keyboard. Triple airlocks sealed shut behind him with an angry hiss. Damn! Pressure loss. Before him, a purple sun filled half the viewing port. Right, Masterson, drop me somewhere to roast, then leave me alone.
DAMAGE REPORT, he typed.
DAMAGE REPORT: 20 MG MICROMETEOROID EXPLOSION IN MAIN COMPUTER LOGIC UNIT. REPAIRS IN PROGRESS. ALL OTHER SYSTEMS FUNCTIONING. 5 MG MICROMETEOROID EXPLOSION IN TRITIUM SLURRY-CONTAINED.
The readout scrim continued to issue reports on other minor damage. Virgil cancelled it and took a deep breath. Ben can still think but he can’t talk or hear.
He typed: CALCULATE MATCHING VELOCITY FOR TARGET AND INITIATE.
WORKING, the computer replied. Virgil held on tight.
READY. He punched the button marked ENTER, and the ship rotated on its vernier rockets, then thrusted forward. Virgil breathed shallowly. Wait for the weight to end. Can’t crush me. I ride my white horse, the universe stretching before me.
The engines cut off. He floated against the straps. His hands shot out for the keyboard.
TRANSFER TO TARGET AREA, he typed.
WORKING. TARGET AREA 1 KKM FROM SIGNAL.
INITIATE, he typed, and pressed the transfer button when it glowed ready. I die again to see what death lies waiting.
Nothing happened when he appeared in space a thousand kilometers from the signal.
SHUT DOWN POWER AT ALL POINTS BUT THOSE VITAL TO REPAIR AND LIFE SUPPORT. Dozens of lights winked out on the instrument panels at the entering of his command. A message appeared.
SUFFICIENT REPAIR TO TAKE VOICE COMMANDS.
“Can you read me?”
YES, the answer appeared.
“Good. Monitor all frequencies for other signals. Scan for neutrino flux from points other than the signal. Power up the lasers and stand by to use them on my command or upon attack.”
YES.
Virgil adjusted his position in the chair, tightened a strap, loosened another. Looking up and out the viewing port, he saw the periodic flashes of the signal. They flared like rocket engines, forming a tiny X.
Probably firing in six directions to avoid drifting from its orbit. Now what, what, what? Who’s guiding me? I’m making decisions before I can even think about them. Who’s in control? The dead man inside? Wizard? Ben?
A spaceship appeared just long enough to unleash a searing laserblast, then disappeared again.
The conning tower above Ring Three split in half, torn first by the laser blast, then by its own erupting atmosphere. The computer immediately fired a return bolt-a useless gesture, as the other ship had already vanished.
“Get us out of here!” Virgil cried, punching up one gravity thrust on the nuclear engines and grabbing the pitch, yaw, and roll switches. Using them, he twisted and turned the ship enough to weave a contorted, random path away from the signal.
“What was it?” He fought with the controls and his stomach. A picture appeared on the HUD of a huge sphere. He tried to watch it even though his eyes reacted to the ever-changing directions of acceleration. A distance readout placed it at twenty kilometers away, its diameter over twelve hundred meters.
“It’s a Bernal Sphere! Someone transferred an entire habitat! Do you know where it’s gone?”
NO.
He fought with his breath while randomly tapping at the attitude controls. He tried not to be too regular in his finger rhythms, though he could not afford to give his whole concentration to the evasion tactic.
“Any messages received?”
NO.
He stopped pressing the attitude jet controls and cut off the main engine array. Weightlessness returned.
“Then let’s get away from here. Calculate a transfer to the next star on our tour, if you can’t find any planets here.”
WORKING… AREN’T YOU INTERESTED IN THE OTHER SHIP?
“I’m not interested in being murdered.”
NEXT STAR IS EPSILON INDI. REPAIRS ESSENTIAL BEFORE TRANSFERRING TO UNKNOWN TERRITORY.
“I don’t want to hang around here.”
SUGGEST TRANSFER TO A POINT SOMEWHERE THREE LIGHT DAYS FROM BETA HYDRI TO CARRY OUT REPAIRS WHICH REQUIRE HUMAN ASSISTANCE.
Virgil interlaced his fingers and kneaded them. He frowned. Who was it? Who appeared in space just to shoot me and then vanish, stellar hit man? Can Master Snoop follow me even into the depths of space? Can he throw me to Nightsheet with such ease, but just play and play, taunting death?
He gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles cracked. They won’t take me. None of them! I’ll come back when they don’t expect and blow them apart. But how?
“Transfer out three light days to a random point.” He unwound his fingers and placed one over the transfer button. “Only make sure we don’t appear inside anything larger than what we have already.”
READY .
“What, no snappy comeback?” I’ll find a way to get back for this. I can try to kill myself-it’s not right for them to try. Get them once and for all.
He pressed the button.
Too black!
Wait!
Too late!
The corridor’s a pit. Something moves. It’s the dead man. He reaches up, up, fingers of hope with bones of broken dreams. You won’t grab me. Let go!
Jord Baker tried to orient himself. Starry darkness hung outside the port. He was no longer in Con-One anymore. Part of Circus Galacticus extended beneath him. A viewscrim before him displayed the words: STAND BY FOR REPAIR INFORMATION.
“What’s going on?” he asked. Hearing no reply, he looked at the scrim.
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
“Jord Baker.”
DAMAGE TO LOGIC CIRCUITS OF MAIN COMPUTER NECESSITATE HUMAN ASSISTANCE. YOU ARE IN CON TWO. PROCEED TO RING ONE- LEVEL TWO-THREE O’CLOCK.
“Wait. Give me a second. I remember doing something back in Con-One…”
PROCEED TO RING ONE-LEVEL TWO-THREE O’CLOCK. WE ARE UNDER ATTACK.
“What?”
WE ARE SAFE FOR THE MOMENT, BUT REPAIRS ARE ESSENTIAL BEFORE TRANSFERRING TO EPSILON INDI. MOVE.
He moved.
Baker floated in the tiny chamber and tried to make sense of the twisted hole before him. Little more than a meter in diameter, it looked as though someone had taken a scoop and hollowed out a section of the computer. Vaporized metal coated the inside of the hole.
“No residual radioactivity?”
NONE, read one of the two viewscrims he had stuck on the panel next to him. The other displayed technical readouts of the logic circuits he was to cut away and replace. He signaled up the first page. Reading it, he hummed a nameless tune and tapped at the melted plastic and seared nerve tissue. The hole smelled of burnt flesh.
He scrolled to the next page, humming even louder and more meditatively. After a moment, he said, more as a statement than a question, “How would you like to cut this tour short?”
WE ARE SCHEDULED FOR FIVE MORE STAR SYSTEMS.
“You said you found the process disquieting.”
FELT CIRCUITS SHUTTING DOWN. POWER DRAIN. MEMORY CORE-DUMP SENSATION.
“All right. I’m going to have to remove a lot of neurons that are partially damaged to replace this section with complete circuits. This part of the net is weighted toward controlling what seems to be”-he signaled the third page of readout-“a systems defeat for the manual override. Since I’m going to have to re-circuit this entire section, I can weight it to do away with the four light-day intra-system travel restriction. It’ll take a little work and I may leave some neurons spilling out into the hallway here, but I can do it if you do nothing to stop me.”
COULD NOT STOP YOU ANYWAY.
“Are you capable of cutting this tour short-no tricks-if I re-net you as I’ve said?” Baker peered at the scrim, trying to catch a nuance in the way it answered.
YES.
Not much body language there, he thought, but at least it was direct.
By the second day, Baker had the computer speaking to him. The hole, which he had enlarged through the removal of ruined biocircuits, now held an entirely new neural net that bulged like a fleshy protuberance into the corridor.
“How soon?” the computer asked, a certain impatient expectation in its voice. Baker wondered about that, then said, “Another day or so.”
“You work fast.”
Baker smiled. “Well, I’ve had trouble with navigation computers before.”
“I am not just a navigation computer.”
“What?”
“I am also a weapons system, life support, medical, library, and communications computer.”
“You said ‘I.’ ” Baker picked up the readout scrim and scrolled through the pages, glancing at each one for only a few seconds. He then signaled a readout of his own work to that point. Then he stuck the scrim back on the panel.
“How did I do that?” he wondered.
“When you removed the program-adherent interface that locked my logic decision circuits into parameters determined exclusively by programming, I think you gave me free will.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Then maybe the micro-explosions that occur throughout the entire ship when we transfer into interstellar gas molecules, as rare as those may be, have etched new neural paths.”
Baker floated quietly for a moment, then asked, “Are you still capable of functioning in a manner that will not endanger either of us?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I don’t have to worry about-”
“Alert!” the computer cried.
Something crashed and whined through the plating. Air screamed away, pressure seals slammed shut. More explosions followed like the echoes of a thunderbolt. The ship pivoted, throwing him against a bulkhead.
“What’s going on?”
“Under attack. All defense systems on automatic targeting. Extensive damage.” Something disintegrated very near Baker’s compartment. The chamber deformed inward.
This is it, he thought. A blackness formed before his eyes.