shiny, blind eyes.
Easy prey. Everyone kills cleaners—except the girl, who could not fight back.
I’ve been walking for some time now, and the wide corridor finally reaches its end. A wall with two hemispheric bumps forms the terminus of the twin grooves, and at the conclusion of the walkway is a circular indentation about two meters wide, carved or molded into the wall’s grayish surface.
I look back. The faintest breath of cold air washes over me. Soon the corridor will be unlivable. Likely the observation blister and the corpse of BlueBlack are already frozen. No going back without dying, and, apparently, no going forward.
I put down the bags. I haven’t touched the girl’s bottle or her piece of loaf. In gratitude for rescuing me, for not letting me die, for poking me along on a course to survival—up to this point—I hope to present her with these remnants if we meet again.
I lean against the wall at the end of the walkway. “Is there anybody else on this ship?” I wonder out loud.
“Whom are you addressing?” a voice asks. For a moment, it seems to be many voices, but then, I think, no, it’s just one.
I jump back from the wall and spin to face it. I can’t even begin to hope the voice is real. I don’t want to test it by speaking again, much less asking another question. Perhaps there are only a few possible answers remaining—or silence. Perhaps I’ve used up my last question, made my last request for information—my one and only wish.
The cold is getting intense.
“How do I get through? Is there a door?”
I’m surprised by my audacity. I can’t remember even formulating these questions.
“What is your origin, and what is your occupation?”
I think this over. “I’m a teacher. Others came this way, and I’d like to join them.”
“Are you part of Ship Control?”
I don’t think so. “No,” I say.
“Then I made you. You’re in the outer regions of Hull Zero One. It is not safe here. Move inboard, to the core.”
Before I can react, the indentation deepens and the circle spins outward, leaving an opening. Beyond the opening is more darkness and only a little warmth. I step halfway through, then pause, waiting to be grabbed after being lured into a trap.
“Has anyone else come this way?” I ask.
“This opening will close in five seconds.”
“Who are you?”
The circle starts to close. I jump through at the last second and roll on the other side, coming to rest against a sloping surface—a low, broad mound, smooth and, of course, gray. Little lights everywhere twinkle faintly in the gloom. Above me, the lights grow brighter.
I see I’m at the bottom of a wide, deep shaft. There’s a tiny circle at the top of the shaft. The walls of the shaft join the floor in a curve, the mound in the center about three meters wide and a meter high.
The surface behind me shows no sign of the circular door. Up the shaft— inboard—is the only way out.
My left hand reaches out and encounters another bag—almost empty. Inside I feel only one thing, small and square.
A book.
I undo the knot in the drawstring and remove the book. It has a silver cover and forty-nine fine notches in seven rows of seven. The girl was brought this way. Knob-Crest and Scarlet-Brown might still be with her. Perhaps they escaped during the struggle with the cleaner—they certainly weren’t strong enough to pull the cleaner to pieces. Cutting is more their style. The cleaner might have distracted the thing with the reddish spiky claw—that might explain the broken spikes on the floor.
They might have gotten away.
I can climb the rungs, or I can wait for spin-down and weightlessness. Examining the shaft, I see the best option—in the time remaining—is to climb.
I sling the bags over my shoulder, then adjust Blue-Black’s loose overalls, trying to cinch the waist tighter. No use. After a bite of my loaf and a gulp of water, I piss against a wall— Markingmytrai , I think, and grimace.
I start climbing. My mind is
Easy prey. Everyone kills cleaners—except the girl, who could not fight back.
I’ve been walking for some time now, and the wide corridor finally reaches its end. A wall with two hemispheric bumps forms the terminus of the twin grooves, and at the conclusion of the walkway is a circular indentation about two meters wide, carved or molded into the wall’s grayish surface.
I look back. The faintest breath of cold air washes over me. Soon the corridor will be unlivable. Likely the observation blister and the corpse of BlueBlack are already frozen. No going back without dying, and, apparently, no going forward.
I put down the bags. I haven’t touched the girl’s bottle or her piece of loaf. In gratitude for rescuing me, for not letting me die, for poking me along on a course to survival—up to this point—I hope to present her with these remnants if we meet again.
I lean against the wall at the end of the walkway. “Is there anybody else on this ship?” I wonder out loud.
“Whom are you addressing?” a voice asks. For a moment, it seems to be many voices, but then, I think, no, it’s just one.
I jump back from the wall and spin to face it. I can’t even begin to hope the voice is real. I don’t want to test it by speaking again, much less asking another question. Perhaps there are only a few possible answers remaining—or silence. Perhaps I’ve used up my last question, made my last request for information—my one and only wish.
The cold is getting intense.
“How do I get through? Is there a door?”
I’m surprised by my audacity. I can’t remember even formulating these questions.
“What is your origin, and what is your occupation?”
I think this over. “I’m a teacher. Others came this way, and I’d like to join them.”
“Are you part of Ship Control?”
I don’t think so. “No,” I say.
“Then I made you. You’re in the outer regions of Hull Zero One. It is not safe here. Move inboard, to the core.”
Before I can react, the indentation deepens and the circle spins outward, leaving an opening. Beyond the opening is more darkness and only a little warmth. I step halfway through, then pause, waiting to be grabbed after being lured into a trap.
“Has anyone else come this way?” I ask.
“This opening will close in five seconds.”
“Who are you?”
The circle starts to close. I jump through at the last second and roll on the other side, coming to rest against a sloping surface—a low, broad mound, smooth and, of course, gray. Little lights everywhere twinkle faintly in the gloom. Above me, the lights grow brighter.
I see I’m at the bottom of a wide, deep shaft. There’s a tiny circle at the top of the shaft. The walls of the shaft join the floor in a curve, the mound in the center about three meters wide and a meter high.
The surface behind me shows no sign of the circular door. Up the shaft— inboard—is the only way out.
My left hand reaches out and encounters another bag—almost empty. Inside I feel only one thing, small and square.
A book.
I undo the knot in the drawstring and remove the book. It has a silver cover and forty-nine fine notches in seven rows of seven. The girl was brought this way. Knob-Crest and Scarlet-Brown might still be with her. Perhaps they escaped during the struggle with the cleaner—they certainly weren’t strong enough to pull the cleaner to pieces. Cutting is more their style. The cleaner might have distracted the thing with the reddish spiky claw—that might explain the broken spikes on the floor.
They might have gotten away.
I can climb the rungs, or I can wait for spin-down and weightlessness. Examining the shaft, I see the best option—in the time remaining—is to climb.
I sling the bags over my shoulder, then adjust Blue-Black’s loose overalls, trying to cinch the waist tighter. No use. After a bite of my loaf and a gulp of water, I piss against a wall— Markingmytrai , I think, and grimace.
I start climbing. My mind is
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