*
It seemed only an instant later when he was startled awake by a gurgling sound:
/// Where the . . . (glurrrk) . . . am I? ///
He heaved himself up on one elbow, staring into the near-total darkness of his bunk alcove. The tiny red clock readout provided the only light, glowing blood red as it floated in space beside him, telling him that it was 0447, the middle of the night. What the hell had awakened him? “Charlie?” he called out softly.
For a moment, through his grogginess, he felt the weight of his own stupidity. What was he doing, calling out aloud to a dead alien? But he was certain he had heard something.
There was another gurgling sound, like a clogged drain. He strained to hear. Was it coming from outside? From the lavatory? No . . .
He wondered if he were going out of his mind. Silence-fugue? It didn’t feel like it, but . . . voices in the night? Probably just a dream, for God’s sake. Was he losing the ability to distinguish between dream and reality? Was it that hard, losing Charlie?
/// Char-leee? ///
Bandicut froze. That was a definite voice.
/// Was that . . .
what you called—? ///
/Charlie!/ he screamed. He was suddenly gasping again, overwhelmed by a need to drag air into his lungs. /Charlie, is that you?/
/// I’m—not sure— ///
/Charliiiiie! What are you doing to me, damn you?/ He fell back on his pillow, holding his head in both hands. /Furgin’ hell, is this some kind of—/
He was interrupted by a stronger voice:
/// Please—
please stop shouting, sir!
I must know—who you are— ///
Bandicut gasped breathlessly. Suddenly he realized that he felt a multiple bewilderment—his own, and someone else’s—someone in his head.
He sat up again, dizzily. /Charlie? Is it really you? Or—/
Time seemed suspended, through a long moment of uncertainty. Then a very soft, tentative voice said:
/// Charlie . . . ?
Perhaps . . . you could call me that. ///
Bandicut felt a cold chill run down his back.
/// Your name is . . . Bandicut.
Yes? ///
/Yes,/ he whispered. /But who—?/
/// I think I . . .
have memories of you,
John Bandicut. ///
Bandicut felt as if he were spinning in a centrifuge out of control, his mind staggering from unrelenting Coriolis veering. He lay back down.
/// Can you tell me please
. . . what happened? ///
/What happened? You died! Last night!/ He felt his bewilderment rippling back upon itself. His thoughts flashed involuntarily back to Charlie’s death—reviewing the events as if in blazing holo. It was a disturbing, disorienting review—the death, and its emotional and physical effects. But there was a quarx in his head again. Was it really Charlie?
/// Something . . . else . . . happened. ///
Bandicut lay helpless as the thing in his mind struggled to sort its way through the facts. /What else happened?/ Bandicut whispered.
/// Not just . . . death. ///
/No—?/
/// —Something—
.
—quarx—
.
—I—
.
. . . ///
It seemed to run out of words.
Bandicut whispered, /Please—just tell me—are you the Charlie I knew?/
There was another long hesitation.
/// I . . . am uncertain . . . ///
/But—/
/// .
.
.
< quarx >
.
.
>
.
.
???
.
.
< quarx >
.
.
>
.
.
.
—I—
.
.
< uncertain >
.
.
< remembering >
.
.
—you—
.
.
—once knew—
.
.
—a Charlie?—
.
. ///
Bandicut struggled to keep from crying out his intense . . . he didn’t even know what the emotion was, just that it was building like a scream that wanted to get out, but couldn’t because a weight was sitting on top of it. He felt his breath rush in and out, and behind his closed eyelids, lights were flashing and he felt as if he were falling . . .
/// What—?
.
What is this?
.
Stop!
.
STO-O-O-P-P-P-P! ///
He felt himself jerked back to stillness, abruptly, as though a band of steel had clamped down upon his brain. He gasped, dizzily. /You . . . used to do that a lot more . . . gently,/ he wheezed.
/// ??? ///
He gulped. /Silence-fugue. It . . . hits me . . . and it’s all I can do to . . . keep my head on straight until it passes. But you found a way to—/
/// I—? ///
/You. Before you—/ he choked on the word /—died!/ Bandicut felt himself suddenly burning with rage. /Before you started moking with my mind!/
/// —I— ///
the creature gasped at his rage
/// —did nothing— ///
/Then—/ Bandicut whispered raggedly, /please tell me—who are you? And where is Charlie?/
The quarx seemed stunned.
/// .
.
Charlie
.
.
transformed
.
.
I am
.
.
I am not
.
.
you may call me
.
.
Charlie
.
. ///
Bandicut’s heart pounded.
/// You still don’t . . . ? ///
No. I don’t understand. Or maybe I do. He felt a powerful sensation of wheels shifting and spinning in his mind.
/// Charlie died—? ///
whispered the quarx.
/Yes./
/// I am of the . . . ashes? ///
Bandicut stared into the darkness.
/// Now do you . . . ? ///
/Yes,/ he whispered. /I think I do now./
Chapter 12
Charlie-Two
WHEN THE ALARM chimed, he rolled out of his bunk with a groan. Although he’d eventually sunk into a muddled slumber, he did not feel rested in the least. He considered calling in sick, but he didn’t want to have to concoct reasons. Vague claims of insomnia were unlikely to cut much mustard with Dr. Switzer.
He grabbed something to eat in the cafeteria and headed for the ready room.
/// What is planned for today? ///
asked the quarx. Charlie—the new Charlie—had awakened somewhat clearer-headed, or at least more articulate, than he had been in the middle of the night.
/I have to go to work,/ Bandicut answered curtly, trying to brush the question off. He hauled his suit out of the locker. They had a lot to talk about, but now was hardly the time—and truthfully, he hadn’t much stomach for it. He wanted to pretend that Charlie-One was still with him, pretend that last night hadn’t happened.
/// He . . . we . . .
did not mean for it to be
disruptive.
It’s unlikely that he wanted to die,
you know. ///
Bandicut grunted, hauling the bulky mining suit up over his shoulders. The last of the other workers had just disappeared out the ai
rlock. /No, I suppose not./ And how am I going to get through this day? he wondered. By pretending everything is okay? By doing nothing that will take me even remotely closer to understanding—much less accomplishing—Charlie’s and my mission? /Do you—/ he whispered, /know what Charlie knew? Do you remember what we talked about? Our . . . purpose?/
The answering voice sounded apologetic.
/// I’m not . . . entirely sure.
Some. Not all. ///
/Then he’s really gone? Charlie? Part of him, anyway?/
/// I am sorry.
Was he . . . a good friend? ///
Bandicut sighed and didn’t answer for a while, as he wrestled with the last fittings on his suit. /Nah,/ he whispered at last. /Would a good friend have done something like that to me?/ Without waiting for an answer, he clamped his visor closed and hurried off to the airlock.
Neptune Crossing Page 20
