by C. Gockel
“If you catch them,” Darmadi panted. “And … it doesn’t bring back the dead.”
“No, it doesn’t,” James retorted. “Do you suggest reparations? Because if you are, there are millions of survivors of Luddeccea’s cyborg cleansing post-Revelation. They would love to claim reparations for what they lost in property and to sue for abuse endured during torture.” He thought of Noa’s time in a concentration camp, in conditions so squalid she nearly lost her life. How did you compensate for that? He thought of his own time aboard a Luddeccean warship … Circuits fired, and a routine initiated that snapped him to the present.
He immediately noticed two girls, too young to be augmented, giggling in Darmadi’s direction. Eyeing them suspiciously, James guided Darmadi onto the correct platform. The girls were touching their temples, probably communicating. James was fairly certain he knew what about. Passing his ticketing information to the train with a thought, he shielded Darmadi from their view with his body and ushered the Luddeccean into the first class dining car. The girls peeked through the window, but James directed Darmadi to the other side of the compartment.
Darmadi sat down stiffly. “Touché,” the Luddeccean muttered.
James didn’t comment; he just picked up a menu—helpfully printed on paper—a nod to tradition on the train.
The waitress—human, in perhaps another nod to tradition—had just walked away with their order when Darmadi snapped in a tone thick with sarcasm, “You know you’re doing a bang-up job of being unctuously agreeable in a bid to get me to defect.”
James tilted his head. Mimicking Darmadi’s sarcasm, he said, “And you’re doing a bang-up job of conforming to every Luddeccean stereotype I’ve ever had.” Darmadi hadn’t taken his commentary on Venus De Willendorf or David in the direction James would have anticipated, and his casual acceptance of Homo machina was certainly circuit sparking.
Darmadi narrowed his eyes at him, and then smirked.
James smirked back.
Darmadi smacked his hand lightly on the table. His lips parted as though to speak, and then his eyes got vacant, as though he were connecting to the ether. His heart rate and blood pressure shot up, and he pitched forward. James was around the table second later, jostling silverware and glasses. Was it the altitude? “Waitress, bring tea,” he ordered.
Darmadi whispered, “Volka … Little Ship … where have you gone?”
James’s Q-comm fired. Was it a “telepathic” incident? “Captain?” James whispered. He’d watched Volka, Carl, and the Marines in telepathic episodes—but they’d never had a physiological reaction this severe.
Darmadi grabbed his arm and met his eyes. “You must talk to your friend, the Sixty … unit. You must find out where they are. If they are.”
“If they are?” James asked, trying to determine if he’d misheard, or Darmadi had misspoken.
“Goddamn it. She’s gone,” Darmadi said.
“Gone where?” James asked.
Darmadi stared at him blankly for 2.3 seconds, and then whispered, “Beyond everything.”
24
Beyond Everything
Uncharted Space
The alarm was still wailing. Volka’s hands were grasping at empty air at her midsection, looking for the cord that she knew was there. It was the cord of her life. The cord of everything, the connection between her and Sixty, Silas, Ben, Alaric, Alexis, Noa, James, Earth, Luddeccea, everything. She gulped down bile. It wasn’t just her connection to everything that had slipped. It was Sundancer’s connection.
“Volka!” a woman called.
She couldn’t find the cord. She grasped frantically, trying to find it and failing.
“Volka!” the woman called again.
“I’m trying to find the thread!” Volka cried, hands extending, still finding nothing.
The alarm continued to wail, and she heard Dr. Patrick say, “Get Dr. Elam. I think the little guy’s in shock.”
The wailing alarm became a keen.
“The thread of what, Volka?” the woman said. Hands landed on her shoulder and spun her around. She found herself staring up into Rhinehart’s eyes.
“The thread of everything!” Volka cried, and then realized that some threads were still here: Sundancer, Rhinehart, Young, Dr. Patrick, Jerome, and Carl were here in this tiny space. Carl … she looked over at the werfle; he was wrapped in a thermal blanket, and Dr. Patrick was cradling him in his arms. Carl had been the “alarm” she’d heard. He’d been the one wailing. “He’s unresponsive,” Dr. Patrick said.
Everyone looked at her. She knew they did, but she couldn’t focus on their gazes. With so many bodies in the compartment, it should be warm, but it wasn’t. Volka wrapped her arms around herself. She started to shiver, and then her teeth began to chatter. “So … cold.”
The humans exchanged glances.
Jerome said, “Tab’s signal is intermittent.”
Volka shuddered. Q-comms were supposed to be able communicate anywhere, and nothing could interrupt their signal. Was it related to the everything that she and Sundancer had felt slipping away?
“Do you have any idea where we are?” Young asked.
“Negative,” Jerome replied.
“What’s happening to the ship?” Rhinehart asked. “Her hull is getting dim.”
Something inside Volka tried to focus on their words—something that resembled the taste of hot deer blood and the smell of grass and earth, that delighted in the sound of rats scurrying behind logs, and the sight of a rabbit in the brush. But all she could think about was how cold it was. Teeth rattling, Volka asked everyone and no one, “Is it cold in here?” She had to know that answer to answer their questions.
From the floor, Bracelet answered, “The temperature has dropped 1.2 C.”
“Your suit should be keeping you warm,” Rhinehart said.
Jerome said, “Readouts say her suit is fine.”
Volka grabbed Rhinehart, just because she was nearest. “It’s Sundancer!” Volka exclaimed. “Sundancer is cold.”
“Can she get us home?” Dr. Patrick asked.
Volka swallowed, focused, and felt like she was collapsing inward. Everything was frigidly cold. She had the bleak sensation that she was turning to ice. Worse than ice—she could see her atoms in her mind’s eye; it wasn’t just her cells that were freezing, it was her atoms—the particles that spun within them were slowing their orbits. Soon they would stop entirely, and then she would stop along with everything and everyone within her. Shaking herself from Sundancer’s sensations, Volka ground out through chattering teeth, “No, she is too cold!”
Rhinehart pulled away from Volka’s grasp. “Sir, the hull is getting darker. With your permission, I will initiate recovery.”
“Wait,” Dr. Patrick said. “Don’t you think we should assess the situation?”
“No time,” said Young. To Rhinehart, Young added, “Do it.” Everything became a blur. Rhinehart was lunging for one of the crates. Jerome was saying, “Rhinehart, Tab’s signal is intermittent. That means—”
“They won’t work reliably. I’ll use them all,” Rhinehart grunted.
“All of them?” Dr. Patrick said.
Before Volka could ask, Young was in front of her, and his hands were on her shoulders. “Volka, Rhinehart’s getting some fusion grenades. You remember those from S33?”
“Little Boys,” Volka whispered, but not fission bombs like the first Little Boy dropped on Hiroshima, fusion bombs. They would produce heat, even in vacuum. They worked by quantum teleportation; their fuel was someplace else. They pulled it here when activated—wherever here was. That was how they could get something with the power of 15 kilotons of TNT into something as small as a grenade. She blinked and looked past Young’s arm. The crate Rhinehart had opened was filled with the grenades. Volka’s eyes went wide.
“They need to be outside Sundancer,” Young said. “You have to tell her.”
“Right,” Volka said. Scrunching her eyes shut, she pictured
the grenades exiting through Sundancer’s keel and turning to blooms of flame.
She felt Sundancer understand and felt the ship trying … trying … but she was so weak … She couldn’t last too much longer …
“Something’s wrong,” Young said. Volka opened her eyes and saw that the usual opening hadn’t appeared in the wall—instead, at about Volka’s shoulder height, there was an opening barely large enough for a werfle.
Volka started to say, “I don’t think she can—”
Stuffing the grenades through the gap, Rhinehart said, “If she can open the keel, the pressure will suck them out. We can detonate these remotely.”
“Not without extending the signal,” Jerome said.
Spinning away from Volka, Young tossed something at Rhinehart. The Marine caught it in midair and tossed it out the tiny opening. Volka heard whatever it was—an ether extender? —clattering in the hallway with the fusion devices that had more than enough blast power to blow up a continent … or a few.
The room darkened, and around Volka, lights in suits turned on. Teeth chattered.
“Take these, too,” Jerome said, fumbling with his utility belt and tossing another device to Rhinehart. She caught it with one hand and shoved another fusion grenade into the hallway with the others. Young was going to another crate, muttering, “We’ve got more in here.”
They weren’t panicking; their movements were deliberate. Unafraid. And it was reassuring. But Volka felt sad … Knees buckling, Volka sank to the floor. “Oh, no, no, no …” she whispered. She heard a clacking and realized it was Dr. Patrick’s teeth chattering. Everyone’s teeth were chattering.
“What’s wrong?” Dr. Patrick managed to say. “It’s … not … this … cold.”
Volka looked up and saw tears slipping down his cheek.
Jerome said, “Ship is … cold … telepathic … cold. Sad.”
Volka’s eyes snapped wide. “She thinks it’s not going to work.” That was the sadness Volka felt. Sundancer thought she’d failed.
“Don’t … let … her … think that, Volka,” Young ordered, opening another crate. “You’re her leader; you can’t let her give up.”
Dr. Patrick looked down at Carl and through his chattering teeth, said, “I’ll put him in a crate … in case … she can’t seal this … room.”
“Everyone, seal your suits,” Young said, handing what looked like sensor drones to Rhinehart.
They weren’t giving up. Volka couldn’t, either. “I won’t let her.” She looked at the busy people around her. She knew the Marines in the other compartments would want to be busy, too. Picking up Bracelet, she said, “Transmit this to the other Marines. ‘Think positive. The ship is afraid. But we have a plan and it will be all right.’” She felt the words as she said them.
“Yes, Ms. Volka,” the device replied. “Transmitting now.”
Putting on her helmet and gloves and sealing her suit, Volka closed her eyes and concentrated. She felt the strings between her and all the Marines on the ship and Carl … who wasn’t quite Carl … his string was too thin. She wanted to investigate, but sensed they were running out of time. Biting her lip, Volka focused on Sundancer and tried to imagine the cords between the ship and everyone aboard growing stronger and stronger, becoming unbreakable. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Sundancer, we are all in this together.”
Whatever this was.
Volka held her breath. And realized Sundancer was holding the equivalent of her breath, too. Volka felt lighter, sick to her stomach, and more afraid. The ship was losing her control over gravity—that had never happened before. Volka didn’t open her eyes, but in her mind she saw everything from a dizzying angle, like she was watching everyone in the ship from every angle at once. She heard Young command, “Turn on heating pods,” and saw Marines in the other cabins take out more of the little devices she had thought were sensor drones and turn them on. She felt Sundancer’s relief. Volka saw outside of the ship, too. It was the deepest, most unfathomable black. There were no pinpricks of starlight anywhere, no heat, and no strings to follow home.
“Open, Sundancer,” Volka whispered. “We will give you light.”
She felt Sundancer’s keel opening, and the rush of cold that came with it. Through Sundancer’s eyes, Volka saw the trail of mechanical devices as they slipped out into the blistering frigid dark. The sensor drones were radiating red light, infrared, heat. Where they passed, Sundancer’s interior lightened faintly, and Volka felt the ship’s gratitude for that tiny sip of life.
“Shit, it’s cold,” Jerome said. “Heat pods are going to snuff out.”
“Here are more,” Young said, and as though through a kaleidoscope, Volka saw him handing more to Rhinehart. She also saw Dr. Patrick leaning over the crate he’d put Carl in, as though he could help reinforce its seal. The Marines—the new guys—in the other cabins were shuffling nervously—one was even laughing nervously—but the ones who’d been at S33 were focused. She could hear them in her heart or her mind, “Come on ship, you can do it!” They had no idea what was happening, but they’d heard Volka’s request via Bracelet, and they were doing their best to help.
“Sir,” Jerome’s voice crackled in Volka’s suit. “Devices are not at a safe distance, but the heat pods are being drained too fast. The fusion grenades’ electricals are freezing. If I don’t detonate now, I may not be able to.”
Volka heard what he didn’t say, too. “The ship’s keel is still open, and the blast could melt us.”
Young’s calm was as deep as an icy lake. “Detonate one,” he replied. And once again, Volka heard his unspoken words. “If we don’t detonate, we’re dead anyway.”
There was no sound, but Volka saw the blossom of heat and light she’d promised … only it was barely the size of the grenade itself and snuffed out almost immediately. More of a bottle rocket than a 15 kiloton weapon. “It didn’t work,” Jerome said, voice shaking, and hands shaking, too. Volka felt his panic beginning to rise. “I think the intermittent signal I’m getting on Tab … I don’t think the fusion grenades are getting the material they need to fully—”
“Detonate some more,” Young ordered … and oh, he heard Jerome’s panic too; he understood it, felt it himself even, but was not going to let it affect him. Young was forcing himself to stay calm, trying to project that calm to Jerome. He wasn’t pulling the strings of the universe to do so, but it worked. Volka noted all this with detached wonder that might have been hers or Sundancer’s. Being a leader meant pretending.
“Yes, sir,” Jerome said, echoing the lieutenant. Jerome knew that Young’s calm was feigned and knew at the same time that panicking would be doom. Sundancer felt it all, and Volka felt it, too. Volka felt the ship’s bafflement. Sundancer knew that there was communication going on from the ebb and flow of the pair’s emotions, but the ship did not know how the communication happened. It occurred to Volka that even if Sundancer could learn to parse sound waves into words, she might still be baffled by the subtleties of tone.
A second later, another explosion bloomed and snuffed out. “Keep detonating,” Young said in a steely voice. Another grenade exploded and got slightly larger than the first two. And then another. And another …
Volka saw the keel reseal. Felt it, too—it was like taking a breath after being too long underwater. The ship’s interior was still dark, the humans’ teeth were still chattering, and gravity hadn’t returned, and yet every Marine cheered at the same time. Or maybe they didn’t cheer; maybe they just had a sudden rush of hope.
Another bloom went off outside … larger than the ones before it. And another larger still.
Gravity returned. Light came back to the compartment. Volka didn’t just see it with her mind’s eye, she saw it through her lowered eyelids, and she smiled. She felt sunlight on her face and knew it was Sundancer basking in the glow of a tiny artificial sun. She swore everyone in the ship released a collective ahh … But then the tiny sun outside began to fade, and as one the ship
and everyone within her sighed.
“Didn’t even damage the ether extender,” Jerome said, scowling at his tablet.
“Detonate them all,” Young said.
“Yes, sir,” said Jerome. The remaining grenades outside the ship went off one by one, each detonation getting larger and larger—and suddenly the ship was surrounded by flame.
There was a collective exhale of breath, and Volka opened her eyes.
Sundancer’s hull was transparent, and the world outside was gold. Where it touched the ship, it seemed to bubble and boil. The view on every side was the same, and gravity was back, so Volka’s feet were anchored firmly to the floor, but she had the feeling the ship was twirling with joy. She laughed and saw other smiles break out, too. The door opened fully and a second later, a head peeked in.
In Volka’s helmet, there was a crackle of a radio, and then Carl snapped, “Dr. Patrick, thank you for possibly saving my life. But I want out!”
Helmet visors snicked open, and Dr. Patrick sheepishly got off the crate he’d thrown himself on top of. It popped open without assistance and Carl bolted out and up onto the top of another stack of crates. Stretching, he said, “Well that was distinctly unpleasant.”
“Do we know what exactly happened?” Young asked Carl.
Carl turned his bewhiskered snout to Dr. Patrick. “You want to describe what you think happened?”
Dr. Patrick flushed. “That is just complete conjecture.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have better,” Carl quipped.
“Go on, Doc,” Young said. “What happened?”
A few more curious heads peeked in the doorway. Sundancer’s entire hull showed outside, and they appeared to be floating in molten gold.
