′This is the bullshit part,′ Wetherbee murmured. ′How′s your day been, and so forth. Takes him an age to warm up. I do most of the talking. And I hate that damn game.′
′Let′s just watch,′ murmured Grace. She was perched on the edge of one of the patient′s beds.
Infinite chess was in fact an invention of Zane′s. It was played with regular pieces on a regular board, save that the players had to imagine the board wrapped around itself, so that the right edge was glued to the left, and the upper edge glued to the lower. So, given normal restrictions on movement, a given piece could move right, off the edge of its world, and reappear to the left. It gave the illusion of infinity on a finite board, Zane said, and he liked to produce computer graphics showing how the wrapped-around board was topologically equivalent to a torus, a doughnut. A queen became particularly powerful; faced by an empty diagonal, row or column, she could leap, theoretically, an infinite number of squares in a single move. Zane and other keen players were busy working out variants to standard rules, and to standard sequences of game play. For instance, white had an immediate advantage with the first move. Your queen could step backwards and wrap around the world to take your opponent′s queen, though she would then fall to the opposing king. Your rooks, stepping back into your opponent′s back rank, could do a lot of damage before being quelled. End-game analysis was less affected, as the board was so open anyhow.
The game was an obvious psychological metaphor for the freedom they all sought in an enclosed world, but it was ferociously difficult to play. ′Bastard beats me every time,′ Mike Wetherbee murmured.
′You′re very patient,′ Grace said.
′Yeah, right,′ Wetherbee said sourly. ′When he′s in this phase he′s so depressive, so passive, he just sits there soaking in misery. He sucks the life out of you.′
Holle knew that Wetherbee was uncomfortable with the therapy programme, although he had finally accepted the responsibility given how essential Zane was to the mission. That was why he had got others involved in the treatment: Holle who had referred Zane in the first place, Venus who had also suffered abuse at the hands of Harry Smith, a likely trigger for Zane′s condition, and Grace Gray, who had spoken to Zane on the ground after Harry′s murder. Grace was turning out to be one of the more competent of Wetherbee′s back-up paramedics, having picked up a lot of field experience in her years with the okie city on the Great Plains. They made a good team, Holle thought, emotionally strong even if they had no experience with this kind of case.
But really, Wetherbee was just sharing the burden around. He had the mentality Holle had seen in a lot of medical students and doctors on the ground. Brisk, good-looking and competent, he didn′t have a steady partner, but he had had a string of relationships with women among the crew - a lot of people would want to tie the ship′s only doctor to them, and their children. But he′d never show a trace of survivor guilt, or any interest in the fate of his drowned homeland. And he maintained a kind of distance from his patients that sometimes made you wonder why he had ever gone into medicine in the first place.
Now Mike leaned forward and touched the screen to up the volume. ′We′d been talking about the chess. Then suddenly he started talking about his father. Look, see the switch there?′
Holle saw how Zane sat up straight and looked around, almost as if he′d just arrived in the room. ′Doctor Wetherbee?′
′Zane, I′m right here.′
′We′re in the surgery. We′re playing chess.′ He glanced at the board. ′I′m two moves away from getting you in check.′ He smiled. Everything about Zane seemed brighter, Holle thought, as if he was another person.
′Two moves? I can′t see it, but that doesn′t surprise me.′
′I play chess with my father.′
′Note the present tense,′ Wetherbee murmured to the women.
′I never beat my father. He′d hate that, if I ever did.′
′Did you, I mean do you let him win?′
′Oh, no. He′d hate to think of himself as weak. And he′d hate to see me being sentimental. The game is everything, winning …′
′You see the conflict,′ Wetherbee commented. ′I think he did let the father win, and then blocked it out. The old man kept setting up barriers the kid couldn′t break through. Listen to what he initiates now.′
′I tried to tell Dad about Harry Smith,′ Zane said, on the screen.
′About what we talked about? The touching - all of that.′
′Yes. I tried more than once. The first time Dad just wouldn′t listen. The next time he hit me. He said I was lying about Harry Smith, who was a good man, a man he knew well. And he said I was dirty, soiled. He said I should shut up. He said if I told anybody these lies it would make trouble for no one but me, and get me thrown off the Ark, and then the eye-dees would rape me and kill me, and if they didn′t the flood would drown me.′
′But now that′s all over. You′re on the Ark. You′re safe.′
Zane smiled, looking quizzical. ′Well, I′m still a Candidate, Doctor Wetherbee. That′s not the same thing at all.′
′Like he′s stuck in the past,′ Venus said. ′He doesn′t know he′s on the Ark.′
′Something like that, some of the time … Listen.′
On the screen, Wetherbee asked, ′If you do make it onto the Ark, how do you think all this will affect you? The business with Harry Smith and your father.′
Zane frowned. ′I don′t think much about that. Launch is years away.′
′You′ll have a duty,′ Wetherbee said, pushing. ′You won′t be there just as a person, but as a repository of genes. A contributor to genetic diversity.′
′I′m interested in the engines, the theory of the warp field—′
′Yes, but this is a key part of the mission, the human side of it. You will have to have children, on the Ark, or on Earth II. That′s the whole point. How do you feel about that?′
′Dirty.′
′That′s what your father said. But it isn′t necessarily true.′
′Dirty, dirty!′ Zane swept his arm, scattering the pieces from the chess board. Then he slumped.
Wetherbee paused the recording.
′You pushed him pretty hard,′ Grace said.
′I know, I know.′ Wetherbee sighed, and massaged a pale, stubbly face. ′But when he gave me the opening about the father, I thought it was an opportunity I shouldn′t miss. I think the relationship to the father is the key to the whole mess.
′Look at the contradiction he′s trying to resolve. His father loaded onto him all the pain and the blame of the sexual abuse, and the father′s own drive and ambition, and maybe his own shame at what became of his son. So Zane′s dirty because of the Harry Smith thing, and isn′t fit to have kids. But on the other hand if he can′t contribute to the gene pool he shouldn′t be on the Ark. He should have been left back on Earth in the hands of the monsters his father depicted. But that′s a primal choice, of life and death. He could hardly be put under more pressure. Maybe deep inside he′s always just evaded the whole issue, buried the contradiction. It was showing up in the memory lapses, the self-harm. And then—′
′And then I triggered the crisis,′ Holle said. ′That day I suggested he and I could have a kid.′
Grace said, ′That′s one of the kindest gestures you could ever have made to a man like Zane. You weren′t to know what was going on inside his head. He didn′t know himself.′
′Even I still don′t,′ Wetherbee said, ′after years of my ham-fisted therapy. But, look, I think he has some kind of dissociative disorder. He has splits in his identity, caused by the contradictions he can′t resolve, the pain he has to bury. That explains the memory lapses, the apparent shifts in identity - the way he seems to ′′wake up′′, uncertain of where he is, or even when.′
Venus said, ′You′re saying our only warp engineer is Jekyll and Hyde?′
′So what do we do?′ Holle asked.
He shrugged. ′I
have limited facilities for MRI scans. I tried that but can see nothing physically abnormal in his brain functions, whichever aspect of himself is apparent. I think the only answer is therapy - to understand him fully, and the damage that′s been done. And then to find some way to start the healing. Hypnosis is often used in these cases. I never hypnotised anybody in my life, but there are routines in the archive I might be able to adapt.′ He grimaced. ′This is going to take years more, if it works at all.′
′I guess we don′t have much choice,′ Holle said. ′Thanks, Mike. I know you didn′t sign up for this.′
′No, I didn′t.′ Wetherbee looked resentful, then grinned. ′But then, neither did Zane.′ As they got up to leave, he cleared the screen and turned to a computer program.
It snagged Venus′s attention. ′What′s this?′
′I′m trying to teach the ship′s AI to play infinite chess. With some prompting in my ear at least I might be able to put up a fight against Zane …′
In the small hours of the next morning, Holle was woken by two more calls. The first was from Wilson Argent in Halivah. They had found the little girl, Meg Robles.
′She zipped herself up in a pressure suit. You wouldn′t think a four-year-old could do that. Then she got stuck, and couldn′t get out.′
She listened to his tone. ′She′s dead.′
′I′m afraid so. First death since launch. And the first dead child.′
′I′ll be right there.′
′No, we′ll handle it. We′re looking after Cora. Just let Kelly know.′ ′Sure.′
And later, she had a call from Mike Wetherbee.
′I got an email from Zane′s user ID. It was in kind of broken English, and it asked for a meeting, asked for my help.′
′So?′
′The sender signed himself Jerry. Holle, there′s no Jerry on the ship. And when I checked the surveillance monitors, when he sent it Zane was alone in his room.′
64
MAY 2048
The siren′s guttural blaring almost drowned out the voice alarm: FIRE, SEBA DECK TEN. FIRE, SEBA DECK TEN. FIRE … Holle had been working on a replacement for a failed component in the Primary Oxygen Circuit, figuring out a simplified design that the Ark′s limited machine shop would be capable of turning out. She was listening to Paul Simon′s ′Darling Lorraine′ on repeat on her Angel, a favourite of her father′s because, he said, it reminded him of his relationship with her mother. And she was daydreaming of seasons on Earth, of autumn. It took her a second to clear her head.
She shut off the Angel and grabbed her Snoopy cap. ′Groundwater. Watch, what′s going on?′
Masayo Saito′s voice came on the line. ′Holle, get down here, we got a problem.′
She smelled smoke. Maybe that had triggered her dying-leaf dream. She could see smoke seeping under the door of her cabin. She pulled the Snoopy cap on her head and rummaged in a cupboard for a face mask.
Kelly Kenzie′s voice blared over the PA. ′This is Kelly. We have a major incident. Seba crew, to your fire stations, we′ve rehearsed this often enough and you know the drill. Halivah, seal up and prep for support operations. Anybody in transit to Seba, go back to Halivah. Let′s move it, people.′
Holle rushed out of her cabin and emerged into chaos.
The fire was a few decks down. A brilliant glow shone up through the mesh flooring, as if she was standing over a furnace. Hot air and smoke billowed up through the length of the hull, gathering in the upper decks and beneath the domed roof. People were running, some shouting. Holle could hear the rush of extinguishers and sprinklers, precious volatiles being expended to fight the fire. Over all this was the clamour of the siren, and Kelly Kenzie′s voice booming out instructions echoing from the metal walls.
Holle saw Grace Gray on the far side of the hull. She was awkwardly climbing the ladders between the decks with little Helen, now six years old, clinging to her back, and with three-year-old Steel Antoniadi in one arm. Grace was evidently fleeing the fire below. But smoke was gathering above, and some of the crew were already climbing back down from the dome, choking. The hull was becoming a closing trap. Grace made a quick decision, ducking into a cabin and slamming shut the door. If she blocked the door with wet towels, she and Helen might be safe.
But Holle was responsible for more than just Grace and her daughter.
For heartbeats she just stood there, outside her door, uncertain what to do. Four years after leaving Jupiter, this tiny, fragile hull and its twin Halivah were the only refuge to be had in twelve long light years. An out-of-control fire was their worst nightmare. Holle was senior, as well trained to handle the situation as anybody else aboard. She sensed she needed to make a quick decision - but to do what?
′Holle!′ Paul Shaughnessy came clambering down a ladder. He was wearing the outer layer of one pressure suit and he carried another, like a flayed skin draped over his back. He was following the training she′d given him; the suits were fireproof to an extent, and their oxygen supply would enable their wearers to keep functioning even as the air turned toxic. He looked tense, distracted, distressed.
He handed her the spare suit. She pulled it over her legs. ′Paul, are you OK? Do you know how this started?′
′It was Jack. I was up in the nose. My brother was down on Ten, in the maintenance area. He was fixing a rip in his own suit. The suit just exploded! I saw it on a feed. It became a fireball, and then it spread.′
She shook her head. ′That doesn′t make any sense.′ The suits had a pure oxygen air supply, so there was always a risk of fire, but the safety features should have ensured no such accident ever happened.
′It′s what I saw. I have to go down to Jack. Masayo′s down there.′
′Go, go. I need to talk to Kelly and Venus.′
He nodded, snapped closed his faceplate, and carried on down into the furnace.
Holle closed up her own helmet. ′Venus, are you there?′
′Groundwater, Jenning. We′re in the cupola.′
′Well, stay put. And start working on contingencies to detach the cupola and fly it over to Halivah.′
′We′re on it, that′s the regular drill.′
Holle imagined the calm twilight of the cupola, the silent, wheeling stars beyond, the screens full of images of devastation within the hull. ′Can you see what′s happening in here?′
′Most of the cameras are still functioning, though they′re going down all the time, and the comms lines are fritzing too. Decks Nine through Eleven are gutted. The mesh decking is melting, and dripping down into the hydroponic beds on Fourteen. Counter-measures aren′t working too well. The fire has got in behind the equipment racks. That wasn′t supposed to happen. Casualties unknown, we just can′t see.′
Kelly′s amplified voice suddenly cut out, leaving the hull filled with a cacophony of screams, the roaring of the fire.
′What about the hull temperature?′
′Rising, Holle. I can′t trust these readings, but—′
′Understood.′ The greatest danger of all was that the fire would melt its way through the hull altogether, and breach the pressurised compartment. There was a last-resort procedure to avert that final catastrophe, a drastic step. Holle was starting to think there was no choice. She tagged her microphone. ′Kelly, are you receiving?′
′We lost her feed, Holle,′ Venus reported.
′Venus, I′m thinking of cutting the tether.′
′Kelly′s out of touch. I endorse your decision. Do it.′
Holle started climbing up a ladder away from the fire, into the gathering smoke. ′Can you handle the follow-up from in there? Warn Halivah. Run the internal warnings, prepare for microgravity. Take over attitude control—′
′Already on it, Holle. It′ll be fine, it will work, we rehearsed for this.′
Holle said nothing more and pressed on with her climb. Her suit felt heavy and stiff, and her hands tired quickly as she fought the gloves′ stiffness to grasp at the metal rungs.
Venus was right. Yes, they had rehearsed on the ground and since launch, simulating situations almost as drastic as this. But all their years of training hadn′t prevented the fire, or stopped the situation from degenerating to this lethal point.
She reached the domed roof of the hull. With an awkward twist she flipped over onto the upside of one of the catwalks that ran beneath the dome, and fixed a safety harness buckle to a rail. She paused, breathing hard. The smoke was dense here, making it almost impossible to see, and she wiped soot away from her faceplate with a suit glove.
She found the panel that covered the tether severance handle. She punched in a security code, and flipped open the panel. The handle itself was surrounded by warnings in huge lettering. She wrapped her gloved fingers easily around the handle.
′The situation′s deteriorating, Holle,′ Venus called. ′Do it.′
Holle snapped the handle down.
At a junction on the tether between the hulls, close to its central point, a small explosive charge popped, silent in the vacuum. A tiny cloud of debris dispersed quickly. Since Jupiter the two hulls had been rotating about the warp generator at their common central point, completing an orbit once every thirty seconds. Now the cable that connected them was cut, and the hulls drifted apart, the severed tether coiling languidly as hundreds of tonnes of tension was released. When the particles of debris reached the wall of the warp bubble they sparkled briefly, their substance shredded by ferocious tides.
It was as if the whole hull dropped like a falling elevator car. Holle drifted up from the catwalk, and with a stab of panic she grabbed at the rail, even though she was safely anchored.
She peered down through the catwalk at the inferno below. The decks, shocked into zero gravity, were full of clouds of junk lifting into the air, furniture, handhelds, bits of clothing, food fragments, tools, even loose bolts and screws, anything not held down suddenly mobile. But the fire was the crux. She thought she saw an immediate difference in the way the smoke was billowing, and maybe the flames licked a bit less eagerly at the decking and equipment racks.
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