by Barry Kirwan
He focused on the hub again, and realised it wasn’t the most impressive item on their viewscreen. The space-port acted as a node on a ringway, a conduit of sliding colours. Micah recalled as a kid seeing a cuttlefish at the Monterey aquarium, how it changed colours as fluently as a man utters words, different shades rippling up and down its surface. Yet this was on a more majestic scale, and wasn’t just about aesthetics. The light show was a side effect of the type of radiation his resident translated as Eosin harmonics, propelling ships around the Grid without the need for fuel. Occasionally a swathe of colour, like the aurora borealis, whip-lashed from the hub to the ringway’s horizon, indicating that another ship had just been catapulted into the Grid network.
The ten kilometre diameter conduit lasered into space in both directions from the hub, cutting a bold line across the black tableau of space. He focused on a particularly large vessel in the upper levels of the hub, and the resident labelled it as Varctiarian – farm produce – Ischrian leaves. He studied numerous different ships, and formed a hypothesis. Aside from a few yachts and military vessels, the Grid was mainly for commerce: Grid culture was about barter. Not only that, each race appeared to have a particular niche in the market. It made sense. After a million years, Grid society had decided its needs, and each race had been accorded one or maybe two functions. He wished people back on Ourshiwann could see it.
But his head began to thump – he wasn’t used to the resident yet. He turned back to his crew, and relayed his observations. Sandy was cool with him, Hannah distant, and Ramires buoyant, in an understated way. Micah couldn’t help notice that Sandy seemed to be interacting a little more than usual with Ramires. Zack meanwhile frowned at his displays of the docking system.
“I haven’t got a clue how we dock,” Zack said. “Hannah?”
“This goes beyond my knowledge too, I’m afraid. I suggest we approach and see what happens; probably the ship knows what to do.”
“Great,” Zack said, “I’ll go get some kip, then.”
Micah moved next to him. “Take her in, Zack, let’s play this one by ear.”
The hub loomed closer. Zack raised his hands, and let them fall back down, slapping his thighs. “That’s it, autopilot’s kicked in.”
A holo-cube of emerald digits appeared in the centre of the bridge. Zack groaned. “Here we go again.”
But Micah’s resident highlighted six pairs of digits. He strode to Hannah’s console, which displayed the cube in slices. He used his forefinger to peel away each slice until he found the right pairs, then tapped them with two fingers. The holo-cube flashed once and vanished.
“I’m impressed,” Hannah said quietly. Her eyes lingered on him longer than he felt comfortable with, until he was saved by a scraping Q’Roth message which boomed over their heads. She translated. “It’s an automated welcome message: we’re being re-directed to one of the docking needles.” His resident also gave a brief translation of the location. “DN-725, to be precise.” More Q’Roth-speak spilled into the room. This time, although he couldn’t really tell, it didn’t sound automated. They all waited for Hannah to translate, but she stayed quiet. Her right hand tugged absent-mindedly at her ginger hair while she squinted at the written version of the last message. He was reminded of the previous night’s passion, and dared not turn back to Sandy. He waited, half-hoping his resident would translate, but for the moment there was nothing.
“We’re in trouble,” Hannah said. “Zack, can we break off our approach?”
Zack tapped his controls, then punched the console. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“What’s the problem, Hannah?” Micah asked.
“It’s an archaic Q’Roth dialect. So I wasn’t sure at first, but … there’s a Q’Roth ambassador aboard the hub, and, well, there’s good news and bad news.”
“I thought that was the bad news,” Sandy said.
“Good news is he just waived our docking fees and set up a credit account for us during our stay,” Hannah said, clasping the edges of her console, addressing all of them. “Bad news is he’s invited us to a dinner party this evening – he wants an update on news from our recent travels. It seems he doesn’t get out much.”
Zack rose from his chair, slapping his unresponsive console en route. “Well I’ll be –”
“Main course,” Sandy quipped.
The ship jolted, a loud clunk confirming they were locked in place.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Micah said.
Ramires got up and approached him in the centre of the bridge. He pulled out a thin metal tube, and held it out in his left hand. A translucent purple blade eased outward, emitting a low hum.
Sandy cocked her head. “Boys and their toys, eh?” But she smiled at Ramires in a way that made Micah edgy. In that instant he understood two things: that he’d lost his chance with Sandy, and that he didn’t really want Hannah. It made him feel more alone than ever before. He realized he was glaring at the last Sentinel alive, just as Ramires caught his eye, and retracted the fluorescent blade.
Micah cleared his throat, and swung his gaze back to the viewscreen. “We go get provisions, then we get the hell out of here before dinner.” He felt empty inside, but with that came a coldness he could firm into purpose. “Hannah, how much time do we have before our intended soiree?”
“About five hours.”
“Right. Hannah, you remain here, find a protocol, a reason we can disembark early. I want you to track the ambassador and keep us away from him. We’ll keep open comms. The rest of you, you’re with me. We look for provisions. With a bit of luck my resident should get us through the transactions. Angel left us encounter gear, we need to figure out how to use it. Meet down at the airlock in ten minutes. Questions?” He glanced around, and left the bridge before anyone had a chance to raise one.
Zack caught him up further down the corridor, just outside his cabin. “You okay?”
“Am I really that transparent?”
“You want some advice?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
Micah sighed. “Zack – yes, I’m out of my depth here. Too much, too fast.”
“That’s just it, Micah. You’re not. You just gotta let go of who you used to be. Blake chose you for a reason. Me, I thought you were just some geeky kid who got lucky back on Earth – had no idea why Blake singled you out for training.”
Micah’s anger flared up, out of the blue. “So please tell me, Zack, because right now I’d really like to know. I feel like I’m losing everything that matters to me.” He realised this shit shouldn’t be directed at Zack. “Sorry, I know you’ve lost a lot too, maybe everything.”
Zack shrugged. “Not everything, not my sense of purpose. And that’s just it. I asked Blake why, why you. He said you were smart, and right now, intelligence was our only hope. So, let go of them all – Sandy, Hannah, Antonia. Doesn’t mean you don’t care about people. But you need to be the leader, see things the way an eagle does, from above, cool, aloof.”
Micah bit his lip, but was unable to hold it in. “What about me, Zack, how I feel, my needs?”
Zack laughed, laying a heavy black hand on Micah’s shoulder. “No offence, Micah, but screw you. It ain’t about you or me. Take your pain, your anguish, and burn it in cold fire. That was Blake’s nickname back in the War, you know. Think about it, Micah, but not too much. Analyse our situation, not yourself. Humanity needs your brain, not your petty neuroses. Sorry, but there it is.”
Something clicked inside Micah’s head. If he could do as Zack said, then it would cut off the pain, and analysts were trained to disconnect from their emotions, though usually only when using the Optron. He made up his mind. “Alright. I have nothing to lose.”
Zack stared at him awhile, then grinned. “Actually, you have to lose everything first, that’s the point, just let go, you’ll feel lighter.” Zack headed to his own cabin.
Micah remembered what a Zen master had told him back in Palo Alto durin
g his Optron training: resolved action only comes from emptiness. He’d never been comfortable with that aphorism, but right now, maybe for the first time in his life, it applied.
The encounter gear was less cumbersome than he’d imagined, amounting to lightweight self-fitting copper-coloured suits, a matching metallic headband, and two pencil-width booms curving around from the ears to the chin, leaving a gap for the mouth. His resident confirmed the shrouder device was operating, neutralising microbes exiting the mouth and nose, and any foreign flora which might try to enter. Despite a glove-tight fit, he didn’t sweat inside the suit; again, something inside the suit acted on the sweat immediately. So, aside from looking like some cheap, decked-out retro-punk rock band leader, he felt relaxed, at least until he exited the ship.
The hatch swished open to reveal a gelatinous twinkling membrane across the hatchway. Micah knew he had to be first, so he braced himself and stepped through it – it was like walking through jelly. Micah’s resident noted exodermic sterilisation in progress. The membrane was thin, and his body was almost through it when something snagged – his pulse pistol. Before he could do anything about it, the holster straps dissolved and the pistol clattered to the deck inside the ship, just as he emerged fully onto the other side. The same happened to Sandy and Zack as they came through.
“Guess there’s a ‘no-weapons’ policy.” Zack said.
They watched Ramires try – it snagged a while on his back pocket, then let him through with the nanosword.
“How come?” Zack asked.
Micah answered. “Maybe it doesn’t know it’s a weapon.”
“Still,” Zack said, “don’t seem fair.”
Micah felt a breeze brush his cheek, and without warning, all four of them were whisked off their feet. He held his breath as they were sucked down black corrugated tubing inside the needle connecting their ship to the hub, separated from instant space death by the gossamer thin pipeline funnelling them towards – well, he didn’t know where. He felt like a spider being flushed down a loo, and hoped the comparison was incorrect. He saw flashing lights, heard banshees, and was buffeted by cold and hot air blasts. The resident relayed information from the needle’s analysis of Micah and the others: air-breathers; gravitic tolerance level based on musculoskeletal design; environmental sensitivity ranges to heat, light, air pressure and ionising radiation; primary sensory modality visual, secondary auditory – it gave figures which he supposed were ranges on the EM spectrum; and approximate level intelligence. The last parameter took an extra second to register, deciding on five – presumably courtesy of the resident – which was the minimum level for entry into the hub. Micah wondered what would have happened if they’d been granted a four or even a three. The spider-down-the-toilet analogy came back to mind.
They arrived at a nexus, a spherical mirrored room with nine circular portals leading out of it. They hung in the middle, courtesy of a reflective gravity effect Earth’s scientists had speculated upon, but never quite managed to create. Micah recognised it because when he moved his hand away from his body, he started to move in the opposite direction. “Er, nobody move, just give me a second,” he warned the others floating behind him. He focused on the opposite portal. Nothing happened. Shit, we have to think Level Five or we’re going to get nowhere. He returned to his analyst training, and imagined the sphere and its ten portals including the one through which they’d just entered. It was hard for most people to truly think in three dimensions, but easier for an Optron analyst. As he’d hoped, courtesy of the resident, in his mind he saw each portal with supplementary information. He pivoted inside his mind, inspecting each one, surmising that the resident had probably chosen him as host because he had certain skills which were going to make survival easier.
Each portal led to different basic functional requirements: grid access registration, weapons ordering, restoration facilities, ship trading, and entertainment. One slightly above and to the right was designated nutrition. That would be their priority, as their rations were getting so low they were starting to taste good. He opened his eyes.
“Well, Micah? Much as this is fun…” Sandy didn’t need to complete the sentence.
“Working on it.” He puzzled over what to do next. If this was a pure gravity reflection field, then Newton’s laws would keep them there indefinitely. But alien tech would be smarter. It would work out what they wanted. He concentrated hard on the desired exit, but remained immobile. Of course, he thought, the machines aren’t telepathic. Okay, he thought, so the computer has already analysed our musculature, so can detect muscle movements. He flexed his feet as if getting up, and angled his torso toward the portal. He began to move in its direction, accelerating. “Quick, all of you, just imagine you’re walking to this portal, use your feet and follow –” He was sucked inside, and prayed the others got it in time. This time the trip was shorter, and he was deposited feet first onto a springy glass floor inside a room-sized, squat bubble the size and shape of a school bus. The others arrived one by one. Instinctively he held out a hand to help Sandy as she arrived, but she didn’t take it. “Everyone okay?” he said, retracting his hand.
Zack answered first. “Well, boss, unless we all get one of those things inside our head, I reckon we need to stick together.”
Sandy folded her arms, tight-lipped. Ramires spoke up. “Do we still have comms with Hannah?”
“Good point.” Micah addressed his wristcom. “Hannah, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Micah, loud and clear. How’s it going?”
“Well, we’re in, so to speak. We’ll contact you every thirty minutes. I strongly suggest you don’t leave the ship – the phrase culture shock doesn’t do it justice.”
He surveyed the surreal landscape before him. All of them walked to the bubble’s side, peering out at the sight beyond.
“Babel,” Sandy said.
Before them stood a Christmas-tree-like array of hemispheres, each with a diameter of several hundred metres. Micah could see ten at any one time as the tree slowly rotated. The tree was in the centre of a vast honeycombed sphere, with thousands of bubbles – more like blisters from this viewpoint – like the one they stood in right now, encircling the tree. He couldn’t see inside any of the others, but the overall effect was a thousand insect eyes gazing on the tree Sandy had aptly christened Babel. Fine opal tubes snaked from the hemispheres to some of the blisters, reminding Micah of a sea anemone’s tendrils waving in the sea currents, hunting plankton.
“Hey, boys, you’ll want to try this,” Sandy said, exuberant again. She had picked up a metal visor from several lying on a shelf, and was studying the habitats.
Micah took one and held it to his eyes. At first nothing happened as he looked towards the tree. Then as he noticed a liquid environment he unconsciously tried to focus, and the image immediately zoomed in, spying various creatures, some like ancient marine dinosaurs on Earth, others squid-like, though none looked like actual fish.
“Infini-vision,” Zack said, “every pilot’s dream! Mil-tech tried to develop this just before the War. It must senses eye muscle movements and amplify accordingly – but this is real smooth!”
Micah found four basic environmental types – air-like, heavy gas, liquid, and dark. The dark ones were opaque to the visors, although Micah thought he saw shadows moving within the blackness.
He focused on one of the air environments. “Wow,” he whispered, finding a menagerie of alien life-forms, from grey mushroom-shaped creatures whose means of locomotion escaped him, to a quadruped beast with an upper body of a scarlet manta ray. Numerous lime-coloured, diamond-shaped organisms with four rings around them rolled around the alien food market like gyroscopes, the diamonds remaining upright. His resident produced names for the various aliens he saw, but he paid no attention, just feasted on the abundance of forms life had found according to planetary demands and environmental niches. Darwin could work here forever.
“Hey, check this out,” Sandy shouted, “fourth
level down the tree, last habitat on the right, central section.”
He pulled back from the visor, located the hemisphere, and then re-applied the optical device, wishing it to get closer. At first he couldn’t make it out, but then he saw what she must be referring to. A black eel was lengthening itself impossibly into fractal patterns, in front of a white, straight eel. The white eel began to do the same thing, interlacing and meshing with the black eel. At first the fractal patterns made no sense, even though it was kaleidoscopic to watch, but then he realised that this dance was generating a black and white cube. A number of other alien life-forms had gathered to watch.
Sandy laughed. “Shouldn’t they get a room?”
Good, she has her sense of humour back.
Ramires butted in, his voice regaining its usual deadly serious tone. “Bipeds, two levels below the fractal eels. Some look humanoid.”
They all switched to the lower hemisphere, and found a range of bipeds, including one that looked uncannily human. Micah zoomed in to the human’s face. “Mannekhi,” he said, even before his resident confirmed it. “That’s where we start.” He touched a finger on the inside edge of the bubble while staring at the habitat through the visor.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done,” Sandy said.
Micah lowered the visor to see a tendril snaking its way toward them. As its head rose in front of them, its mouth opened, and then leached onto the outside of the bubble. They each took a step backwards, but the exit behind them sealed.
‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘I’m sure it’s –”
They arrived in the habitat in a split second.
“– okay,” he finished.
“Sonofabitch, that was fast.” Zack swept his fingers over his bald head. “Must’ve used some kind of inertial field. Didn’t feel a damn thing!”
Ramires seemed the least shocked by the suddenness of the mode of transport. He wandered off down a plant-laden central aisle. “This way, I believe.”
