Hali had been checking the synchronous beat for almost an hour. Waela had come to this Natali retreat without protest, obeying every suggestion Hali made with a sleepwalker’s passivity. She had appeared to gain some energy after feeding at a corridor shiptit—a process which still filled Hali with confusion. So few ever received elixir at the shiptits anymore that most Shipmen ignored them, taking this as a sign of Ship’s deeper intents or displeasure. Attendance at WorShip had never been more punctual.
Why was Ship feeding Waela?
While Waela drank from the shiptit container, Hali had tried to get a response from the same corridor station. No elixir.
Why, Ship?
No answer. Ship had not been easily responsive since sending her to see the crucifixion of Yaisuah.
The lines on the monitor screen were merging once more—fetus and mother in synchronous beat. As the lines merged, Waela opened her eyes. There was no consciousness in the eyes, only an unmoving stare at the compartment ceiling.
“Fly us back to Jesus.”
As she spoke, the synchronous lines separated and Waela closed her eyes to sink back into the geography of her mysterious sleep.
Hali stood in astonished contemplation of the unconscious woman. Waela had said “Jesus” the way Ship pronounced the name. Not Yaisuah or Hesoos, but Geezuz.
Had Ship sent Waela, too, on that odd journey to the Hill of Skulls? Hali thought not. I would recognize the signs of that shared experience. Hali knew the marks on herself which came from that trip to Golgotha.
My eyes are older.
And there was a new quietude in her manner, a wish to share this thing with someone. But she lived with the knowledge that no other person might understand . . . except possibly . . . just possibly, Kerro Panille.
Hali stared at the pregnant mound of Waela’s abdomen.
Why had he bred with this . . . this older woman?
Fly us back to Jesus?
Could that be just delirious muttering? Then why Geezuz?
A deep sense of uneasiness moved itself through Hali. She used her pribox to call down to Shipcore and arranged for a relief watch on the monitor. The relief showed up presently, a young Natali intern named Latina. Her official green pribox hung at her hip as she hurried into the compartment.
“What’s the rush?” Hali asked.
“Ferry sent word that he wants to see you right away down at WorShip Nine.”
“He could’ve called me.” Hali tapped her own pribox.
“Yes . . . well, he just said for me to tell you to hurry.”
Hali nodded and gathered her things. Her own pribox and recorder were beyond habit, a part of her physical self. She briefed Latina on the routine as she gathered her equipment, noting the log of synchronous beats, then ducked out through the curtain. The agrarium was a scene of intense dayside activity, a harvest in process. Hali wove her way through the dance of workers and found a servo going coreside. At Old Hull she took the slide to Central and dropped off at the Study passage which led to Worship Nine.
The red numeral winked at her as she found the hatch and slipped into the controlled blue gloom. She could not see Ferry anywhere, but there were perhaps thirty children in the five-to-seven age range sitting cross-legged around a holofocus at the center of the WorShip area. The focus showed a projection of a man in shipcloth white who was lying on bare ground and covering his eyes with both hands in great pain or fear.
“What is the lesson, children?”
The question was asked in the flat and emotionless tone of Ship’s ordinary instruction programs.
One of the boys pointed to another boy beside him and said: “He wants to know where the man’s name came from.”
The projected figure stood, appearing dazed, and a hand reached from outside the focus to steady him. The hand became another man in a long beige robe as the focus widened. Beside this other man, skittish and wild-eyed, danced a large white horse.
The children gasped as the horse stepped into, then out, then back into the holo. They clapped when the robed man got it under control.
Hali moved across to a WorShip couch overlooking this performance and sank into the cushions. She glanced around once more for Ferry. No sign of him. Typical. Tell her to hurry, then he was not here.
Neither of the projected figures was speaking, but now a voice in a strange tongue boomed from the holofocus. How familiar that tongue sounded! Hali felt that she could almost understand it—as though she had learned it in a dream. She tapped the translate switch on the arm of the couch beside her and the voice boomed once more: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”
That voice! Where had she heard that voice?
The white-clad figure, still with hands over his eyes and concealing most of his face, rolled over and climbed to his feet with his back to Hali. She saw that he was not wearing a shipsuit after all, but a white robe which had clung to his long legs. The man stumbled back two steps now and fell once more. As he fell, he cried: “Who are you?”
The booming voice said: “I am Yaisuah, whom you persecute. It is hard for you to kick against the thorns.”
Hali sat in breathless quiet: Yaisuah! Yaisuah . . . Hesoos . . . Geezuz.
The holofocus blipped out and the WorShip lights came up to a warm yellow. Hali saw that she was the only adult in the room—this had been a session for young children. Why had Ferry ordered her to meet him here?
One of the children still seated on the floor spoke directly to Hali: “Do you know where that man got his name?”
“It was a mixture from two ancient cultures Earthside,” she said. “Why were you watching that?”
“Ship said that was today’s lesson. It started with the man on the horse. He rode very fast. Do we have horses in hyb?”
“The manifest says we have horses but we have no place for them yet.”
“I’d like to ride a horse sometime.”
“What did you learn from today’s lesson?” Hali asked.
“Ship is everywhere, has been everywhere and has done and seen everything,” the boy said. Other children nodded.
Was that why You showed me Yaisuah, Ship?
No answer, but she had not expected one.
I didn’t learn my lesson. Whatever it was Ship wanted me to learn . . . I failed.
Distraught, she stood and glanced at the boy who had addressed her. Why weren’t there any adults here? It was children’s WorShip, but not even a guide?
“Has Doctor Ferry been here?” she asked.
“He was here but someone called him away,” a little girl in the background said. “Is he supposed to leave WorShip?”
“When it’s the business of Ship,” Hali said. The apology sounded empty, but the girl accepted it.
Abruptly, Hali turned away and slipped out of the room. As she left, she heard the little girl call: “But who’s going to lead us in lesson study?”
Not me, little girl. I have my own studying to do.
Something was going very wrong shipside. Waela’s odd pregnancy was merely one symptom among many. Hali ran down the side passage coreside from the WorShip area, found a service access plate and slipped it aside. She wormed her way down a dimly lighted tube to a cross-tube where she slipped out through another service plate into the main passage to Records. There was activity in Records—a teener group learning how to handle the more sophisticated equipment, but she found her aisle between the storage racks unoccupied and no one at the console which concealed Kerro’s small study lab.
Hali opened the concealed hatch, saw pale pink light in the lab. She slid inside and sat at the control seat. The hatch snicked closed behind her. She was breathless from the rush of getting here, but wanted no delay. Where to begin? Vocoder? Projection?
Hali chewed at her lip. Nothing could be hidden from Ship. The lesson for the children had been a true one. She knew this.
I don’t even need this equipment to address Ship.
Then why did Ship use this place at all?<
br />
“Most of you find it less disturbing than when I speak in your mind.”
Ship’s intimate voice issued from the vocoder in front of her. For some reason, the calm and rational tone angered her.
“We’re just pets! What happens when we become a nuisance?”
“How could you become a nuisance?”
The answer was there without considering it: “By losing our respect for Ship.”
There was no reply.
This cooled her anger. She sat in silent contemplation for a moment, then: “Who are You, Ship?”
“Who? Not quite the proper term, Hali. I was alive in the minds of the first humans. It required time for the right events to occur, but only time.”
“What do You respect, Ship?”
“I respect the consciousness which brought Me into your awareness. My respect is made manifest by My decision to interfere as little as possible in that consciousness.”
“Is that how I’m supposed to respect You, Ship?”
“Do you believe you can interfere with My consciousness, Hali?”
She let out a long breath.
“I do interfere, don’t I.” It was a statement, not a question.
With a sudden sensation of sinking, as though the realization occurred because she let it happen and not because she willed it, Hali saw the lesson of the Hill of Skulls.
“The consequences of too much interference,” she whispered.
“You please Me, Hali. You please Me as much as Kerro Panille ever pleased Me.”
“Hali!”
It was Ferry’s voice shouting at her over the pribox speaker at her hip. “Get to Sickbay!”
She was out the concealed hatch and halfway down the storage aisle before she realized she had broken away from Ship in mid-conversation. Ship had spoken personally with very few people, and she had the impudence to jump up and leave. Even as this thought flashed through her mind, she laughed at herself. She couldn’t leave Ship.
Ferry met her at the main hatchway into Sickbay. He was wearing the heavier groundside blue and carried another suit of it under his arm. He thrust it at her and Hali saw then that the suits had been fitted for helmets of hazardous flight.
She accepted the suit as Ferry thrust it at her. The old man appeared to be in the grip of deep agitation, his face flushed, hands trembling.
The groundside fabric felt rough in her hands, so different from the shipcloth. The detachable slicker and hood were contrastingly slippery.
“What’s . . . what’s happening?” she asked.
“We have to get Waela off ship. Murdoch’s going to kill her.”
She was a blink accepting the import of his words. Then doubts filled her. Why would this fearful old man oppose Murdoch? And by implication oppose Oakes!
“Why would you help?” she asked.
“They’re demoting me groundside, sending me to Lab One.”
Hali had heard the rumors of Lab One—clone experiments, some wild stories, but Ferry was visibly terrified. Did he know something definite about Lab One?
“We have to hurry,” he said.
“But how . . . they’ll catch us.”
“Please! Put on the groundsides and help me.”
She slipped the clothing over her shipsuit and noted how bulky it made her feel. Her fingers fumbled with the slicker’s catches as Ferry hurried her into Sickbay.
“We’ll be gone by the time they suspect,” he said. “There’s a freighter leaving in four minutes from Docking Bay Eight. It’s carrying hardware, no crew—everything on automatic.”
They were at a Sickbay alcove by now and, as he pulled aside the curtains, Hali suppressed a startled question. Waela lay on a gurney, already clad in groundside slicker with the hood pulled down over her brow. Her swollen abdomen was a blue mound under the slicker. How had Ferry brought her here?
“Murdoch had her brought down here as soon as you were relieved,” Ferry said, grunting as he wrestled the gurney out of its alcove. Hali moved to unhook the monitor connections.
“Not yet!” Ferry snapped. “That’s the signal to Bio that something’s wrong.”
Hali drew back. Of course, she should’ve thought of that.
“Now, hook up your pribox,” Ferry said. “People will think we’re moving her somewhere for more tests.” Ferry folded the groundside hood under Waela’s head and covered her with a gray blanket. She stirred sleepily as he lifted her head.
“What did they give her?” Hali asked.
“A sedative, I think.”
Hali looked down at her groundsides, then at Ferry. “People will take one look at our clothes and know something’s wrong.”
“We’ll just act as though we know what we’re doing.”
Waela jerked in her sleep, mumbled something, opened her eyes and said: “Now. Now.” Just as quickly she was back in her sedated sleep.
“I hear you,” Hali muttered.
“Ready?” Ferry asked. He gripped the head of the gurney.
Hali nodded.
“Unhook her.”
Hali removed the monitor connections and they wheeled Waela out into the passageway, moving as fast as they could.
Docking Bay Eight, Hali thought. Four minutes. They could make it if they were not delayed too long anywhere along the way.
She saw that Ferry was guiding the gurney toward the tangent passage to the docking bays. Good choice.
They had taken fewer than a dozen hurried steps when Hali was paged.
“Ekel to Sickbay. Ekel to Sickbay.”
Hali estimated two hundred meters from Sickbay to their goal. They could not trust shiptransport internally. If Murdoch was a killer, if she had figured him for less than what he revealed himself, then placing themselves in a transit tube would be disaster. He could override the controls and have them delivered like salad to his hatchway.
The gurney’s wheels squeaked and Hali found this irritating. Ferry was panting with unaccustomed exertion. The few people they passed merely observed the obvious rush on medical business and squeezed aside to let them pass.
Once more, she was paged: “Ekel! Emergency in Sickbay!”
They skidded around the comer into the passage to the Docking Bay and nearly overturned the gurney. Ferry grabbed for it and prevented Waela from sliding off.
Hali helped to settle Waela as they continued pushing toward Number Eight. They were passing Number Five and she could see the Eight down the passage ahead of them.
Ferry, reaching under Waela’s shoulder as they moved, pulled out something which had caught his eye.
Hali saw him go pale. “What’s that?”
He held it up for her to see.
The thing looked insidious—a small pale tube of silver.
“Tracer,” Ferry gasped.
“Where was it?”
“Murdoch must’ve tried to feed it to her, but he didn’t stick around long enough to be sure she swallowed it. She must’ve spit it out.”
“But . . .”
“They know where we are. The biocomputer can track this through the body, yes, but it can also track it anywhere in Ship.”
Hali grabbed it out of his hand and threw it behind her as far as she could.
“All we need’s a little delay.”
“This is as far as you go, Ekel!”
It was Murdoch’s shrill voice almost paralyzing her as he stepped out of the Number Eight hatch just ahead of Ferry. She glimpsed a laser scalpel in his hand, realizing he could use it as a weapon. That thing under full power could sever a leg at ten meters!
Chapter 57
As the Jesuits recognized, a key function of logic limits argument and, therefore, confines the thinking process. As far back as the Vedanta, this way of tying down the wild creativity of thought was codified into seven logic-directing categories: Quality, Substance, Action, Generality, Particularity, Intimate Relation and Non-existence (or Negation). These were thought to define the true limits of the symbolic universe. The recognit
ion that all symbol processes are inherently open-ended and infinite came much later.
—Raja Thomas, Shiprecords
THE HYLIGHTER with Thomas cradled in its tentacles vented a brief undulating song and began a slow drop into blue haze. Thomas felt the tentacles enfolding him, heard the song—was even aware that Alki was beginning its long slide into sunset. He saw the dark purple of the meridian sky, saw the side-lighted brilliance of the blue haze and a surrounding rim of steep crags. He saw all of this and still was not sure of what he saw, nor was he entirely sure of his own sanity.
The haze enclosed him then, warm and moist.
His memories were confused, like something seen through swirling water. They moved and shifted, combining in ways that frightened him.
Calm. Be calm.
He could not be sure this was his own thought.
Where was I?
He thought he remembered being thrust into the open outside Oakes’ Redoubt. The land beneath him, then, could still be Black Dragon. He could not, however, remember being picked up by a hylighter.
How did I get here?
As though his confusion ignited some remote explanation, he saw a distant view of himself sprinting across a plain, a Hooded Dasher close behind, then the swoop of a hylighter as it lifted him to safety. The images played in his mind without his volition.
Rescue? What am I doing here? Ballast? Food? Maybe the hylighter is taking me to its nest and a bunch of hungry . . . hungry what?
“Nest!”
He heard the word clearly as though someone spoke directly into his ear, but there was no one. He knew the voice was not his, not Ship’s.
Ship!
They had fewer than seven diurns left! Ship was about to break the recording. End of humankind.
I’ve gone insane, that’s it. I’m not really being carried through blue haze by a hylighter.
In his mind, a hatch opened and he heard a babble of voices, Panille’s among them. Memories . . . he felt his mind lock onto memories that had been sealed away until this babble of voices. The gondola—the hylighters reaching into the surfaced gondola . . . Waela and Panille making love, tentacles all around like long black snakes slithering . . . questing. He heard his own hysterical laughter. Was that another memory? He recalled the LTA carrying them to the Redoubt . . . the cell—those odd E-clones . . . more laughter. I’m hallucinating . . . and remembering hallucinating.
The Jesus Incident Page 35
