by Wil McCarthy
“I don't think anything more is going to happen in the next few minutes,” Dade said. “Look, they're not on his tail anymore, but it will take him forever to get around onto theirs.”
Tom nodded. “I agree. He seems a spirited little fellow though, doesn't he?”
Dade snorted. “Let's take another look at Soleco, you think?”
“Oh, yes. That fellow should be right up to the hypermass by now.”
Dade worked the controls for a while, until he'd conjured the proper image. That fellow had, in fact, gotten right up to the hypermass. Its pinpoint glare pushed at the edge of the lens, the distorting mirror, the puckering absence that was Soleco. Behind, the vehicle's plume remained unbent, a result of sustained linear acceleration. But time dilation had caught hold of the craft already; its color had shifted strongly toward the red, so that it looked like a very bright, very twinkly star with a wine glass held up in front of it. Its apparent velocity had dropped by over twenty percent.
The harder it runs, the slower it goes.
Tom knew what that felt like, to be sure. Relativity and hard work and boredom and anxiety... These things had formed the very texture of his recent life. Along with sleep deprivation! He had last closed his eyes twenty hours before, and then only briefly. Still, he suspected the ellipsoid's pilots were having a much longer day.
The pursuing ellipsoid had also turned redder, and while its velocity continued to increase, its rate of visible acceleration was down considerably. Only minutes, now, behind its quarry. The distance between them shrank.
“Ouch,” Dade said, pulling back a little from the viewpiece.
Tom squinted as well—the pinpoint glare of the fugitive ellipsoid had grown really red, without diminishing in brightness, until Tom found his eyes unable to focus on it. Unable to localize it against the starry background. Unable, soon, to see it at all. Soleco had swallowed it up in layers of dark, gravitational amber.
Tom shook his head in wonder, and in horror. They did this willingly. They dove straight into the hypermass, willingly, without even the slightest effort to scoot around it at the last moment.
“Darkness,” Dade Soames muttered quietly. “Bloody, quaking, stinking, festering darkness. And damnation.”
Driving as hard as ever, the pursuer slowed as it approached the edge of Soleco's distortion. Twinkling like a garnet under fluorescent light, it reddened. Deepened. Lost focus, vanished. Back once more into the deeps. Brave fellows, or stupid, to continue the chase with such a destination ahead of them.
Darkness, and damnation.
“Yes,” Tom agreed. “Quite.”
Chapter Eighteen
Miguel awoke to numbness, and the sensation of smothering. Something moved against his chest, moved against his face. Covering his mouth, covering and penetrating his nose, a thing, a solid, squirming thing!
“Don't try to move,” said a soft, androgynous voice Miguel did not recognize.
“Mmf!” he said, and tried to sit up.
“Don't try to move,” the voice repeated more firmly. “Your nerves have not finished reintegration. Please be patient.”
“Miguel,” said a more familiar voice. “The first aid kit can't help you if you don't sit still.”
He couldn't focus his eyes. Before him, twin images danced, blurry beyond recognition. It seemed very dark, as well, though something told him that was not his vision playing tricks. Not many lights on here. Here... in the lander? The floor beneath him hummed, and he could hear and feel warm air hissing from a ventilating unit somewhere not far from his left ear.
He forced his mouth open, spoke around the strange rubber thing that pressed against it. “Beth? Beth, what's happened? Why can't I move?”
“You've broken your back in four places. Now hush, the kit is almost finished.”
With effort, he worked his eye muscles until the twin blurs above him merged into a single, very fuzzy, image. A human form, long-haired and pleasantly curved, sat in a chair, at what might be one of the lander's makeshift science stations. And sitting atop Miguel's chest, a squat, white object with stubby protuberances (legs?) that made footprints of aching pressure against his flesh, pressure he had felt before but had not identified.
The object was white, and it had little black arms, little gray tentacles. And limbs that seemed stranger still, and more sinister. Knives and needles? Shiny things, certainly. Shiny things that moved and whirred and rotated in unsettling ways.
Beyond this strange machine, and beyond the vague form of Beth Lahler, he could see other sources of movement. Small lights seemed to crawl up and down the walls, and small shadows with them. Actually, now that he thought about it he could hear the clitter-clatter of tiny metal legs against the panels and bulkheads of the lander. As if an army of insects had arrived to cut it all apart and carry it away.
Of course, they must actually have the opposite intention. Like thing-Barta, Introspectia and its children could, on demand, split pieces of themselves off as separate machinelets, and then gobble them up again when they'd finished their tasks. A technologically sensible development, yeah, but creepy enough to keep surprising him, to keep him from ever quite getting used to it.
He thought of insects, with their exoskeletal bodies and their bulging, faceted eyes. Sensible, you had to admit, sometimes even elegant in their physical design. But no matter how fastidiously they cleaned themselves, how scrupulously harmless they kept their activities, even the prettiest of them was still a bug, a nasty, unclean thing you didn't want crawling around near you. Particularly not on your face.
He relaxed his eye muscles again, and let the view slip back to doubled blurs. He did not want to see the giant bug, no matter how wonderful and helpful, doing its work on top of his body.
“Peng took a bad blow to the head,” Beth said, her blur shifting slightly. “I can't figure out what he hit. I mean, his harness doesn't have much give to it, and there just aren't any sharp, solid corners within reach of his head. And nothing big came loose and flew around, either. Anyway, he's got some kind of concussion or something. The kit had to induce a deep coma to keep his blood pressure down.”
“Ungh,” Miguel replied.
The double smear of Beth leaned over toward him. “You may have noticed the gravity gradient's gone down a bit. I've got a couple of the thrusters working again, and we've sort of limped our way up out of the hole. I think the lander's had it, though. I can't fix it much better than I already have. Even in drydock, I bet they'd just part it out and build a new one.”
“Ungh.”
“You know, I think this is the longest I've ever had your attention. You always... I don't know, turn away when I try to speak to you. I wish I knew why you did that.”
He tried to sit up again, winced when the first aid kit trundled higher up his chest to force him down again.
“Don't move. Relax,” it said. “If you continue to move, I will administer a disabling current to your motor nerves.”
“Get this thing off me!”
“Just like that,” Beth said. “You always change the subject that exact same way. The first aid kit doesn't bother you, I do. Why is that?”
Miguel sighed. “Good lord. Listen, I like you just fine. I just...”
“Just what?”
He worked his face muscles, pushing aside the mask that the first aid kit was trying to hold over his mouth and nose. “Damn. Damn. Get this thing off me.”
“Don't try to move.”
Beth's blur moved again, took up a stiffer posture. “Just answer my question.”
“I don't want to get in trouble, all right? As soon as we get back to Earth, I hit the bricks a free man. I don't want a bunch of fines and hearings and stuff slowing me down.”
His vision was definitely clearing, now. He could see her frown. “I don't think I follow you.”
“Fraternization,” he said. “Against policy, right? As I'm sure you're aware.”
Beth snorted, beginning to look angry. “You t
ake a lot for granted, Mister. I was just talking about talking. I do know the regulations, and frankly I know when to keep my legs crossed. Lord, you've got some nerve!”
Miguel tried to raise his hands, remembered that he could not. But he did feel a tingling in them now. An unpleasant sensation, actually, like sharp objects jabbing him repeatedly, harder and harder.
“I can feel my hands again!” he said.
“Hmph,” Beth replied.
Oh, it had become one of those things, had it? Like a game of “wimp-out,” where the first to swerve from collision course must then admit defeat? It was his turn to snort. “You have me at a disadvantage, Tech Aid. If I've... misinterpreted your overtures, let me apologize.”
His tone indicated exactly what he thought of that possibility. And hearing that, Beth turned away slightly and did not reply. Had he overstepped himself? Lordy, it felt good to have this out in the open at last, but how much of it, really, existed only in his own head? In these days of long life, popular wisdom maintained that humanity had risen above the absurd tyranny of its hormones. As with the bit about prime numbers, Miguel had his doubts. He had scars enough, both physical and emotional, as evidence to the contrary.
“Maybe I should shut up,” he said, more quietly. “For whatever trifling value, Beth... Uh... Lord. If I did want to get in trouble, you would... I would...”
“Yes, you should shut up,” Beth said. She'd swiveled back toward him again, and now she rose from her chair, did a giddy dance for a moment as her personal gravity shifted. She stooped over, letting her hands and knees drop to the floor. Her face moved right over Miguel's, her breath warm against his skin. Her lips brushed his forehead, and then she pulled away again.
She looked down at him, and though her face was comically sideways, her expression held no trivial emotion. She brushed her hair back, tucked it behind an ear. “After the plasma wave hit, you and Peng both looked dead. My harness had jammed or something, and for a little while I couldn't get up out of my seat. I kept... screaming your name, waiting for you to wake up. But you didn't wake up. When the first aid kit pronounced you alive and recoverable, I... was very relieved. I didn't think about Peng until later.”
The jabbing sensation had spread to Miguel's lower body. He twitched. “Hey, I can feel my legs.”
Beth said nothing.
“Oh, I guess I changed the subject again, didn't I? Wait, I can feel my feet!”
“Stop moving,” said the first aid kit. Its neutral, androgynous tone had taken on a distinct ring of irritation. “This will stop you from moving.”
Miguel did not lose the tingling sensation in his limbs, but a sickly quivering suddenly slammed down on top of it and then vanished just as suddenly. He found, once more, that he could not move.
Fuck! Get it off me! he tried to say, but got no more than a gurgling sound.
“What happened?” Beth snapped, sounding frightened.
“Don't be alarmed,” said the monster on Miguel's chest, its calmness of voice now restored. “The patient faces greatest danger of self-injury during the final stages of the reintegration process. I have immobilized him as a precaution.”
“Fu...uuck,” Miguel managed to say.
“The patient will regain mobility in a few minutes, at which time he may resume limited physical activity. Thank you for your patience.”
“Get off me... you piece... of junk.”
“I have not finished administering treatment.” The first aid kit's voice had taken on a long-suffering quality that, despite its fleshless, genderless tone, sounded remarkably human. An appendage twitched, rotating a hypodermic needle back into its tool caddy and putting a glittering scalpel out in its place. Miguel felt a jolt of alarm for a moment, but the twitching and rotation continued, the scalpel vanishing and a gray, rounded instrument clicking into position instead. The arm moved, then, touching the rounded thing to Miguel's exposed chest.
Exposed? Oh, Lordy, was he wearing any clothing at all? He tried to look down at himself. Bare chest, yes. He couldn't see farther than that, though, with the damn first aid kit in the way. Plus, his eyes wouldn't bulge out far enough. Ow, even the attempt brought a biting pain behind his forehead.
“What troubles you?” Beth asked, seeing his exertions, his facial contortions. “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”
Miguel's face burned. “How much clothing... have I got on?”
She grinned down at him. “Afraid I might sneak a peek at your equipment and lose control, Tech Chief?”
“Beth,” he pleaded. She seemed to enjoy his discomfort a little too well!
“You've got your trousers on, don't worry.”
“Ah. Good.” Relief washed over him like a cooling breeze. “The embarrassment of this situation... you have no idea. Remind me... not to break my back in the future.”
Her face grew serious at that remark, and she glanced over in the direction of First Mate Peng's seat, at the fore of the lander. “It could have been worse. Really, you should have seen yourself an hour ago.”
Miguel could think of nothing to say to that, and so they remained silent for a while. The tingling in his arms and legs intensified gradually, and then began to fade away again after a minute or so had gone by.
Experimentally, he wiggled his fingers. They wiggled, sure enough. He tried his toes, and then his ankles and knees and wrists, his hips and his elbows and shoulders. Everything responded. Small movements, yes, and a little weakly and sluggishly executed, but still a great improvement over his earlier paralysis.
“I can move,” he said, to Beth Lahler and the first aid kit both.
The kit trundled another few centimeters up his chest, stuck an instrument in front of his left eye and fired a blinding purple light into it.
“Ow!”
“Pupil dilation normal,” it said. “Neuro-electrical field status approaching normal. Reconstructive agents have begun self-disassembly. Do you feel an itching or burning sensation in your back and neck?”
“No.”
“Excellent. I will now permit you to resume limited physical activity. Please move cautiously for the next several hours.”
For his first trick, Miguel tried to knock the first aid kit off his chest with a lateral sweep of his arm. Unfortunately, his muscles proved somewhat difficult to control, and the kit, with its low center of gravity, proved difficult to tip. As if hurried by his motions, though, the kit tucked away several instrumented arms, and stepped quickly onto the floor.
“It has pleased me to serve you,” it said, with what sounded like a sincere tone. “Please call out if you experience any further discomfort.”
Miguel attempted an obscene gesture, failed.
With surprising speed, the kit scuttled across the floor and, turning on its side with a little hopping motion, slapped into a wall-niche obviously shaped and sized to accept it. It tucked its limbs in still further, and a panel door slid down over it and merged seamlessly with the gray bulkhead. In that brief, flickering moment, Miguel had gotten his only clear look at the machine that had saved his life. It did, vaguely, resemble a box with handles, like something he might actually recognize as a first aid kit from his own time and place. If such a box had mated with live crabs, the offspring might look like that: smooth, antiseptic-white carapace arching over an array of specialized limbs. It had had a bright red cross painted across its back.
Miguel tried to get up. His limbs didn't feel much like helping him, though, despite what felt like a quarter-gee or less in the gravity department.
“Here,” Beth said, offering him a hand. She pulled him into a sort of sitting position, and he curled his legs, crossing them slightly so he had something stable to balance on. His head pounded. The lander swam and shivered around him.
Sighing, he put a hand over his eyes. Buzzing, blackness at the edges of his vision. The taste of metal. As slowly as he had sat up, it was still too much for him in this weakened state. Slowly, his bearings returned.
“Oka
y?” Beth asked as he took the hand away from his face again.
“Yeah, I guess.” He put his hands flat on the floor, to steady himself. They felt stronger, more clearly under his control. “Where, uh... How far out of the hole have we got?”
“Not too,” she said, grimacing and shaking her head. “I can lift you into your chair if you want to see out the viewport.”
He thought about that, nodded. “Yeah, well, hold on to me, at least. I'm going to try and get myself up.”
Pushing with his hands, he levered himself up a bit and slid his legs underneath him until he knelt on the hard floor. Then, with greater effort, he straightened, bent a knee up and put one foot down flat against the floor. He swayed a bit, until Beth's steadying hands tightened on his shoulders. Oh, her touch tingled, it threatened to stun him more thoroughly than the first aid kit had.
He pushed up and got his other foot under him. Like a child attempting a first walk, he stood splay-legged, arms waving around for balance. His head swam as its local gravity dropped to zero, and even a little ways beyond. Swaying, he caught the edge of his seat, gripped it tightly. His strength picked that moment to fail.
“Falling,” he said, with as much calm and dignity as he could muster.
“Nope.” Beth had shifted her grasp to his armpits, and she lifted with them, simultaneously raising him to his feet and pulling his body tight against hers. Her curves pressed against him, warm and soft and immediate. Something stirred and stiffened inside his trousers.
“We're going to turn,” Beth warned. Her tone held no trace of embarrassment, nor of passion. Only a sort of brusque cheerfulness, the voice of one stranger to another on a crowded skytrain.
“Okay,” he said. Together, they swiveled until he felt the chair against the backs of his legs. “Does that... can I sit?”
“Wait a second.” She did something with her foot. Behind him, the chair shifted slightly. “Okay.”
Gently, she began to lower him into the seat.
