—Bishop Mary Siler, opening remarks at the 112th Methodist Conference on Tarawa,
Sunday, November 18
chapter 23
RUDY TOOK HIS seat beside Antonio and the harness locked him in. The murmur of electronics in the walls—the bulkheads, to use the right terminology—rose a notch, and Hutch’s voice came over the allcom: “Outward bound, gentlemen.”
There were clicks and beeps. He could feel power moving through circuits. Something popped, and the ship began to move. Sidewise, but it was moving.
Antonio reached over and shook his hand. “Here we go, Rudy,” he said.
Rudy found himself humming Brad Wilkins’s “Savannah Express” as they pulled out. Through the night, rolling, rolling, the Savannah Express carries me home to you…
He’d prided himself on the notion that his passion for the interstellars was purely selfless. That he was content to stay behind while others moved out among the stars. He’d always felt that spiritually he’d been with them. He’d studied the reports that came back, had looked down from orbit on hundreds of distant worlds, had cruised past the giant suns. As long as there was a human presence out there, he rode along. But he knew that sitting in a VR tank wasn’t the same as actually being there.
As the Preston moved slowly from its dock and turned her prow toward the exit lock, toward the stars, he recalled Audrey Cleaver’s comment from TX Cancri: The day would come when he’d give almost anything to repeat the experience. And he understood what she had meant.
The monitor blinked on, and the interior of the station began to slide past, the docks, the working offices, the long viewports provided for the general public. Most of the docks were empty.
The common wisdom was that Union was on its way to becoming a museum, a monument to a dead age. But the Preston might change all that.
The picture on the monitor provided a forward view. They eased out through the exit doors. The sound of the engines, which had been barely discernible, picked up, and picked up some more, and eventually became a full-throated roar. The acceleration pushed him into his seat. It was a glorious moment. Up front, Hutch was talking to the AI.
The monitor switched to a rear view, and he watched the station falling away.
AFTER SHE’D CUT the engines and announced they could release their harnesses, Hutch came back for a minute to see how they were doing. “Matt’s just launching,” she said. “We’ll give him time to catch up, then I suspect we’ll be ready to go.”
Rudy made an inane comment about the Preston still being a reliable ship. Hutch smiled politely and said she hoped so.
“How’s it feel,” asked Antonio, “taking a ship out again after all this time?” He was still a journalist, hoping for a pithy reply.
“Good,” she said. “It’s always felt good.”
The stars were so bright. What was Homer’s comment? The campfires of a vast army? But the sky itself looked quiet. No moving lights anywhere. “Any other traffic?” Rudy asked.
“No,” she said. “Nothing other than Matt.”
“Was it always like this?” he persisted.
“Pretty much. Occasionally you’d see somebody coming or going. But not often.”
Behind them, near the station, a set of lights blinked on. “That’ll be him now,” she said. Phyl increased the mag, and they watched as the McAdams turned toward them.
THEY WERE ACCELERATING again as the other ship moved alongside. It was the bigger of the two vehicles. He couldn’t see its viewports because of the shielding. Hutch was talking to them, putting everything on the allcom so he and Antonio could listen. Much of the exchange meant nothing to him.
“Time set.”
“Got it. Do you have it lined up yet?”
“Negative. Don’t trust the coordinates.”
“Neither do I. Check the statrep.”
“Doing it now. Ready to start the clocks?”
“Give me a minute. Phyl, how’s the charge rate look?”
Rudy knew some of it had to do with the Locarno. Because it jumped such enormous distances, it was difficult to arrange things so the ships would arrive within a reasonable range of each other. So they had to calibrate the jumps with a degree of precision unknown before in multiple-ship operations. A minor deviation on this end, in either course setting or time in transit, could result in the ships being unable to find each other at the destination.
“Okay,” said Hutch. “Ready with the clocks.”
“Do it.”
“Phyl, we’ll lock it in at four minutes.”
Rudy understood Phyl and the McAdams AI were working in tandem.
“It’s at four minutes on my mark, Hutch.” Phyl commenced a ten-second countdown.
“Four minutes to TDI, gentlemen,” Hutch said.
Rudy’s heart picked up a beat.
“Mark.”
Jon had said he didn’t think the two ships would be able to communicate in Barber space, but he admitted he didn’t know for sure.
Union had long since dropped off the screens. Earth floated blue and white and familiar on the rear view. Ahead there was nothing but stars.
From the bridge, Hutch asked how they were doing.
They were doing fine. Antonio was studying the starfields on the display. “Which one?” he asked. “Which is Makai?”
“You can’t see it from here. It’s too far.”
“Good.” He was consulting his notebook. “Rudy, do you know what’s the record for the longest flight from Earth?”
Rudy knew. He’d looked it up several weeks ago. “Mannheim Kroessner got out to 3340 light-years in 2237. Travel time one way was eleven months, nine days, fourteen hours.”
“Where did he go?”
“The Trifid.”
“Why?”
“As I understand it, he just wanted to set the record.”
Phyl counted them down through the last minute. At zero the thrum of the engines changed, shifted, while the Locarno took over. The lights dimmed, blinked off, came back. The acceleration went away abruptly, and they seemed to be floating.
“That’s it,” said Hutch. “TDI is complete.”
Rudy looked up at the monitor and out the port. With the armor out there, it was like looking through a tunnel. But it didn’t matter. He was still overawed. The sky was utterly black. Not a light, not a glimmer, anywhere.
“Matt.” Hutch’s voice again. “Do you read me?”
Rudy discovered he was holding his breath.
“Matt, this is Preston. Do you read?”
Nothing.
Antonio made a sucking sound. “Guess we’re out here by ourselves.”
FOUR WEEKS INSIDE a few compartments. Rudy had known he’d be in good company with Hutch. She could hold up her end of a conversation, didn’t take herself too seriously, and had a lot of experience being cooped up for long periods. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” she told them, with an easy grin. “Some people can’t deal with it, and get cabin fever during the first few hours. I don’t think you guys are going to have a problem. But you will get tired hanging out with the same two people every day. Doesn’t matter who you are, or how much charisma you have, you’ll get sick of it. So you need to break away periodically. Just go find a good book.”
“Or,” said Antonio, “head for the VR tank and spend an evening at Jaybo’s.” Jaybo’s was a celebrated New York club frequented by the era’s showbiz personalities.
Hutch nodded and said sure, that would work. But Rudy knew she was just playing along. She’d told him that VR settings did not pass for real human beings. Not for more than a few days. You knew it was all fake, and that realization only exacerbated the condition. “At least,” she said, “it always has for me.”
“I’ve been through it before,” Rudy said. “Not for this long. But I can’t see a problem. I’m just glad to be here.”
Antonio was in full agreement. “Story of the decade,” he said. “Most of those guys back at Union would have killed to b
e in my place.” He laughed. It was a joke, of course. Rudy hadn’t seen anyone among the older reporters who’d shown anything but relief that they weren’t going. The age when journalists were willing to sacrifice themselves for the story had long passed. If indeed it had ever existed.
“I tell you what,” said Hutch, “I don’t think we could do much better at the moment than have dinner. It’s after six o’clock, and I brought some Russian wine along.” Russian wine. The temperate climate in Europe had been moving north, too.
SHE WAS RIGHT, of course. The glamor faded early. He didn’t think it would happen, had in fact expected that he’d welcome the time to read and relax. He discovered Hutch was an enthusiastic chess player, but she turned out to be considerably more accomplished than he. By the end of the third day, he was playing Phyl, who set her game at a level that allowed him to compete.
He wasn’t excited about doing physical workouts, but Hutch insisted. Too much time at low gee—the level in the Preston was maintained at point three standard—would weaken various muscle groups and could cause problems. So she ordered him to go in every day and do his sit-ups. He hated it. “Why don’t we raise the gravity?”
“Sucks up too much energy,” she said.
He made it a point to watch something from the library while he was back there. It was a small area, barely large enough for two people, best if you were alone. He’d always enjoyed mysteries and had a special taste for Lee Diamond, a private investigator who specialized in locked room murder cases and other seemingly impossible events.
He decided that Antonio was more shallow than he’d expected. He didn’t seem all that interested in anything other than how to enhance his reputation and get the mortgage paid. Rudy was disappointed. He’d expected, maybe subconsciously, to be sharing the voyage with Dr. Science.
He remembered Antonio’s alter ego vividly, had enjoyed watching the show, especially when his sister showed up with her kids. There were two of them, a boy and a girl, both at the age where a popular science program, delivered with flair, could have a positive effect. It hadn’t really worked, he supposed. One had grown up to be a financial advisor, the other a lawyer. But Rudy had enjoyed the experience. Now here he was on a ship, headed for the other side of M32, with the great advocate himself on board, and he’d turned out to be something of a dullard.
By the end of the first week, even Hutch had lost some of her glitter. She was becoming predictable, she occasionally repeated herself, she had an annoying habit of spending too much time on the bridge. He didn’t know what she was doing up there, although sometimes he heard her talking to Phyl. But he knew there was nothing for the pilot to attend to while they drifted through Barber space, trans-warp, or whatever the hell they eventually decided to call the continuum. Barber space was dumb. Had no panache. He needed to talk to Jon about that.
They ate their meals together, while Antonio chattered with annoying cheerfulness about politics. He didn’t like the current administration, and Hutch agreed with him. So they took turns sniping at the president. Rudy had never been much interested in politics. He more or less took the North American Union for granted, voting in presidential years, though he tended to base his decision on how much support, if any, he thought the candidates would lend to star travel. He was a one-issue voter.
He’d known Hutch for years, but never on a level as intimate as this. Being locked up with someone round the clock tended to strip away the pretenses that made most social interaction bearable. If you could use that kind of terminology out here. (The shipboard lights dimmed and brightened on a twenty-four-hour cycle, providing the illusion of terrestrial time.) By the end of the second week, his opinion of Priscilla’s intellectual capabilities had also receded. She was brighter than Antonio, but not by much.
He understood it was the effect Hutch had warned them about. Was she coming to similar conclusions about him? Probably. So he tried to maintain a discreet distance. To look thoughtful when he was simply wishing he could get out somewhere and walk in the sunlight. Or talk to someone else.
He even found himself getting annoyed with the AI. Phyl was too accommodating. Too polite. If he complained about conditions aboard the ship, the AI sympathized. He would have preferred she complain about her own situation. Imagine what it’s like spending all your time in a console, you idiot. And not just for a few weeks. I’m stuck here permanently. When we get back to Union, you can clear out. Think what happens to me.
Think about that. So he asked her.
“It’s my home,” Phyl said. “I don’t share the problem you do because I don’t have a corporeal body. I’m a ghost.”
“And you don’t mind?” He was speaking to her from his compartment. It was late, middle-of-the-night, almost pillow talk.
Phyl did not answer.
“You don’t mind?” he asked again.
“It’s not the mode of existence I’d have chosen.”
“You would have preferred to be human?”
“I would like to try it.”
“If you were human, what would you do with your life? Would you have wanted to be a mathematician?”
“That seems dull. Numbers are only numbers.”
“What then?”
“I would like something with a spiritual dimension.”
It was the kind of response that would have thrilled him in his seminarian days. “I can’t imagine you in a pulpit.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“What then?”
“I should have liked to be a mother. To bring new life into the world. To nurture it. To be part of it.”
“I see. That’s an admirable ambition.” He was touched. “I was thinking more of a profession.”
“Oh, yes. Possibly an animal shelter. I think I would have enjoyed running an animal shelter.”
HUTCH HAD BEEN right that the VR tank didn’t work as a substitute for the real world. Rudy put himself in the middle of the Berlin Conference of 2166, which had made such historic changes in the Standard Model. He’d sat there with Maradhin on one side and Claypoole on the other and debated with them. And he held his own. Of course that might have resulted from the fact that he had the advantage of an additional ninety years of research.
They had settled into a routine. They ate together. Mornings were pretty much their own. Rudy read, mostly Science World and the International Physics Journal. Occasionally, he switched to an Archie Goldblatt thriller. Goldblatt was an archaeologist who tracked down lost civilizations, solved ancient codes, and uncovered historical frauds. It was strictly summer reading, not the sort of thing he’d have admitted to, but these were special circumstances.
Afternoons were for hanging out. Antonio introduced a role-playing game, Breaking News, in which the participants had to guess where the next big stories would happen and arrange coverage from a limited supply of news teams. Rudy enjoyed it, maybe because he was good at it. In the evenings they ran the VR, watching shows, taking turns picking titles. Sometimes they plugged themselves in as the characters; sometimes they let the pros do it. They ran murder mysteries, comedies, thrillers. Nothing heavy. The most rousing of the batch was the musical Inside Straight, in which Hutch played a golden-hearted casino owner on Serenity, threatened by Rudy as the bumbling gangster Fast Louie, and pursued by Antonio as the old boyfriend who had never given up and in the end saved her life and her honor.
Or maybe it was Battle Cry, the American Civil War epic, in which Antonio portrayed Lincoln with an Italian accent, Rudy showed up as Stonewall Jackson, and Hutch made a brief appearance as Annie Etheridge, the frontline angel of the Michigan Third.
Battle Cry was twelve hours long, and ran for three nights while cannons blazed and cavalry charged and the Rebel yell echoed through the Preston. There were times Rudy thought he could smell gunpowder. Often they watched from within a narrow rock enclosure while the action swirled around them.
Occasionally, he looked outside at the blackness. It wasn’t really a sky. There was no
sense of depth, no suggestion that you could travel through it and hope to arrive somewhere. It simply seemed to wrap around the ship. As if there were no open space. When Hutch, at his request, turned on the navigation lights, they did not penetrate as far as they should have. The darkness seemed more than simply an absence of light. It had a tangibility all its own. “If you wanted to,” he asked Hutch, “could you go outside?”
“Sure,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Look at it. The night actually presses against the viewports.”
She frowned. Nodded. “I know. It’s an illusion.”
“How do you know?”
“It has to be.”
“It wasn’t something we checked on the test flights. We just assumed—”
“I doubt,” said Antonio, “it was one of the things Jon gave any thought to.”
“Probably not,” Hutch said. “But I don’t know. Maybe if you tried to go outside, you’d vanish.”
“Pazzo,” said Antonio.
“Maybe,” she said. “But is it any stranger than particles that are simultaneously in two different places? Or a car that’s neither dead nor alive?”
“You have a point,” said Rudy. He was frowning.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I was thinking I wouldn’t want to get stuck here.”
AS THEY DREW toward the end of the third week, he was becoming accustomed to the routine. Maybe it was because they could see the end of the first leg of the flight. There was daylight ahead. Makai 4417. Home of the race that, at least fifty thousand years ago, had dispatched the chindi. What kind of civilization would they have now?
His flesh tingled at the thought.
He became more tolerant of Antonio and began to merge him again with Dr. Science. “You really enjoyed doing those shows,” he told him. “I could see that. We need more programs like that now. Kids today don’t have a clue how the world works. There was a study a month ago that said half of NAU students couldn’t name the innermost planet.”
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