The Dispenserito beeped, the most beautiful sound on the ship. A circle small enough to fit in his palm thunked into the tray. It glowed with liquid blue relief.
Rawles snatched it from the tray and broke the seal. He pressed the dermal contact against his neck and squeezed the blue circle. The liquid shot through his skin and into his artery, cold and sweet in his blood.
He lay back on the bunk and sighed. The Formula G was a maintenance drug for arcadia addicts, plugging up the angry red neurotransmitter ports that hungered for more of the real thing. Formula G didn't get you high, but it got you by. He received one dose a day—unfortunately, he felt like he needed about four.
His body relaxed, and the screen played soft classical music to lull him to sleep.
***
"You are awake," the screen said, six hours later. "You are happy to be awake and ready to work."
"Yeah, yeah," Rawles said. He pulled on his regulation gray coveralls, with the word MAINTENANCE stitched right there on his chest, in case anybody forgot. Once upon a time, you could wear street clothes after you got out into the long night. Nobody cared. But the Gaters filled more and more of the TranStel executive ranks these days, with their stiff regulations and by-the-bookishness.
In the narrow galley, which perpetually stank like rotten garbage, Rawles joined a few others for second-shift breakfast. Executive Manager Cleo Purcell was there, so everybody had to do a Gater prayer before grabbing their food. This involved closing your eyes and holding your hands up by your head, thumbs pointing toward your ears.
"Dear Lord," Cleo said. "We thank You for another safe journey through one of Your gates..."
Rawles opened one eye. Also tolerating the prayer were Dr. Elza Marist, the medical officer, and Paul Schiffer, the navigator.
Rawles thought there was a serious shortage of females on the craft. Cleo was the best looking, in her clingy black suits that couldn't decide whether they were sexy or professional. One thing about the Gaters, they believed in better living through science, and this extended to surgically looking your best. All of it went to waste, though, because of their strict sex rules. Cleo was a no-go, both because she was a Gater and because she was the executive on the ship, outranking even the captain.
Elza was decent enough, pudgy but with a great rack, and blond hair that Rawles liked. The only other woman was the security officer, Liv DeMarco, but Rawles was pretty sure she swung the other way. Might be competition for Elza, in fact.
"...the Gates have brought such wonders, as prophesied by the Wise One. And we know that on the blessed day when we find your Final Gate, we will find You. Amen."
"Amen," Rawles and the other two mumbled.
"Such bullshit," Schiffer said. He pressed his coffee cup against a button, and brown sludge spurted into it.
"Excuse me?" Cleo asked.
"This mission," Schiffer said. "I was thinking it over last night. We could have pushed the barge off a week ago, right outside the gate. It's going to get sucked down the hole eventually. Nothing's going to stop it. What's the point of us escorting it so far?"
"The barge has over four hundred million tons of radioactive waste," Elza said. "You can't leave that near a gate."
"Who said leave it?" Schiffer asked. "We could sit in a tight little orbit around the gate, watch the barge float off, and then go back. There's no purpose to us traveling so far from the gate. You realize nobody else has ever been stupid enough to come through the Cygnus X-1 gate before, right? Nothing habitable on this side. Just a long gravity slope towards a black hole. It's literally the asshole of the galaxy."
Cleo glared at him. Then she looked at Rawles, who leaned against the counter, letting the machine fill his mug with the awful imitation coffee. "Rawles," Cleo said. "Do you agree with him?"
Rawles shrugged.
"You must have some thoughts," Cleo said.
"I don't know." Rawles sat in one of the eating booths. "Schiff's got a point, doesn't he? We're eventually detaching from the barge. It's going to take the barge years to reach the black hole. So we may as well have launched it from just inside the gate."
"And what if it came drifting back for some reason?" Elza asked. "You want all this stuff washing up on somebody's planet?"
"Drift back? Wash up?" Schiffer snorted. "This isn't the ocean. No point bringing it all this way in the first place. We could have just shot it into deep space. It never would have hit anything."
"And that may be your professional navigator's opinion," Cleo said. "But try convincing billions of people. TranStel has contracts with seven planetary governments. We must maintain an image of thorough safety and reliability."
"That's all it is," Schiffer said. "Image and politics."
"I can see how the two of you ended up working garbage detail." Cleo looked from Schiffer to Rawles. "These decisions are made for a reason. You don't have all the facts. You don't know the implications."
"I know TranStel made a fortune supplying both sides of the war," Schiffer said. "And now they're making another fortune cleaning up the planet."
"Careful," Cleo said. "I may have to notate your file."
"It's just grumpy breakfast talk," Elza said. "Working the long night wears everybody down."
Cleo gave a Elza a distrustful look, then stood. "And some of us have to spend the long night actually working. The Lord doesn't care for idle chatter." She walked to the door.
"Hey, Cleo?" Schiffer called after her.
"Don't," Elza whispered.
"Yes, Mr. Schiffer?" Cleo asked.
"What did you do to end up working garbage duty?"
Cleo narrowed her eyes at Schiffer, then left the galley.
***
Rawles did the rounds. Their ship, the Maria Augusta, was an obsolete medium-cargo craft, once a hauler of asteroid ore, industrial cargo and manufactured goods between solar systems, via the gate network. Now it was a tugboat for the massive shipping container strapped beneath it. The container had its own little thruster, to scoot it along faster towards the black hole. Not that it was necessary—inertia would have carried the container into the black hole's gravity well eventually. But it would make good video for the folks back home. TranStel cleans up a deadly continent-wide mess, which the company, of course, had no role in creating.
Rawles had to visually inspect each part of the ship's interior every thirty-six hours, though most of the ship was unused on this mission, with the skeletal crew concentrated in the rooms near the bridge. He had to find and fix everything from leaky fluids to burned-out light bulbs. The ship's internal systems were his responsibility—he no longer had the security rating or company certification to maintain the big ion engine, even on an old doomed-for-scrap heap like the Maria Augusta. He did enjoy the occasional spacewalk, usually to replace hull panels damaged by especially nasty space debris.
He walked along an empty, dim corridor, visually following the two active pipes among the bundle on the ceiling—he'd shut down as much as he could, because of the small crew size and lack of any passengers. He was getting twitchy. The Formula G had run its course, and little hungry red spots were opening in his brain.
Rawles, a voice whispered.
He stopped and spun around. "Who's there?"
Rawles.
He turned the other way. The corridor was empty. Pumps in the water purifiers along the walls chugged and sloshed.
"Hello?" he said.
Nobody answered.
He continued walking. After a few minutes, the voice came again, louder now.
Rawles!
It sounded angry and insistent. He looked around, but couldn't tell where it was coming from.
"Who keeps doing that? Schiff?"
Rawles. I can bring you your freedom.
"Very funny."
You ache inside. You burn. Let me take away the pain.
"What do you got?" Rawles said. "And what do you want for it?"
I have the greatest blessing, Rawles. The great soot
hing. You will burn no more.
"Hope it's in pill form," Rawles said. "I hate transderms. But I'll take one. Now who the hell is over there?"
I have been in Hell. Now I find myself free. I wish to share this with you, Rawles.
"Where are you?"
Beneath you, Rawles.
Rawles looked at his boots. There was a floor drain nearby, but it was only ten centimeters wide.
Far below, Rawles. Among the cargo. Among the dead.
"Okay," Rawles said. "That's enough." His brain felt as if it had swollen thick, and was now rubbing itself raw against the inside of his skull. He needed a dose of Formula G, but the Dispenserito was going to make him wait another seventeen hours.
Come for me, Rawles, the voice said. I will make your world a glorious place. Come get me, Rawles. I'm not so far.
Rawles refused to answer the hallucinated voice. His brain was cracking under the pressure of withdrawal. The key thing was not to mention this to anybody, or Cleo might put it in her report, and Rawles' employment certification would be downgraded even further, pending psych eval.
The voice left him alone for a while, but he thought he heard it whisper his name a few more times during his twelve-hour shift.
***
"You are a happy employee," the smiling cartoon sun beamed down at him, with soft jazzy music. "You feel satisfaction in overcoming your addiction."
"Yeah." Rawles looked at the Dispenserito. Less than an hour to go.
"You are calm and cooperative," the counseling software continued.
Rawles.
"No, come on," Rawles said.
"You are satisfied with your work time and your leisure time."
Rawles. Release me, Rawles. Together we shall rule.
"Rule what?" Rawles said. "There's nothing but garbage and empty space out here, buddy."
Your pain is easily ended. All your hungers may be satisfied. All your fantasies may become real.
"All of them?"
Indeed.
"'Indeed.' Who says 'indeed'? You sure you're a voice inside my head?"
No, Rawles. I am the voice of your future.
"Great." Rawles' brain was throbbing, and the ache had spread throughout his body. He scratched at the back of his neck, staring at the dispenser.
They keep you like a beast in a cage, Rawles. Set me free, and I shall set you free.
"I can't break it open," Rawles said. "The dispenser. I think about it. But I'd be screwed."
You won't need that palliative. You will be filled up by much richer intoxicant.
"Okay," Rawles said. "Send it up."
It is in my possession. You must come for me, Rawles.
"Oh, right. Down in the radioactive pit. I'm on my way."
Think on it, Rawles. I will grant more than relief. I will grant you power. Authority over the others. Would you like to command them, Rawles? Is there a female you would like to command?
"Maybe Elza," Rawles whispered. "You think Schiff's got her already?"
Schiff does indeed. I can sense their minds. Their pulse. Like the heartbeats of rutting cats. But you can take her from him. With my help.
"You got it all, don't you?" Rawles was shaking and sweating now. He needed that dose. He thought he was developing a tolerance to it. His withdrawals clearly weren't going away.
I have eternity.
"Long time to wait," Rawles said, and he punched the wall beside his bunk. "Long goddamn time."
I have lain dormant many of my centuries. But no more.
"You sure as hell aren't dormant now." Rawles paced the room.
You must listen to me, Rawles. Or someone else will.
"You're talking to other people on the ship, huh?"
Not yet. I have chosen you.
"Just shut up!" Rawles yelled. Then the Dispenserito beeped, and a cool blue disc dropped into the tray. "Oh, thank you, God."
Rawles snatched up the disc and broke it open.
Wait, Rawles. Listen to me.
"Good-night, evil voice," Rawles said. He pressed the contact to his neck and squeezed. His whole body shivered with cold delight. The drug blotted out the voice, as well as the usual angry, insulting voices that had inhabited his head since childhood. He sagged back onto his bunk, and the empty dose tumbled from his fingers.
He slept.
***
The voice continued to haunt him, growing stronger and more insistent, over the next several shift cycles. At the same time, the Formula G seemed to be losing its effect. One night, he awoke after only two hours' sleep, shaking in a cold sweat. Withdrawals in only two hours.
I can end this, the voice would tell him. Your remedies have failed. Come to me. I know more than you can imagine. I will share my power with you. I will make you master of this ship, and many more. I can make you master of the world.
"Which world?" Rawles asked.
There is only one world.
"What? No, there's like fifty."
Fifty worlds?
"Yeah." Rawles closed his eyes and took a breath. "Now shut up. You're killing me."
Why do you say fifty worlds?
"You know. The gates. The colonies. The worlds."
Explain.
"Shut up."
Explain the gates.
"The gates? The voice in my head doesn't know about the wormgates? Not a Gater, then, are you? Not a religious voice? We won't be starting a cult together?"
Be quiet. Simply think of these gates. Slowly.
Rawles thought. An unmanned probe had discovered the first wormgate at the edge of the solar system about two hundred years ago. More probes were sent through, and they returned with images from what turned out to be the 18 Scorpii system, about 45 light years from Earth. The probes had traveled 430 trillion kilometers as easily as a paper airplane sailing in and out a window. Astrophysicists called them "stable wormholes," but "wormgate" was the word that stuck.
The Church of the Heavenly Gate had organized around the idea that the messiah would arrive through the gate to deliver mankind. The prophet, Dakota Greeley of Pasadena, said an alien named Xunthiir had showed her this future using a device called a "quantum reflector," but she was never able to produce the device, or any pictures of it.
The messiah didn't arrive, but a second generation of probes identified an Earth-type planet in orbit around 18 Scorpii, burgeoning with oceans, forests, and life. It differed from Earth in only two major ways: it had no signs of civilization, and it was fifty percent larger.
At this point, the Heavenly Gate religion ruptured and reorganized. The Church of the Heavenly Gate (Reformed) announced that one day a gate would lead humanity directly to Paradise. As the church leaders excelled at proselytizing, fund-raising and merchandising, the church became one of many large investors sponsoring the search for more wormgates.
A vast network of wormgates was uncovered, usually linking G-type star systems together. Three wormgates had been found around the edges of Earth's solar system. Some speculated they were natural, while others insisted they had been built and abandoned by some unknown alien species. No traces of civilization had been found.
I see. The voice was quiet for several minutes, and Rawles began to think it had finally left him alone for a while. We are not in an ocean vessel.
"Um. No," Rawles said.
We travel in the dark between worlds. Between suns.
"Usually. Now we're heading towards a black hole. A collapsed star. Sucks in light instead of putting it out." Rawles felt like he was talking to a child. He walked over to his Dispenserito and slapped it hard. Twenty-one hours to go.
We are in utter darkness.
"Working the long night," Rawles agreed. "Months of darkness between worlds. The gates take us from the edge of one system to the edge of another. But our ships are sluggish pieces of crap." He punched the side of the Dispenserito. "Whoever built that wormgate, you know it didn't take them months to get from Earth to Neptune." He kicked the Dispenserito.
r /> "Please handle with care," a recorded voice spoke from the Dispenserito. "Tampering may render all doses inaccessible."
"Okay, sorry."
Rawles paced.
You have taught me much. Now I will show you.
A bright scene flared behind his eyes, as if he'd taken a strong dose of arcadia. He saw a marble banquet hall where men and women reclined on couches, dressed in pristine white togas and tunics. A man at the center of the scene wore a crown of roses and sipped from a golden goblet. Musicians played at one end of the room, lutes and harps. Firelight sent tall shadows dancing up the walls. Rawles could smell the fire, and the roses and mud on the floor.
Servants entered, carrying a struggling red-haired girl whose skin had a subtle blue tinge, like the stains of old makeup. It took four strong men to bring her to the man with the rose crown and raise her above him.
A fifth servant carved a hole in her arm. The man with the rose crown raised a small, exquisitely crafted leaf of gold. A drop of blood splashed on the leaf. The man sucked it off like a sip of morning dew. He opened his mouth, and his canine teeth swelled to an unnatural length, pressing against his lower lip.
More of the party guests came forward, each holding a small gold leaf. They smiled, showing their fangs.
The servants drilled holes into the screaming girl's arms and legs, so that she dripped from several places, her droplets of blood falling like gruesome manna onto the golden leaves. The party guest drank her slowly, a sip at a time, savoring her like a delicacy.
The man reclining on the central couch plucked a thorny blossom from his crown and scratched it across the girl's blueish wrist. He sucked the blood directly from her, closing his eyes.
The servants slashed the kicking, screaming girl along her arms and legs, and across her abdomen, so that the slow sprinkle of blood became a rainfall. The party guests climbed over each other to catch drops on their tongues. They licked the splatter from each others' faces, then pulled open each others' clothes to lick blood from breasts and stomachs.
And then Rawles was back in his bunk again, the music and jeweled women gone, the angry hunger flaring in his brain.
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