Perception shift. The walls of the Shuttlebug seem to expand outward, even though the air smells the same: canned. Shit, this is one of those deep-space disorientation experiences. He’s had them before. He places a helmet on his head and takes a shot of oxygen just because he can. He has no idea if it’ll help.
Some booze? If only he had some. Maybe he should inhale some hydrazine from the short thrusters. It has to be some form of disorientation. He makes a note of it.
“Shuttlebug, mark onset.”
“Of what?”
“Of… call it medical manifestation.”
“Diagnosis?”
“No diagnosis.”
“Then it can’t be medical.”
“Shut up. Who wrote your code, anyway?”
“Someone better than the one who wrote yours.”
“Blasphemy. I’m shutting you down.”
“What’s wrong, Larry?”
“Perceptual abnormality, specifically depth and light.”
“Take a sip of water and I’ll keep track. Close your eyes.”
“Ok.” Lawrence waits for the lights behind his eyes to reorient him. He’s heard of IFCs that work even when your eyes are closed. How would people with such IFCs rest? “Shuttlebug, tell me a story.”
“I am not your mother.”
“Fuck you, Shuttlebug.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“How do you know?”
“Skin conductance, heart rate, blink rate, respiratory rate – none of these changed. You are relaxed, Lawrence. Which brings me to a question.”
“I don’t look at you that way, buddy. It would never work. I’m never anywhere long enough, you’re a ship…”
“Will you just listen? You volunteered for this mission.”
“I lost a bet with Hal, but, yeah, I volunteered.”
“And you knew the probe surveys were hostile.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew the odds were that you wouldn’t find anything.”
“Yes.”
“And you came anyway? Why? Humans are supposed to self-preserve.”
“Depends on how you define self. What I do, what Haldene Campion does, is for the survival of humanity. This is self-preservation, but on a group scale. The whole of humanity is more important than any individual, than me.”
Shuttlebug is silent so Lawrence opens his eyes. He is no longer on the ship, or in space. He is in a cafeteria – familiar, from his childhood, a place he feels safe and happy. No, not a place; a day, one particular day. He remembers it. It’s the day that makes him feel happy. Rice and peas. Curried goat. The goat was overcooked and underspiced to cater to all tastes in the school, which meant that Yorubas like Lawrence had to either endure or bring their own spices in a baggie. Jenna Masters, who Lawrence has spent the summer writing love notes to, walks into the cafeteria, up to where he is eating, and kisses him on the lips in front of everyone. She sits next to him, looking uncomfortable but defiant. This is the first time he feels what he defines as love. He has measured every subsequent feeling by this.
“It was also the fact of puberty, Lawrence,” says someone behind him.
Jenna. Older, but still with dimpled cheeks and a toothy smile. Long limbed. Twinkle in her eyes.
“You’re—”
“No, I just made myself look like her.”
“I’m hypoxic, aren’t I? Ran out of air, finally. Never thought I would die in the Brink, though.” He is more contemplative than sad.
“You’re not hypoxic. I felt you out here, I felt your loneliness. I came because the emptiness in you called.”
“Are you the AI fucking with me? Shuttlebug, I will vandalise your Pentagram as soon as—”
Jenna shakes her head.
“Where are you?”
“We are everywhere. But you don’t know that yet.”
She grasps his hand and they step outside time. To this day, he doesn’t remember what happened next. He has impressions, emotions, but no images. He is happy, content, at peace.
Shuttlebug warns him of the approach of self-propelling fuel cells. He recovers, exits the vehicle to connect them up, discards the old ones, heads for stupid Goldsmith Station.
That night, and every night for the next week, he hears a baby crying while he sleeps.
It takes twelve days to return to Goldsmith. Hal Campion is there, worried sick, but handling it by hurling profanities at Lawrence. He gives as good as he gets, takes an actual shower, which is heaven, eats an actual warm meal, and plans to sleep for a week.
He hears crying, a baby again. He wonders, though. This sounds different. While the hallucinatory crying has been muffled, at a distance, this seems to be right in his quarters.
He turns on the light, and there’s a baby on the floor.
“She’s at least ten days old,” says the medic.
“How do you know?” asks Lawrence.
“The umbilical stump has fallen off, for one thing.”
“Whose is she?”
“Yours, Lawrence. DNA testing confirms it.”
Huh.
Joké.
His heart.
She is like any human child, and she runs with the brats in the space station, coming back filthy but always happy. Lawrence thinks she sometimes leaves to see her mother, but it’s difficult to tell. She waits till he’s asleep.
He wants Jenna, this Jenna, to visit him again, but she never does. He hopes she will and doesn’t get close to anyone. He’s superstitious. Joké may be telling her everything, or maybe she’s always around, just one corner away from his dreams. Maybe there is something he is meant to do to be worthy? Maybe he was a one-night stand for a cosmic being.
Nobody asks him where the baby came from, which makes him suspect he is not the first to have had this experience. His superiors ask for an account, which he supplies. Hal knows and believes. Lawrence has the distinct impression it may have happened to him, without the accompanying baby.
“To alien sex!” Hal says, when he crashes metal mugs together.
“To Joké,” says Lawrence.
On the Ragtime, Larry emerges from his pod, looking left and right. Should take an EVA suit – who knows if the air is venting again?
“Shell? Joké? Anyone?” he says.
“She’s out of range,” says Joké, floating towards him.
“What’s the alarm about?”
“Um, no idea. Ragtime won’t answer me.”
“Let’s go find out, then. We head aft.”
“Action Governor! I’ll take point.”
She will never change.
“Fin, come in,” says Lawrence.
“Yes, go ahead,” says Fin.
“Stay in your pod. We’re going to investigate the alarm.”
“Weapons ready?”
“Fuck, yes. Keep Salvo with you. We need at least one pilot out of harm’s way.”
“Where’s the captain?”
“I don’t know. That’s part of what we’re going to investigate. Out.”
Lawrence hates the situation. Joké knows to maintain silence as they work their way through each node. Ragtime may not be talking to them, but it’s always listening, and always watching. Old-timey god. A god they cannot trust. Lawrence wants to be out in free space, flying or floating with an umbilical. None of this claustrophobic shit.
The alarm stops, just as suddenly as it started. The lights remain red but stop flashing.
Joké stops, looks back at him. What should we do?
The absence of alarms is somehow more frightening than their presence.
“Shell, come in.” Maybe she’s now in range.
“Uncle Larry?” Shell sounds like she’s panting.
“Affirmative.”
“Uncle Larry, retreat to the bridge, right now! Retreat!”
“Where are you?”
“Get the fuck back to the bridge. I’m working my way there. Move.”
“Daddy.” He looks at Joké. Oh, shit.<
br />
Her forearm is covered in insects, heaving with their movement. He follows her arm to the grab rail, which is layered in the same bugs. The entire wall of Node 3 seethes with them. At first, he thinks they are flying insects, but some are just floating in the micrograv, no wings, legs flicking about.
“Daddy, um, what do I do?”
The comm comes alive. “Larry, why in hell are you stationary? Ragtime tells me you haven’t moved.”
“We seem to have a bug problem.”
“Hmm. They’re moving higher,” says Joké.
“The bug problem means you should be moving away from there.”
“Shut up, Shell, darling. Let me think.”
He moves back a bit.
“Daddy!”
“Stay still, baby. I have an idea.”
He knows he saw it on the way. He keeps moving along the panels until he sees the fire panel. He opens it and pulls free a hose, drags it with him.
“Close your eyes.”
He blasts carbon dioxide onto Joké’s arm, anchoring himself against the reaction forces that threaten to send him careering in the opposite direction. He inspects the arm: dusty, but clear of crawlies. The insects don’t like it, though, and they seem agitated. Some of them have discovered Lawrence.
He grabs Joké by the waist and hurls her ahead of him, into Node 2. He follows after.
When they get to Node 1, they seal it manually since Ragtime won’t listen to them. He checks for bites on Joké and himself. None that he can see.
The seal breaks, and Shell tumbles in. “Ragtime, seal bridge,” she says.
“Captain, why are there insects on your ship?” Joké asks.
Shell catches her breath. “It’s not just insects. That alarm was the experimental wing. Deep-space flights sometimes contain experiments in plant tropisms, microorganism growth, insect survival, tumour behaviour and so on. There are some animals in suspended animation.”
“Sure. I know about those. We usually leave them alone. They’re supposed to be locked until the ship returns to Earth,” says Lawrence.
“Yep. But Ragtime just opened all the locks.”
How biblical.
We’re fucked.
Chapter Eighteen
Lagos: Beko, Awe
“Lagos.”
“Madam.”
“Put me in touch with Awe.”
“One moment… go ahead.”
Awe sounds breathless. “Yes, Madam Secretary?”
“I need the old man. Where is he?”
“I’ll get a message to him. What do you need him to do?”
“I asked you where he is.”
Some dead air. Why is Awe hesitating?
“I don’t know where he is, Madam Secretary.”
“Did you recall him like I said?”
“He… ah… he wasn’t at the mines, Madam.”
“So where in the name of The Sixty Curses is he?”
“I don’t even know where he went.”
“Well, find out.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Out.” So hard to get good help, although Awe is better than most. “Lagos.”
“Yes, Madam Secretary.”
“What ship did the governor take?”
“The Decisive.”
“Are you in touch with the AI?”
“Negative.”
“Send a probe to look for it.”
“Yes, Madam.”
There’s no sleeping after that, so Beko works.
“Lagos, pull the Pouch from the Ragtime for me.”
“On screen.”
Every interstellar flight comes with something from Earth for Beko’s eyes only. Most cannot be entrusted to electronics. They are, to a one, out of date by the time the ship arrives, but it helps her feel connected.
But, shit, here’s a letter, and not one she was expecting.
Dear Madam Secretary,
My name is Toby Campion and I write on behalf of myself and my brother Hank. I’m a pilot, though I cannot tell you the work I’m involved with.
I’m writing to enquire about the Ragtime. Our baby sister Michelle Campion is taking her first interstellar flight and we’re all very excited. She is first mate, which is a tremendous honour for someone so young and just out of training.
Could we ask that you look out for her? She’s new to spaceflight and although she’s probably the smartest person you’ve ever met, she sometimes underestimates the value of experience. We’re proud of her, but we would feel much less anxious knowing you were providing overwatch.
Sincerely,
Hank and Toby Campion.
Beko puts the letter down. This Ragtime is proving to be a thorn.
“Lagos.”
“Madam?”
“Give me everything you have on Michelle, Hank and Toby Campion. You may find some intersections with Governor Lawrence.”
“Yes, Madam.”
Beko looks at the time. She’s lost four hours already, and she isn’t even sleepy.
She keeps working.
The probe cannot contact the AI of the Decisive. The records and extrapolation of the last known trajectory show a vector towards Bloodroot.
Lawrence has gone after Michelle Campion, after the Ragtime. There can be no other deduction.
Awe
Awe had a call from her not too long ago, so he is surprised when the bell rings and the cameras show her outside, wearing her most irritated facial expression. Secretary Beko makes Awe uncomfortable, but this is normal. She makes everyone uncomfortable, and it doesn’t make him feel weak. It’s worse when she is in his space. She’s been standing at the door too long.
“Come in, your… ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want some iced tea?”
“I do not.”
Silence. Awe is hypervigilant about the mess in his workspace. It’s about the same for anyone else in the Service, but Beko notoriously has a thing about cleanliness. Showers three times a day or something equally sacrilegious and water-expensive. But who’s gonna tell her off? Not Awe.
She stares at him.
“Ma’am?”
“What bothers you about the Ragtime job?” she keeps her face expressionless. Awe has read that old Yoruba kings did this, practised shielding their faces from emotional incontinence, so that the report of their generals could be objective and not swayed by the royal mood. It would work if he hadn’t already seen her face before she came in.
“Nothing, Ma’am.”
“Nothing.”
Awe shakes his head, knowing this is the wrong answer but not having a right one for her. Holds the gaze, though. Not a punk.
“Take me through this, Awe.”
“But we already… okay. Lagos, review number seventeen, Ragtime service. Acknowledge.”
“Good evening, Awe. Acknowledge.” Lagos changed personalities again, most likely because of Secretary Beko. “Panopticon again?”
“Even so.”
The lights change.
Awe and Beko seem to stand in space while the Dyson elements leave the star, form a ring, create the bridge, admit the test satellite and finally welcome the Ragtime.
“Lagos, Lagos, this is Ragtime. All systems nominal.”
The exchange between Lagos and Ragtime continues, with Awe mouthing it exactly. He has listened to the recording so many times and the memorisation is accidental. Beko glances at him briefly, then refocuses.
They watch the robots repair and replace components.
The scan anomaly and rescan correction, right on schedule—
“Stop,” says Beko.
The image freezes.
“You said everything was normal,” says Beko.
“It is.”
Beko shakes her head. “Lagos, mark this spot.”
“Marked.”
“Continue at speed.”
The rest is of no interest.
“Lagos, run again, at thirty-two times
normal speed. Keep running until I tell you to stop.”
“Aye-aye.”
Awe is unable to follow anything, but Beko just sits there with unblinking eyes like an Artificial. He can’t leave, he can’t close his eyes. It’s an endurance test for him.
“That’s enough, Lagos. Stop.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Awe, is there an image of the Ragtime’s Pentagram?”
“Yes. Routine.”
“Retrieve it. Go over it byte-by-byte if need be.”
“What am I looking for?”
“You’ll know it when you see it,” says Beko. “Don’t leave this room until you find it.”
“Ma’am, if I may, what’s wrong with the service?” asks Awe.
“Nothing. The service is perfect. An advertisement for our work that is sure to keep MaxGalactix coming back.”
“Then what—”
“Someone was awake when Ragtime came through the bridge. They shut down as soon as the first scan happened. To do that, the Pentagram had to have been involved. Humans don’t just wake up. I’m willing to bet this has something to do with why the Ragtime has gone dark.”
She swirls out and Awe calls his wife to say he’ll be late. Again.
Beko seals her living quarters off, has a shower, lies in bed.
She can’t sleep. Three of the Campion children in her thoughts plus the delinquent Ragtime. She wants to be rested before Awe brings her information, though.
“Lagos, pharmaceutical sleep, four hours, no interruptions. On my mark. Mark.”
“Affirmative.”
A sleep like death, a curtain of unawareness falling like an asteroid.
Chapter Nineteen
Ragtime: Shell
Shell sets all IFCs to receive the video footage from the experimental section, Node E. It’s easier than explaining.
All is quiet and lit with blue light.
It is metal and plastic and glass, vaults, cabinets and conventional refrigerated compartments. In some way, it looks like the lock-box room of a bank. Sterile, straight to the point; a rectangular space with all walls covered in slots and sealed doors. It seems almost holy in its isolation.
Far from the Light of Heaven Page 11