Damon Knight: Orbit 19

Now the twins floated in the middle of the darkened bedroom. Zoe was already asleep, tumbling slowly with that total looseness possible only in free fall. Her leg rubbed against Xanthia’s belly and her relative motion stopped. The leg was moist. The room was close, thick with the smell of passion. The recirculators whined quietly as they labored to clear the air.

Pushing one finger gently against Zoe’s ankle, Xanthia turned her until they were face to face. Frizzy blonde hair tickled her nose, and she felt warm breath on her mouth.

Why can’t it always be like this?

“You’re not my mother,” she whispered. Zoe had no reaction to this heresy. “You’re not.“

Only in the last year had Zoe admitted the relationship was much closer. Xanthia was now fifteen.

And what was different? Something, there had to be something beyond the mere knowledge that they were not mother and child. There was a new quality in their relationship, growing as they came to the end of the voyage. Xanthia would look into those eyes where she had seen love and now see only blankness, coldness.

“Oriental inscrutability?” she asked herself, half-seriously. She knew she was hopelessly unsophisticated. She had spent her life in a society of two. The only other person she knew had her own face. But she had thought she knew Zoe. Now she felt less confident with every glance into Zoe’s face and every kilometer passed on the way to Pluto.

Pluto.

Her thoughts turned gratefully away from immediate problems and toward that unimaginable place. She would be there in only four more years. The cultural adjustments she would have to make were staggering. Thinking about that, she felt a sensation in her chest that she guessed was her heart leaping in anticipation. That’s what happened to characters in tapes when they got excited, anyway. Their hearts were forever leaping, thudding, aching, or skipping beats.

She pushed away from Zoe and drifted slowly to the viewport. Her old friends were all out there, the only friends she had ever known, the stars. She greeted them all one by one, reciting childhood mnemonic riddles and rhymes like bedtime prayers.

It was a funny thought that the view from her window would terrify many of those strangers she was going to meet on Pluto. She’d read that many tunnel-raised people could not stand open spaces. What it was that scared them, she could not understand. The things that scared her were crowds, gravity, males, and mirrors.

“Oh, damn. Damn! I’m going to be just hopeless . Poor little idiot girl from the sticks, visiting the big city.” She brooded for a time on all the thousands of things she had never done, from swimming in the gigantic underground disneylands to seducing a boy.

“To being a boy.” It had been the source of their first big argument. When Xanthia had reached adolescence, the time when children want to begin experimenting, she had learned from Zoe that Shirley Temple did not carry the medical equipment for sex changes. She was doomed to spend her critical formative years as a sexual deviate, a unisex.

“It’ll stunt me forever,” she had protested. She had been reading a lot of pop psychology at the time.

“Nonsense,” Zoe had responded, hard-pressed to explain why she had not stocked a viro-genetic imprinter and the companion Y-alyzer. Which, as Xanthia pointed out, any self-respecting home surgery kit should have.

“The human race got along for millions of years without sex changing,” Zoe had said. “Even after the Invasion. We were a highly technological race for hundreds of years before changing. Billions of people lived and died in the same sex.”

“Yeah, and look what they were like.”

Now, for another of what seemed like an endless series of nights, sleep was eluding her. There was the worry of Pluto, and the worry of Zoe and her strange behavior, and no way to explain anything in her small universe which had become unbearably complicated in the last years.

I wonder what it would be like with a man?

Three hours ago Xanthia had brought Lollipop to a careful rendezvous with the point in space her instruments indicated contained a black hole. She had long since understood that even if she ever found one she would never see it, but she could not restrain herself from squinting into the starfield for some evidence. It was silly; though the hole massed ten to the fifteenth tonnes (the original estimate had been off one order of magnitude) it was still only a fraction of a millimeter in diameter. She was staying a good safe hundred kilometers from it. Still, you ought to be able to sense something like that, you ought to be able to feel it.

It was no use. This hunk of space looked exactly like any other.

“There is a point I would like explained,” the hole said. “What will be done with me after you have captured me?”

The question surprised her. She still had not got around to thinking of the voice as anything but some annoying aberration like her face in the mirror. How was she supposed to deal with it? Could she admit to herself that it existed, that it might even have feelings?

“I guess we’ll just mark you, in the computer, that is. You’re too big for us to haul back to Pluto. So we’ll hang around you for a week or so, refining your trajectory until we know precisely where you’re going to be, then we’ll leave you. We’ll make some maneuvers on the way in so no one could retrace our path and find out where you are, because they’ll know we found a big one when we get back.”

“How will they know that?”

“Because we’ll be renting . . . well, Zoe will be chartering one of those bit monster tugs, and she’ll come out here and put a charge on you and tow you . . . say, how do you feel about this?”

“Are you concerned with the answer?”

The more Xanthia thought about it, the less she liked it. If she really was not hallucinating this experience, then she was contemplating the capture and imprisonment of a sentient being. An innocent sentient being who had been wandering around the edge of the system, suddenly to find him or herself . . .

“Do you have a sex?”

“No.”

“All right, I guess I’ve been kind of short with you. It’s just because you did startle me, and I didn’t expect it, and it was all a little alarming.”

The hole said nothing.

“You’re a strange sort of person, or whatever,” she said.

Again there was a silence.

“Why don’t you tell me more about yourself? What’s it like being a black hole, and all that?” She still couldn’t fight down the ridiculous feeling those words gave her.

“I live much as you do, from day to day. I travel from star to star, taking about ten million years for the trip. Upon arrival, I plunge through the core of the star. I do this as often as is necessary, then I depart by a slingshot maneuver through the heart of a massive planet. The Tunguska Meteorite, which hit Siberia in 1908, was a black hole gaining momentum on its way to Jupiter, where it could get the added push needed for solar escape velocity.”

One thing was bothering Xanthia. “What do you mean, ‘as often as is necessary’?”

“Usually five or six thousand passes is sufficient.”

“No, no. What 1 meant is why is it necessary? What do you get out of it?”

“Mass,” the hole said. “I need to replenish my mass. The Relativity Laws state that nothing can escape from a black hole, but the Quantum Laws, specifically the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, state that below a certain radius the position of a particle cannot be determined. I lose mass constantly through tunneling. It is not all wasted, as I am able to control the direction and form of the escaping mass, and to use the energy that results to perform functions that your present-day physics says are impossible.”