Greg Bear - Hull Zero Three

The girls shake their heads. “We pray for Teachers,” one says. “Mother tells us where to look for them. They keep dying.”

“Too curious or too slow,” I say.

“Or both,” my other says.

“Why look for teachers?” the spidery woman asks. “If they’re all so delicate… It seems that Tsinoy and I have a lot of the answers we all need. Where in your Catalog—whatever that is—do we fit in?”

Silence. The girls close their eyes and hug.

The waiting is excruciating. I try to remember more details about the Catalog. We might have been able to access it from the controls in the bow chamber, though I have no idea what we could do with it. So I muse some more about Destination Guidance. I’m considering Big Yellow’s suggestion that Tsinoy’s apparent skill set is somehow ideally suited for that role.

Only then do I realize that not one of us has considered yet another haven should this hull prove to be a disaster area.

“Why don’t we go down to the moon and try the quarters there?” I ask.

“Where?” the spidery woman asks.

“Down there.” I point. “On the moon. The sphere.”

The girls are like statues. I might as well have belched in a roomful of prissy old ladies. (Yes, those images seem to make sense to me. But I wonder if prissy is a smell or a behavior.)

“It’s as if it doesn’t exist,” my other concludes. “We see it—we even talk about it—then… it drops out of our thoughts.”

“What does?” I ask, but I’m joking… I think.

He slaps my arm.

“Still, it could be a refuge,” the spidery woman admits with a frown of concentration. “If we remember it’s there.”

The girls blink their disapproval.

“Maybe it doesn’t exist… in our imprinting,” I say, still spooked by that very idea.

“ I remember it,” Tsinoy says.

Of course. “Good. Keep reminding us,” I say.

“Why am I so different inside?” Tsinoy asks. “I take pleasure thinking about stars, the interstellar medium, protective shields… velocities.”

“Mix and match,” the spidery woman says. “Maybe they made a mistake imprinting you.” She looks at me, that word distasteful to her.

There’s a heavy knock on the hatch. She reaches out and opens it, and Big Yellow whuffs back in, more green than yellow now. “Boy, it is cold. I think it’s deserted. No bodies, no damage, no factors.”

“How far did you go?” the spidery woman asks.

“Not far. Next step, I go out with one of the Teachers and we reconnoiter.”

“Mighty big word,” my other says.

“Yeah,” Big Yellow says, smiling. “I think I’ve found my résumé. I’m a police officer. A beat cop.”

We don’t bother asking what that means. I can easily picture him beating on whatever a cop is.

“But it’s really cold ,” he says. “So we won’t be able to stay long—unless we find some controls.”

The three females collect our gray bags, empty the last food scraps and bottles, and slip them over my arms and legs. They have Tsinoy snip a hole in one bag and push it over my head and shoulders. I look ridiculous. Why me and not him ? But Big Yellow seems to be able to tell the difference between us, and he selected me with a brush of his big hand on my shoulder.

Then I think, I’m the least experienced of the two. I’m more expendable.

The Knob-Crest is still curled up, at least pretending to sleep.

The girl opens the hatch again and we push into the hull. The hatch shuts with a last puff of warm air. I’m back where I started—trying to avoid freezing to death.

“Let’s try to make it into the bow chamber and see if it’s active,” Big Yellow says.

“Is there another staging area aft?” I ask, my breath cloudy.

“Seems to be, but just framework, cradles—no ships or anything.”

“Supplies?”

“Not that I saw. But I wasn’t out here long,” he says.

“No joke. What do you think, five minutes?” I ask.

“Less for you. You’re smaller—you’ll freeze faster.”

“I’ve got my arctic gear,” I say, lifting my bag-wrapped arms.

“Right. Forward.”

I follow, grateful I’m not touching the surfaces with my bare hands. Still, getting around is awkward—I can only push and deflect and mitten-grab as we jump and bounce and move forward toward the nose.

The nose chamber is open, but everything within is rudimentary—just bumps and odd blue outlines where control pylons might eventually push out like sunflowers. The view forward is obscured by covers—we can’t see the stars.

“Not any better here,” I say.

“That’s why I brought you. You say Ship Control spoke to you. Maybe the girls know something they aren’t telling us. And frankly, I trust you more than I trust them… Don’t ask why, but I’m thinking you might have a special relationship with this place. Try it.”

“Try what?”

“Over there.” He points toward a blue circumferential line where the covers could conceivably pull back and reveal the view. “Sing it a lullaby. Or bark at it. Just do something.”

I feel like a fool—but I’m also scared. If nothing happens, then maybe I’m just another failure. Or I imagined the voice back in Hull Zero One.

“Seems we left the silveries and laser guy back where we came from,” I say as I delicately move toward the front of the bow chamber.

“There are no silveries,” Big Yellow says.

“Right.”

There are also no cables or maneuvering bars here—not yet. I hold out my hands like a high-wire artist (catching inner glimpses of a big mess of something called a circus ), but that doesn’t help much. I still lift up with each step and waste time waiting to come back down.

“Talk to it,” Big Yellow says from ten meters behind.

“Hello, there!” I call. My voice echoes weirdly in the cylindrical chamber—and the last echo comes from way behind, as if there’s yet another Teacher far aft, hiding. “How about some heat? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

We listen. The hull isn’t exactly silent. There are all sorts of subtle sounds, some regular, others sporadic, some deep and rich, others faint and tinny. All seem far, far away.

My feet are numb, my hands are numb, my lungs ache and there’s frost on my chin. I reach up and brush it off. Little flakes of rime swing left and slowly drift outboard. What I wouldn’t give for the honest gravity of a good old-fashioned planet.

I look over my shoulder at Big Yellow. “Time’s up,” I say. “I won’t be able to move if—”

“Are you Destination Guidance?” a voice asks. It seems to come from all around—neither male nor female, but neither is it obviously mechanical. For a moment, I think Big Yellow is pulling a joke, but he’s as startled as I am. He looks around, hunkered—knees bent and feet lifted, actually, slowly falling outboard. He encourages me with one outstretched hand.

I can’t locate the source of the voice. Again, I feel it might be dangerous to answer one way or another—the last time such a voice addressed me, it helped for a little while but did not linger or return. Maybe Control was disappointed.

“No,” I say. “We’re not Destination Guidance.” Honesty is again the best policy. Besides, I’m beginning to firmly believe that whatever is wrong with Ship may be because of Destination Guidance. Call it a hunch, but it seems more than that.

They shouldn’t be here. Nobody should be asking about them. Ship shouldn’t care about them anymore.

“We came over from the first hull—Zero One. It’s a wreck. Somebody, something—you, maybe—spoke to me before—”