Greg Bear - Hull Zero Three

The girl accepts this with complacent cheer. “Of course,” she says.

“You’re not in the least impressed?” I ask.

“You have done what you were chosen to do,” she says.

“Maybe,” I say, pulling closer on a cable, stopping an arm’s length away. “What’s Mother got to offer our little group that we don’t already have?”

“Love,” the girl says. She turns. “Now we will head aft.”

“Nobody with love in her heart would choose to make us,” Tsinoy says, breaking her concentration on the covered bow. “A lot of us have died—sometimes hundreds of times. As any sort of team, we’re a strategic, tactical, and even a logistical nightmare. We know so little, and whenever we think we’re about to learn something important or solve all the puzzles, we hit the most infuriating obstacles—head-on. Maybe love isn’t enough.”

This is the longest speech I’ve heard from the Tracker. Not to my credit, I’m still surprised that such sophistication and reason can be found within a corded mass of ivory and rubies and steel.

“What Tsinoy seems to be suggesting,” Kim says, ever the moderator, “is that we need persuading. Even from your mother, we need evidence.”

Nell moves in next. The girl tracks her with earnest eyes. “If Mother is capable of choosing us from the Catalog and having us birthed in another hull, then she has to have some connection with Ship Control. Maybe she should join us —up here, where we’re reasonably safe.”

Scandalized, the girl regards me sternly, then turns to my twin. “You two are Teachers ,” she reminds us. “Mother chose you to lead and make decisions.”

“We all make decisions together,” I say. “And we’re happy to rotate the role of tiebreaker.”

After a pause for several seconds of reflection, the girl’s eyes widen and she asks, “Why assume you are safe here?”

We don’t have a good answer.

“What you mean to say is you are comfortable ,” she adds. “And you believe you are taking charge.”

“Stop jerking us around,” Nell says tightly. “Tell us what’s going on, or what you think is going on. You’re part of the team, aren’t you? Act like it.”

The girl is unruffled by the spidery woman’s tone. For perhaps the first time—or perhaps not, but more forcefully—I’m made aware that what seems like a little girl is in fact anything but. She is as cool and calm as anything we’ve encountered in the hulls—and perhaps more frightening for that reason.

My twin seems more willing to go along. “Clearly, we’re not communicating our needs,” he says. “Yes, we’re comfortable—but we’re way beyond being scared by threats or dark implications. Is that clear?”

The girl nods.

“What message would you carry back to your mother to tell her we need reassurance, proof, communication before we risk our lives again? Nobody knows what lies aft. We haven’t been there.”

“I’ve been there, and so has my sister,” the girl says. “In fact, many of my sisters.”

“No threats?” Nell asks. “No out-of-control hull factors or… Killers?”

“No,” the girl says. “This hull is as safe as we’ve been able to make it.”

“You take credit for saving this hull…” Tsinoy offers.

The girl says, predictably enough, that Mother should receive the credit.

“You’re just one of Mother’s little fingers,” Nell says.

The girl nods again, still puzzled by our reluctance—and clearly unconvinced that we’re so stubborn we won’t eventually give in and comply with her request. Her command , I realize. Mother believes we owe her—and so do her little girls.

The panels choose this moment to open again, to Tsinoy’s intense interest. I can’t tell whether she’s delighted or not, but her pink eyes move forward, and then she pulls herself to the transparent ports and—for the moment—is lost in contemplation of the universe.

“Mother has fixed your view. The hull can still make repairs,” the girl says. “We are responsible for its functions.”

“Is Mother in the Catalog?” Nell asks. “Because nobody here seems to remember anyone remotely like her….”

The girl puts on an offended moue. “You have not seen her.”

“Can Mother open all of Ship’s memory and records to us?” Nell asks, on a roll.

“Not all,” the girl says. “Much has been lost or damaged. As you know.”

“You don’t know whether Mother will do this for us, do you?” Nell asks.

The girl shakes her head. In her way, she is doing her best to be honest, to be one of the team . But she’s still just a finger. A severed finger.

“You can’t communicate with Mother psychically, can you?” Kim asks.

The others look puzzled, but I know where he’s going.

“I do not know what psychically means,” the girl says.

“Can you talk to her with your thoughts?”

“No,” the girl says. “That is silly.”

“Honestly, I’m intrigued,” Kim says, rising and stretching. “I’d like to meet Mother and ask my questions directly. Anyone else?”

The girl has not considered the possibility we would split our team. “Mother wishes all—”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen,” Tsinoy says, turning away from the stars, the wisps of nebula—a shower of brilliant sparks from deflected dust. “I need to stay here. Nell needs to control the hull, in case we lose the shields again. Tomchin can join Nell in the control space. Maybe one Teacher can help Tomchin search the Catalog all over again. The rest of you—it’s up to you. Individually.”

Tsinoy’s assertion is met with silence. The girl’s features settle into a cold solidity. She does not look at any of us. This must be fury , I think.

“I’ll go,” my twin says. “Or…”

“No, you stay,” Nell says. “ He’ll go .” She points at me. I have no idea what she’s up to, but the resonance between us is promising.

“I’m intrigued as well,” I say. Then, to my twin, “Besides, you’re older and wiser, more valuable to these fine people.”

He frowns, then gives in, as if avoiding any contest of manly courage. Or he does not want to make a fight of it. Overplay his hand. I have no idea why these suspicions are growing stronger. “All right,” he says.

We shake hands, then hug. It’s an awkward moment, self-respect dangerously close to self-love. But however much we may look, think, and act alike, we are clearly no longer the same. Affection is not any sort of metaphysical issue. He wants to go; I don’t. Not really. But I’ll go, and he won’t.

“How far aft?” Kim asks.

“To the hub,” the girl says.

Tsinoy is conferring with Nell. They both have their hands on the hemisphere.

“I’m not sure we have any idea what’s really happening,” Nell says. “There’s so much contradictory information.”

The girl looks unhappy.

“Destination Guidance might not have cut the shields after all,” Nell says. “When we started to combine the hulls, the drives shut down. They’re still off. We seem to be executing a turning maneuver. We’re shifting into a long-curve orbit.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask.

“Ship may be approaching the gravity well of a greater stellar grouping,” Tsinoy says. “We can’t see it. It’s behind an arm of the nebula. During such a maneuver, the shields temporarily switch off to reconfigure for the new angle of interstellar wind. They turn on again when the proper angle is reached.”

Nell adds, “The hulls need to be separated again to restart the drives. But given our present circumstances, if the drives resume, we’ll begin not just a course correction but also deceleration.”