Greg Bear: Hull Zero Three

“Is this all of them?” I ask the girl between heaves.

“All I’ve met,” she says. “I’ve already given them names.”

“You haven’t given me a name.”

“You’re always Teacher.”

Of course , I think. My curiosity as to this point is nil. My throat is sore, my eyes feel like they’re on fire, and the black fluid crusted all over me is starting to raise little blisters. “I need to wash this stuff off,” I croak.

“It’s factor blood. Don’t worry about it,” the girl says. “You’ll probably be dead soon.”

“Factor?”

She gives me a pained look. “Factors. The cleaner, the swim-worm.”

“Oh. What about water, food?”

“Nothing so far,” the girl says. “We’re probably all going to be dead soon.”

“So it’s over,” I say.

She shakes her head. “It’s never over. We keep looking.” She holds out her book. “Maybe we’ll find one of these for you.”

“A book?”

“It’s how we know anything at all,” the girl says. “They have books, too. Except for him .” She points to the pink one with the bony crest, the only one who’s tried to talk. “That’s Picker. He can’t find his. Whatever he’s learned will be lost.” She gives me a squint.

“Cleaners…” I can barely talk, so my question or whatever I thought I was going to say goes unsaid. I move and think and keep it all to myself, which is just as well, because I’m becoming delusional.

Becoming. I manage a raw chuckle.

Then the Blue-Black fellow with the flat face performs a sort of quivering wiggle and makes an extraordinary series of whistles—really pretty. The pink, crested fellow acts excited, too, and emits his own warble-honk.

They see something.

I twist my head. At the very end of what I can see of the curving tube is a large opening, another fistula—and this time it’s on the left side.

“That might go forward,” the girl says. “We have to get there before it closes. Keep up with us. And watch out for a big wind.”

“Terrific,” I say. A breeze creeps up from behind. It doesn’t cool me—I have no sweat to evaporate. If there was heaviness, I wouldn’t make it this time. But weightless, I’m just barely able to stay about four body lengths behind the others.

The closer I get to the opening, the stronger the breeze, until it becomes a wind. The three big fellows reach the hole first. They form up like an acrobatic team, gripping arms and shoulders and spanning the tube with their feet to brace themselves.

The girl bumps into their arms and hangs on. Her hair lufts. “Good,” she says. They hold her out by one spindly arm—and let her go. She pushes her feet together and vanishes into the hole as if diving into a pool.

Bouncing along the tube, I try to hold back, skidding hands and feet, but I’m alone and it’s not enough. I arrive at the barrier of arms and legs. I have no idea what’s causing the suction or where the opening is taking us—but I’m almost equally concerned that something will reach out and snatch me from behind.

I reach out. “Do it quick!” I shout. But I don’t really mean it.

The brown fellow with scarlet markings— scarlet! lovely word—takes hold of my arm. The team rearranges, and together, despite my clinging, desperate hands, they drop me into a roaring tunnel.

I fly through. The tunnel opens like the bell of a trumpet to a bigger space. A moist, lateral wind has taken hold of me. I’m flying. I look back and see the team of three flow one by one into the chasm. I can’t see the girl, but the three are about fifty meters behind me. We move along at the same speed. The opening vanishes behind us in the murk. The bigger space is dimly illuminated. I can finally see that it’s a conduit—another curved, circumnavigating tube, but broader, deeper.

Circumnavigating. Going all the way around… Ship.

There’s darkness inboard, something slick and glistening outboard. The air is wet on my face and lips. We fly through a kind of rising mist that feels wonderful on my skin. I try to get a drink by sucking, but it doesn’t work. I just cough. I guess that’s progress, but where’s the real water—where’s the food? Then in the general roar I hear a sound more beautiful than anything I’ve heard before—a slurping, gurgling rush. It has to be water, a lot of water. The sound comes from outboard—from the glistening surface.

The curved walls channel an entire rushing river, perhaps ten or twelve meters wide.

The girl reappears down the line, through the mist. She’s grinning and doing spins. Looking at her makes me shut my eyes. I’m terrified, but the smell of water makes me crazy. My whole body wants to dive into the glistening surface. A river can’t hang weightless in a trough, can it? Yet the water keeps to the channel. It has weight—

But we don’t. We’re blowing along like fluff in a breeze, suspended above the rushing water. The air currents are faster at the center, slower near the walls. The girl “swims” outward with vigorous motions of her arms and feet, slow but effective progress that she reverses once I have passed.

Knob-Crest—Picker—gives a hoot of appreciation.

Behind me now, the girl reaches out to the three, still joined hand to arm, and uses the Blue-Black fellow to pull herself in. He makes more musical whistles. The brown fellow with scarlet markings—Scarlet-Brown—and Picker draw in their legs, catch him up, and they all spin together.

It’s comical and wonderful, but I’m so thirsty I can’t stop myself from making little shrieking noises and grabbing wherever and whatever I can, just to reach the water. I kick and flail against the wind, the center of the spinning pair.

Just right. Now it’s like I’m diving toward the water.

“No!” the girl shouts. They grab my ankle at the end of a kick and pull me toward them. All of us move outward and slow.

The girl is performing a kind of twirling handstand a few centimeters above the angled side of the channel, lifting slowly toward the center. I’ve never seen anything so wonderful and mysterious—and I still don’t care. I kick against the passing wall, aiming for the channel, change direction and spin about…

Again I’m heading straight for the water at about a meter per second. The girl does this amazing maneuver, tucks in her legs and arms, spins about to present her legs, and kicks against the angle of the channel wall. This shoots her toward where I’ll be in a couple of seconds—which might mean I won’t reach the water, so I wave her off. But she collides with me and grabs my foot and uses her momentum to knock me off course. Now we’re both moving down, but also passing over the water to the opposite channel wall.

Only now do I see how fast the water is moving. It’s a weird taffy-streaming blur. I can make out currents, mostly parallel to the channel walls, but also whirlpools that rush past, relative to the girl and me, at about a hundred kilometers an hour.

I’ll die, but I don’t care. I’ll die wet. I’m philosophical about the entire gambit. It’s going to be a close thing either way. The girl knows more about this sort of flying than I do but seems to actually be risking her life for me.

Maybe it’s a game.

I start laughing. “We’re going swimming!” I shout.

The girl looks along the length of my leg and body—she’s still hanging on to my foot—in a kind of anxious pity. Her face seems so mature, so experienced—maybe I’m the child and she’s the grown-up.

The wind has pulled us toward the center. The water is right below us. I stretch out my hand. I’m totally insane—the smell of it is like a promise of heaven. My hand touches the stream, and instantly I’m in intense pain, hand wrenched, whole body spinning head over heels, the girl at my foot also swinging, scared—