Hull Zero Three (8 page)

I ’vebeenaliveonehundredcyclesofspin-upandspin-down.Funny,the peopleImeetalusethosewords—they’epartofthepatoisofsurvivosinthe hul.You’reateacher.Youknow whatpatosis.ThebookIwasgiven—frommy previousincarnation—hadthatwordinit,butnotmuchelse.Booksgetlost.I’ve puledapartthisbookandcombineditwithpagesfromothers,addingblank pageswhenIcantorecordwhathappensnext.

T heotherpagescomefromearlie.Imarkthemclealy.
Goodluck.
P.S.Ifyou’reme,you’lfigureouthow toreadtherest.Ifyou’renotme…

W el,wedoliketotradeinformation,andIwouldn’twanttogivetheothersan advantage.
Someoneseemstorealyhateme.
Hateyou

The rest of the book is written in what reads at first like gibberish— random letters, scrawled slowly and carefully, or in real haste, but always gibberish. I close the book and grip it tight. I’m not even quite sure what patois is—some sort of meat paste? Or a way of speaking. I think it’s the latter.

Maybe I’m not me—or him. Maybe something’s been lost. Certainly I don’t have all of my memories, even all of my knowledge. But of course I don’t have any memories, really… if I was made just a short while back. Pulled out of a sac. Then anything I remember from before I was made, finished, whatever, is just imprinting. Instinct.
TIME RUNS OUT QUICKLY HERE

After a while, I’m settled in, about one good kick away from the ceiling, drifting and dozing. Best not to get caught away from shoving distance of a surface, in case something comes by—something that wants to clean me up and put me in the freezer.

One hundred cycles, the first page says.
I’m just a
youngster
, then.
Youngsters play games with words. I sort of see sunlight on a bedcover, a

notebook, and a game. I see a row of white pickets on a fence. Switch the pickets: fence rail code. The game has to do with letters in the alphabet, exchanging one letter for another. To make this simple code harder, I convert everything I write into pig Latin before transposing the letters. Then I show it to my kids in school to see if they can read it. (I can almost smell the schoolroom: chalk, pencil shavings, steam heat from old radiators, gym socks, ham sandwiches in paper bags waiting for lunch.) Some of the kids can unravel the code. They become my friends. Most can’t. We call them…

L osers.
That’s it, then. I’m not a loser. I know how to play the game. I come out of my doze and open the book. After a while, I’m reading pretty quickly. I might even be able to write in code quickly, with a little practice. I’m good at that sort of thing.
PAGE2
I’mmakingmywayforward.Mycold-burnsarehealing.Thegirlisdead. Shewaskiledbyatooth-worm.Ittorehertopieces.
I wonder if the little girl always dies, too.

S omeofthethingsherearealivebutactlikemachines.Therearen’tany robots—thoughIdidseeasilverwomanorthinfigueofsomesort,butonlyfor aninstant.

L etmedescribethethingsthatarehereandcanbedangerous. FACTORS:Cleanersmostimportant.Cleanerstrytokeepeverything spick-and-span.Theyhavethreeheads/facesandsixlegs.Mostofthefactorsdo

v erywelwithoutweight.TheyalsodoOKwhenthere’sweigh.Theytakeus awaywhenwedie—andsometimesevenbeforewedie,ifyoucan’tavoidthem. Otherfactors:fixersandprocessors.CleanersorscoutscalfixesiftheShiphas beendamaged.They’eprettysingleminded,butthey’reonlydangerousifyou getbetweenthemandsomethingthatneedsfixing.Processorslookscaryand canbeverydangerous,buttheytendtostickaroundjunkbals.Thetoothyeel isaprocessor.Itconvertsdeadorganicmaterialtosimplerslush.Ugh.

F ixersandprocessorsaregetingrare,Ihear.I’veseenonlytwo. Scouts:smale,thinner.Rarenowaswel.
Gardeners:They’etheonlyfactorsthathaverealcolor.Theothersare

d arkbrownordarkgrayorblack.
Factorsseeheatandaregeneralyinactiveduringcooldown. AndthereareKiles.That’swhatIcalthem.Knob-headscalthemXhh-

S haian.Hardtopronounce,evenifIholdmynose.Itseemstomean“Makerof Pain.”
Kiles.
Onlyafew ofushaveseenaKilerandsurvived.NooneI’vemetcangive acleardescripion.Kilesdestroyandleavethedeadbehind,buttheyalso colec—alive.Wheretheytakethosetheycolectisunknown.Thehul cooperateswithKiles.Theycangoanywhere—fas.Makesmeangry,likethe deckisstackedagainstus.(Thinkaboutthatandtrytoremembercardgames—
theirplayandtheirrulesmakeexcelentmetaphorsaroundhere.) Sometimes,thehulhelpsus—whythiscontradicion,Idon’tknow. Now—whythehulgetscool.Therearethreehuls.BasedonDreamtime,
Ithinktheyaresupposedtojoinatsomepointandbecomeone,butthat’snot
clearyet.TheBlueBlackssaythehulgetscoolbecausesomethingwantsusal
todie.Theli
t
legilsaidit’stosavepower,andsheseemedtoknow alot—but
shewantedhermotherbadly,andwaslosingherownenergy—fadingrapidly. Kilesorcoldormakingothermisakeseventualyremoveusalfromthe
scene.
Andofcoursetherearelotsofversionsofme,aldead.Thatmeans
there’satemplae.Maybealotoftemplates.Forsomereason,awordsticksup
now—Klados.Idon’tknowwhatthatmeans.
Buthulissick.Shipissick.Somethingbrokeorwentwrong—or
somethingdeliberatelychangedtherules.That’swhyI’mheadingforward—to
answerthosequestions.
Irestedforawhilewiththesluggards.Thesluggardshaveacomfortable
placeandtheyjuststaythere.Theboyinparticularhasmadeacozyden.The
roomobeyshisinstructionsbutdoesn’tcooperatewiththerestofus.Iwonder
why.Thewomanisdiscouraged,maybebecauseshehastorelyontheboy—
andhecanbeirriating.
Theyaren’tgoingtogowithmeorhelpmefindanswers. Iftheygiveyouthis,thenyouknow aboutthefreezersandthebodies.
Youknow I’mdead.Takeadeepbreath.Whenyougoforward—andyouwil—it
getsworse.
Somethingdoesn’twantusgoingforward.ThatmightbeDestinaion
Guidance.Ihavenoideawhatthatis—orwho.
I’vegoneforwardanddowntothecore.Here’sali
t
lemap.

Follows a sketch showing the tip of the spindle, an X marking the beginning of my (his) trip, and a dotted line zigging rather mysteriously toward the middle of the spindle and then jogging forward the merest fraction—a dot and a half, almost.

Ip assedthreeforestbalsandseveraljunkbals.Processorswere recyclingbrokenparts—includingfactors.Lotsoffactorsdamagedrecently.Are therewarsinthehul?IbelieveI’vefounda
A brutal dark line.

T heShipisverybadlyoff.I’vecomeuponacrudemembranethat separatesmuchoftheforwardsectionsfrom(Iassume)vacuum.Pressure beliesthemembraneoutwardfromsurvivingbulkheadsandstanchions,andit’s translucent,Ithink,butIcan’tmakeoutanythingexceptagrayishblurthat mightbetheicebal—ourbigli
t
lemoon.Themoonwiththesnakecarvedinto it.SerpentMoon.

C onsideinghow nearthecoreIthinkIam,thatmeansaprettybigchunk oftheShipismi
s
ingontheicebalside.Factorsarestilcleaningup;it’s dangeroustotravelaroundherebecausetheymightmisakemefordebrisand haulmetoajunkbal.SomechambersaresobadlyscarredIcan’timagine they’leverberecovered,butrepairfactorsarestilatwork,movingsluggishly, relayingtheactivesurfacesafew centimetersatatime,workingonlyduring spin-down.I’ddescribethesespacesbutyou’l Another dark line.

T hishastobequick.IthinkIknow alitleaboutDestinaionGuidance. Therewasaworkpartyrevivedalongtimeago.Althisisvague,becausethe conceptsthatsupportmysupposiionsarestilburiedsomewhereinDreamtime. IthinktheShip(wearedefinielyonaShipinspace,betweenthestars— physicaly,realy,notjustamock-up)cametoapointinitsjourneywherea decisionhadtobemadebetweentwoormorecandidaes,planetsorstarswith planets.Ateamwascreatedtomakethatdecision.Idon’tbelievetheyever livedinthehuls.Theywereprobablycreatedonastationor“bridge”downon theicemoon.Faraway—downbelow,inboard,andmaybealittlebehindthe leadingpoinsofthehuls.
Covering most of a page in the book is something fascinating—a quick sketch of part of Ship. It looks like this:

I suppose if someone draws a map for a baby, the baby has to spend years growing up enough to even begin to understand. But we are not exactly babies. This sketch means a lot of things to me. It graphically confirms what I thought I saw in the observation blister and in my dream. The scale is off—the moon/ice ball should be much bigger, the spindles longer and smaller in comparison to the moon—but the rough truth of it is evident.

This is Ship, then. Three hulls shaped like spindles, one big oblong ice moon, and something I think must be at the leading point of the moon, between the spindles… way down below.

It makes sense. It arouses things from Dreamtime that start me quivering until I worry I won’t be able to stop. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. The Ship is not just sick, it’s gone
waywrong
Wrongway.
I read on.

T heli
t
lespheredownthere,fromwhatI’vebeentold,isactualypretty big,butnotnearlyasbigasthespindes.She’svisited,thetal,leanone,ki
t
en- gray,kindofpretty.Shemayormaynotbeasport.Butshe’sgonenow.Li
t
le Kilergother.

A ndinsidethissphere,DestinaionGuidancewasbornandwassupposed tomakedecisionsaboutwhichplanetorstarwewouldflytoward.Therewere five.

T hetaloneseemedtohaveherownsetofpatterning,herown knowledge.Sheknew alotaboutShipthatIdon’t.ShesaidDestinaion Guidanceisraisedfromtrueinfants,orignals,unblemished—unpatterned.

I ’mnotsurewhatshemeant.Icertainyrememberbeingachild,even beingababy—somethings,anyway.
Butaftertheydotheirjob,theyaresupposedtoretieormaybeevenjust die.Idon’tknow how longtheyweresupposedtowork.FromwhatI’veseen, however,Ithinkamisakewasmade.Abadmistake.Itnearlydestroyedthis hul.Theotherhulsmightbealright—Idon’tknow,sinceIcan’tseethem diectly,onlyinthiswalkingdreamIhave.(That’swalking,notwaking.Iwalk overtheicebalandlookupsometimes.Butyouprobablyhavethesame dream.)
DestinaionGuidance.Somethingscaredthembadly,maybestartedal this,madetheShipsick,I’mlearningfrom Damn, another brutal dark line.

If oundmyownbodythistime.It’strue,then.Iwasneverababy. It’sdarkatthecore.Thebigstoreofliquidwaterkeepsitfromgetting toocold.Ican’tseethem.Don’tcomehere.Oneissmal,oneisbig.Thesmal oneisworse

That’s it. The book has maybe five more blank pages. It had to end badly, of course, but I wonder at the strength necessary to keep writing even after being “caught”—and losing the blood that stains the cover and page edges.

It’s human blood, all right.
I’m exhausted. There’s weight now. I was decoding and reading right through spin-up, but found a corner to ride it out and hardly noticed. I stick the book in my pocket, next to the flexible mirror, and then take out the mirror and look at myself again.
It scares me, but I know I’m not going to stick around and sponge off the boy. I’m almost reconciled to that. To being a tool in some greater process. It’s not faith, it’s certainly not comforting, but holding that identity and purpose in my pocket—and maybe in my dreams—is more important than anything that’s happened to me yet.
I need to sleep. I want to see if I dream something more about the Ship, the hulls—if the book has opened the spigots of memory I
know
are there.
The woman and the boy shout through the open door. I’ve been dozing for what feels like minutes. In that brief time, I’ve come up with a face: a female face, not the woman who lives with the boy. I try to recover her features, but it’s no use.
The voices are insistent.
The boy and the woman drag me out of the room and down the hall to the boy’s room. The boy makes a motion with his hands on the wall and the door closes.
“They’re coming,” he says. “We stay in here and they leave us alone.”
“Where’s the girl?” I ask. I don’t see her—there’s not enough furniture to hide even her small frame.
“The girls are frail,” the woman says. “They can’t spend too much time away from their mother.”
“Where’s their mother?” I ask.
They both shrug. We sit together, saying nothing, not even looking at each other. The atmosphere is sad, stifling, like caged animals in a
zoo
Then the woman looks up at me, biting her lip. There’s sweat on her bare arm. We’re sitting on a low couch with a straight, square back that is soft enough not to hurt, but not much softer. The boy either has only a loose sort of control over this room after all, or likes it Spartan.
I have no idea what that word means, but it implies serviceable but not comfortable.
The woman slides down a little, eyes still fixed on mine, until we’re almost touching. She puts her hand on my leg. This provokes an odd feeling. I don’t know what to do. Her touch certainly isn’t appropriate, given the danger outside—but then, maybe that’s why she does it, because she’s frightened and wants reassurance.
But I know sure as God made little green
apples
(there it goes again! Spartan apples, maybe) that I’m not the one from whom she’s going to get reassurance. Still, I pat her hand, then remove it gently, letting it rest limp and damp on the couch. This effort has cost her. The sadness inside me is almost unbearable.
“He’s not the one for you,” the boy says to her, having watched with a detached expression. “The hull made him that way. It will
never
be you.”
“Shut up,” the woman says.
“
You
shut up,” the boy says.
The woman clears her throat. The boy gets up and places his ear against the space where the door was. He moves his hands again. Turns and smiles. The door opens. The hall beyond is quiet and empty. “They’ve gone,” the boy says.
“What were they?” I ask.
“Factors,” the boy says. “I get a feeling when they’re coming. I close the door and they pass us by.”
The woman stares into a corner. “You’ll leave now,” she says. “It’s what you always do. You read your book and then you leave. And they bring you back.” She shudders in something like resignation, maybe more like despair. “Don’t go out there. Out there is nothing but death and misery. You could stay here. There’s food and water, and we could pass the time. Talk is what I miss the most.”
But it’s clear I’ve made up my mind.
“Next time, if there’s a book, don’t give it to him,” the boy suggests.
The woman gets up. “Well, at least let me put together a bag of food and water.” She looks at the boy, who nods permission. Here, he is the master. The woman is just another piece of furniture.
It really
is
time for me to leave.
CENTERING