The Best of Nancy Kress (51 page)

I could have ordered Ajit to accompany me, and ordered Kane to stay behind. But that, I sensed, would only make things worse. Ajit, in his present mood of deadly sensitivity, would not take well to orders from anyone, even me. I wasn’t going to give him the chance to retreat more into whatever nasty state of mind he currently inhabited.

“Well, then, let’s go,” I said ungraciously to Kane, who only grinned at me and went to get our suits.

The holds, three of them for redundancy safety, are full of supplies of all types. Every few days I combine a thorough ship inspection with lugging enough food forward to sustain us. We aren’t uploads; we need bodily nurturing as well as the kind I was supposed to be providing.

All three holds can be pressurized if necessary, but usually they aren’t. Air generation and refreshment doesn’t cost much power, but it costs some. Kane and I went into the starboard hold in heated s-suits and helmets.

“I’m going to look around,” Kane said. He’d brought a handheld, and I saw him calculating the probable trajectory of the particle from the ship’s data and the angle of the breach, as far as he could deduce it. Then he disappeared behind a pallet of crates marked soysynth.

The breach was larger than I’d expected; that hundred-gram particle had hit at a bad angle. But the nanos had done their usual fine job, and the permanent patch went on without trouble. I began the careful inspection of the rest of the hull, using my hand-held instruments.

Kane cursed volubly.

“Kane? What is it?”‘

“Nothing. Bumped into boxes.”

“Well, don’t. The last thing I want is you messing up my hold.” For a physically fit man, Kane is clumsy in motion. I would bet my ship that he can’t dance, and bet my life that he never tries.

“I can’t see anything. Can’t you brighten the light?”

I did, and he bumped around some more. Whenever he brushed something, he cursed. I did an inspection even more carefully than usual, but found nothing alarming. We met each other back by the hold door.

“It’s not here,” Kane said. “The particle. It’s not here.”

“You mean you didn’t find it.”

“No, I mean it’s not here. Don’t you think I could find a still-hot particle in a hold otherwise filled only with large immobile crates?”

I keyed in the door code. “So it evaporated on impact. Ice and ions and dust.”

“To penetrate a Schaad hull? No.” He reconsidered. “Well, maybe. What did you find?”

“Not much. Pitting and scarring on the outside, nothing unexpected. But no structural stress to worry about.”

“The debris here is undoubtedly orbiting the core, but we’re so far out it’s not moving all that fast. Still, we should have had some warning. But I’m more worried about the probe—when is the third mini-cap due?”

Kane knew as well as I did when the third mini-cap was due. His asking was the first sign he was as tense as the rest of us.

“Three more days,” I said. “Be patient.”

“I’m not patient.”

“As if that’s new data.”

“I’m also afraid the probe will be hit by rapidly orbiting debris, and that will be that. Did you know that the stars close in to Sgr A* orbit at several thousand clicks per second?”

I knew. He’d told me often enough. The probe was always a speculative proposition, and before now, Kane had been jubilant that we’d gotten any data at all from it.

I’d never heard Kane admit to being “afraid” of anything. Even allowing for the casualness of the phrase.

I wanted to distract him, and, if Kane was really in a resigned and reflective mood, it also seemed a good time to do my job. “Kane, about Ajit—”

“I don’t want to talk about that sniveling slacker,” Kane said, with neither interest not rancor. “I picked badly for an assistant, that’s all.”

It hadn’t actually been his “pick;” his input had been one of many. I didn’t say this. Kane looked around the hold one more time. “I guess you’re right. The particle sublimed. Ah, well.”

I put the glove of my hand on the arm of his suit—not exactly an intimate caress, but the best I could do in this circumstance. “Kane, how is the young-star mystery going?”

“Not very well. But that’s science.” The hold door stood open and he lumbered out.

I gave one last look around the hold before turning off the light, but there was nothing more to see.

The mended statue of Shiva was back on the wardroom table, smack in the center, when Kane and I returned from the hold. I don’t think Kane, heading straight for his terminal, even noticed. I smiled at Ajit, although I wasn’t sure why he had brought the statue back. He’d told me he never wanted to see it again.

“Tirzah, would you perhaps like to play go?”

I couldn’t conceal my surprise. “Go?”

“Yes. Will you play with me?” Accompanied by his most winning smile.

“All right.”

He brought out the board and, bizarrely, set it up balanced on his knees. When he saw my face, he said, “We’ll play here. I don’t want to disturb the Cosmic Dancer.”

“All right.” I wasn’t sure what to think. I drew my chair close to his, facing him, and bent over the board.

We both knew that Ajit was a better player than I. That’s why both of us played: he to win, me to lose. I would learn more from the losing position. Very competitive people—and I thought now that I had never known one as competitive as Ajit—relax only when not threatened.

So I made myself non-threatening in every way I knew, and Ajit and I talked and laughed, and Kane worked doggedly on his theories that weren’t going anywhere. The statue of the dancing god leered at me from the table, and I knew with every passing moment how completely I was failing this already failing mission.

12. PROBE

Kane was gentler since the radiation corruption. Who can say how these things happen? Personality, too, is encoded in the human brain, whether flesh or analogue. He was still Kane, but we saw only his gentler, sweeter side. Previously that part of him had been dominated by his combative intellect, which had been a force of nature all its own, like a high wind. Now the intellect had failed, the wind calmed. The landscape beneath lay serene.

“Here, Ajit,” Kane said. “These are the equations you wanted run.” He sent them to Ajit’s terminal, stood, and stretched. The stretch put him slightly off balance, something damaged in the upload that Ajit and I hadn’t been able to fix, or find. A brain is such a complex thing. Kane tottered, and Ajit rose swiftly to catch him.

“Careful, Kane. Here, sit down.”

Ajit eased Kane into a chair at the wardroom table. I put down my work. Kane said, “Tirzah, I feel funny.”

“Funny how?” Alarm ran through me.

“I don’t know. Can we play go?”

I had taught him the ancient strategy game, and he enjoyed it. He wasn’t very good, not nearly as good as I was, but he liked it and didn’t seem to mind losing. I got out the board. Ajit, who was a master at go, went back to Kane’s shadow-matter theory. He was making good progress, I knew, although he said frankly that all the basic ideas were Kane’s.

Halfway through our second game of go, the entire wardroom disappeared.

A moment of blind panic seized me. I was adrift in the void, nothing to see or feel or hold onto, a vertigo so terrible it blocked any rational thought. It was the equivalent of a long, anguished scream, originating in the most primitive part of my now blind brain: lost, lost, lost and…

The automatic maintenance program kicked in and the wardroom re-appeared. Kane gripped the table edge and stared at me, white-faced. I went to him, wrapped my arms around him reassuringly, and gazed at Ajit. Kane clung to me. A part of my mind noted that some aspects of the wardroom were wrong: the galley door was too low to walk through upright, and one chair had disappeared, along with the go board. Maintenance code too damaged to restore. Ajit said softly, “We have to decide, Tirzah. We could take a final radiation hit at any time.”

“I know.”

I took my arms away from Kane. “Are you all right?”

He smiled. “Yes. Just for a minute I was…” He seemed to lose his thought.

Ajit brought his terminal chair to the table, to replace the vanished one. He sat leaning forward, looking from me to Kane and back. “This is a decision all three of us have to make. We have one mini-cap left to send back to the
Kepler
, and one more jump for our-selves. At any time we could lose…everything. You all know that. What do you think we should do? Kane? Tirzah?”

All my life I’d heard that even very flawed people can rise to leadership under the right circumstances. I’d never believed it, not of someone with Ajit’s basic personality structure: competitive, para-noid, angry at such a deep level he didn’t even know it. I’d been wrong. I believed now.

Kane said, “I feel funny, and that probably means I’ve taken another minor hit and the program isn’t there to repair it. I think…I think…”

“Kane?” I took his hand.

He had trouble getting words out. “I think we better send the mini-cap now.”

“I agree,” Ajit said. “But that means we send it without the data from our next jump, to just outside the event horizon of Sgr A*. So the
Kepler
won’t get those readings. They’ll get the work on shadow matter, but most of the best things on that already went in the second mini-cap. Still, it’s better than nothing, and I’m afraid if we wait to send until after the jump, nothing is what the
Kepler
will get. It will be too late.”

Both men looked at me. As captain, the jump decision was mine. I nodded. “I agree, too. Send off the mini-cap with whatever you’ve got, and then we’ll jump. But not to the event horizon.”

“Why not?” Kane burst out, sounding more like himself than at any time since the accident.

“Because there’s no point. We can’t send any more data back, so the event horizon readings die with us. And we can survive longer if I jump us completely away from the core. Several hundred light years out, where the radiation is minimal.”

Together, as if rehearsed, they both said, “No.”

“No?”

“No,” Ajit said, with utter calm, utter persuasiveness. “We’re not going to go out like that, Tirzah.”

“But we don’t have to go out at all! Not for decades! Maybe centuries! Not until the probe’s life-maintenance power is used up—” Or until the probe is hit by space debris. Or until radiation takes us out. Nowhere in space is really safe.

Kane said, “And what would we do for centuries? I’d go mad. I want to work.”

“Me, too,” Ajit said. “I want to take the readings by the event horizon and make of them what I can, while I can. Even though the
Kepler
will never see them.”

They were scientists.

And I? Could even I, station bred, have lived for centuries in this tiny ship, without a goal beyond survival, trapped with these two men? An Ajit compassionate and calm, now that he was on top. A damaged Kane, gentle and intellectually gutted. And a Tirzah, captaining a pointless expedition with nowhere to go and nothing to do.

I would have ended up hating all three of us.

Ajit took my left hand. My right one still held Kane’s, so we made a broken circle in the radiation-damaged wardroom.

“All right,” I said. “We’ll send off the mini-cap and then jump to the event horizon.”

“Yes,” Kane said.

Ajit said, “I’m going to go back to work. Tirzah, if you and Kane want to go up to the observation deck, or anywhere, I’ll prepare and launch the mini-cap.” Carefully he turned his back and sat at his terminal.

I led Kane to my bunk. This was a first; I always went to the scientists’ bunks. My own, as captain, had features for my eyes only. But now it didn’t matter.

We made love, and afterward, holding his superb, aging body in my arms, I whispered against his cheek, “I love you, Kane.”

“I love you, too,” he said simply, and I had no way of knowing if he meant it, or if it was an automatic response dredged up from some half-remembered ritual from another time. It didn’t matter. There are a lot more types of love in the universe than I once suspected.

We were silent a long time, and then Kane said, “I’m trying to remember pi. I know three point one, but I can’t remember after that.”

I said, through the tightness in my throat, “Three point one four one. That’s all I remember.”

“Three point one four one,” Kane said dutifully. I left him repeating it over and over, when I went to jump the probe to the event horizon of Sgr A*.

13. SHIP

The second breach of the hull was more serious than the first.

The third mini-cap had not arrived from the probe. “The analogues are probably all dead,” Kane said dully. “They were supposed to jump to one-twenty-fifth of a light year from the event horizon. Our calculations were always problematic for where exactly that is. It’s possible they landed inside, and the probe will just spiral around Sgr A* forever. Or they got hit with major radiation and fried.”

“It’s possible,” I said. “How is the massive-young-star problem coming?”

“It’s not. Mathematical dead end.”

He looked terrible, drawn and, again, unwashed. I was more impatient with the latter than I should be. But how hard is it, as a courtesy to your shipmates if nothing else, to get your body into the shower? How long does it take? Kane had stopped exercising, as well.