“There’s no substitute for luck,” he said.
What had happened was this: in their haste to beat one another to the White Cat, Uncle Zip and the commander of the Nastic heavy cruiser Touching the Void had collided in the Motel Splendido parking lot. At the time of the collision, Uncle Zip’s vehicle of choice—the K-ship El Rayo X, on loan, along with the Krishna Moire pod, from undisclosed contacts in the bureaucracy of EMC—had already torched up to around 25 percent the speed of light. Thirty or forty seconds later, it was buried deep below the Nastic vessel’s greenish rind-like hull, having penetrated the whorled internal structures as far as the command and control centre before losing momentum. Touching the Void absorbed this incoming energy in a simple Newtonian fashion, retransmitting it as heat, noise, and—finally—a sluggish acceleration in the direction of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud. Its ruptured hull was promptly surrounded by clouds of shadow operators trying to make damage estimates. A caul of tiny repair machines—low-end swarming programmes mediating via a substrate of smart ceramic glue—began to seal the hole.
“Meanwhile,” said Uncle Zip, “I find that by his own lights the guy is in fact already dead, though his ship-math maintains him as some sort of fetch. I say, ’Hey, we can still work together. Being dead this way is no impediment to that,’ and he agrees. It made sense we worked together. Working together can sometimes be the right thing.”
So that was how it was. Uncle Zip’s shadow operators, correctly assuming that neither ship was going anywhere on its own, began to build software bridges between the K-ship’s mathematics and the propulsion systems of its new host. No one had ever done this before: but within hours they were back up and running and in pursuit of the White Cat, their origin, position and motives cloaked beneath the curious double signature which had so puzzled Seria Mau. “Some luck was involved,” Uncle Zip repeated. He seemed to like the idea. He spread his hands comfortably. “Things came unstuck a couple of times along the way. But here we are.”
He looked down at her. “You and me, Seria Mau,” he said, “we got to work together too.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Uncle Zip.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of everything. But mainly because you killed your son.”
“Hey,” he said. “You did that. Don’t look at me!” He shook his head. “It must be convenient to forget events so soon.”
Seria Mau had to acknowledge the truth of that.
“But it was you involved me with him,” she said. “You wound me up and set me going. And why bother, anyway, when you already knew where Billy was? You knew it all along, or else you couldn’t have told me. You could have found him anytime. Why the charade?”
Uncle Zip considered how to answer.
“That’s true,” he admitted in the end: “I didn’t need to find him. But I knew he would never share that secret source of his. He was down there on that shithole rainy planet for ten years, just hoping I would ask, so he could say no. So instead I sent him what he needed: I sent him a sad story. I showed him he could still do something good in the world. I sent him someone worse off than he was, someone he could help. I sent him you. I knew he’d offer to take you there.”
He shrugged.
“I figured I could follow you,” he said.
“Uncle Zip, you bastard.”
“Some people have said that,” admitted Uncle Zip.
“Well, Billy told me nothing in the end. You didn’t guess him right. He only came aboard my ship to have sex with the Mona clone.”
“Ah,” said Uncle Zip. “Everyone wants sex with Mona.”
He smiled reminiscently.
“She was one of mine, too,” he said. Then he shook his head sadly. “Things weren’t good between me and Billy Anker since his first day out the incubator. It sometimes happens with a father and a son. Maybe I was too tough on him. But he never found himself, you know? Which was a pity, because he so much resembled me when I was young, before I did one entrada too many and as a consequence got this fat disease.”
Seria Mau cut the connection.
The sound of alarms. Under its shifting blue and grey internal light, the White Cat felt empty and haunted at the same time. Shadow operators hung beneath the ceilings of the human quarters, pointing at Seria Mau and whispering among themselves like bereaved sisters. “For God’s sake what’s the matter now?” she asked them. They covered one another’s bruised-looking mouths with their fingers. The Moire pod had chased down most of the RF proxies and were running about after the rest like a lot of dogs on the Carmody waterfront at night. “We have a buffer a few nanoseconds thick,” her mathematics warned her. “We should either fight or leave.” It thought for a moment. “If we fight, they’ll probably win.”
“Well then, go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Just lose them.”
“We might lose the K-pod, but not the Nastic ship. Their navigational systems aren’t as good as me, but their pilot is better than you.”
“Don’t keep saying that!” shrieked Seria Mau. Then she laughed. “What does it matter, after all? They won’t hurt us—not until they find out where we’re going, anyway. And maybe not even then.”
“Where are we going?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“We can’t go there unless I do,” the mathematics reminded her.
“Ramp me up,” said Seria Mau. Instantly, the fourteen dimensions of the White Cat’s sensorium folded out around her, and she was on ship-time. One nanosecond, she could smell vacuum. Two, she could feel the minute caress of dark matter against the hull. Three, she could tune in to the hideous fusion life of the local sun, with its sounds no one has ever described. Four nanoseconds, and she had the shifting constantly redesigned command languages of the Moire pod drifting up to her through something like layers of clear liquid, which was the encryption they were suspended in. In five nanoseconds she knew everything about them: propulsion status, rate of burn, ordnance on call. What damage they were carrying from the day’s encounter—the hulls thinned at crucial points from particle ablation, the arsenals depleted. She could feel the nanomachines working overtime to shore up their internal architecture. They were too young and stupid to realise how damaged they were. She thought she could beat them, whatever the mathematics said. She hung there a further nanosecond, warming herself in the fourteen-dimensional night. Blinks and fibres of illumination came and went. Distant things like noises. She heard Krishna Moire say, “Got it!” but knew he hadn’t.
This was the place for her.
It was the place for people who didn’t know what they were anymore. Who had never known. Uncle Zip had called her “a sad story.” Her mother was long dead. She had not seen her brother or father for fifteen years. Mona the clone had felt only contempt for her, and Billy Anker had pitied her even as she killed him: in addition his hard death still hung before her, like the menu for her own. Then she conned herself that all the complex stuff of being human was transparent at this level of things, and she could see straight through it to the other side—right to the simple code beneath. She could stay or go: in this place as in life. She was the ship.
“Arm me,” she commanded.
“Is this what you want?”
“Arm me.”
At that exact juncture, the K-pod found the last of her proxies and began unspooling the thread that led to her. But she was connected, and they were still thinking in milliseconds. Each time they found her, she was somewhere else. Then, in the instant it took them to realise what had happened, she had got into their personal space.