It would be far too convenient to call the Godspeed mad. Better to say that for some time she had been behaving like no other threshold. Most of our pioneering starships were built in hollowed out nickel-iron asteroids—a few were set into fabricated shells. All were propelled by matter-antimatter drives that could reach speeds of just under a hundred thousand kilometers per second, about a third of the speed of light. We began to launch them from the far frontiers of the Continuum a millennium ago to search for terrestrial planets that were either habitable or might profitably be made so. Our thresholds can scan planetary systems of promising stars as far away as twenty light-years. When one discovers a suitably terrestrial world, it decelerates and swings into orbit. News of the find is immediately dispatched at superluminal speed to all the worlds of the Continuum; almost immediately materials and technicians appear on the transport stage. Over the course of several years we build a new orbital station containing a second MASTA, establishing a permanent link to the Continuum. Once the link is secured, the threshold continues on its voyage of discovery. In all, the Godspeed had founded thirty-seven colonies in exactly this way.
The life of a threshold follows a pattern: decades of monotonous acceleration, cruising and deceleration punctuated by a few years of intense and glorious activity. Establishing a colony is an ultimate affirmation of human culture and even the cool intelligences generated by the cognizors of our thresholds share in the camaraderie of techs and colonists. Thresholds take justifiable pride in their accomplishments; many have had worlds named for them. However, when the time comes to move on, we expect our thresholds to dampen their enthusiasms and abort their nascent emotions to steel themselves against the tedium of crawling between distant stars at three-tenths the speed of light.
Which all of them did—except for the Godspeed.
As they were climbing up the Tulip Stairway to the Dream Halls, Adel and Kamilah came upon two men making their way down, bound together at the waist by a tether. The tether was about a meter long and two centimeters in diameter; it appeared to be elastic. One side of it pulsed bright red and the other was a darker burgundy. The men were wearing baggy pants and gray jackets with tall, buttoned collars that made them look like birds.
“Adel,” said Kamilah, “meet Jonman and Robman.”
Jonman looked like he could have been Robman’s father, but Adel knew better than to draw any conclusions from that. On some worlds, he knew, physiological camouflage was common practice.
Jonman gazed right through Adel. “I can see that he knows nothing about the problem.” He seemed detached, as if he were playing chess in his head.
Kamilah gave him a sharp glance but said nothing. Robman stepped forward and extended his forefinger in greeting. Adel gave it a polite touch.
“This is our rookie, then?” said Robman. “Do you play tikra, Adel?”
—who’s a rookie?—buzzed minus.
—we are—
Since Adel didn’t know what tikra was, he assumed that he didn’t play it. “Not really,” he said.
“He’s from one of the farm worlds,” said Kamilah
“Oh, a rustic.” Robman cocked his head to one side, as if Adel might make sense to him if viewed from a different angle. “Do they have gulpers where you come from? Cows?” Seeing the blank look on Adel’s face, he pressed on. “Maybe frell?”
“Blue frell, yes.”
—keep talking—plus buzzed—make an impression—
Adel lunged into conversation. “My uncle Durwin makes summer sausage from frell loin. He built his own smoke house.”
Robman frowned.
“It’s very good.” Adel had no idea where he was going with this bit of family history. “The sausages, I mean. He’s a butcher.”
—and we’re an idiot—
“He’s from one of the farm worlds,” said Jonman, as if he were catching up with their chitchat on a time delay.
“Yes,” said Robman. “He makes sausages.”
Jonman nodded as if this explained everything about Adel. “Then don’t be late for dinner,” he advised. “I see there will be garab tonight.” With this, the two men continued downstairs.
Adel glanced at Kamilah, hoping she might offer some insight into Robman and Jonman. Her eyes were hooded. “I wouldn’t play anything with them if I were you,” she murmured. “Jonman has a stochastic implant. Not only does he calculate probabilities, but he cheats.”
The top of the Tulip Stairway ended at the midpoint of Dream Street. “Does everything have a name here?” asked Adel.
“Pretty much,” said Kamilah. “It tells you something about how bored the early crews must have been. We’re going right.” The ceiling of Dream Street glowed with a warm light that washed Kamilah’s face with pink. She said the names of bedroom suites as they passed the closed doors. “This is Fluxus. The Doghouse. We have room for twenty pilgrims, twice that if we want to double up.”
The carpet was a sapphire plush that clutched at Adel’s sandals as he shuffled down the hall.
“Chrome over there. That’s where Upwood lived. He’s gone now. You don’t know anything about him, do you?” Her voice was suddenly tight. “Upwood Marcene?”
“No, should I? Is he famous?”
“Not famous, no.” The medallion around her neck showed a frozen lake. “He jumped home last week, which leaves us with only seven, now that you’re here.” She cleared her throat and the odd moment of tension passed. “This is Corazon. Forty Pushups. We haven’t found a terrestrial in ages, so Speedy isn’t as popular as she used to be.”
“You call the threshold Speedy?”
“You’ll see.” Kamilah sighed. “And this is Cella. We might as well see if Sister is receiving.” She pressed her hand to the door and said, “Kamilah here.” She waited.
“What do you want, Kamilah?” said the door, a solid blue slab that featured neither latch nor knob.
“I have the new arrival here.”
“It’s inconvenient.” The door sighed. “But I’m coming.” It vanished and before them stood a tiny creature, barely up to Adel’s waist. She was wearing a hat that looked like a birds nest made of black ribbon with a smoky veil that covered her eyes. Her mouth was thin and severe. All he could see of her almond skin was the dimpled chin and her long elegant neck; the billowing sleeves of her loose black dress swallowed her hands.
“Adel Santos, this is Lihong Rain. She prefers to be called Sister.” Sister might have been a child or she might have been a grandmother. Adel couldn’t tell.
“Safe passage, Adel.” She made no other welcoming gesture.
Adel hesitated, wondering if he should try to initiate contact. But what kind? Offer to touch fingers? Shake hands? Maybe he should catch her up in his arms and dance a two-step.
“Same to you, Sister,” he said and bowed.
“I was praying just now.” He could feel her gaze even though he couldn’t see it. “Are you religious, Brother Adel?” The hair on the back of his neck stood up.