To DJ and me she relays directly that there’s something complicated about that process—something that scares her. Keepers are involved, and there’s one major, nasty, foul impediment, accompanied by mental expletives of sharp bones in the throat and patches of fresh guano, applied to the only way forward, and to a gate that is also a trap—a puzzle gate. If we solve the puzzle, we might be able to get the hell out of here, wherever we are.
And if we don’t, the obscenity will kill us.
I was under the apparently false impression that we left Titan’s orbit as soon as we could, to avoid being obliterated by Box and the others sent after us—but Bird Girl seems to think we’re still close to the big orange moon.
No questions allowed. Not that DJ or I try… She’s worried and tired. The cage is it for us for the time being, but it could be worse—has been worse. Inside the sphere we can be fed, looked after, kept clean… and closely watched. Mats will be provided. Maybe we can wrap ourselves up and bounce around like Ping-Pong balls in a church raffle. I suppose to keep us clean they’ll hose us down, right? No comment. We can exercise, Bird Girl suggests. Get stronger. She isn’t sure how we’ll do that, but her commanders want us strong and healthy. I get the impression the commanders are the ones wearing armor. Her relation to them is less clear—she’s not exactly inferior in either station or rank. Civilian? Consultant?
Unwilling volunteer?
She makes clear that she wants one of us in particular to stay healthy. Again I see a naked Antag, oppressed and unkempt, but I don’t recognize the human she shows me, except that it could be one of our females. Maybe a Russian? We all look alike to the Antags.
One by one, we’re guided through a hatch into the cage. Ulyanova doesn’t put up a fuss. Yagodovskaya, the efreitor—Verushka or Vera—seems to have a calming influence. The bats toss mats through the hatch, then swing it shut with a clang and click a double-stranded lock around the latch. Something to jiggle with later, to see if escape is possible.
The lights around the court dim, as if we’re in a nighttime zoo. We can no longer see more than a meter beyond the mesh—can’t see Antags large or small, though now and then I hear the bats nicker. Maybe most have left, gone to work, getting ready to finally go home—or to fight again. Fight their own kind. If they fail here, I suspect suicide missions are the next option. And they’ll take us out to die right beside them.
At least we’re not cramped. The big ball could hold dozens more. We take this time to examine one another in more detail. Tak has corpsman training, as does Jacobi. All who came out of the two surviving Oscars are here—all except Mushran. Nobody remembers seeing him after the centipede cabins were split open.
DJ moves closer to me, along with Joe and Jacobi, and we grip hands in a loose star-knot, like a parachute team. Joe pulls in Jacobi and Bilyk. Ishikawa and Tak join next and draw Ishida in. Yagodovskaya—Vera—grabs Ulyanova and they join us. Borden and Kumar and Litvinov cap our formation. We seem to want to cling like monkeys, anticipating more misery.
“We need to show some fight,” Joe says, keeping a wary eye on the starshina. “We’ve been through a meat grinder. We need to show them they can’t get away with treating us like shit.”
“When will they feed us?” Jacobi asks.
HAMSTER LIFE
Our first sleep in the cage is deep.
I come out of my void to see Jacobi marshal her team and lead them in limbering up—another diagnostic, I think, making sure they can still fight, or at least move together in a coordinated fashion. Ishida works the hardest, complains the least. Litvinov gathers up his three Russians and does the same.
Kumar seems content to drift to a far side of the cage, where I imagine he’s making plans. That’s what Wait Staff do, all they’re good for, right? Without Mushran, can he possibly carry on?
Joe rolls and floats up beside me, asks, “I wonder if the Antags will make us join their fight.”
“They’re doing everything they can to avoid a fight,” I say.
DJ flaps by, ineffective at swimming or flying or whatever he’s doing, and chimes in. “They’re really unhappy. They’ve spent their whole lives training to push us off Mars and get ready to invade Earth. And now—they’re giving up and planning to get the hell out.”
“Fuck ’em all,” Jacobi says as she bounces along the bottom of the cage.
“Just passing it along,” DJ says and slides against the mesh without benefit of a mat. He grips the thick wire with his fingers and hangs on. “Some fucking hamster ball, ain’t it?”
I lie back beside him, stretch out my arms, and stare toward the center of the cage. DJ joins Kumar and some of the others in pretending to sleep. Being hooked in by the tea isn’t easy on either of us. I hope it doesn’t leave mental scars to match the ones from our lobster suits.
There’s now a faint suggestion of g-force. We seem to be accelerating. What can this ship do? What kind of maneuvering? How fast, with what kind of power?
I can’t drift off. I let go of the mesh. DJ follows. Borden and DJ and I join in another daisy, gripping hands and pulling our heads almost together. Our feet impact softly against the cage.
Jacobi swings by and grabs a hand from Borden.
“What do you know about this ship?” Borden asks DJ and me.
“Not much,” I say. “Bird Girl’s not very consistent at keeping us informed.” I tell them about the apparent connection between our Gurus and their Keepers.
“What the hell are Keepers?”
“Their Gurus,” DJ concurs.
“This whole war was arranged and coached on both teams?” Jacobi says.
“We knew that,” Borden says.
This sobers them, but in fact nobody seems very surprised. “Awkward communication could be to our advantage,” I say. “As the weak partners in this dance, DJ and I should listen close and hope for more embarrassing revelations.”
Borden looks at us with some surprise. “Strategic thinking?” she asks. I smile, showing my teeth.
Now Joe is with us. Not many of us can sleep. “Vinnie always thinks strategically,” he says.
“Whatever’s out there scares the hell out of the Antags,” I say. “They need to take control, but they don’t know how. And it all seems to involve Keepers. Gurus. Whatever.”
“Wonder if that explains where Mushran is?” Borden asks. That hadn’t occurred to me, but the idea gains no traction in ignorance.
“Where are they planning to go?” Jacobi asks.
“No idea,” I say.
“There’s something they call Sun-Planet,” DJ says, and I give him a severe look. He’s getting ahead of what I’m comfortable speculating on.
“What the hell is Sun-Planet?” Borden asks.
“Still collating,” I say.
“It’s way out there,” DJ says. “Could be Planet X.”
Joe and Borden frown.
“Planet X,” he says, about to launch into that story, but they raise their hands and he cuts himself off.
Do I truly understand the import of that basketball-on-felt diagram Bird Girl fed me earlier? She doesn’t seem to remember Sun-Planet in any detail. She’s got textbook knowledge, nothing sensual or immediate. I wonder if she’s ever been there.