“They don’t let books run the library, huh?”
I refresh or something every little while, and I’m allowed a kind of exercise—meeting up with similar records—and that feels good, but… Oh, crap. I’m in the cage again. Time out. No more for now.
I finally manage to crack my eyelids. Blurry, Joe and DJ hang over me.
“You okay?” Joe asks. “We couldn’t wake you.”
DJ smiles. “He’s okay,” he says.
Ship attachment noises ring out around us.
“We’re transferring,” Joe says.
“What’s all this about turning glass and old records?” I ask DJ.
DJ makes his “it hurts to think” face. “It’s pretty huge,” he says. “I don’t know how huge. When I hook in through one of the ones who turned glass, I just…” Again the pained expression. He shakes his head. “Let’s go over that later,” he says.
“No, now,” I say.
The ship lurches. Our Skyrines and the Russians grab couches and stanchions. Jacobi flows smoothly past, followed by Ishida. Borden is waiting in the alcove opposite, beside the stowed pod. Crew Chief follows the last of our group. “We’ve docked,” he says. “You got three minutes. I want you out of here as fast as possible. I will not stay connected to Spook for any longer than I have to.”
“Got it,” I say, then focus back on DJ. Borden listens closely.
“The tea hooks us in,” DJ says. “Nobody’s figured out how. But we’re guests. We don’t yet have full privileges.”
“Coyle said the same thing,” I say.
“Sir, that’s not Captain Coyle,” DJ says. “Everyone who turns glass shows up sooner or later. I don’t know if we can trust anything they say, because the records have their own motives. They need to help us to stay flexible. They need to be useful to a potential user.”
Joe shows his puzzle face.
“I can see the bugs, some of their history, their living back then, because the records want that,” DJ says softly. “But I don’t know what’s true and what’s propaganda—understand? The records cover everything. That’s all I got.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But where are they? In the glass?”
DJ spreads his hands, nods, points his nose left, then right. “Kind of like that,” he says.
I pull up from the couch. “Maybe Walker Harris knows,” I say.
“Who’s he?” DJ says.
“Came to visit me at Madigan. Could be a Guru.”
“Amazing!” DJ says, totally credulous. “What do they look like?”
“A guy. Let’s go,” I say.
It’s DJ’s turn to stall. “Did you dream about Silver Surfer and Batman?” he asks.
We both twitch.
“Yeah, just now,” I say.
“I’ve dreamed that so many times,” DJ says. “Bat and Surf keep arguing, never resolve anything. Is that Coyle?”
“I think so.”
“Well, she doesn’t like me as much as you, but she’s stuck with us, right?”
“I heard it different,” I say.
“Ice Moon Tea, the records, whatever you want to call it, makes Coyle repeat that dream. I wonder she doesn’t get bored.”
“She’s definitely irritated,” I say. “That sounds like emotion, doesn’t it?”
DJ thinks this over. “Yeah,” he says. “But maybe that was her ground state when she was alive.”
“We have to leave,” Borden says, listening, taking notes in her head. I’m still undecided about Borden but this part I definitely do not like.
“Come on!” Crew Chief shouts, waving his arm. There’s a frantic note in his voice. Spook ship actually frightens him. “We’ve only got a few minutes!”
We pass up the aisle and through the hatch into the accordion. Windows in the accordion’s long stretch show us a shiny, curvy, intricate white framework wrapped around long clusters of glowing spheres like Japanese paper lanterns—and surrounding everything, those shrouds, the bright outer skirts, pleated panels rippling like silk in a slow breeze. Doesn’t look practical, barely looks real.
Kumar and Mushran and Litvinov meet us on the other side. “We get privilege of Star Gown,” Litvinov says. Russian name for Spook. “Three weeks to Titan—”
“Excellent!” Kumar says.
“Not so excellent. Departing Earth, Star Gown was attacked,” Litvinov says. “Three weeks may be nine weeks, or months, if she is not at full speed. There is damage to seeds, to weapons, and damage to two drives.”
Kumar looks perturbed. With a shake of his head, as if dismissing this doubtful news, he moves ahead to the hatch opening into the bigger ship. All of us compete to twist and find a better viewing angle.
Jacobi shoves her hand out. “Shit—there, and there,” she says. We see gray streaking the shrouds and, farther aft, curled and torn struts and vanes. Forward, on a long, twisted boom that once separated cargo from forward living quarters, shattered spheres bunch like smashed eggs in a carton. “Looks bad,” Jacobi says.
We pull ourselves along ropes that suddenly acquire wills of their own, stiffening and then coiling, rudely tugging the last of the lander’s passengers into the Spook’s shadowy gray interior. I swing up beside Borden as we move into a pitch-black chamber. Sounds big in here. Long echoes from the squeak and whistle and snap of the ropes. Then the lights come on, and everything turns White. Even harder to see how big the space is. Distant bays, cubes, trestles hung with rounded transporters. Spook is big.
“Can this ship still get us out there?” I ask Borden.
She squints at all the whiteness. Everything here is spotless and clean, despite the outer damage. “We’re here. The settlers have made it to their frames. Everybody on the landers is safe.”
“I’m turning you over to CWO Mueller,” the lander’s crew chief says behind us. We had forgotten he was still there. He makes a face at what he’s seen. “Then I’m taking off.”
“Mueller isn’t here yet,” Borden mutters.
“She will be.” Crew Chief makes another face, as if he’s glad to avoid the encounter, then tosses a quick salute, takes the rope, and grapples back to the hatch. The hatch hisses and snicks shut. Pressure pokes our ears—more echoing clangs and far-off, metallic scraping that seem to come from all around. The landers that delivered us are away. We’re on our own.
Kumar hands his way back, sweating profusely. “Pilots say the ship is capable,” he tells us, “but threats gather, and to reach full speed this close to Mars will be difficult.”
Borden asks, “Where in hell is Mueller?”
The ropes slack and we transfer to grips along a series of parallel rails. We line up between the rails like a line of expectant gymnasts.
“Here she is,” Borden says.
The Spook’s crew chief swings down from a hatch overhead, arms and legs spread like a swimmer at the end of a deep dive, just before surfacing. She’s forty-something with a Persian-cat face and looks like a former beauty queen who’s spent too many years under the Texas sun—pretty in a rough fashion but hard. She wears a slender white crown that curls around her ears and seems to be listening to someone or something unpleasant. With a brisk nod, she removes the crown, lifts her pointed chin, and focuses her full attention on us.
“I’m CWO 7 Mueller,” she says. “Beulah Mueller. Grunts call me Bueller. I’m go bitch on Lady of Yue, so listen up!”
She’s a formidable presence. We listen.
“We have an incoming Box that doesn’t want us to leave, and a squadron of disgruntled corvettes are about one-twenty K from us. They’ve been chasing us since NEO, they caught us once halfway to Mars—causing the damage you’ve just seen. We probably can’t afford another run-in.”