“How?”
“Basically you pilot your ship near enough to the inner singularity of the Thread so that the extreme gravitational force pulls the ship along. The intense distortions of spacetime in those regions produce strange effects, most of which are not completely understood. One of the effects is superluminal travel. But if you get too close to the singularity, you die. Understand?”
“I think so. Nifty.”
Sativa frowned at this word, then shrugged. “The Dominion of Worlds is sometimes called the Beads Along the Thread. The Thread runs through several galaxies —”
“Travel between galaxies? Now there’s a radical concept. You’re talking about huge distances, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “But they are nothing to the Thread. The Thread obliterates space — and time.”
“I like it, I like it. Now, obviously there’s a war going on.”
“Good observation,” she said.
“A rebellion.”
“Of a sort.”
“And the Irregulars are the rebels.”
“They’re criminals.”
“Well, you’re part of the establishment under siege. You would tend to feel that way about them.”
“It isn’t a feeling. They are a pack of cutthroats posing as noble freedom fighters. They have duped everyone who has lent them support.”
“Do they have support?”
“Enormous support. They have their supporters in the legislature itself, some of them in the Upper Chamber.”
“Interesting.”
“Their cause is widely held to be just. I, personally, think they have already won. The Dominion is doomed. It’s only a matter of time. But some of us fight on.”
“To save the Dominion.”
“Yes. Some are still foolish enough to believe in it and in the principles for which is stands.”
“Which are?”
“You want a lecture on government?”
“Not if you don’t want to lecture me,” he said, “though maybe we should talk about more important matters. Like, what do we do now?”
Sativa lifted her shoulders. “I suppose you turn me in for whatever you can bargain out of the Irregulars.”
“Forget that noise. Do we hide in the mine or take to the hills?”
She shrugged again. “It matters little. They will find us no matter what.”
“Then our best bet is the mine,” he said.
“Is it? I suppose. It will simply delay my capture. There is only one way out, really. Please give me my gun.”
“Forget about shooting yourself. I won’t let them take you.”
She looked up at him. “No? Strange.” She made motions to get up.
“Rest a minute,” he said, settling down beside her.
She gave him a long, questioning look. “Why are you helping me?”
He leaned over and kissed her full lips.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I did that. Well, yes, I do know. You’re tremendously attractive.”
“You want me? Then take me. I have no means to resist you.”
“I’d hardly want you under those circumstances.”
“If that is the reason you’re helping me, fine. At least I can understand that.”
“I don’t usually take advantage of women.”
“You like men?”
“Not what I meant.”
“Then take me.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her crotch.
The material of the suit she wore was thinner then he’d expected it to be.
“You know how to get right to the point,” he said.
“We don’t have very much time.”
“Your wound,” he said, running his hand along the bloody tear.
“It will be all right.”
She touched a few spots on the front of the suit and the whole thing opened up with a ripping sound like Velcro. He didn’t see any Velcro. She was naked underneath.
His hand went immediately to the laceration along her side. It was long and ugly, but had just missed doing any real damage. The bleeding had stopped, and the wound was already scabbing over. Then his hand went to her small breasts.
“Yes, take me now, before they rape me.”
“I won’t let them. You’re beautiful, do you know?”
“Some say.”
“Do you have a husband?”
“Yes. He is an artist.”
“I don’t do married women. This is ridiculous.”
“What is ridiculous about it?”
“Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t mean that you’re —”
“Then make love to me.”
“Yes, I will.”
Ten
Underworld
He waited, but did not know for what.
He waited on the banks of a wide river. Above, darkness, with a suggestion of limit, as of a roof. This place might be a vast cavern. Huge rocks lined the river bank, save on the narrow gravel strand where he stood watching the outer darkness for signs of life.
He did not think there was much life here.
The waters of the river were black, gray-black near the river bank, shading to inky-black farther out. The current was slow. Shallow wavelets angled into shore from his right, lapping the gravel with a sound like a dog at its water bowl. The river flowed silently, inexorably. Darkness and silence.
He wondered how he could make anything out at all. There was no source of light. This, he decided, was the realm of darkness visible.
What a striking turn of phrase, he thought.
He also wondered why he sensed a roof to the place. Perhaps it was simply a dark sky. But no; this place was underground. Deep underground. There was a hushed stillness, a quietude that could not be explained otherwise.
He listened to the water suckling at the river bank, feeding on its substance. He stamped the ground. The place on which he stood was real enough. He wasn’t dreaming. He decided to defer trying to answer the question of how he had come to this place. Nor would he have a go at some corollary puzzles: Where was this place? What had he been doing before this?
Who was he?
Who?
No, better to put all that off indefinitely. One could not properly ask questions with so few facts at one’s disposal. It was better to wait, to observe, to gather information. Only then would it be possible to formulate a hypothesis.
No, don’t ask: Wait for what? Observe what? Although there was nothing here but the perceivable absence of light, he was sure something would turn up. Something would appear out of obscurity, and that something would be meaningful.
He looked out across the waters.
Nothing.
He sought out something to sit on and found a suitably flat rock at the edge of the strand. He eased himself down and listened to the water. It said nothing to him. Silence closed in, and he thought he could hear the beating of his heart. This mildly surprised him, because he had somehow got the notion that he had no heart. He considered the matter again and decided that what he heard might have been something else, some deep underground pulse. The throb of machinery. That notion struck him as unlikely. He listened again. Yes, it seemed to be his own heart. Puzzled as to why he had failed to think of it before, he put his left index finger against his right wrist. A pulse! He was alive. His body was real.
But why wouldn’t it be real? No answer to that.
This place struck a chord in him. Something about it stirred him deep inside; yet it smacked of the unreal. This was all supposed to mean something. He knew not what.
Resolving to find out what it all meant, he cast himself deep into thought.
There was something out in the darkness.
First, merely a suggestion, a black shape on black. Then, movement, difficult to detect but growing ever perceptible. Slow, steady movement, like that of a boat on water.
It was a boat. The form took shape out of the shadows. It was a long, narrow boat, an elongated skiff, its sharp prow parting the dark waters. A single figure stood at the stern. Gradually, the figure’s man-shape revealed itself; but the outline was something more than an ordinary man’s. It towered a head and a half taller than workaday mortals, and the arms that grasped the tiller-oar (for the huge wooden beam seemed to be both) were sculpted of magnificent sinews.