I see them and know I’m one. Then grains of black appear on the towers, darkening them. Black dust tars my death’s tin nation like cinders from nowhere. The blackness spreads and a voice like every voice combined wishes me the gift of peace for my souls and it all begins, on two tracks.
I am born. I grow. I die.
Yet Virgil Grissom Kinney lives on.
With Jordan Baker inside.
And we become as one.
And return.
Chapter Fifteen The God in the Machine
He opened his eyes and observed the robot for a few moments, a tranquil expression on his face.
“Computer. This is Virgil Baker. Please release both tovar Trine and me. I would like to meet whoever built this crazy roller coaster.”
“The robot will remain at your side to prevent any aberrant behavior on your part toward Delia Trine or the People.”
“Do what you will. It’s unnecessary, but I see how you’d expect me still to be insane.”
“You are not, now?”
“I told you. I am Virgil Baker.” The robot unstrapped his arms. Massaging his wrists, he said, “Our psyches have fully integrated thanks to
the improved manner in which the People’s Transfer works. Didn’t you notice anything different?”
“No,” the computer said. “As I informed one of you, I have succeeded in making my neural net insensitive to such effects.”
The robot finished unstrapping him, and he pushed toward Delia. “You felt it, Delia, didn’t you? Something different? Something good and liberating?”
“Stay back!” she cried. “I did. Maybe. You said you’d kill me, though, and if Jord is still there in there, awake, scheming.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dee. I saw it all. Death isn’t the end even if we go all the way. It’s actually a trivial waypoint in our development. You saw that. The marker of death should not be the tombstone, but the milestone.”
“Stay away!” The robot had finished untying her and she kicked backward. “I know what I went through, and I know what it means, and we obviously didn’t see the same thing. I somehow lost the memory of the first clone sometime after I was put into the second. I was alone out there. Scared.”
“You shouldn’t have been.”
“Get back, Jord!”
She maneuvered between the robot and Virgil Baker. The robot blocked the computer’s view of the scene, she blocked the robot’s. Using that hidden instant, she grabbed a scalpel and slashed at his throat. At the crooks of his arms. Under his groin. He stared uncomprehendingly at her through the roiling lifeblood that whorled around him like a tornado.
“Virgil!” she screamed, watching his life pulse away in quivering droplets. “Forgive—!” She laid the scalpel to her own carotid artery.
Spattered by her blood, the robot closed in to stun her with an electrical jolt, then carried the two bodies to the medical bay. It followed the silent commands of the computer, lowering the draining corpses into the boxdoc and actuating the RNA leeching process. The grinding disc descended.
Delia clutched at her head.
“Ooh.” She floated in a sleeping quarters decorated completely in light shades of blue. The air smelled of horses, she thought, and summer morning dew. Everything seemed slightly out of kilter. The room, spare and functional, appeared to turn in slow, dizzying quarter circles that
stopped with unnerving suddenness and then repeated. Sounds coming through the walls seemed to rise and fall with her breathing. The taste of fresh wintergreen tingled in her mouth. The colors and smells and tastes, she knew, were snatches of memory from her childhood, idealized and concentrated by the filters of nostalgia.
She tried to reach for a handhold, but she had been purposely suspended in the center of the chamber, out of reach of anything to grasp or kick. With the slow effort of hand movements and exhalations, she was able gradually to propel toward a bulkhead. Her head ached from the effort. Unsteady fingers punched the computer pager. “This is Trine. Where the hell am I?”
“You are in Ring One, Level Two, Section Six O’Clock. Please proceed to Prow Four Center to meet the People.”
“What people?”
“The People of the Sphere, whom we have led to Earth. I think you will find them most interesting.”
Delia rubbed the itchy bump on her skull. “Earth?” Her eyes brightened. “We’re back?”
“In a manner of speaking. Please proceed to the chart room.”
She stood in front of the hatch for a moment before opening it. Why, she thought, did she feel as if there was a constant undercurrent of chatter going on? Is it the same schizophrenic roar described by. by. ? She frowned, trying to remember something about a blond man with green eyes. Something about angels, and poor, dead Jord.
She shook her head wearily and opened the hatch.
At the far end of the room, the surface of Earth moved across the viewing port. She recognized Africa, though something appeared to be dreadfully wrong with the continent. A slash through it marked a new ocean, and the northern edge of the continent was rimmed with sheets of ice. She wondered if there could possibly have been that much damage during the Earth-Belt war. Then her eyes focused on the two dozen wraiths within the room.
They floated, impassively scrutinizing her with black dot eyes that could have been painted on their bulbous heads. They looked like bleached octopii trailing gowns instead of tentacles.
Death Angel meets Nightsheet, and I get to watch.
She took a startled breath of air and sneezed. The musky smell seemed thick enough to grasp. Several of the creatures hissed and shot backward. A few emitted a high pitched, soft giggling noise. All of them had raised their hands to cover the ear holes on the sides of their heads.
One smaller ghost broke away from the group and jetted forward. It zipped back and forth across the room, arms bent at an angle and pumping up and down. It twirled about, stopping, starting, spinning, and shaking like an enchanted handkerchief. In the center of the room it halted, bent at the middle, then looked up at Delia and opened its toothless mouth in a broad crescent smile.
Delia laughed and clapped her hands. The diminutive creature’s smile vanished; it made an embarrassed flatulent noise and shot toward the overhead, hitting it with the sound of wet clothes slapping. It turned and drifted deckward, cradling its soft head in its hands. The other beings bent over double, the air filled with gentle, hysterical giggles. It looked back and almost turned transparent.
“Delia,” the computer whispered. “Please avoid any further sudden motion or loud noises. The People have unusually sensitive hearing. The world they come from is a Dyson shell completely enclosing a dying star. They are used to very low light. And they have not lived under gravity for hundreds of millions of years.”
“I’ll be careful,” she whispered back. “What should I do next?”
“Do you feel comfortable around them?”
She smiled. “Well, of course. They’re sweet.”
Sweet. I hope she doesn’t start using baby talk.
“Good,” the computer urged. “Move slowly toward them.”
“It’s just that it stinks in here.”
“It is their means of zero-gee locomotion, similar to squids.”
“Squids don’t smell up the air.” She floated forward, using the railing near the star chart console. The small one fluttered away and ducked behind the crowd. A few thin filaments clung to Delia’s face.
“What’s this?” she whispered, brushing the stuff out of the way.
“Metabolism by-products. Excreta. Another reason not to scare them.”
She wrinkled her nose and kept moving. One of the wraiths— the fattest one—moved toward her, too.
“Remember, Delia, they cannot hurt you. They are very fragile, and you are more likely to injure them. Be careful.”