Did it matter? Either way, she was a hostage.
She felt trapped. The tension onboard was like a cage, and she longed to break free of it.
Earth was dark beneath her. Beads and blotches and smears of light glittered the globe. Then sunrise came, and the globe turned blue and white.
Blue for the Indian Ocean, which spooled into view. White for the clouds, which hung like shreds of paper over it. Also over the landmass of southern India, half hiding its parched brown interior, and the fringe of green along the Kerala coast. Sri Lanka, a recent powerhouse in the global economy, appeared to be nosing its way toward the mainland, with the intention of taking a bite.
And now the Himalayas, a long, curved fold in the Earth’s pie crust, sprinkled with powdered sugar. The Ganges snaking south. Rishikesh, her birthplace, in the foothills, on the great river’s shore.
She thought of her parents, both of them deceased. Her father, a happy, soft-spoken teacher. Her mother, a successful businesswoman, energetic and ambitious. Gunjita took after her mother. Had headed a lab for the better part of two lifetimes. Had shaped and commanded battalions of scientists. Had created a stronghold of research, which had not only withstood the steady assault on science but had become iconic in the field. A safe, protected place. A haven for free but disciplined thinkers. A refuge for the best and the brightest, where failures, by definition, rarely occurred.
She was on leave, could return at any time. Hard to think of anything to rival it, though she could do without the money part. The funding, the begging, the paperwork, the courtship. It was a constant struggle to survive.
But the life of the mind. Of discovery. What could be better? What exercise could come close to the exercise of logic?
She made a fist of her hand. Opened it, closed it. Hardened her abs, and ran her fingers down the ladder.
There wasn’t much of one. The runs were soft and ill-defined. She’d never had the inclination or the time to make them otherwise. Now she thought, why not? Nothing wrong with definition. Might be nice for a change.
She could take one of the shuttles and escape. Become a gym rat instead of a lab rat, or in addition. Widen the scope of her life. Embrace the physical. Add muscle strength and flexibility to what she already mentally possessed.
She could be an athlete.
A dancer.
A reforester. A firefighter. Plenty of work on Earth for both of those.
A cop.
A tunneler. The trans-Pac tube was always looking for muscle and brawn.
Her father had practiced yoga. She could do that, but seriously this time.
Her very first memory was yoga-related. A harsh, irritating smelclass="underline" smoke, she was told later. Her father had let something burn on the stove. Lost in his head, the story went. Or on his head. Salamba Sirsana. So maybe not that pose.
But there was another smell along with the harsh one, perfumey and sweet. It might have occurred later, or possibly at the same time. The two were interwoven in her mind, indelibly linked: harshness and sweetness. She never asked herself why. But when she got older, she started asking other questions, like what, where, and how.
What made a smell? How was smell recognized? What did the brain do with it, and how did it decide which smells to funnel where, which to network, and which to disregard? Was there truly such a thing as odorless? A human being had six million smell receptors, compared to a dog’s two hundred and twenty mil. Would we be better off with a few more? A few less? Was there really a difference between women and men in smelling ability, and if so, how could this be exploited?
So much to learn. Such a core sensation. So primitive, and resistant to time’s corrosive effect.
She would never forget her father’s smell. He was the family cook. His fingertips were stained with turmeric and cumin. But stronger than that smell, more deeply ingrained in her, was the scent of his oiled hair, which made her forever partial to roses.
When it came to smell, everybody had a story.
But not everybody cared to unravel the story as much as Gunjita did. She had helped develop the OE vaccine, was at the forefront of OSN transplantation. There’d be no Watchdog Council without her, no ORA. No HUBIES, either.
She’d blamed Dash at first. Then herself, for training and mentoring him. Reasonable targets, but ridiculous. She might as well have blamed the Swiss for Swiss cheese. Or Albert, for the explosion.
He was a scientist, same as her. He took what he learned and ran with it. Not only that, he responded to a call. A loyal citizen of Earth. What better justification?
If only they looked different. Stranger, more alien, less human. If only they didn’t resemble young children so much.
How did he wrap his head around that?
She was glad that he’d come, despite herself. Of course it was awkward, but they were adults. They’d get past it. He was good for Cav, which meant good for her. Maybe he could talk him out of his madness.
She checked the time. The moment of truth was approaching. Mentally, she’d been preparing herself. She was looking forward to doing without her helmet and cumbersome suit. Had to be grateful to them for that. Gratitude was better than much of what she felt. It would be good to put a face on her nightmare at last.
A HUBIE was far superior to a canary: more sensitive, more reliable, more specific to humans. More humane to canaries, too, or would have been if floater panic hadn’t driven canaries to the brink of extinction. With more smell receptors than a dog, more smell genes than an elephant, a HUBIE responded to airborne toxins in one of two ways: swiftly, in the case of toxins originating from nonorganic material; marginally less swiftly in the case of toxins originating from organic material, such as living-or recently living things. Death in minutes as compared to hours, occasionally a full day. A bell-shaped curve.
They’d been functional and in place for nearly a full day.
Cav was champing at the bit.
“Let’s do this right,” Dash cautioned.
“We’re ten minutes shy. I say twenty-three hours, fifty minutes is enough. Help me out here, Gunjita.”
“I’m with Dash.”
“Dash’s being nitpicky.”
“Dash’s acting like a grown-up. He wouldn’t have to, if you weren’t being such a child.”
“You’re despots. Both of you.”
“Poor baby. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Repeat these words silently to yourself: time is an illusion. Time does not exist.”
“Eight,” said Dash. “Now less.”
Cav was the first one in. Gunjita followed him, with Dash taking up the rear. The three HUBIES were spaced equidistantly in a triangle around the asteroid and the Ooi, harnessed to the floor to keep them from drifting.
Pop-dolls, some people called them. Raggedy-Anns.
Cav went to each in turn, bowed his head, clasped his hands, and mouthed a prayer. To Gunjita, an empty gesture. To Dash, melodramatic and purposeless. But Cav was Cav.
The HUBIES, naturally, paid no attention. Their eyes protruded from their sockets, and appeared frozen in place: they looked too big for their faces, which looked too big for their heads. Silky brown hair fell over their narrow foreheads and partially hid the awful backward anencephalic slope of their skulls. Their noses were fleshy and free-moving, the nostrils hooded by a short, tubular fold of skin. Their lips were pink as peonies. Their arms dangled lifelessly by their sides. Their legs, also lifeless. They looked, on the whole, like bizarre, inflatable dolls.
Gunjita approached the nearest one. Her heart was hammering in her chest. It didn’t appear to notice her at first. A HUBIE had eyes but nowhere to put sight, no visual cortex, and was effectively blind. Had nowhere to put sound, either. But its nose was all-seeing, all-knowing, and was quick to respond.