“Shall we begin?” Fresco asked.
We jacked up, Roacher directly into the ship, Raebuck into Roacher, Fresco to me, me into the ship.
“Simulation,” I said.
Raebuck keyed in the first code and the vast echoing space that was the Great Navigation Hall came alive with pulsing light: a representation of heaven all about us, the lines of force, the spinaround nodes, the stars, the planets. We moved unhinderedly in free fall, drifting as casually as angels. We could easily have believed we were starwalking.
The simulacrum of the ship was a bright arrow of fierce light just below us and to the left. Ahead, throbbing like a nest of twining angry serpents, was the globe that represented the Lasciate Ogni Speranza spinaround point, tightly-wound dull gray cables shot through with strands of fierce scarlet.
“Enter approach mode,” I said. “Activate receptors. Begin threshold equalization. Begin momentum comparison. Prepare for acceleration uptick. Check angular velocity. Begin spin consolidation. Enter displacement select. Extend mast. Prepare for acquisition receptivity.”
At each command the proper man touched a control key or pressed a directive panel or simply sent an impulse shooting through the jack hookup by which he was connected, directly or indirectly, to the mind of the ship. Out of courtesy to me, they waited until the commands were given, but the speed with which they obeyed told me that their minds were already in motion even as I spoke.
“It’s really exciting, isn’t it?” Vox said suddenly.
“For God’s sake, Vox! What are you trying to do?”
For all I knew, the others had heard her outburst as clearly as though it had come across a loudspeaker.
“I mean,” she went on, “I never imagined it was anything like this. I can feel the whole—”
I shot her a sharp, anguished order to keep quiet. Her surfacing like this, after my warning to her, was a lunatic act. In the silence that followed I felt a kind of inner reverberation, a sulky twanging of displeasure coming from her. But I had no time to worry about Vox’s moods now.
Arcing patterns of displacement power went ricocheting through the Great Navigation Hall as our mast came forth—not the underpinning for a set of sails, as it would be on a vessel that plied planetary seas, but rather a giant antenna to link us to the spinaround point ahead—and the ship and the spinaround point reached toward one another like grappling many-armed wrestlers. Hot streaks of crimson and emerald and gold and amethyst speared the air, vaulting and rebounding. The spinaround point, activated now and trembling between energy states, was enfolding us in its million tentacles, capturing us, making ready to whirl on its axis and hurl us swiftly onward toward the next way-station in our journey across heaven.
“Acquisition,” Raebuck announced.
“Proceed to capture acceptance,” I said.
“Acceptance,” said Raebuck.
“Directional mode,” I said. “Dimensional grid eleven.”
“Dimensional grid eleven,” Fresco repeated.
The whole hall seemed on fire now.
“Wonderful,” Vox murmured. “So beautiful—”
“Vox!”
“Request spin authorization,” said Fresco.
“Spin authorization granted,” I said. “Grid eleven.”
“Grid eleven,” Fresco said again. “Spin achieved.”
A tremor went rippling through me—and through Fresco, through Raebuck, through Roacher. It was the ship, in the persona of 49 Henry Henry, completing the acquisition process. We had been captured by Lasciate Ogni Speranza, we had undergone velocity absorption and redirection, we had had new spin imparted to us, and we had been sent soaring off through heaven toward our upcoming port of call. I heard Vox sobbing within me, not a sob of despair but one of ecstasy, of fulfillment.
We all unjacked. Raebuck, that dour man, managed a little smile as he turned to me.
“Nicely done, Captain,” he said.
“Yes,” said Fresco. “Very nice. You’re a quick learner.”
I saw Roacher studying me with those little shining eyes of his. Go on, you bastard, I thought. You give me a compliment too now, if you know how.
But all he did was stare. I shrugged and turned away. What Roacher thought or said made little difference to me, I told myself.
As we left the Great Navigation Hall in our separate directions Fresco fell in alongside me. Without a word we trudged together toward the transit trackers that were waiting for us. Just as I was about to board mine he—or was it she?—said softly, “Captain?”
“What is it, Fresco?”
Fresco leaned close. Soft sly eyes, tricksy little smile; and yet I felt some warmth coming from the navigator.
“It’s a very dangerous game, Captain.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” Fresco said. “No use pretending. We were jacked together in there. I felt things. I know.”
There was nothing I could say, so I said nothing.
After a moment Fresco said, “I like you. I won’t harm you. But Roacher knows too. I don’t know if he knew before, but he certainly knows now. If I were you, I’d find that very troublesome, Captain. Just a word to the wise. All right?”
16.
Only a fool would have remained on such a course as I had been following. Vox saw the risks as well as I. There was no hiding anything from anyone any longer; if Roacher knew, then Bulgar knew, and soon it would be all over the ship. No question, either, but that 49 Henry Henry knew. In the intimacies of our navigation-hall contact, Vox must have been as apparent to them as a red scarf around my forehead.
There was no point in taking her to task for revealing her presence within me like that during acquisition. What was done was done. At first it had seemed impossible to understand why she had done such a thing; but then it became all too easy to comprehend. It was the same sort of unpredictable, unexamined, impulsive behavior that had led her to go barging into a suspended passenger’s mind and cause his death. She was simply not one who paused to think before acting. That kind of behavior has always been bewildering to me. She was my opposite as well as my double. And yet had I not done a Vox-like thing myself, taking her into me, when she appealed to me for sanctuary, without stopping at all to consider the consequences?
“Where can I go?” she asked, desperate. “If I move around the ship freely again they’ll track me and close me off. And then they’ll eradicate me. They’ll—”
“Easy,” I said. “Don’t panic. I’ll hide you where they won’t find you.”
“Inside some passenger?”
“We can’t try that again. There’s no way to prepare the passenger for what’s happening to him, and he’ll panic. No. I’ll put you in one of the annexes. Or maybe one of the virtualities.”
“The what?”
“The additional cargo area. The subspace extensions that surround the ship.”
She gasped. “Those aren’t even real! I was in them, when I was traveling around the ship. Those are just clusters of probability waves!”
“You’ll be safe there,” I said.
“I’m afraid. It’s bad enough that I’m not real any more. But to be stored in a place that isn’t real either—”
“You’re as real as I am. And the outstructures are just as real as the rest of the ship. It’s a different quality of reality, that’s all. Nothing bad will happen to you out there. You’ve told me yourself that you’ve already been in them, right? And got out again without any problems. They won’t be able to detect you there, Vox. But I tell you this, that if you stay in me, or anywhere else in the main part of the ship, they’ll track you down and find you and eradicate you. And probably eradicate me right along with you.”