The Forever Watch (34 page)

Some of the corridors are narrow and rounded, and some are large, empty halls in hexagonal or octagonal shape, in cross section fifty meters across.

The first day, we go far enough that we are out of the reach of the simple automated telekinetic emitters that produce the gravity on the ship. Or rather, where we are, they are kept off to conserve power. Those unidirectional force generators are built all throughout the ship's structure.

We float tethered together, trying to avoid accidents. Having the strongest
touch
, I am in the lead, pulling us along telekinetically, followed by Barrens, then Susan, Mann, and Bullet. The other TK with us, Tommy, is at the rear, keeping watch on everyone, nudging people back in line with flickers of blue energy. Whenever their motions and gyrations or accidental contacts with the wall or floor or ceiling (not that it matters which is which) pushes them away, clumsily, helplessly spinning, we have to stop so that Tommy and I can use our talents to stabilize everyone and get us back in “marching” order.

Six beads on a string, carried along on telekinetic currents.

On the walls of some of the large corridors, we see more of the reliefs I saw while I flew across the zero-g gap in the great power conduit. More of the odd, angular character set. Images of the Builders. The surfaces have a worn-down, blurry look, as though someone tried to remove them. Here, the plastech has been processed in some manner I am unfamiliar with—it feels incredibly hard, resistant to telekinetic manipulation.

Occasionally, we face blast doors that do not match the smooth, ancient walls. Half a meter thick, they have been opened by the lead group. Among the little treasures Archie dug up during the months I was not paying attention are numerous passwords for locks scattered throughout the ship. A few people in each cell act as key-bearers, carrying thousands of passwords for the doors we have yet to find. So far, every obstacle has yielded to this motley collection of digital keys carried in their heads.

We take breaks to rub our cold, numb fingers. We drink and eat.

We know night falls only by our internal chronometers and the sensation of fatigue. Just the sameness as we proceed deeper into the dark tunnels is tiring. It might feel more like a camping trip or an adventure if we could light a fire to warm ourselves by, cook something hot to eat, while those with decent voices sang something encouraging. Instead we try to stay quiet and minimize light and sound.

After the rich food Bullet was preparing for everyone each day, the bland, filling ration bars of pressed grain and dried fruit pulp are like cardboard.

Tommy and Mann finger their crossbows nervously as they play their lights back and forth, sweeping the darkness. Everyone is thinking of maintenance worker Jackson, and his encounter with a beast that ate men.

Think I should give them a pep talk?

Better save it, Leon. It's only the first day.

One more exertion of
touch
zips me into a sleeping bag. My head aches from the day of steady TK exertion without the grid's power to draw on. Sleep comes quickly.

Morning begins with Barrens nudging us out of our uncomfortable slumber, everyone curled up, pasted to one wall or another with adhesive tags. We eat another meal of dried fruit and nuts and jerky and drink lots of water, pack up our things, and continue on. It ought to be effortless for everyone but Tommy and me, but it is tiring just the same, I suppose, to be moved around like so much luggage.

It feels like when I was in prison. The lack of environmental cues for the passage of time. The constant discomfort. The lousy food.

But, no, not really. I just need to reach out, and even if it is through thick, ungainly gloves, I can hold Barrens's hand and be comforted.

It is worse for the others. They are uneasy, most speak in monosyllables when they speak at all, and only when necessary. The dank air smells ancient. Nerves are tight.

They've shared too many of the traumatic memories absorbed by Bullet's psychometry.

On the third day, we go “up” when we should have gone “right” at a five-way intersection, and it takes a whole day before we realize that we are lost and backtrack to where we were. We reach the rendezvous point a day late. The other group left a message for us taped to the floor and went ahead.

Only Bullet keeps up an ongoing conversation with me. Just whispers. But he is wide-eyed and smiling and not at all intimidated. Each time we find a set of carvings, his excitement is renewed.

“Just don't touch them, Bullet. Not even with your gloves on. I don't want to think what might happen if your talent flares up unpredictably. You might get a thousand-year-old alien vision or something and be knocked out for a day.”

His hands jerk back. “Oh, yeah. Good point. What do you think these writings are though, Miss Dempsey?”

“I don't know. On old Earth, in ancient times, people that built monuments sometimes carved their names where nobody could see. Maybe it's like that.”

“You think so? I like the sound of that. Maybe their names are here, somewhere.”

If we share that much psychology with the aliens at all. Their minds could be so different that we would have no common reference frame of communication even if we could translate the language. But I think of that memory Barrens and I saw, the way the one Builder seemed to be smiling. It's comforting to imagine that they were not completely different from us.

What we have found of them is wondrous. The art on the walls, and it is art, is beautiful. Strange places, stranger moments.

Sometimes in our heads and sometimes out loud, and sometimes with Barrens joining in, Bullet and I wonder about why ISec erased the Builders from our histories. We could learn so much if teams of anthropologists were finding and studying these treasures hidden throughout the ship.

We find remnants of the campsites of Gomez's group here and there. Discarded food packs. The messy biological excretions are left in far corners—the walls are too hard to alter into hiding our trash, so we are forced to leave, well, leavings. Of ourselves. Right along our route, as we go along, often just a dozen feet down one side passage or another—little bags of trash or urine or feces, glued to the walls.

On the fifth day, we are woken by the floor's vibrating, jarring us—a loud, powerful rumbling.

Barrens lifts a small canister to his face. Lets loose one spray into each eye. Psyn.

He presses his hands and his ear against one of the walls.

“Supply hauler. Big one. We're going the right way—definitely the parallel shaft in the schematics.”

The team had been growing dull, tired by the endless miles of tomblike halls. Just knowing that life is close by, right next to us, is affirmation. Everyone wakes up, is more alert. We push a little harder during the long hour it takes for the train to pass. The ones with the wrist crossbows shake off their stupor and keep their eyes open, scanning the darkness.

Of course, if there were Enforcers out there … Well. They are said to be so skilled, they do not require Implant or amplifier to be lethal. It could be propaganda, in which case we would have plenty of warning before they attack us—they would need to power up the corridor to get access to the grid to fuel their abilities. If it is not propaganda, only the ones who can use Psyn would have much of a chance of opposing them.

I can almost hear you thinking about me being on drugs.

I don't like it, Leon.

Sorry. It's necessary. Wish you'd give it a try. You're such a powerful psi, Hana. If Psyn works for you, you'd be the difference if we got in trouble.

In trouble? Perfect images slide forward in my thoughts, standing, glowing in the dark in an improvised bunker, seeing through Miura's eyes, reaching out with my talent to strike. The words get jammed up in my head. That's not what my gift is for.

His knuckles brush against the narrow strip of flesh bared between my hat and the hood of the heavy thermal jacket. Without a word, without a thought projected from Implant to Implant, he understands me and apologizes, and even if I am afraid of so much, I am grateful for everything that got us here, to this place and moment.

 

 

“Where the hell are they?”

The other group was supposed to wait for us at the last gate before our destination. We have reached it after days of floating along, and they are conspicuously absent.

A number of empty water bottles are floating around, and discard bags are taped down, but that is all. In front of us, the gate looks entirely underwhelming, simple-looking double doors with a faux-wooden finish and brass knobs. It could have been the entrance to the kitchen of a restaurant, or to a meeting room in any office building. The light from our lamps casts eerie shadows about our floating forms.

Tommy scowls, rubbing at the thick blond stubble on his face. “Gomez. Always like that. Show-off. Get in, get out, prepare a propaganda release, send it out before we get back, make like he's the leader of the whole movement.”

Barrens's face is tight. But not with anger. He is troubled. “They should have been out by now. They'd come back the way they came. Gomez wouldn't give up the chance to gloat.”

Murmuring now, among the others.

“Maybe ISec got them?”

“We know they got this far.” Barrens calls Bullet up to the front.

The smallest guy in our company crosses his eyes and bites his lip. Glimmering of blue around him as he maneuvers to the head of the line where we are. When he pushes too far one way or the other, or his vector wobbles, it takes him real effort to straighten out. Tommy or I could easily get him up here more quickly, but it doesn't take much empathy to understand that people want to do what they can on their own.

“Okay. I'm going to give you a half-dose, right?” Barrens says.

Don't look at me like that, Hana. We're real careful. Nobody's addicted. This helps him control the psychometry, makes it less random.

I do not like it, no, not at all.

A puff of lavender mist into his eyes. His face slackens and takes on a soft, dreamy expression.

“Getting anything?”

Bullet reaches out his hands, slides them along the floor. Soft ribbons of power spread out from where he touches—nothing visible, but all of us can sense it.

His voice turns singsong and breathy as he lets out what his senses perceive.

“We should wait, Johnny. We should—”

“Man, come on. It's our chance to be the first!”

“Barrens'll be pissed.”

“You worry too much. Leonard's more easygoing than you think. He's a nice guy. You read too much into that ugly mug he was born with.”

Ten minutes of such dialogue. A little scatological humor too, as more than a few of them had needed to pee or defecate while the two teams' leaders made up their minds.

Tommy is smiling; most have pensive, impatient looks on their faces, lips pursed, brows furrowed. Waiting for the hammer to drop.

“That's it, boss,” Bullet comes back to himself. His eyes are bloodshot. A whole-body twitch goes through him. “They use one of the password codes we've collected, open the door, and go through.”

That settles it for us then. I already knew we were going to proceed.

While Barrens gets everyone together, prepares them, reminds them to be cautious, to keep weapons at the ready, I take hold of Bullet's little wrists.

He has his hands pressed hard to his temples. Nobody seems to care.

He flinches at every sound, and I speak as softly as I can while still being heard over Barrens's pep talk. “What's wrong? Is it the Psyn?”

“It's nothing. It's like this anytime the talent flares up intensely, Psyn or no. Time breaks down. Like everything that's happened before is happening at the same time as now.”

Sensory overstimulation. “Okay,” I whisper soothingly. “You know how to do the ‘empty mind' meditation drill, right? It will help. Breathe with me. Slow. That's it.”

He'll be fine. Come on. Got to move—anyway, we may need him to
look
into the past as we move along, to find out what happened to the others.

“I'm fine,” Bullet says, watching the way we look to each other and then to him. “I can keep going.”

You're right, Leon. I wish you weren't. I'm worried about him. He's absorbed so many memories in the past months, and his talent is not well understood. I don't remember him having such a tough time taking in something, I mean, with the Mincemeat scenes, it was the traumatic emotion, but just now, it's only guys talking, and he looks sick.
Barrens tugs the line, floats closer in front of Bullet, and shines a light in his eyes.

“Really, boss.” Bullet blinks and puts on a ghastly smile.

All right. If he gets much worse, we'll stop for a couple of hours. But for now, we move.

That is as good as we can do. If something is seriously wrong with him, we'd need the Doctor to do a brain scan on him, and Gregory isn't here. The faster we finish this expedition and get back, the better for everyone.

25

Barrens goes through the doors first.

I don't notice at first how thick they are. The exterior panels look like wood, but a solid foot of dense, metallic, armor-quality plastech is sandwiched in the center.

There is power beyond the doors. The air is a rush of welcome warmth. There is simulated gravity. There are bright lights. There is the welcome sensation of feeling complete as my amplifier detects the grid and our high-tech devices are no longer just lifeless hunks of junk.

We are pulled down to the floor, and we right ourselves, standing a little clumsily after days of zero g.

Bullet lands awkwardly on hands and knees and immediately folds up on his side, a fetal ball, a whistling, wheezing keening coming from his lips.