The Greatship (2 page)

It walked.  It counted steps.  It reached two million four hundred thousand and nine steps when humans suddenly appeared in their swift cars.

The invaders settled within a hundred meters of the walker.  With a storm of radio talk and the help of robots, they erected a single unblinking eye and pointed it straight above.  The walker hid where it happened to be, filling a tiny crater.  Unnoticed, it lay motionless as the new telescope was built and tested and linked to the growing warning system.  And then the humans left, but the walker remained inside its safe hole, sprouting an array of increasingly powerful eyes.

The sky might be untrustworthy, but there was beauty to the lie.  The Great Ship was plunging into a galaxy that was increasingly brilliant and complex and dangerous.  More dust and chunks of wayward ice slammed against the hull, and the bombardment would only worsen as the Ship sliced into the thick curling limb of suns.  But the humans answered the dangers with increasingly powerful weapons.  Telescopes watched for what was coming.  Then bolts of coherent light melted the incoming ices.  Ballistic rounds pulverized asteroids.  Sculpted EM fields slowed the tiniest fragments and shepherded them aside.  There was splendor in that endless fight.  Flashes and sparkles constantly surprised the lidless eyes.  Ionized plasmas generated squawks and whistles reaching across the spectrum.  This was an accidental music that grew louder, urgent and carefree.  But no defensive system was unbreakable.  Death threatened every foolish being that stood on the bow.  Each moment might be the last.  Yet the scene deserved fascination and wonder, and the walker had not moved in decades, staring upwards, sprouting antennae and listening while its mind began to believe that this violent magic had a rhythm, an elegant inescapable logic, and that whatever note and whichever color came next could have been foreseen.

That was when the voice began.

At least that was when the walker finally noticed the soft, soft whispers.

Certain mutterings were not part of the sky.  Intuition told the walker that much.  Perhaps the voice rose from the hull, or maybe it came from the chill vacuum.  But more important than its origin was the quiet swift terror that defined its presence—an inarticulate, barely audible murmur that came when unexpected and vanished before any response could be offered.

The first eleven incidents were recorded, but the walker remained silent inside its hiding place.

But the twelfth whisper was too much.  With a radio mouth formed for the occasion, and using the human language learned over the last centuries, the walker asked, “What are you?”  It asked, “What do you want?”  And when nothing answered, it added, “Do not bother me.  Leave me alone.”

By chance or by kindness, the request was honored.

The walker stood and once again wandered the bow.  But the Ship was burrowing into debris belts and comet clouds, and impacts made the hull shiver, and sometimes the horizon was lit up with x-ray plumes.  So it returned to the stern, ready to accept the safety afforded by the Ship’s enormous bulk.  Yet there were more humans than ever, and they were in constant motion, putting an end to the delicious, seemingly infinite emptiness.  Following a twisting, secretive line, the walker journeyed to the nearest engine, and with cautious delight touched the mountainous nozzle at its base.  But machines were everywhere, investigating and repairing, and the human chatter was busy and endless, jabbering about subjects and names and places and times that made no sense at all.

The walker retreated to where the stern and bow met, and for years it moved along that fresh line.  But starships were approaching.  Fierce little rockets and urgent voices matched velocities with the Great Ship.  Dozens of streakships fell toward the hull and vanished without trace.  The walker moved closer to the landing field, and then it hid for a year before moving a little farther and a little farther again.  Eventually it saw two enormous doors pull wide, revealing a gaping hole cut deep into the perfect hull.  The next invaders landed inside the hole.  The walker had never seen a spaceport, never imagined such a thing was necessary or even possible.  Once again, the Great Ship was far more than it pretended to be.  Considering how many passengers might be tucked inside each little ship, it was easy to understand why the hull had grown crowded.  The human animals were falling from the sky, coming here for the honor of living inside their bubble cities on the hull of this lost, unknowable relic.

Over the years, in slow patient stages, the walker crept to the edge of the spaceport.  Then the door pulled wide and with a single glance, its foolishness was revealed:  The Great Ship was more than its armored hull.  What the entity had assumed to be hyperfiber to the core was otherwise.  The port was a vast column of air and light and warm wet bodies moving by every means and for no discernible purpose.  This was animal motion, swift and busy and devoid of any clear purpose.  Humans were just one species among a multitude, and the Ship beneath the hull was pierced with tunnels and doorways and hatches and diamond-windows, and that was just what the briefest glance provided before it flattened out and slowly, cautiously crept away.

The Ship was hollow.

And judging by the evidence, it was inhabited by millions and maybe billions of organic entities.

The unwanted revelations left it shaken.  Years were required to sneak away from the port.  Unseen, it returned to the bow and the beautiful sky, accepting the dangers for the illusion of solitude.  But the ancient craters were being swiftly erased now.  The Ship’s lasers were pummeling any cometary debris that dared come close, and the repair crews were swift and efficient.  The pitted, cracked terrain was vanishing beneath smooth perfection.  The new hyperfiber proved fresh and strong, affording few hiding places even for a wanderer who could hide nearly anywhere.  By necessity, every motion was studied before it was made.  But even then, a nearby robot might notice a presence and maybe EM hands would reach out, trying to touch what couldn’t be seen; and in terror, the walker stopped living and stopped thinking, hiding away inside itself as it pretended to be nothing but another scab of hyperfiber lost among billions of patches.

A freshly made crater waited upon its line, too small to bring humans today but large enough to let a survivor hide inside the wounded hull.  A brief sharp ridge stood in the way—the relic of chaotic, billion-degree plasmas.  After five days of careful study, the walker slowly crossed the ridge.  Humans never came alone to these places, and there was no trace of machines.  But as it stood on the ridgeline, urgency took hold.  Something was wrong and what was wrong felt close.  The walker began to slowly lower itself, trying to vanish.  But then a strong voice said, “There you are.”

It hunkered down quickly.

With amusement, someone said, “I see you.”

The mysterious voice from before had been quieter than this.  It was always a whisper and far less comprehensible.  Perhaps the young crater helped shape its words, its sharp refrozen lip lending strength and focus.

In myriad ways, the walker began melting into the knife-like ridge.

Yet the voice only grew louder—a radio squawk wrapped around the human language.  With some pleasure, it said, “You cannot hide from me.”

“Leave me be,” the walker answered.

“But you’re the one disturbing me, stranger.”

“And I have told you,” the walker insisted.  “Before, I told you that I wish to be alone.  I must be alone.  Don’t pester me with your noise.”

“Oh,” the voice replied.  “You believe we’ve met.  Don’t you?”

Curiosity joined the fear.  A new eye lifted a little ways, scanning the closest few meters.

“You’ve made a mistake,” the voice continued.  “I don’t know whose song you’ve been hearing, but I’m rather certain that it wasn’t mine.”

“Who are you?” the walker asked.

“My name is Wune.”

“Where are you?”

“Find the blue-white star on the horizon,” it said.

“Are you that star?”

“No, no.”  Wune could do nothing but laugh for a few moments.  “Look below it.  Do you see me?”

Except for a few crevices and delicate wrinkles, the crater floor was flat.  Standing at the far end was a tiny figure clad in hyperfiber.  It was shaped like a female.  One arm lifted high.  What might have been a hand waved slowly, the gesture purely human.

“My name is Wune,” the stranger repeated.

“Are you human?”

“I’m a Remora,” said Wune.  “And what exactly are you, my friend?  I don’t seem to recognize your nature.”

“My nature is a mystery,” it agreed.

“Do you have a name?”

“I am,” it began.  Then it hesitated, considering this wholly original question.  And with sudden conviction, it said, “Alone.”  It rose up from the ridge, proclaiming, “My name is Alone.”

“Come closer, Alone.”

It did nothing.

“I won’t hurt you,” Wune promised, the arm beckoning again.  “We should study each at a neighborly distance.  Don’t you agree?”

“We are close enough,” the walker warned, nearly two kilometers of vacuum and blasted hyperfiber separating them.

The Remora considered his response.  Then with an amiably tone, she agreed, “This is better than being invisible to one another, I’ll grant you that.”

For a long while, neither spoke.

Then Wune asked, “How good are those eyes?  What do you see of me?”

Alone stared only at the stranger, each new eye focused on the lifesuit made of hyperfiber and the thick diamond faceplate and what lay beyond.  Alone had studied enough humans to understand their construction, their traditions, but what was human about this face was misplaced.  The eyes were beneath the mouth and tilted on their sides.  The creature’s flesh was slick and cold in appearance, and it was a vivid warm purple, while the long hair on the scalp was white with a hint of blue, rather like the brightest stars.  The white hair was lifting and falling, twirling and then pulling straight, as if an invisible hand were playing with it.

“I don’t know your species,” Alone confessed.

“But I think you do,” Wune corrected.  “I’m a human animal and a Remora too.”

“You are different from the others.”

“What others?” she inquired.

“The few I have seen.”

“You spied on us while we were working the monster crater.  Didn’t you?”  The mouth smiled, exposing matching rows of perfect human teeth.  “Oh yes, you were noticed.  I know you climbed inside that busted bladder before walking away again.”

“You saw me?”

“Not then, but later,” she explained.  “A security AI was riding the bladder.  It was set at minimal power, barely alive, which probably kept you from noticing it.  We didn’t learn about you until weeks later, when we stripped the wreck for salvage and the AI woke up.”

Shame took hold.  How could it have been so careless?

“I know five other occasions when you were noticed,” Wune continued.  “There are probably other incidents.  I try to hear everything, but that’s never quite possible.  Is it?”  Then she described each sighting, identifying the place and time when these moments of incompetence occurred.

“I wasn’t aware that I was seen,” it stated.

Ignorance made its failures feel even worse.

“You were barely seen,” Wune corrected.  “A ghost, a phantom.  Not real enough to be taken seriously.”

“You mentioned a spaceport,” it said.

“I did.”

“Where is this port?”

Wune pointed with authority, offering a precise distance.

“I don’t remember being there,” Alone admitted.

“Maybe we made a mistake,” she allowed.

“But I did visit another port.”  With care, it sifted through its memories.  “I might have difficulties with memory.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I know so little about myself,” confessed the walker.

“Well, that is sad,” Wune said.  “I’m sorry for you.”

“Why?”

“Life is the past,” she stated.  “The present moment is too narrow to slice, and besides, it will be lost with the next instant.  And the future is nothing but empty conjecture.  Where you have been is what matters.  What you have done is what counts for and against you on the tallies.”

The walker concentrated on those unexpected words.

“I have a telescope with me,” Wune said.  “I used it when I first saw you.  But I want to be polite.  If you don’t mind, may I study you now?”

“If you wish,” it said uneasily.

The Remora warned, “This might take some time, friend.”  Then with both gloved hands, she held a long tube to her face.

Alone waited.

An hour later, Wune asked, “Are you a machine?”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Or do you carry an organic component inside that body?”

“Each answer is possible, I think.”

Wune lowered the telescope.  “I am a little of both,” she allowed.  “I like to believe that I’m more organic than mechanical, but the two facets happily live inside me.”

Alone said nothing.

The Remora laughed softly, admitting, “This is fun.”

Was it?

To her new friend, she explained, “Thousands of years ago, humans learned how to never grow old.  There are no diseases, and there’s no easy way to kill us.”  The hands were encased in hyperfiber gloves.  One of those fingers tapped hard against her diamond faceplate.  “My mind?  It’s a bioceramic machine, which makes it tough and quick to heal and full of redundancies.  My memories are woven inside the artificial neurons, safe as can be.  Whenever I want, I can remember yesterday.  Or I can pull my head back five centuries and one yesterday.  My life is an enormous, deeply personal epic that I am free to enjoy whenever I wish.”

“I am different than you,” Alone conceded.

“Do you sleep?”

“Never.”

“Yet you never feel mentally tired?”  The purple face nodded, and she said, “Right now, I’m envious.”

Envy was a new word.

“I’m trying to tell you something,” she said.  “This old Remora lady has been awake for a very long time, and she needs to sleep for a little while.  Is that all right?  Do whatever you want while my eyes are closed.  If you need, walk away from me.  Vanish completely.”  Then she smiled, adding, “Or you might take a step or two in my direction.  If you feel the urge, that is.”

Then Wune shut her misplaced eyes.

During the next hour, Alone crept forward more than three meters.

As soon as she woke, Wune noticed.  “Good.  Very good.”

“Are you rested now?”

“Hardly.  But I’ll push through the misery.”  Her laugh had a different tone.  “What’s your earliest, oldest memory?  Tell me.”

“Walking.”

“Walking where?”

“Crossing the Ship’s hull.”

“Who brought you to the Ship?”

“I have always been here.”

She considered those words.  “Or you could have been built here,” she suggested.  “Assembled from a kit, perhaps.  You don’t remember a crowd of engineers sticking their hands inside you?”

“I remember no one.”  Then with confidence, Alone said, “I have never been anywhere but on the Great Ship.”

“If that was true,” Wune began.  Then she fell silent.

Alone asked, “What if that is so?”

“I can’t even guess at all of the ramifications.”  After a few minutes of silence, she said, “Ask something of me.  Please.”

“Why are you here, Wune?”

“Because I’m a Remora,” she offered.  “Remoras are humans who got pushed up on the hull to do important, dangerous work.  There are reasons for this.  Good causes and bad justifications.  Everything that you see here…well, the hull is not intended to be a prison.  The captains claim that it isn’t.  But now and again, it feels like the worst cage imaginable.”

Then she hesitated, thinking carefully before saying, “I don’t think that was your question.  Was it?”

“Like me, you are alone,” it pointed out.  “Most humans gather in large groups, and they act pleased to be that way.”

With a serious tone, Wune said, “I’m rather different than the rest.”

Alone waited.

“You see, the hull is constantly washed with radiation, particularly out here on the leading face.”  She gestured at the galaxy.  “My flesh is immortal.  I can endure almost any abuse.  But these wild nuclei crash through my cells, wreaking terrible damage.  My repair mechanisms are always awake, always busy.  I have armies of tiny workers marching inside me, fighting to lift my flesh back to robust health.  But when I am alone, and when I focus on my body’s functions, I can influence my regenerating flesh.  On a good day, with nothing except willpower, I can direct my own evolution.”

That might explain the odd, not quite human face.

“I’m out here teaching myself these tricks,” Wune admitted.  “The hull is no prison.  To me, it is a church.  This is a temple.  I have been handed a rare opportunity where the tiniest soul can unleash potentials that her old epic life never revealed to her.”

“I understand each of your words,” said Alone.

“But?”

“I cannot decipher what you mean.”

“Of course you can’t.”  Wune laughed.  “Listen.  My entire creed boils down to this:  If I can write with my flesh, then I can write upon my soul.”

“Your ‘soul’?”

“My mind.  My essence.  Whatever it is that the universe sees when it looks hard at peculiar little Wune.”

“Your soul,” the walker said again.

Wune spoke for a long while, trying to explain her newborn faith.  Then her voice turned raw and sloppy, and after drinking broth produced by her recyke system, she slept again.  The legs of her lifesuit were locked in place.  Nearly five hours passed with her standing like a statue, unaware of her surroundings, and when she woke again barely twenty meters of vacuum and hard radiation separated them.

The Remora didn’t act surprised.  With a quieter, more intimate voice, she asked, “What fuels you?  Is there some kind of reactor inside that body?  Or do you steal your power from us somehow?”

“I don’t remember stealing.”

“Ah, the thief’s standard reply.”  She chuckled.  “Let’s assume you’re a machine.  You have to be alien-built.  I’ve never seen any device like you, or even heard rumors.  Not from the human shops, I haven’t.”  After a long stare, she asked, “Are you male?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m going to call you male.  Does that offend you?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you are.”  She wanted to come closer.  One boot lifted, seemingly of its own volition, and then she forced herself to set it back down on the hull.  “You claim not to know your own purpose.  Your job, your nature are questions without answer.”

“I am a mystery to myself.”

“Which is an enormous gift, isn’t it?  By that, I mean that if you don’t know what to do with your life, then you’re free to do anything you wish.”  Her face was changing color, the purple skin giving way to streaks of gold.  And during her sleep her eyes had grown rounder and deeply blue.  “You don’t seem dangerous.  And you do require solitude.  I can accept all of that.  But as time passes, I think you’ll discover that escaping notice will only grow harder.  The surface area is enormous, yes.  But where will you hide?  I won’t chase after you.  I promise.  And I can keep my people respectful of your privacy.  At least I hope I can.  But the Great Ship is cursed with quite a few captains, and they don’t approve of mysteries.  And we can’t count all the adventurers who are racing here, abandoning home worlds and fortunes just to ride on this alien artifact.”

With just a few words, the galaxy above seemed even more treacherous.

Wune continued.  “Maybe you don’t realize this, but our captains have decided to take us on a tour of the Milky Way.  Humans and aliens are invited, for a fat price, and some of them will hear the rumors about you.  I guarantee, some of these passengers will come up on the hull, armed with sensors and their lousy judgment.”

He listened and tried to think clearly.

“There is selfishness in my reasons,” Wune admitted.  “I don’t want these tourists under my boots.  And since you can’t hide forever in plain sight, we need to find you a new home.”

Horrified, Alone asked, “Where can I go?”

“Almost anywhere,” Wune assured.  “The Great Ship is ridiculously big.  It might take hundreds of thousands of years just to fill up its empty places.  There are caverns and little tunnels.  Nobody can name all of the seas and canyons and the dead-end holes.”

“But how can I find those places?”

“One place is all that you need, and I know ways.  I will help you.”

Terror and hope lay balanced on the walker’s soul.

With those changeless human teeth, Wune smiled.  “You say you know nothing about your nature, your talents.  And I think you mean that.”

“I do.”

“Look at the chest of my suit, will you?  Stare into the flat hyperfiber.  Yes, here.  Can you see your own reflection?”

His body had changed during these last few minutes.  Alone had felt the new arms sprouting, the design of his legs adjusting, and without willing it to happen, he had acquired a face.  It was a striking and familiar face, the purple flesh shot with gossamer threads of gold.

“I almost wish I could do that,” Wune confessed.  “Reinvent myself as easily as you seem to do.”

He could think of no worthy response.

“Do you know what a chameleon is?”

Alone said, “No.”

“You,” she said.  “Without question, you are the most natural, perfect chameleon that I have ever had the pleasure to meet.”