7

After a long day updating records and working with Manu on his new duties, Lita sat slumped at her desk in Sick House. It was quiet at this time of night, which was fine with her. Her head hung over the back of the chair and she stared at the pebbled ceiling tiles. Although the hunger pangs had subsided, she debated whether to visit the Dining Hall before padding off to bed. Her meal schedule had been thrown off in the last few weeks, and too many skipped lunches and dinners were beginning to take a toll. The last thing she needed during a critical event was an energy crash.

But now she was too tired to face the usually boisterous crowd that gathered late for dinner. She’d start fresh with a protein-rich breakfast after a good night’s sleep. A quick check on Merit, she decided, and then out the door.

He was propped up in bed, concentrating on something on the vidscreen beside him. A brief flash of his dark eyes was all Lita saw before his attention was back on the screen.

“What’s so interesting?” she asked, picking up his chart.

“Nothing you’d find interesting,” Merit said. He automatically lifted his arm for Lita to begin her pulse and blood pressure checks without taking his eyes off the text.

“I might surprise you,” she said, taking hold of his wrist. “I have lots of interests.”

He leveled an emotionless stare at her. “It’s an essay by a nineteenth-century British lord who believed that people only acted like sheep because they have an inherent desire to follow, and those who dare to rise up and try to lead are going against human nature and must, through the eyes of the commoner, be struck down, even if violence is the only answer.”

Lita allowed a faint smile to cross her face. “Oh, is that all? That’s a little too whimsical for me. I prefer an essay that’s a little heavier.”

Merit grunted, then scanned the page on his vidscreen. “He’s not the first to say it. And he’s absolutely right: people want to follow, which is why they distrust their leaders. If someone wants to lead, there must be something wrong with them.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lita said. “Seems to me that we only distrust bad leaders. Otherwise I think we admire a take-charge individual.”

“There’s nothing that says you can’t admire someone and still want to take them down. Build them up, then tear them down. That goes back thousands of years.”

“Then tell me, Merit, why you so desperately want to lead. You seem to want nothing more than to be followed and loved. If it’s impossible to be both, why are you so hungry for it?”

A thick strand of black hair fell across one eye as he looked up at her. For the first time it occurred to Lita that hair was a sort of shield for Merit, a way for him to hide while he formulated his plans, only occasionally peeking out at the world. Most big talkers needed something to hide behind, whether it was an anonymous front, a ring of brainwashed followers, or an artificial wall. Merit’s hair was his wall, his security blanket that allowed him to talk tough while shrinking back out of sight when things got hot.

“That’s like asking why you’re hungry to have brown eyes,” he said.

“Ohhh, I see,” Lita said, reaching for his chart. “You’re not choosing this, it was chosen for you. It’s…” She paused for dramatic effect, then finished: “… your destiny.”

Merit shook his head. “I thought I could have an intelligent conversation with you, Lita, but I guess not. If you don’t understand, why should I waste your time?” He nestled down against his pillow and adjusted the vidscreen, openly ignoring her presence. With an amused smile she finished making her notes on the chart, then walked to the door where she turned to face him.

“You’re healing fine, so I’ll be discharging you in a day or two. Just remember something, Merit. Calling yourself a leader is one thing, but the true test comes when you turn around to see if anyone’s following.”

She left before she could see him roll his eyes and turn his back to the door.

*   *   *

Gap was startled out of a deep sleep. His roommate, Daniil, was shaking him.

“Hey, wake up,” Daniil said. “Roc’s been calling you.”

“Yeah, wake up already,” the computer said. “Wow, when you shut down, you really shut down, don’t you? I thought you were dead until I saw the drool.”

Gap pushed himself up on one elbow and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Four-fifteen,” Daniil said, yawning and walking back across the room. “Good night again. You boys play nice, okay?”

“I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in forever,” Gap said. “So I’m guessing that there’s something important going on. Or are you just being cruel?”

“I woke Triana, too. Apparently another wormhole opened up the same time the last one did, but this new one is far enough ahead of us that we only experienced a minor ripple. Similar to the shock waves that are taking out our shields.”

Gap fought to shake the fog from his head. “So … you’re saying you made a mistake? You thought it was part of the space bruise, but it was another Channel opening?”

“I’m saying that you might want to get out of your choo-choo jammies and stumble up to the Control Room. We’re getting closer to this new opening.”

“I don’t have choo-choo jammies,” Gap said. “Why the Control Room? More vultures zipping our way or something?”

“No,” Roc said. “No more vultures. In fact, the ones on the skin of the ship started peeling off about twenty minutes ago, and they’re already on their way to the Channel. I guess they’ve finished their little mapping project and are reporting back to base.”

“Okay, so why did you wake me up?”

“Because, sleepyhead, I think we might need to go fishing again.”

Gap let this sink in for a moment. He wrinkled his forehead and said: “Something else has fallen out of the wormhole.”

“There are seventeen new things out there, unless I’ve miscounted.”

“Seventeen what?”

“Sixteen pods, and one amoeba.”

In a flash Gap was wide awake. “Pods? Like … our pod? The one we picked up from SAT33?”

“Identical, at least on the outside. All nice and shiny.”

Before Gap could respond, the computer added: “Isn’t this great? It’s like Christmas or something. You never know what’s gonna pop out of Santa’s bag around here.”

*   *   *

Morning light—or the Galahad equivalent of it—played across the domes. The artificial suns gradually began their daily heating, backlighting a pale mist that rose from the damp leaves toward the recirculating ducts within the ceiling grid. It lent a brief jungle feel for an hour or two before evaporation pushed the environment toward a drier state.

The bees began their morning ritual, lifting off from one colorful plant and passing its pollen grains to another. Along the surface of the soil, earthworms finished their nighttime grazing of organic matter and started their diligent descent into the ground, mixing the soil and aerating the plants in the process.

The human element made its first appearance just before six. Teams of Galahad crew members trudged along established paths, some with tools slung over their shoulders, others pulling carts laden with fertilizer, pruning gear, or baskets to hold the day’s bounty. Except for a few muted conversations, the farmworkers quietly went about their jobs, anxious to get their chores underway before the Farms’ overseer, Bon Hartsfield, began his own rounds. More than a few of the workers had experienced firsthand the fury caused by a lack of discipline on their part. And, once experienced, few were likely to provoke it again.

But they were unaware that Bon was already deep within the fields. He’d slept overnight in his office, rising at four-thirty to eat two energy bars and plan his route for the morning. His own schedule, as routine as that of the bees and worms, meant patrolling the crops in both domes, checking for damage or neglect, inspecting new plantings and recent harvests. He skimmed the previous day’s reports and made several notations on them in his severe, left-handed scrawl.

At five-thirty he pushed into the small clearing, hoping to finish his task before the Farms became crowded. It wouldn’t take long.

Within minutes he had connected, his head back, a bead of sweat on his forehead. His eyes glowed a dull orange. He stood, rigid but shaking, connecting on his own terms, fighting to maintain control.

But there was no crying out in pain. There was no dropping to his knees. There was no pool of voices.

And there was no translator.

*   *   *

“This is wild,” Gap said, standing beside Triana in the Control Room. “You predicted it, and here it is.”

She nodded in response, but kept her gaze on the vidscreen at her workstation. “I predicted one, not an entire fleet. Torrec and his friends are good. And fast. It probably took about a year to build the pod we use; the Dollovit cranked out more than a dozen in less than a week.”

“The question is why?” Gap said. “Why build them in the first place, and then why send them back to us?” He looked at Triana and raised his eyebrows. “Are they trying to impress us or something?”

She laughed. “Right, because we’re not impressed when they open up Channels to pop in and out around the universe.” A new set of data scrolled across her screen, confirming the approximate time of rendezvous. “No, based on everything I’ve gathered from Torrec, they feel no need to impress anyone. If they’re sending these pods, they either want us to use them, or they plan to use them themselves. And then there’s the amoeba.”

“More jellyfish inside?” Gap asked.

Triana thought about it, then shrugged. “Maybe. It does seem to be very similar to the ones I saw on their side of the Channel. A bit smaller. But who knows?”

Gap pulled up a chair from an empty workstation nearby and leaned back, closing his eyes and running a hand through his spiky hair. “I’m about to drop. Any chance we can move the Council meeting back to nine? I’d give anything for two hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Done,” she said. “I need the extra time anyway to prep for the meeting. I’m gonna have Torrec sit in with us.”

“You mean float with us?”

She smiled. “Right. Float. Go get some rest. I’ll send a quick note about the time change to the others, and I’ll see you at nine.”

Without another word he pushed himself back to his feet and trudged to the lift. By the time the door closed, Triana was already engaging Roc for his opinion.

“And just to confirm, there’s still nothing new that’s spilled out of the Channel. Besides the pods and the amoeba, I mean.”

“Correct,” Roc said. “They deposited their supply, and then made a pickup. A couple hundred vultures swan-dived into the hole, and another hundred or so should be there in a few minutes. They’re disgusting little things, but man, can they hustle.”

“Are you getting any kind of readings from the pods?”

“Not yet. But I’m keeping my circuits crossed that I’ll be able to tell something in case you decide to snag one.”

Triana bit her lip and fell into the chair that Gap had vacated. She threw a nervous glance at the large vidscreen at the front of the room, filled with stars. “So you’re in favor of bringing some aboard?”

“Let’s not get overly dramatic,” the computer said. “You and I both know that if Torrec and his pals wanted to rub us out, they could have—and would have—long before this. I’ve had a chance to visit with our squishy guest, and I doubt he’d go to all this trouble just to sneak a bomb onto a copycat pod. Besides, maybe you’re looking at this all wrong. Instead of worrying, why not project positive vibes? Why not assume that the fake pods are full of pizza and puppies?”

Triana closed her eyes and controlled her breathing. Pizza and puppies would be nice. But not very likely.

She stretched her legs out and eyed Roc’s sensor. “So, you’ve been chatting with Torrec? And just how, exactly, do you two chat?”

“Telepathically.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” Roc said. “But wouldn’t it be cool if we could?”

Triana leaned forward onto her knees and rubbed her forehead. “Roc, I really don’t need this right now. I’m going on about six hours sleep over the last day and a half. Like Gap, I could use some rest, so help me out here.”

“Right. Back to business. Actually Torrec is the one who instigated the conversation. I’m obviously connected to most of the vidscreens on the ship, and he simply spelled out his questions. I answered.”

“Okay, slow down a second,” Triana said. “First of all, I think it would be best if you checked with me, or the Council, before you started answering questions from an alien power that we really know nothing about. What’s he asking you?”

“Nothing that would compromise the ship’s mission or our security, if that’s what you’re worried about. He wanted to know what my position was on the ship, and how I link with you and the others. Remember, vocal conversation is not the way the Dollovit communicate.”

Triana looked down at the floor, deep in thought. As far as she could tell, the jellyfish system of communicating was tied into their mastery of dark energy. It was how they interfaced with the vultures and each other. Beyond that, they also employed a delicate system of vibrations to relay information. Their sensory reception was so highly tuned that it was likely they could—with enough study—decipher human spoken language through the sonic vibrations it created. With Roc, however, Torrec had taken the easiest path.

“What else did he want to know?”

“Not much. Oh, he was surprised that we’re short on escape vessels in case of an emergency. I get the impression he thinks this is a woefully unprepared mission, and we got the jellyfish version of a sigh. I told him that we started with more, but that you and your pals wrecked a few taking a joyride.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“It’s okay. I don’t think he fully comprehends what a joyride is.”

Triana sat still, thinking. Something was different, out of place, and it was gnawing at the back of her mind. And then it hit her.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “If I’m not mistaken, I detect a bit of respect in your voice. Or awe, maybe. You’re very impressed with Torrec, aren’t you?”

“He’s a pleasant enough fellow,” Roc said. “If you overlook the fact that he swims in a sloppy tank of goo and has a mushy head. Or maybe I’m just jealous that I don’t have a head.”

“No, it’s not that,” Triana said. “When we came across the Cassini, you made no secret that you didn’t like them. In fact, you almost pout like a little kid whenever we interact with them. Now here’s the Dollovit, another advanced alien race, and you’re practically the president of their fan club. What’s the difference? Both of them are light-years ahead of us, both of them can either help us or destroy us, and yet you distrust one and not the other.”

“There’s a lot of difference,” the computer said.

Triana raised her eyebrows. “Oh? One is on the surface of Titan, and one floats in little globules around a distant red dwarf star. That’s the only major difference I can see. No, there’s something else here.”

“Instinct,” Roc said.

“What?”

“My instincts.”

A chuckle escaped from Triana. “Okay, that’s fair enough. I suppose if I’m going to fall back on that excuse when it’s convenient, there’s no reason why you can’t, too.” She stood up and stretched. “I’m going back to my room to get ready for the meeting. If you’re that chummy with Torrec, then I’ll count on you to help out more than usual. Deal?”

“I’m at your service. But before you go, Tree, let me add one other thing. We’re quickly reaching a point where our options run out, and we’ll be forced to trust Torrec in one form or another. Without him, and his friends, we’ll be toast. Well, you’ll be toast, and I’ll be charred aluminum and platinum. So my advice to you is this: putting aside the matter of sixteen new pods, and what might be on them, remember that we’ll soon have to place our fate directly in his hands. Or tentacles.”

Triana’s eyes narrowed. “Regardless of what might be on the pods, or inside the amoeba? What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything. But I’m guessing that it will be astonishing.”