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She took this to mean that Ship would show her a holo-record. “A projection? What are You going to . . .”
“Not that kind of projection. For this experience, you are the projection.”
“Me . . . the . . .”
“It is important that Shipmen learn about Yaisuah, who was also called Jesus. I have chosen you for this journey.”
She felt tightness in her chest# panic near. “How . . .”
“I know how, Hali Ekel, and so do you. Answer Me: How do your neurons function?”
Any med-tech knew that. She tossed it off without thinking: “A charged measure of acetylcholene across the synapses where . . .”
“A charged measure, yes. A bridge, a shortcut. You take shortcuts all the time.”
“But I . . .”
“I am the universe, Hali Ekel. Every part of Me—each part in its entirety—the universe. All Mine—including the shortcuts.”
“But my body . . . what . . .” She broke off, stopped by an intense fear for this precious flesh she wore.
“I will be with you, Hali Ekel. That matrix which is you, that also is part of the universe and Mine. You wish to know if I read your thoughts?”
She found the very idea deeply disturbing, an invasion of her privacy. “Do You?”
“Ekel . . .” Such sadness Ship put into her name. “Our powers are of the same universe. Your thought is My thought. How can I help but know what you think?”
She struggled for a deep breath. Ship’s words spoke of things just beyond her grasp, but WorShip had taught her to accept.
“Very well.”
“Now, are you ready to travel?”
She tried to swallow in a dry throat. Her mind searched for some logical objection to this thing which Ship proposed. A projection? The words represented such an insubstantial thing. Ship said she would be the projection. How threatening that sounded!
“Why . . . why must I go through . . . Time?”
“Through?” Ship’s tone conveyed an exquisite reprimand. “You persist in thinking of Time as linear and a barrier. That is not even close to the reality, but I will play that game if it reassures you.”
“What is . . . I mean, if it’s not linear . . .”
“Think of it as linear if you wish. Think of it as thousands of meters of computer tape unraveled and crammed into this little lab. You could move from one Time to another—a shortcut—just by reaching across the loops and folds.”
“But . . . I mean if you actually go across, how can you get back to . . .”
“You never let go of the now.”
In spite of that deep and grinding fear, she was interested. “Two places at one Time?”
“All Time is one place, Ekel.”
It occurred to her then that Ship had shifted from the personal and reassuring Hali to Ekel, subtly but definitely.
“Why are You calling me Ekel now?”
“Because I perceive that this is the line which you believe to be yourself. I do it to help you.”
“But if You take me somewhere else . . .”
“I have sealed this room, Ekel. You will have two bodies simultaneously, but separated by a very long Time and a very great distance.”
“Will I know both . . .”
“You will be conscious of only one flesh, but you will know both.”
“Very well. What do I do?”
“Stay there on the lab couch and accept the fact that I will make another body for you at another Time.”
“Will it . . .”
“If you do what I tell you to do, it will not hurt. You will understand the speech of this other place and I will give you an old body, an old woman. Old bodies are not as threatening to others. No one bothers an old woman.”
She tried to relax in obedience. Accept. But questions filled her mind. “Why are You sending me to . . .”
“Eavesdrop, Ekel. Observe and learn. And no matter what you see, do not try to interfere. You would cause unnecessary pain, perhaps even to yourself.”
“I just watch and . . .”
“Do not interfere. You will see the consequences presently of interfering with Time.”
Before she could ask another question, she felt a prickling along the back of her neck; a slither of chill swept down her spine. Her heart slammed against her ribcage.
Ship’s voice came from a long distance. “Ready, Ekel.” It was a command, not a question, but she answered, and her own voice echoed in her skull.
“Yesssssss. . . .”
Chapter 24
The mind is a mirror of the universe.
See the reflections?
The universe is no mirror for the mind.
Nothing out there
Nothing in here
Shows ourselves.
—Kerro Panille, The Collected Poems
WAELA TAOLINI lay in her groundside cubby, fatigue in her body, fatigue in her mind, but unable to sleep. Thomas had no mercy. Everything must be done to his perfectionist demands. He was a fanatic. They had spent twenty-one hours going through the operational routine for the new sub. Thomas would not wait for the arrival of the poet, who was somewhere in the bowels of Processing. No. We will use what time we have.
She tried to take a deep breath. Pain yanked a knot behind her breastbone.
She wondered how Thomas came to them. How could he be from Ship? Things he did not know, things that Shipmen took for granted, worried her. There was the incident with the Hooded Dasher.
He was calm, though, I’ll give him that.
What really surprised her was his ignorance of The Game.
A crowd had gathered behind the LTA hangar—off-shift crew, most of them drinking what Shipmen called Spinneret wine.
“What’s this about?” Thomas pointed his clipboard at the group.
“It’s The Game.” She looked at him with a new amazement. “You mean you don’t know The Game?”
“What Game? That’s just a bunch of drunks having a good time . . . strange, there was nothing in my briefing about liquors of any kind.”
“There have always been lab alcohols,” she said, “and at one time there were wines and brandies. But officially we can’t afford to give up any productive food for wine. Somehow, some do and the market is brisk. Those men,” she nodded toward the group, “have traded away some of their food chits for it.”
“So, they trade food for wine that costs food to make—maybe less food. Isn’t that their right?” His eyes squinted at her.
“Yes, but food’s short. They’re going hungry. In this place, going hungry means you slow down and here, Raja Thomas, if you slow down you die. And maybe someone else dies because of it.”
“Do you do it?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” her skin glowed red, “when I can afford the time.”
She followed Thomas as he strolled toward the crew, pulled the sleeve of his singlesuit to stop him short.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“It requires an even number of players, men or women. Each one buys into The Game with a certain number of food chits. They pair off any way they wish, and each one draws a wihi stick from a basket. They compare, and the longest stick wins a round. The shorter stick of the pair is eliminated, so those drawing the longer sticks pair up. They draw again, and so on until there is only one couple.”
“What about the food chits?”
“The players up the ante every round, so if there are a lot of people, The Game gets pretty expensive.”
“Does the last couple divide the chits?”
“No, they draw again. The one who draws the longer stick wins the chits.”
“That seems boring enough.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated, then: “The short stick runs the perimeter.”
She said it offhand, without as much as a blink.
“You mean they run around the outside . . .?” His thumb hung in the air over his shoulder.
She nodded. “The
y run it naked.”
“But they can’t possibly . . . that’s almost ten kilometers out in the open . . .”
“Some make it.”
“But why? Not for food, it’s not that bad yet, is it?”
“No, not for food. For favors, jobs, quarters, partners. For the thrill. For the chance to go out with a flash from a boring life. The long sticks are the losers. Food chits are a consolation prize. The winner gets to run the P.”
Thomas let out a long breath.
“What are the odds?”
“By experience, they work out just like the rest of The Game—fifty-fifty. Half don’t make it.”
“And it’s legal?”
It was her turn to look at him quizzically.
“They have the right to their own bodies.”
