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wildflowers. They'd blanked her sensors with broadcast overrides and sealed
arrived.
I found myself wondering whether Charmian was back with Jorge yet.
Maybe she'd be cooking something for him, one of the fish we "catch" as
they're released into our hands from cages on the pool bottoms. I imagined
the smell of frying fish, closed my eyes, and imagined Charmian wading in
the shallow water, bright drops beading on her thighs, long-legged girl in a
fishpond in Heaven.
"Move, Toby! In now!" My skull rang with the volume; training and the
gestalt reflex already had me halfway across the clearing. "Goddamn,
goddamn, goddamn. . . ." Hiro's mantra, and I knew it had managed to go all
wrong, then. Hillary the translator was a shrill undertone, BBC ice cracking
as she rattled something out at top speed, something about anatomical
charts. Hiro must have used the remotes to unseal the hatch, but he didn't
wait for it to unscrew itself. He triggered six explosive bolts built into
the hull and blew the whole hatch mechanism out intact. It barely missed me.
I had instinctively swerved out of its way. Then I was scrambling up the
boat's smooth side, grabbing for the honeycomb struts just inside the
entranceway; the hatch mechanism had taken the alloy ladder with it.
And I froze there, crouching in the smell of plastique from the bolts,
because that was when the Fear found me, really found me, for the first
time.
I'd felt it before, the Fear, but only the fringes, the least edge. Now
it was vast, the very hollow of night, an emptiness cold and implacable. It
was last words, deep space, every long goodbye in the history of our
species. It made me cringe, whining. I was shaking, groveling, crying. They
lecture us on it, warn us, try to explain it away as a kind of temporary
agoraphobia endemic to our work. But we know what it is; surrogates know and
handlers can't. No explanation has ever even come close.
It's the Fear. It's the long finger of Big Night, the darkness that
feeds the muttering damned to the gentle white maw of Wards. Olga knew it
first, Saint Olga. She tried to hide us from it, clawing at her radio gear,
bloodying her hands to destroy her ship's broadcast capacity, praying Earth
would lose her, let her die....
Hiro was frantic, but he must have understood, and he knew what to do.
He hit me with the pain switch. Hard. Over and over, like a cattle
prod. He drove me into the boat. He drove me through the Fear.
Beyond the Fear, there was ~ room. Silence, and a stranger's smell, a
woman's.
The cramped module was worn, almost homelike, the tired plastic of the
acceleration couch patched with peeling strips of silver tape. But it all
seemed to mold itself around an absence. She wasn't there. Then I saw the
insane frieze of ballpoint scratchings, crabbed symbols, thousands of tiny,
crooked oblongs locking and overlapping. Thumb-smudged, pathetic, it covered
most of the rear bulkhead. Hiro was static, whispering, pleading. Find her,
Toby, now, please, Toby, find her, find her, find I found her in the
surgical bay, a narrow alcove off the crawlway. Above her, the Schone
Maschine, the surgical manipulator, glittering, its bright, thin arms neatly
folded, chromed limbs of a spider crab, tipped with hemostats, forceps,
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