want to fall between. From lessons learned in the Entire, he knew there was a between.
Glancing at the control room monitors, Quinn saw the transition chamber with the harness at its center. Embedded in the walls were 4310 titanium nozzles, giving the chamber the look of an inverted sea urchin.
He turned to Lamar, getting a reassuring smile
Lamar quipped, “No pictures in your hip pocket?” Pictures of Sydney.
Quinn tapped his head. “Got hers up here.”
“I know you do.” Lamar reached out a hand. Quinn shook it.
Looking at Mikal, he asked, “How long do I have to wait in that rat hole?”
“We never know. I’ll try to make it short.”
Time to go. The hatch to the sterilization booth lay before him. There, he would be sonically cleansed of microbes that they might not wish to unleash on the Entire. Just as he made ready to go through the door, Quinn noticed Lamar’s pinched expression, the sheen of sweat on his high forehead. What the hell did he mean, Remember that I’m an old man?
They were waiting for him to pass through the door.
Quinn pulled off the paper gown, handing it to Lamar. Then he opened the hatch and walked through, closing the seal behind him.
Watching Quinn pass through to the sterilization chamber, Lamar realized he was holding his breath. He dragged air into his lungs. Waited.
After a few minutes, Mikal said under his breath, “Leaving sterilization booth.”
That meant Quinn was in the tube, and dressing in his travel clothes— garments assembled according to his strict instructions, including the Chalin knife he’d brought home last time.
“In.” Mikal nodded at the screen. Quinn had entered the transition module.
“Module two on screen,” Lamar said, finding a chair next to Mikal.
Then, side-by-side monitors showed Quinn and Helice adjusting straps, getting hooked in. She in her module, he in his.
Lamar and Mikal waited, in company with no less than three mSaps. When the three agreed, Mikal would enable the transition, not before. This time, one machine sapient alone would not decide when and if they were good to go. Coordinating between mSaps was Mikal’s job. The computers didn’t talk to each other, but would decide independently.
Lamar wiped his perspiring hands on his slacks. This was taking longer than before. He looked up, hoping to catch Mikal’s attention, but the man was focused on panel displays.
On the second screen, Helice was bearing up well, looking oddly elated. In his own module, Quinn’s expression was controlled—what many people mistake for coldness but which is actually intense concentration. He was a pilot. Maybe not one in a cockpit this time, but nevertheless going somewhere fast, and needing all his reactions intact when he got there.
Lamar looked at his watch. It had been ten minutes, but felt like an hour.
Even in this remote section of the platform, distant clangs of tools announced the continuing construction. For a moment, Lamar fancied it was fists beating on the bulkheads, trying to get in, trying to sabotage them.
Why didn’t the Tarig come to the Rose, after all, put a stop to this. . . .
“We’ve got something,” Mikal said. “Aligning. Aligning now.”
Lamar pushed himself out of the chair, heart racing.
“Okay,” Mikal said, “locked on. Have one. Have two.” He was noting the judgment call of the mSaps.
“Have three.”
Agreement. Mikal’s hand went to the toggle. “We’re good. Transition.”
He threw the switch, but immediately they were in trouble. The screen flashed a sickening warning, pulsing with error warnings. Two more strobing screens joined in, now accompanied by a shrill machine scream. The display for one of the mSaps went black, burst back to life in a scramble, an awful haze of decoherence. Mikal was swearing, hunched over the keyboard, as screens flipped and savant backups yelped frantic messages.
Mikal shook his head. “Should have waited, God. . . .”
“What’s going on?” Lamar
Glancing at the control room monitors, Quinn saw the transition chamber with the harness at its center. Embedded in the walls were 4310 titanium nozzles, giving the chamber the look of an inverted sea urchin.
He turned to Lamar, getting a reassuring smile
Lamar quipped, “No pictures in your hip pocket?” Pictures of Sydney.
Quinn tapped his head. “Got hers up here.”
“I know you do.” Lamar reached out a hand. Quinn shook it.
Looking at Mikal, he asked, “How long do I have to wait in that rat hole?”
“We never know. I’ll try to make it short.”
Time to go. The hatch to the sterilization booth lay before him. There, he would be sonically cleansed of microbes that they might not wish to unleash on the Entire. Just as he made ready to go through the door, Quinn noticed Lamar’s pinched expression, the sheen of sweat on his high forehead. What the hell did he mean, Remember that I’m an old man?
They were waiting for him to pass through the door.
Quinn pulled off the paper gown, handing it to Lamar. Then he opened the hatch and walked through, closing the seal behind him.
Watching Quinn pass through to the sterilization chamber, Lamar realized he was holding his breath. He dragged air into his lungs. Waited.
After a few minutes, Mikal said under his breath, “Leaving sterilization booth.”
That meant Quinn was in the tube, and dressing in his travel clothes— garments assembled according to his strict instructions, including the Chalin knife he’d brought home last time.
“In.” Mikal nodded at the screen. Quinn had entered the transition module.
“Module two on screen,” Lamar said, finding a chair next to Mikal.
Then, side-by-side monitors showed Quinn and Helice adjusting straps, getting hooked in. She in her module, he in his.
Lamar and Mikal waited, in company with no less than three mSaps. When the three agreed, Mikal would enable the transition, not before. This time, one machine sapient alone would not decide when and if they were good to go. Coordinating between mSaps was Mikal’s job. The computers didn’t talk to each other, but would decide independently.
Lamar wiped his perspiring hands on his slacks. This was taking longer than before. He looked up, hoping to catch Mikal’s attention, but the man was focused on panel displays.
On the second screen, Helice was bearing up well, looking oddly elated. In his own module, Quinn’s expression was controlled—what many people mistake for coldness but which is actually intense concentration. He was a pilot. Maybe not one in a cockpit this time, but nevertheless going somewhere fast, and needing all his reactions intact when he got there.
Lamar looked at his watch. It had been ten minutes, but felt like an hour.
Even in this remote section of the platform, distant clangs of tools announced the continuing construction. For a moment, Lamar fancied it was fists beating on the bulkheads, trying to get in, trying to sabotage them.
Why didn’t the Tarig come to the Rose, after all, put a stop to this. . . .
“We’ve got something,” Mikal said. “Aligning. Aligning now.”
Lamar pushed himself out of the chair, heart racing.
“Okay,” Mikal said, “locked on. Have one. Have two.” He was noting the judgment call of the mSaps.
“Have three.”
Agreement. Mikal’s hand went to the toggle. “We’re good. Transition.”
He threw the switch, but immediately they were in trouble. The screen flashed a sickening warning, pulsing with error warnings. Two more strobing screens joined in, now accompanied by a shrill machine scream. The display for one of the mSaps went black, burst back to life in a scramble, an awful haze of decoherence. Mikal was swearing, hunched over the keyboard, as screens flipped and savant backups yelped frantic messages.
Mikal shook his head. “Should have waited, God. . . .”
“What’s going on?” Lamar
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