again. When he stands, he removes the sound nullifiers from his ears and listens. The natural-user interface of his left eye gives him a display. The ship is altering its course. “Why?” He says the word aloud. That isn’t a good sign. Conductors don’t do that. Certainly they seek counsel with themselves, but they don’t talk to themselves. “And why not?” When no one answers, he says, “It’s a fair question.” When still no one answers, he steps away from his bland-feeling cushion, steps onto the cold floor, and lets the sensual vibrations move up through him.
Silk .
It isn’t silk. Nothing will ever be sil k again. But it is a sensation; a glorious, rapturous sensation like no other. His skin cells and his nerve endings quiver. There is a delightful agony just behind his eyes. It feels as though tiny needles are being pressed into each of his pores. Normally, his flight suit would dampen such sensations, but he stands naked and defiant, accepting wave after wave of forbidden sensations.
The exultation lasts only a few heartbeats before someone chimes in. A voice imposed along the datafeed: “Sir, your presence is requested on the bridge.”
He replies without a moment’s hesitation. “Is it over?”
“No, sir. He’s downed two of our skirmishers. We believe we have operatives attempting a dynamic entry at the moment.”
“You believe?”
“Sir, his sensor shroud is still—”
“ Active. Yes. What is their status?”
“ We do not think they have made it in yet—”
“Is the music still playing?” If the music still plays, he isn’t yet dead .
Ample hesitation from the Manager. Finally, “It is our Consensus that it is best if you come see for yourself. Sir,” he adds sharply.
The Conductor isn’t anxious to cut his meditation short, and neither is he happy to put his flight suit on—the same suit that insulates him from such wonderful sensations. But like Rook, he is a creature of habit, and duty beckons. He can’t know it, but even as he steps into the suit chamber, and even as the plastic-metal-alloy suit is formed around him and the foam is injected into the seam to seal it and pad it against vibrations, the last human in the universe is also heeding the call of duty.
Outside of the Cerebral mother ship, there is an ever-expanding orb of nothingness within the asteroid field—the magnetic cannons are still pushing away thousands upon thousands of rocks, still carving a path for itself as it searches endlessly. Some of the cargo bays have opened, and we see the tentacles spilling forth. Numerous vacuum-jacketed hoses, made of complex composite alloys, extend from the bottom with the slow, thoughtful grace of a jellyfish. The tentacles select random morsels here and there, tasting them, fondling them so delicately, as though they might break. Slowly, they are reeled into the bays.
Beyond this harvesting, we pass through a tremendous sea of rocks, great and small. Some zip fast, as if late for something, but most are lumbering and disinterested in the goings on of the cosmos. Farther and farther into the Deep we go, squeezing through tight clusters of the behemoths, passing through showers of the smaller ones. Here, we see a few collisions take place. This is a common occurrence, though not nearly as common as when the field was first formed—in the beginning, these rocks had been much larger, but they had rapidly pulverized one another, whittling each other down to the bits and pieces we see orbiting and arguing with each other. The arguments grow louder the deeper we go, the party more crowded, the gravitational forces more opinionated.
At last, we see an object that cannot be one of these rocks, for it has nature-defying shape and purpose. We have found the Sidewinder again, and now she coasts silently within a terrific shower of hundreds of rocks, roughly her size or a bit smaller. The
Silk .
It isn’t silk. Nothing will ever be sil k again. But it is a sensation; a glorious, rapturous sensation like no other. His skin cells and his nerve endings quiver. There is a delightful agony just behind his eyes. It feels as though tiny needles are being pressed into each of his pores. Normally, his flight suit would dampen such sensations, but he stands naked and defiant, accepting wave after wave of forbidden sensations.
The exultation lasts only a few heartbeats before someone chimes in. A voice imposed along the datafeed: “Sir, your presence is requested on the bridge.”
He replies without a moment’s hesitation. “Is it over?”
“No, sir. He’s downed two of our skirmishers. We believe we have operatives attempting a dynamic entry at the moment.”
“You believe?”
“Sir, his sensor shroud is still—”
“ Active. Yes. What is their status?”
“ We do not think they have made it in yet—”
“Is the music still playing?” If the music still plays, he isn’t yet dead .
Ample hesitation from the Manager. Finally, “It is our Consensus that it is best if you come see for yourself. Sir,” he adds sharply.
The Conductor isn’t anxious to cut his meditation short, and neither is he happy to put his flight suit on—the same suit that insulates him from such wonderful sensations. But like Rook, he is a creature of habit, and duty beckons. He can’t know it, but even as he steps into the suit chamber, and even as the plastic-metal-alloy suit is formed around him and the foam is injected into the seam to seal it and pad it against vibrations, the last human in the universe is also heeding the call of duty.
Outside of the Cerebral mother ship, there is an ever-expanding orb of nothingness within the asteroid field—the magnetic cannons are still pushing away thousands upon thousands of rocks, still carving a path for itself as it searches endlessly. Some of the cargo bays have opened, and we see the tentacles spilling forth. Numerous vacuum-jacketed hoses, made of complex composite alloys, extend from the bottom with the slow, thoughtful grace of a jellyfish. The tentacles select random morsels here and there, tasting them, fondling them so delicately, as though they might break. Slowly, they are reeled into the bays.
Beyond this harvesting, we pass through a tremendous sea of rocks, great and small. Some zip fast, as if late for something, but most are lumbering and disinterested in the goings on of the cosmos. Farther and farther into the Deep we go, squeezing through tight clusters of the behemoths, passing through showers of the smaller ones. Here, we see a few collisions take place. This is a common occurrence, though not nearly as common as when the field was first formed—in the beginning, these rocks had been much larger, but they had rapidly pulverized one another, whittling each other down to the bits and pieces we see orbiting and arguing with each other. The arguments grow louder the deeper we go, the party more crowded, the gravitational forces more opinionated.
At last, we see an object that cannot be one of these rocks, for it has nature-defying shape and purpose. We have found the Sidewinder again, and now she coasts silently within a terrific shower of hundreds of rocks, roughly her size or a bit smaller. The
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