“Suit yourself.” I uncorked a half-enjoyed bottle of black rum—which I considered a parting gift-slash-apology from the insurgent occupier—and poured myself a full glass. “So, what’s this urgent ship news, then?”

  He absently scratched the back of his head. “The… the turbine. Yes, the turbine. We managed to repair the fission cracks. And the rotor assembly is…”

  As Tusky trailed off, I understood the root of his unease.

  “This isn’t about the ship, is it?” I asked.

  “Of course it is,” he said. “I wouldn’t have bothered you without a good reason. I… I know you’re very guarded with your time.”

  I took a sip of the rum and patted the bed beside me. “For you, my friend, I always have time. Not enough time to dance around, however. So let’s cut to the heart of it.”

  “If you insist.” Tusky sat down and looked into his grease-stained paw-hands. “It’s probably nothing, really. I’m not even sure I can encapsulate it.”

  “Do your best.”

  He nodded. “I just feel a bit… foolish… approaching you in regards to this matter. It does, after all, circle the central question of what it means to be alive. And I don’t know how many beings have reached a satisfactory end to that line of inquiry.”

  “Ah,” I said. “So it’s about death.”

  “One could say that.”

  This was a tricky topic. Tusky was right in implying that death, even to the wisest of creatures, represents a vast and chilling unknown variable. Few of us understand what death is, let alone what it could possibly “mean,” in the grand scheme. Of course, assuming death has any meaning at all is a logical leap. It could very well be the stone-cold of meaning itself; a cruel, absurd punchline to a journey of survival that has itself run on the diesel fuel of meaning. Not that we’d like to think that. It goes against our base coding. We are meaning-making machines, and as such, even death—something no being can ever possibly grasp until the moment it strikes—will always wind up being conceptualized in theory or dogma.

  Think of it like a camera trying to see itself. A film trying to guess what comes after the screen goes off. A breeze wondering where it goes on a calm day. These are all stupid analogies, granted, but they point to the very heart of the issue. Death is unknowable, unthinkable. And knowing it, or thinking about it, cannot stop it.

  But the anguish in Tusky’s eyes told me this was not a matter of philosophy. Death wasn’t just a word to him, not anymore—it was his reality. It is mine, too, and yours, but we do not think about death that way. For us “lucky” nobodies with reasonably healthy bodies, we live in perpetual delusion about death. In our world, it will never come. It will visit everybody else, and we alone will be saved, either through impossible quantum-consciousness machines or a miracle or a trip to a place that we call death, but isn’t really death—think heaven, for example. But all of these are just games that the mind plays to distract itself from one bitter, inevitable truth:

  You will die.

  Even as you read these words, you may end.

  Uncomfortable? Good. Now you can better understand Tusky’s plight.

  “I thought that my fate was securely tucked away, if you understand me,” he said in a voice two notches about a whisper. “I thought I had made peace with it, Bodhi. But after the recent tests… after losing consciousness in the staging bay… I don’t know what I believe. I have more questions than answers.”

  I plopped a hand on his shoulder. “That, Tusky, is part of being sentient. The questions never end.”

  “Perhaps… but it troubles the scientific mind.”

  “We’ll all have to walk through that door someday. You just get, uh, a VIP entrance.”

  “But I can’t cope with the knowing. Now that I have experienced this world of form and feelings and delights… I’m just supposed to sleep and never wake again?”

  “Given our current situation, that option doesn’t sound half-bad.”

  Tusky took the glass from my hands and drained it in one gulp. “Forgive me. I just… felt a need.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Just tell me, Bodhi—what do you know of it?”

  “Death?”

  “Yes.”

  I shrugged. “Just as much as you or Amodari or a dead cat in a drainage pipe. It is what it is, Tusky.” Sensing his distress, I got up and poured another glass for him. “I don’t mean to sound cold… I just know you value the truth. And that’s the best I can offer.”

  He took the glass when I offered it. “But you met Center, didn’t you?”

  “‘Met’ is a strong term, but sure, let’s go with that.”

  “The others told me that you spoke about supramundane knowledge. Did you speak with Center about death?”

  “Briefly…”

  “And what did they say?”

  I drew a deep breath, remembering that strange and dreamlike experience aboard Nerikhad’s barge. It came back to me in bits and pieces, but most of it slipped away upon being recalled. To this day, most of our conversation remains out of reach. Almost as though the mind could not handle what was said.

  “Well, I can say this,” I told him. “Center existed because they wanted to. They could’ve annihilated itself when they joined. They could’ve ended all of reality in a blink. They could’ve done anything. But they kept things the way they were… death and all. And I do believe that says something.”

  “Says what?” Tusky asked as he nursed his drink. “That death is good?”

  “Birth is a terminal condition, Tusky. Always ends the same way. What comes up must go down, right?”

  “But… it doesn’t explain anything. Why would we exist, only to not exist?”

  That question turned a key inside me. You might think I was above such stirrings in the mind, on account of the “rant” I included above, but I wasn’t—not at that moment in time, anyhow. My sage reflections on death have accrued in the many decades between this encounter and the time of this memoir’s writing.

  Until Tusky phrased his question in that way, I was just one of the blind, deaf nobodies wandering through life, tricking themselves into believing that I had made peace with the titan that is death. But I hadn’t. I had packed my life away into little boxes, little bundles of beliefs, assuring myself that I understood “what it was all about.” Most of us feel that way. It is frightening to feel otherwise. And indeed, it was fear that washed over me as I got the very center of what Tusky was driving at. Fear and pain and an aching loneliness. I didn’t just grasp the word death—I felt it.

  We were both dying, and nothing could stop it. Not even winning this charade of a war.

  And beyond even that, I saw my addiction. I was addicted to life, just like you. I would do anything to live, to breathe, to keep up the story of Bodhi. Even if it meant throwing other people under the proverbial hover-bus. And what was my reward, even if I fed that addiction everything it could stomach and outran everybody else in the race of life?

  You guessed it.

  Death.

  “Tusky,” I said softly, not wanting to betray my spiritual dilemma, “anything I pitch to you would be a belief. And we have to work with reality.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Believe me: If I knew, I would tell you.”

  Tusky screwed up his face as he drank more. “Do you think something comes after?”

  “Maybe?”

  “What do you mean? You’ve had your entire life to review the evidence.”

  “And? There are religions that have had millions of years for the same task. Time doesn’t help if there’s no answer to a question.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He finished his glass and handed it to me. “I apologize for dragging you into this pointless speculation, Bodhi. I… I’ll return to my work now.”

  As he went to stand, I grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”

  “For what?”

  “I…” My voice shriveled in my throat. “I just want you to know you’re not alone in this. In the whole dying thing, I mean. And I’m sorry it’s happening now.”

  His stare chilled me. I’d never seen it so vacant.

  “I just need to know this is all worthwhile,” he said. “A reason for the madness. That’s all I want. Don’t you want it, too?”

  Again, I felt the fear mounting. My mind went into overdrive cycles, ruminating on meaning, on life, on eternity, on emptiness. Answers drifted up, but as I held his gaze, I knew each and every one was incomplete, a stream of babbling to pull away from the hard truth of it all. What could I say? What could I do?

  Then the comm system squawked to life, and I lurched back into ordinary, oblivious consciousness. Into the pleasant delusion that things would be alright.

  “Bodhi?” Chaska called. “You’d better get to the bridge.”

  Shaken as I was by this staring-into-the-abyss conversation, it was easy enough to put it behind me as we entered the bridge. The survival drive is a powerful thing. Imminent threats—or indeed, any phenomena that might somehow become an imminent threat—have a way of grounding you in the present. Say what you will about panic, but it keeps you from straying close to the rim of eternity. And sometimes, that is a good thing.

  Especially when you find yourself preparing to board a long-lost, decrepit wreck floating in the middle of a mysterious space field.

  “That’s our beauty,” Chitta Mini said over the speakers. “Helluva thing, isn’t it?”

  The entire crew, myself included, traded looks with varying degrees of discomfort. We all stood along the viewpane, not quite sure what to make of the vessel’s remains.

  Generally, it conformed to Chitta Mini’s holographic renderings. It was broken in the right spots, surrounded by clouds of cast-off shrapnel and drifting fuel globs. What didn’t fit the chitta’s model was the vessel’s sheer size. The thing could’ve housed a thousand Stream Dancers inside its bulk.

  “It’s… bigger than I’d anticipated,” Chaska put in.

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” I said. When it was clear that the others didn’t appreciate my sharp wit as much as me, however, I changed course. “Seems like it may have been a generation ship. A world-shaper, perhaps.”

  Ruena paced behind me. “We never saw crafts of this size in our territory. Perhaps this was their mothership.”

  “Which means it ought to have fuel.”

  “Ought to, yes,” Chaska replied. “But there’s a good chance that they ran out of fuel just like we’re about to. Right, Mini?”

  The chitta made a distorted ehh sound. “I stand by my projection, ma’am. Thing should still be loaded up.”

  “Which does beg the question…” I said. “If it’s got fuel, how’d it get scuttled here?”

  Chaska rolled her eyes. “Oh, now you want to go down that road.”

  “Listen, it was either this ship or a patch of purple space-stuff. What would you prefer?”

  “He’s right,” Ruena said, leaning against the viewpane. “We’ve got to take a look.”

  I looked around. “Anybody want to volunteer for a scouting team?”

  Another set of wary glances went around.

  Only Tusky put up his hand, his attention still glued to whatever work he was doing on his tablet. “I would.”

  Considering our prior discussions about the futility of life, I didn’t exactly feel comfortable sending him into the wreck. But beggars can’t be choosers—particularly when life-saving fuel is on the line. So I compromised.

  “I’ll go in with you,” I said. “Anybody else?”

  Chaska crossed her arms. “Last time we sent you two out, you destroyed the hive-world. So count me in.”

  “I’d like to get in on the action, too!” Chitta Mini added.

  “Vetoed,” I said. “You need to stay on board, keep Umzuma company with… ship stuff.”

  “Like what? You might need me in there.”

  “For what?”

  “Anything! Making a rapid-action antivenom for go’tor wreckage spiders, for example.”

  “There’s no such thing as a go’tor wreckage spider.”

  “Sure there are! They’re five meters across, huge, and super lethal. Those things love to hide in conduit shafts.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You wanna bet against me on this one, man? Against the possibility of giant wreckage spiders?”

  I sighed. “I’ve been bitten by worse. You’re staying.”

  “What about me?” Gadra asked. I’d nearly forgotten the girl was there. “If you run into any aliens, I could take ’em down with the sweet tats Mini showed me.”

  “Yeah, that’s a no from me,” I said. “No kids allowed on wreckage dives.”

  “That’s not a rule!”

  “It is now. So no.”

  She huffed and went back to sketching designs in her notebook. “At least when Chaska was the captain, I got to do fun stuff.”

  “Keep it up, missy, and you’ll get to do even more fun stuff. Like cleaning the laundry bays with your tongue.”

  “I’ll stay on board,” Ruena said. “I still need to finish my rest cycle.”

  “Settled, then,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Let’s suit up, root around for some functional parts, and return with all of our limbs.”

  “And watch out for wreckage spiders,” Chitta Mini added.

  “No need, seeing as they don’t exist.”

  “Yeah, sure, what do I know? I’m just a superintelligence that’s lived longer than most planetary civilizations.”

  In retrospect, I can say only one thing regarding this moment:

  Always listen to the superintelligence.

  Fourteen

  Years back, I read a report stating that the average diving scav only lived to be twenty-two years old. More than half of those scavs never even made it to the ten-dive mark. A quarter didn’t survive their first. Pretty bleak, right?

  But it turns out that the numbers only told half the story. I got the other half while enjoying a short-lived yet fiery fling with a ten-legged professional scav named Miraka. According to Miraka, there were two problems with that report. The first was that the AI constructs running the study had a racial bias, only counting human casualties. The second was that the “average” life expectancy was skewed—if a scav made it to dive eleven, their expected years rocketed up to almost fifty-one.

  Curious, I dug deeper into the situation with Miraka. How could half of those diving scavs make it past ten, and the other half didn’t? Turns out that, like most things, it comes down to money.

  Half of the report’s scavs—the kick-the-bucket half, that is—were after quick paydays diving through wrecks. They didn’t see the point in pissing away exorbitant amounts of bux to get the latest and greatest helmets, oxygen rigs, thrusters, and so forth. They wanted to make bux and retire in short order. And most of them did, in a morbid sense.

  The other half knew better. They’d learned from veterans or otherwise seen the writing on the wall. This half splurged on their beginning gear. But not just any gear. See, the suits and scanners and cutting torches were helpful, but ultimately just flashy bits. The real necessity was the high-density tether that ran from their harnesses to the ship’s anchor point.

  That’s right, it all came down to the basics. If a novice diving scav’s tether broke—and most of them did, on account of the aforementioned skimping—the scav was as good as gone. Without a proper, unbreakable tether to crawl back to the ship, the wrecks became tombs. This being the case, as Miraka told me, most big-brain scavs took out a loan to get their hands on one of those high-tensile tethers. They were the only thing that mattered on a wreck dive.

  I dwelt rather soberly on this knowledge as I stood on the lip of the ramp-less staging bay, tugging at the flimsy rubber cording that would serve as my tether. Below me was a black, twisting maw that led down into the wreckage’s guts, lined with jagged steel teeth and mangled piping. Any one of those serrated bits was more than capable of severing the lifeline.

  “Are we sure we want to drop in here?” Chaska asked, huffing over our helmet comms. “I don’t have a good feeling.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t had one in months.” I kicked a length of frayed wiring over the edge. It floated down… and down… and down… until at last it was swallowed by the darkness. Clearly there was still a residual gravity source humming somewhere inside the behemoth.

  Tusky shifted in his ill-fitting suit. “Perhaps we should test my hypothesis for better visibility as we descend. It could make it easier on all of us.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “Even if the air in this region is breathable, I’m not using any of us as lab rats to find out. We don’t have enough expendable bodies for that.”

  “I measured the percentages, Bodhi,” Tusky replied. “Chitta Mini corroborated my findings. The air here is perfectly suited to the human respiratory system.”

  “Let me guess… another one of the Maker’s miracles?”

  “There’s no way for us to know. However, I would not immediately dismiss the idea. The Untraversed seems to have been engineered as a refuge for humanoids.”

  “Yeah, or a trap for the first idiot to take off his helmet.” I tugged again on the makeshift tether. It didn’t lift my spirits. “Look, we’re not exactly swimming in time as it is. Even idle, the ship’s going to burn through the last of that deuterium in no time. So let’s dip our toes in the… pool.”

  Glancing down again, I wondered what sort of lunacy had driven me to lead this scavenging mission. The massive pit resembled a literal portal to a hell dimension.

  Chitta Mini couldn’t conclude what sort of monstrous weapon had torn through the ship and created this thing, but similar impact “tunnels” were all over the place. This charming entry point was just as dangerous as all the rest, but at least it was close to the engine modules.

  “Are we done talking?” Chaska asked.

  I looked at Tusky and nodded. “Regrettably, I think we are.”

  “Good.” She pointed to her suit’s hand transmitter. “Remember distancing. Twenty meters max. No hard separation.”

 

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