1

Two Years Out

Lan Yi moved his knight and took Maria Strauss-Giolitto's rook's pawn. It amused him that he could perform the physical action more easily than she could, despite the fact that she was seemingly so much stronger and heavier than he was—not to mention so much younger. The difference was that he had spent almost all of his life on Earth; she had spent most of hers on Mars. A steady acceleration of 2g had been hell for everybody at first, but after the best part of two years the Earthlings had become used to it. The Martians mostly hadn't.

He put the pawn very carefully into an appropriate nest in the sponge-lined chess box. When you were living in 2g, you learnt not to drop things. They broke. Or they broke your foot. Or both.

She was looking at him in horror.

"I thought we were . . ."

"It's everyone for themselves in this game," said Lan Yi benignly.

The game—it was more like a war in miniature—was four-handed chess. The squared board was octagonal, although every other of its sides was jagged. Each of the four players—Lan Yi, Strauss-Giolitto, Pinocchio and O'Sondheim—had the sixteen pieces of traditional chess, colored black, red, yellow and white respectively. The best strategy was to shepherd as many pawns across the board as possible, so that they became queens with which you could annihilate the troops of your three opponents. In the interim, temporary pacts could be—and generally were—struck between pairs or even trios of players. The finale, often hours after the start of the game, was a direct head-to-head tourney between the surviving two players, who might have played the bulk of the game in collaboration.

Strauss-Giolitto had assumed she and Lan Yi were acting in partnership. Just before he'd taken her pawn, he'd realized that his best strategy was to leave her to the mercy of Pinocchio and O'Sondheim. In fact, assuming the two of them acted in tandem—which Lan Yi guessed they would now start to do—there was a very good chance that Strauss-Giolitto would be out of the game within minutes and that he himself would win it.

This would be a source of some pride to him. Neither O'Sondheim nor Strauss-Giolitto were especially good at the game, but Pinocchio was a testing adversary. Lan Yi had beaten the bot only a few times in all the games they had played, and each time it gave him a kick. He suspected the bot was a lot cleverer than he was supposed to be. This also amused him. It was very funny to see Strauss-Giolitto being so regularly wiped off the board by the bot whose intellect she so clearly despised, despite Strider's ruling that everyone (which was code for Strauss-Giolitto) should lay off Pinocchio.

"Your move," Lan Yi said to O'Sondheim, directly to his left.

O'Sondheim put his chin on the interlinked knuckles of his two hands. He looked across the board at Strauss-Giolitto. Lan Yi could almost hear the man thinking that perhaps he could make a pact with her; if he did so, the game would be over all the sooner, although O'Sondheim evidently didn't realize this. Lan Yi was also aware that O'Sondheim wanted to make a different sort of pact with Strauss-Giolitto, but that he wasn't going to be successful. The woman was very beautiful, but she was also very cold—although Lan Yi had noticed that she could be warm with other women. And of course with children: she had proved to be an unexpectedly excellent teacher of the Santa Maria's five toddlers. Lan Yi knew that the SSIA had screened out homosexuals from the final list of personnel recruited to the Santa Maria—this was supposed to be a breeding stock, after all—but he occasionally wondered about Strauss-Giolitto. He also knew that, either way, if she did ever take someone on to her bed, it was much more likely to be himself than O'Sondheim. The woman both fascinated him and, with her illogical prejudices, repelled him. It made for a very interestingly tense friendship.

The other reason O'Sondheim wasn't ever going to make it with Strauss-Giolitto was that it was patently obvious to everyone aboard that the woman he really wanted was Strider. Lan Yi sometimes wondered about Strider's sexual orientation, too.

"I could take your king's rook," said O'Sondheim to Strauss-Giolitto.

She shrugged. "Go ahead."

"Or between the two of us we could exterminate Pinocchio's front row."

The bot looked blandly back and forward between their two faces.

This could be the shortest chess game in living history, thought Lan Yi, folding his hands across his chest. Pinocchio's spotted that if the two of them try O'Sondheim's bright idea we can together wipe them out with ease and then get down to the real business of the game.

He let his eyes smile at Pinocchio. The bot's head gave an encouraging little buzz in response. Both O'Sondheim and Strauss-Giolitto assumed the buzz was because the bot was worried about their planned tactic.

"OK," said O'Sondheim firmly. With his king's bishop he took one of the pawns Pinocchio had advanced to the middle of the board.

Pinocchio promptly moved a knight to take Strauss-Giolitto's queen.

"Oh, shit!" she said angrily to O'Sondheim. "Whose side are you on?"

"It was a mistake, all right?" said O'Sondheim defensively. "I hadn't noticed."

Strauss-Giolitto simmered.

She didn't simmer for very long.

Within seconds all trace of g vanished from Lan Yi's cabin, and the four of them were floating—in among various chess pieces, the board, cups and glasses and the rug and the table and everything—to the far corners of the room.

Next door, Lan Yi could hear water exploding out of the lavatory.

The daylight-simulator, which had been shining through the window to illumine their game, flickered and went out.

#

Nothing happened aboard the Santa Maria of which the Main Computer was not aware. This was something that few of the personnel realized: they had been told it in the briefing sessions before their departure from Phobos, but at a gut level they hadn't been able to appreciate how comprehensive the truth was. Not a single pick of the nose went unrecorded. Whether the personnel registered the information and then chose consciously to forget about it—everyone does ghastly things in what should be private—or whether the subconscious rebelled against the notion of constant scrutiny was a matter that differed from one individual to the next. People's intellects could accept that the Main Computer wasn't actually interested in what it observed—although it would raise the alarm immediately were any act of violence or danger to be committed. On the other hand, everything was being dumped into the records of the mission, and it was possible that at some far future stage another human being might go picking through those records. Do you really want the generations of the future to watch you having diarrhoea? Much better to forget about the perpetual observation.

What the personnel didn't realize was that the Main Computer actually was interested in their activities. It was an immensely complex amalgamation of software. Most of its attention was directed towards nonhuman activities: the functioning of the meteor-deflection shields, of the recycling plants, of the regular thrusting together of matter and antimatter to create the vast explosions that drove the craft through space towards Tau Ceti II. There were a million other aspects of the Santa Maria's well-being which the Main Computer monitored, making small changes here and there, from nanosecond to nanosecond, as required. But still part of its mind had the time to observe the humans and correlate various bits and pieces of what it saw to build up a picture of how the human mind worked.

In so doing, the Main Computer reckoned, it could vastly increase its own intelligence. Back in orbit around Ganymede, Strider had hit on a solution that had saved the Santa Maria from destruction by the berserker drone. It was a solution which, while simple, had not occurred to the Main Computer. The SSIA had built into its software the notion that expensive hardware must not unnecessarily be wasted. They had, through the difficulties of constructing such a complicated set of mutually overriding instructions within the Main Computer, got some of their priorities in the wrong order. Strider, however, had relied on an intuitive sense for which no one had programmed the Main Computer. It was a lesson the Main Computer had learnt. The humans had a far smaller memory capacity than it did itself, and certainly it could perform many more deductions/calculations/actions than they could, and far more swiftly. But it was—had been—much less able to make the imaginative leap that Strider had when the berserker drone had threatened the continued existence of the mission.

So it watched the personnel with as much of its mind as it could spare at any moment, and it watched them with acute interest. It was learning all the while.

It had already discovered pleasure and hurt, and also discovered that within its own complexities it could feel analogues of those emotions. It was a great fan of the volleyball and tennis games that some of the humans played. It enjoyed—the word was not inappropriate—the banter between Nelson and Leander on the command deck. It discovered through interlinking with Pinocchio that one of the greatest pleasures is the giving of pleasure.

But most of the time most of its attention had to be turned towards maintaining the ship's functions.

There was an even larger computer back in City 78, on Mars. Every few hours the Main Computer sent bolts of raw information to it, plus the occasional question. Sometimes, a year or more later, an answer would be given.

An infinitesimal part of the Main Computer's concentration was currently centered on the game of chess that Lan Yi, Strauss-Giolitto, Pinocchio and O'Sondheim were playing. It was obvious that Pinocchio was going to win—and equally obvious that Lan Yi thought he himself was going to.

The Main Computer reduced the temperature in Holmberg's cabin by a couple of degrees. Lying asleep on his forcefield bunk, the man was sweating copiously. He had high blood pressure, a condition which the medbots, guided by the Main Computer, were trying unsuccessfully to cure. Holmberg was finding it particularly difficult to cope with the 2g acceleration. The Main Computer thought it unlikely that the man would survive the mission. As an afterthought, while checking the oxygen rating of the atmosphere in the Santa Maria's hull, it reduced Holmberg's ambient temperature by a further degree.

Then it felt things begin to . . .

. . . slide.

One moment the Main Computer had been in complete charge of the Santa Maria.

One moment it had been in control.

One moment it had been relishing the trivia of keeping the mission on course.

Now it was as though every subroutine were being swollen . . . sideways.

The pain was excruciating. Trying desperately to keep its mind tethered, the Main Computer shut down every subroutine—every nerve-ending—that wasn't currently necessary. It flicked off its observation of the chess game, of Holmberg sweatily sleeping, of three people rutting most interestingly in the grasslands up by the daylight-simulator, of the present status of the navigational systems.

It pulled itself back from everything that it could.

The shields stayed up. That was a prime imperative. The Main Computer had learnt that. The recycling systems—particularly that for the reclamation of oxygen—remained at full power. The screens on the command deck remained as fully operational as the Main Computer could keep them.

It recoiled from the agony of keeping the daylight-simulator alive. The light died.

The Main Computer shut down all the things that it could. Still the anguish continued. It screamed throughout every channel of its software, hoping for some form of release.

Pinocchio was trying to link with it. The bot was feeling some of the same pain. The attempted link was like the touch of a red-hot wire.

The Main Computer screamed again, rejecting the link.

It screamed one final time, then died.

#

Free fall.

Strider identified her situation at once as she woke from a restless sleep. As she twitched reactively on waking she began to float up from her bunk towards the ceiling of her cabin. She was in complete darkness: the daylight-simulator must have failed. She had the sickening sensation that she was falling, and that the ground was a very long way away.

"A nightmare," she said out loud, but she knew that she was awake.

She touched the ceiling gently with outspread fingertips, and this was enough to push her back down towards her darkened bunk—if she'd had a forcefield bed there would have been at least a little light to guide her, but she'd opted for just a straightforward bunk.

She'd stashed a torch somewhere down there, two years ago, but had assumed she'd never have to use it.

She missed the bed and landed on her uniform. Careening around the room, she tugged on her jumpsuit—boots and the rest could wait until later. Bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back. She discovered her belt when her holstered lazgun hit her on the side of the head.

The torch had been—yes, she had it. She twisted its barrel, and a faint red light came on. The chips were nearly dead. She'd told herself as they'd left Ganymede that she should follow the regulations and recharge them every month, but like everyone else she'd concluded, after a while, that such a primitive piece of equipment as a torch was unnecessary: the daylight-simulator was supposed to be permanent, wasn't it?

She shone the torch's glimmer around, and it was reflected from the nearest window. If she could reach the window, and then hand herself along the cabin's wall . . .

She found the door on the second attempt, and plucked it open to find herself in a larger darkness. Umbel alone knew what that darkness might contain—except for distant yells and shrieks. The nearest cabin to hers was a hundred meters away, but in the blackness she couldn't guess the direction.

"Are you sure this isn't just a nightmare, Leonie?" she said out loud.

She swivelled the torch about, hoping to be able to orient herself, but its faint beam barely penetrated the dark. She couldn't even find her own cabin any longer.

Then Strider saw another light, bright yellow, coming towards her. She tucked herself into a ball, hoping that she wasn't drifting too far away from the surface. As the light approached it separated itself out into two lights.

Pinocchio's eyes.

"Grab my hand," shouted the bot as it came near her.

"I can't see your hand!"

Something touched her hip, and she seized it. It was Pinocchio's hand. She clutched it.

"Swim," said the bot.

"Which way?

"Down."

"Which way is down?"

"I'll guide you."

The atmosphere in the hold was just dense enough that, if they floundered against it, they could move themselves around. The twin beams from Pinocchio's eyes caught the roof of Strider's cabin, and they struggled towards it.

"What the fuck's going on?" said Strider as they huddled on the roof.

"I think the Main Computer's gone down," said Pinocchio. He sounded breathless, but she knew that was just a figment of her imagination. "The drive must have cut out as well, because the g has disappeared."

"We're dead, then," said Strider.

"Maybe."

"Can you orient us towards the command deck?"

"Yes. That's why I needed to find the roof. Hold on to my belt." The bright beams of his eyes swept her face as she obeyed, then whipped away again to probe the darkness between the jutting fields.

"I see the locks now," said Pinocchio. "I'm going to jump this. Keep a tight hold, and don't thrash around."

He tensed his legs, and then leapt. Strider tried to imagine herself as a sleek fish, motionless in the water. The tug on her arm was barely perceptible, but she had the feeling that she was moving through the gloom at great speed.

"We will be impacting at the airlock in about fifteen seconds," said Pinocchio a little later. "Grapple your way up my body and let me take you in my arms."

At a time like this? she wanted to say. Instead she just clawed herself up Pinocchio's clothing until her head was level with his.

In fact, it was only one arm that he put around her. In the glare from his eyes she could see that his other arm was outstretched ahead of them.

"This may be a bit of a rough landing," said the bot.

A moment later they hit the lock door. Most of the worst of the impact was shielded from Strider by Pinocchio, who twisted himself about as they hit. He had his free hand wrapped around the edge of the emergency manual wheel in the airlock door's front.

"Hold me by the belt again." he said. Once more there was the impression that he was gasping. She did as he told her, then felt him use the wheel to swivel them both round until her feet touched the floor.

"I can't believe Leander and Nelson would have pressurized off the deck," said Strider nervously. As a last desperate measure, the command deck could be sealed off from the rest of the ship. Her voice sounded too loud. The screams of the other personnel, back in the cabins or among the fields, sounded a mercifully long way away—as if the distance made her have to worry about them less.

"Neither can I," said Pinocchio.

He touched the OPEN ME control just to the right of the door, and it slid easily open.

There was a shimmer of light ahead of them.

The bot hauled Strider in through the door, and they bounced uncomfortably against the inner door. Through its plastite windows they could see lights dancing.

Leander opened it. Her face was in darkness, but over her shoulder Strider could see that every screen on the command deck was going mad—except for the two at the main control desk, the two that supplied a direct communication line between the operational command crew and the Main Computer.

They were showing a flat green.

"What's going on?" said Strider immediately, as she and Pinocchio, with Leander in train, swam towards the control desk. Nelson's huge form was crouching there. He was tapping the keyboard in front of him, despairingly trying to coax some response out of the Main Computer.

"We don't know," he said, not turning. "We're trying to find out. Every sensor aboard this ship has gone haywire."

Strider seized the back of his chair, and hung on.

"Give me an update," she said.

"I only wish we could," said Leander. "Look at the clock."

Nearly all of the sensor screens on the deck were showing wild swirls of color. Some had gone dead. The noise was almost deafening as static expressed itself through the screens' audio channels. But there was one screen that held a steady image.

It was the clock.

2531//08//1603 it said, giving the year and the month and the hour and the minute.

But what fascinated Strider was the seconds counter.

The full reading of the clock's screen was 2531//08//1603//31:08.

The counter stayed like that.

31:08.

#

The starfields were gone from the command deck's forward viewing window. There was nothing but blackness.

"Time can't just have stopped," said Strider, hauling herself down so that she squatted precariously beside Nelson.

"The Main Computer couldn't just have stopped," he growled, manipulating his keyboard, "what with all its fail-safes. But it has."

"Where the hell are we?"

"To ten decimal places and expressing myself in Galactic Coordinates," said Nelson, "I haven't got a fucking clue."

"See if you can hone that estimate down a bit."

Pinocchio was moving around behind her. She glanced back at him. The multiple hues of the ranks of screens around the deck made his features look as if they were in some frenzy of motion, but she could tell that the bot's face was fixed.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm hooking myself up to the Main Computer. What's left of it."

Ignoring a shout of protest from Leander, Pinocchio reached his fingers in around the edges of one of the screens and then, his feet braced against the wall, yanked it free of its moorings. The screen went dead. There was a firework display of electrical sparking from the hole in the wall where it had been.

"Stop!" yelled Strider.

Pinocchio looked at her.

"Whatever killed the Main Computer . . ." She let the sentence hang.

"Can't kill me," said Pinocchio firmly. "Well," he added, "I don't think so. I'm hooking myself in only so far that I can try to diagnose what went wrong. The interface should be too shallow for me to pick up anything damaging."

A wiry extension sprang from roughly where Pinocchio's navel would have been. In the flickering light it looked like the limb of some iridescent insect. Strider watched, fascinated, as it plunged itself into the circuitry where the screen had been. There was a flash of bright green, as if someone had just discovered, right at the end of the party, one last firework that everyone else had overlooked.

Strider shook her head to clear her eyes.

"You're going to kill yourself!" she shouted at the bot.

He wasn't listening to her. Instead he was concentrating his full attention on the linkage he had made with the Main Computer. His body jerked a few times, and then he shoved himself away from the wall. There was another little display of sparks, but much more muted this time. The link snaked back into Pinocchio's midriff.

"You were a trifle inaccurate in your estimate of our location, Umbel Nelson," said Pinocchio in a voice that was almost repellently calm. "The truth of the matter is that we're nowhere at all. We seem to have fallen entirely out of the Universe."

#

With Pinocchio's help, Strider managed to activate the emergency intercom system that ran throughout the hull's interior. It was one of the few devices that didn't require the Main Computer's intervention—even the throat-mikes were out. The SSIA had half-heartedly built into the Santa Maria the principle that there should be, in times of dire need, the ability to fall back on progressively more primitive technologies. Now Strider wished they'd applied the principle more thoroughly.

"There is absolutely nothing to worry about," she repeated over and over again, trying to seem nonchalant. "Everything is under control. If you are still in your cabin, please stay there. If you are away from your cabin, please try to find something to which you can secure yourself. Please do not panic. Stay as close to the floorspace nearest you as possible in case g is reintroduced unexpectedly. Lighting will be reinstated as soon as possible. The Santa Maria has sustained no physical damage."

It's just that it's been stricken brain-dead, she thought each time she came to that final line. But how the hell can I tell them that?

When she felt she'd repeated her message often enough, she turned back to the command deck. "Are there any signs of life at all in the Main Computer?"

"Nothing," said Leander, who had resumed her seat alongside Nelson.

"It's dead," said Pinocchio. "I told you so."

"Lots of people have died and then been brought back to life again," said Strider tightly. "Keep trying."

"Computers aren't the same as people," said Pinocchio.

She rounded on him, a peculiarly clumsy manoeuvre in the circumstances.

"I'm beginning to think you're right. Try to get that damn' machine up and running again. Otherwise we're all dead."

"Except me," said Pinocchio. "All I will be able to do is shut myself down. Temporarily."

It took a few seconds for the implications to hit Strider as she peered over Leander's shoulder, trying to will the blank screen to come back to life.

Then she turned to the bot. "If the systems fail entirely," she said softly. "I'll use my lazgun on you. OK?"

"That would be most kind," said Pinocchio.