In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and was bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty, but there was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to my attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness or misery.
- Dr. Frankenstein Speaks, Shiprecords
THOMAS STRETCHED himself in the hammock of a cell and watched a fly creep its way across his ceiling. There were no ports in this cell, no chrono. He had no way of estimating the time.
The fly skirted the protrusion of a sensor eye.
"So we brought you, too." Thomas spoke aloud to the fly. "It wouldn't surprise me to find a few rats skulking around this place. Non-human rats, that is."
The fly stopped and rubbed its wings. Thomas listened. There was a steady stream of footsteps up and down the passage outside his locked hatch. It had been locked from the outside, no handle in here.
He knew he was somewhere within Oakes' infamous Redoubt, the fortress outpost on Black Dragon. They had taken all of his clothing, every possession, leaving him with a poorly fitted green singlesuit.
"Quarantine!" he snorted, still talking aloud. "At Moonbase we called it 'the hole.'"
Some of those footsteps outside were running. Everything was rush-rush here. He wondered what was happening. What was going on over at Colony? Where had they taken Waela? They had told him he was headed for debriefing. It turned out to be a quick once-over by a strange med-tech and isolation in this cell. Quarantine! Before they had closed the hatch, he had glimpsed a sign across the way: "Lab One." So they had a Lab One here, to.... or they had moved the other one from Colony.
He was aware of the sensor eye prying at him from the ceiling. The cell was spartan - the hammock, a fixed desk, a sink, an old-style composting toilet without seat.
Once more, he looked at the fly. It had progressed to the far corner of the cell.
"Ishmael," he said. "I think I'll call you Ishmael."
...his hand will be against every man and every man's hand against him, and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.
Ship's unmistakable presence filled Thomas' head so suddenly that he clapped his hands over his ears in reflex.
"Ship!" He closed his eyes and found that he was near tears. I can't give in to hysteria! I can't!
Why not, Devil? Hysteria has its moments. Particularly among humans.
"There isn't time for hysteria." He opened his eyes, brought his hands away from his ears, and spoke in the general direction of the ceiling sensor. "We have to solve Your problem of WorShip. They won't listen to me. I'll have to take direct action."
Ship was relentless: Not MY problem! Your problem.
"My problem, then. I'm going to share it with the others."
It is time to talk of endings, Raj.
He glared at the sensor, as though that were the origin of the presence in his head.
"You mea.... break the recording?"
Yes, it is the time of times.
Was that sadness in Ship?
"Must You?"
Yes.
So Ship really meant it. This was not just another diversion, another replay. Thomas closed his eyes, feeling his voice go slack in his throat, his mouth dry. He opened his eyes and the fly was gone.
"Ho.... long do w.... how long?"
There was a noticeable pause.
Seven diurns.
"That's not enough! I might do it in sixty. Give me sixty diurns. What's such a sliver of time to You?"
Just that, Raj: a sliver. Annoying, the way it works its way into the most sensitive area. Seven diurns, Raj, then I must be about other business.
"How can we discover the right way to WorShip in seven diurns? We haven't satisfied You for centuries an...."
The kelp is dying. It has seven diurns until extinction. Oakes thinks it will be longer, but he is mistaken. Seven diurns, then, for you all.