Hull Zero Three - By Greg Bear Page 0,2

see black stripes and thousands of tiny lights wrapped around the long, curved hall. The lights are going out. Walls fall in place behind me. They make the horrible clanging sound I heard at first. They’re called bulkheads or maybe hatches. I blink and look up and down and see notches, indentations. That’s where the bulkheads will rise or fall and close me off, trap me.

Where I am is bad. All wrong. The only place to go is in the light ahead, receding, getting smaller, soon to vanish unless I run faster and keep up with the little one, a faraway, tiny figure, all thrashing legs and arms.

I start to really run. My legs catch on, my arms pump in rhythm. The air is warming a little. I can breathe without pain, then I breathe deep, as instructed. Swirls of fog drape off the walls and split as I pass through them. Other oval doors fly by. All are dark and cold, like little rat holes.

Rats. Whatever they are.

No time for questions.

“Come on!” the little one shouts over her shoulder.

No need for encouragement. I’ve almost caught up with her. My legs are longer. I’m taller. I can run faster if I put my mind to it. But then I realize she’s deliberately lagging, and with a burst she’s way ahead, pink in the full blaze of light. She turns and waves her hand, beckoning.

“Hurry! I’ve got clothes!”

A bulkhead slides down, and I jump forward just before it slams shut. It would have smashed me or cut me in half. The long, curved hall doesn’t care. That violates everything I think I know, everything I think I remember. The next notch is a few steps ahead. The floor rumbles and shivers. I pass the notch. The bulkhead puffs cold air on my back as it slams down. I’m gaining on them.

The little one jumps for joy. “Almost there!” she shouts.

What a way to wake up from the long nap, but I’m almost in the light. The warmth is delicious, the air is sweet. Maybe there’s hope.

I look back. Another bulkhead drops. So far, my life—away from the Dreamtime—is filled with simple shapes and volumes. Striped halls, hatches, oval and circular openings, gray and dark brown except for the lights. Then there’s the little one, like me, legs and arms and running and shouting.

I look ahead. The little one holds one arm up, head turned sideways, mouth open in surprise, staring at something I can’t see.

She suddenly flinches and covers her face with her arm.

Something new and terrible enters the picture. I see it in the square of light, where the little one is, where I want to be. A thick, furry blackness fills that square, blocks it with a huge, unfurled rug of a hand that swoops behind the little one and wraps her and lifts her. She screams a short scream and then throws something as far as she can—something small. It lands in the hall, bounces, slides to a stop.

Something moves in the blackness, and three gleaming beads focus on me—looking at me. Then it’s gone. She’s gone. The light opens up. Warmth pulses down the hall like a temptation, a lure. I stop and stand, shivering, under a spatter of condensation from the roof.

A wall flies up between me and the horror waiting in the light. I don’t mind. I slump and lean against the wall, a bulkhead five or six paces behind me and now one in front, nine or ten paces. The little one is gone. The light is gone.

I guess it all started badly, so I close my eyes and hope maybe it will stop. It’s quiet. The walls aren’t freezing but they are still cold. I think if I lie flat, they’ll suck out what’s left of my heat. That’s what I need. A reset. Time to start over. I’ll be painlessly absorbed and wait for a better start, more like what the Dreamtime promised. I hardly remember any of what came before the sac, the tugging, the cold. It’s gone but leaves a beautiful, troubling impression.

Things could have been so much better. What went wrong? I lie back and stare up at the dripping brownness. The coolness is pleasant after the exertion.

Who was the little one? I think past tense because I’m sure whatever it was that got her ate her or recycled her or something like that. Obvious and inevitable. First lesson learned: Don’t go where it’s comfortable. Something bad will be