tug—the release of tensions in back and shoulders, followed by drifting—bumping. The three big ones release my legs and arms and resort to pushing me along, floating me into the new warmth.
“ Footba ,” I say to them. “ Hel.Radula.Recedin . Remember your new words, students—there’s going to be a quiz.”
The little girl shoves her face close to mine. She looks angry. “Shut up,” she says. “You don’t know anything yet.”
“We’re on a Ship,” I murmur, lips loose, head lolling. I point with both hands. “That’s fore. That’s aft .”
She slaps my face—hard. TEACHER LEARNS
Teacher is being a pain,” she says to the man with the bony ridge. His voice in reply is a deep honk followed by a whistle. I’m floating between the four, waiting for them to try something. Wondering if I have enough strength left to defend myself. “Who are they ?” I ask.
The girl wipes her nose again. “They came to the heap and took me from the cleaner. Then they killed the cleaner. The cleaner isn’t very dangerous—it’s a nuisance. It just wanted to collect me and leave me in the heap. I could have escaped.”
“Maybe they wanted to eat it.”
The girl makes a face. “Cleaners taste awful.”
The three pay little attention as we resume moving along. They leave me to push and kick in the weightlessness to keep up. Amazingly, I still have some strength, but my skin hurts like fury, and I keep shuddering with painful dry heaves.
They’re looking ahead, looking for something—something they lost, perhaps.
“Is this all of them?” I ask the girl between heaves.
“All I’ve met,” she says. “I’ve already given them names.”
“You haven’t given me a name.”
“You’re always Teacher.”
Ofcourse , I think. My curiosity as to this point is nil. My throat is sore, my eyes feel like they’re on fire, and the black fluid crusted all over me is starting to raise little blisters. “I need to wash this stuff off,” I croak.
“It’s factor blood. Don’t worry about it,” the girl says. “You’ll probably be dead soon.”
“Factor?”
She gives me a pained look. “Factors. The cleaner, the swim-worm.”
“Oh. What about water, food?”
“Nothing so far,” the girl says. “We’re probably al going to be dead soon.”
“So it’s over,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It’s never over. We keep looking.” She holds out her book. “Maybe we’ll find one of these for you.”
“A book?”
“It’s how we know anything at all,” the girl says. “They have books, too. Except for him .” She points to the pink one with the bony crest, the only one who’s tried to talk. “That’s Picker. He can’t find his. Whatever he’s learned will be lost.” She gives me a squint.
“Cleaners…” I can barely talk, so my question or whatever I thought I was going to say goes unsaid. I move and think and keep it all to myself, which is just as well, because I’m becoming delusional.
Becoming. I manage a raw chuckle.
Then the Blue-Black fellow with the flat face performs a sort of quivering wiggle and makes an extraordinary series of whistles—really pretty. The pink, crested fellow acts excited, too, and emits his own warble-honk.
They see something.
I twist my head. At the very end of what I can see of the curving tube is a large opening, another fistula—and this time it’s on the left side.
“That might go forward,” the girl says. “We have to get there before it closes. Keep up with us. And watch out for a big wind.”
“Terrific,” I say. A breeze creeps up from behind. It doesn’t cool me—I have no sweat to evaporate. If there was heaviness, I wouldn’t make it this time. But weightless, I’m just barely able to stay about four body lengths behind the others.
The closer I get to the opening, the stronger the breeze, until it becomes a wind. The three big fellows reach the hole first. They form up like an acrobatic team, gripping arms and shoulders and spanning the tube with
“ Footba ,” I say to them. “ Hel.Radula.Recedin . Remember your new words, students—there’s going to be a quiz.”
The little girl shoves her face close to mine. She looks angry. “Shut up,” she says. “You don’t know anything yet.”
“We’re on a Ship,” I murmur, lips loose, head lolling. I point with both hands. “That’s fore. That’s aft .”
She slaps my face—hard. TEACHER LEARNS
Teacher is being a pain,” she says to the man with the bony ridge. His voice in reply is a deep honk followed by a whistle. I’m floating between the four, waiting for them to try something. Wondering if I have enough strength left to defend myself. “Who are they ?” I ask.
The girl wipes her nose again. “They came to the heap and took me from the cleaner. Then they killed the cleaner. The cleaner isn’t very dangerous—it’s a nuisance. It just wanted to collect me and leave me in the heap. I could have escaped.”
“Maybe they wanted to eat it.”
The girl makes a face. “Cleaners taste awful.”
The three pay little attention as we resume moving along. They leave me to push and kick in the weightlessness to keep up. Amazingly, I still have some strength, but my skin hurts like fury, and I keep shuddering with painful dry heaves.
They’re looking ahead, looking for something—something they lost, perhaps.
“Is this all of them?” I ask the girl between heaves.
“All I’ve met,” she says. “I’ve already given them names.”
“You haven’t given me a name.”
“You’re always Teacher.”
Ofcourse , I think. My curiosity as to this point is nil. My throat is sore, my eyes feel like they’re on fire, and the black fluid crusted all over me is starting to raise little blisters. “I need to wash this stuff off,” I croak.
“It’s factor blood. Don’t worry about it,” the girl says. “You’ll probably be dead soon.”
“Factor?”
She gives me a pained look. “Factors. The cleaner, the swim-worm.”
“Oh. What about water, food?”
“Nothing so far,” the girl says. “We’re probably al going to be dead soon.”
“So it’s over,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It’s never over. We keep looking.” She holds out her book. “Maybe we’ll find one of these for you.”
“A book?”
“It’s how we know anything at all,” the girl says. “They have books, too. Except for him .” She points to the pink one with the bony crest, the only one who’s tried to talk. “That’s Picker. He can’t find his. Whatever he’s learned will be lost.” She gives me a squint.
“Cleaners…” I can barely talk, so my question or whatever I thought I was going to say goes unsaid. I move and think and keep it all to myself, which is just as well, because I’m becoming delusional.
Becoming. I manage a raw chuckle.
Then the Blue-Black fellow with the flat face performs a sort of quivering wiggle and makes an extraordinary series of whistles—really pretty. The pink, crested fellow acts excited, too, and emits his own warble-honk.
They see something.
I twist my head. At the very end of what I can see of the curving tube is a large opening, another fistula—and this time it’s on the left side.
“That might go forward,” the girl says. “We have to get there before it closes. Keep up with us. And watch out for a big wind.”
“Terrific,” I say. A breeze creeps up from behind. It doesn’t cool me—I have no sweat to evaporate. If there was heaviness, I wouldn’t make it this time. But weightless, I’m just barely able to stay about four body lengths behind the others.
The closer I get to the opening, the stronger the breeze, until it becomes a wind. The three big fellows reach the hole first. They form up like an acrobatic team, gripping arms and shoulders and spanning the tube with
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