Providence - Max Barry Page 0,18

alien way of thinking, which can’t be translated into any human language. It doesn’t even really know we’re here. It would be like you trying to communicate to your white blood cells that you want them to fight an infection: Even if you could somehow physically talk, there’s no overlap in how you convey meaning or understand motivations. You frame concepts in totally different ways.”

“Then where did the ‘hello’ come from?”

He shrugged. “Someone programmed it, maybe. Or else it really is similar to how you communicate with your white blood cells: via a process that’s so far beneath conscious thought, you’re not even aware of it.”

She smiled, because she did enjoy Gilly’s dorky explanations, and it was important that he feel understood. If she seemed confused, he would become anxious and throw words at her brain until she faked it. “Well, I like it.” She reached out and touched a HELLO. It was nice, she thought, even if Gilly was right and the ship wasn’t really talking. She didn’t know her white blood cells, not as individuals, but she was grateful for whatever work they did. She wished them well and cared that they remained unharmed. If that was similar to how the ship felt about its crew, she was happy. She liked that just fine. “Hello, ship,” she said.

Gilly looked at her like she was crazy. “It’s just a message.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. Obviously it was just a message. Obviously messages were for exchanging bare, dry facts. There had never in history been a message that conveyed more than its most literal interpretation. “I get it.”

* * *

—

Speaking of messages, she had a few from her sister and her parents, but she dutifully deprioritized these in case she lost the relay. It was more important to file clips for her feed. She combined the latter with a workout, pedaling at 120 revolutions per minute, a white towel draped across her shoulders, narrating to camera about the burn in her calves, which she related only slightly tortuously to the fight for galactic supremacy. “I think there’s a fight in each of us,” she said, pedaling. “If you’re back home, pushing your bike, or lugging groceries, or sweating your job, you’re fighting. And that fight connects us. I know I keep saying it, but I don’t feel alone out here because I know you’re with me. I’m carrying your fight, our fight, out there.” Then she said good-bye for six months, or however long it turned out to be. And it was honestly emotional, because she would miss them, her followers, who sent her messages like I love you! and Keep kicking salamander ass! and How do you do your eyes, they’re so beautiful. Oh, how she would miss Feed Talia.

The process left her drained and she granted herself a brief nap before resuming her tasks. But when she woke, she could feel something was different. She applied her film and pinged the relay and it came back with NO CONNECTION. It had happened. They were in VZ.

* * *

—

Three days later, they had an engagement. The walls flushed orange; the klaxon sounded; she scrambled to station. Her place was on A Deck, up at the top of the ship, which she liked as a concept. There was no view; it was a hardened room with a harness and a bunch of screens, the same as any station. But it was fun to imagine herself up top, a puppet master, strings dangling to the three below. Because that was what she was doing: monitoring Jackson, Anders, and Gilly. All the garbage she called in about thermals and desats during an engagement, that didn’t matter at all. Nothing could go wrong with any of that. The crew were a different story.

The harness curled around her, holding her tight. She quite enjoyed that, too. It was like getting a hug from the ship. “Life, checking in.”

Jackson: “Welcome, Life.”

Gilly: “Intel, checking in. All green.”

“Anders?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“C Deck. Give me a minute. I’m coming.”

“Can you go live on ping, please?”

“Sure. Sorry. We were playing ninja stars.” On Talia’s film, Anders’s name brightened. He was near Medical, she