“Oh, relax.”
Mer raises a single talon, gleaming in the light from above. “Something weird up ahead,” he says quietly. “Looks like, uh…”
“Like the end of the universe?” asks Sarya, equally quietly.
“I didn’t want to say it, but…”
Mer is more correct than he suspects. They are looking at the end of something, and not even the light of a trillion burning starships can illuminate it. The end of Network, perhaps. Maybe the end of the galaxy, if Network is the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. Her species cracked Network once, all by themselves; what could they do this time? Give them a few hundred star systems and every forbidden technology imaginable. Lock them in the darkness for a thousand years, under the loving ministrations of a cheerfully sociopathic supermind. What could they possibly become?
Empire, says something in her mind.
She pushes the thought away as she steps around Mer. “Ship,” she says in what she hopes is a voice of authority.
“Welcome, Human,” thunders the end of the universe. “Input command.”
The volume of its voice is staggering, particularly in the quiet forest, but there’s nothing she can do about it but get aboard quickly. “I would like to come aboard,” she says. “With my friends.”
“Authorizing five guests for Human user,” says the ship. A brilliant rectangle fades into existence in the darkness directly in front of her. Its light streams away into the forest behind them, blending with the chaos of light and shadow between the trees. Sarya turns to gaze out there for a long moment, searching for the gleam of golden eyes.
“Don’t worry,” says Right. “When the boss is out, He’s out.”
Left scratches his head, his hair nearly glowing in the combined light sources. “I mean,” it says, “there is cause for concern.”
“You worry too much.”
“I worry too much? What about—”
“Inside,” says Sarya, cutting off the argument by stepping between the two. “Everybody.”
The moment her booted foot touches the floor of the corridor, she is aware that she is standing on something alien. Every space she’s ever been in has been Network Environment Type F, carefully constructed from a bundle of requirements and guidelines collected and revised over half a billion years. Those spaces have been lowest common denominator, designed to be useful to as many biologies as possible. They are made of compromise and refinement. They have solutions for every possible problem. They even smell the same.
And they have been totally ignored by the Humans who built this ship.
“Who designed this thing?” asks Mer, cramming himself in sideways.
“Clearly not someone who cared much for your particular anatomy,” answers Roche.
Sarya doesn’t respond to either one. She runs a finger through the holograms projected in front of the walls. She revels in the touch of the material behind them. These markings are in…in Human. These walls were built by Humans. This corridor is Human-sized, the floor she’s standing on was made for Humans to stand on. And here she is, a Human, standing on it. The first one in…how long?
“Goddess,” she whispers.
“Do we plan on leaving?” says Roche. “Or just caressing Human architecture until the boss wakes up?”
She feels someone pushing at the back of her thighs. “Your synthetic friend raises a great point,” says Left from behind and below her. “We should listen.”
“Oh, relax,” says Right. “We’ve been lucky so far.”
“Ship,” Sarya calls, turning away from the wall. “Close the hatch and prepare for departure.”
Behind Mer, the wall shimmers back into existence. Through her feet, she feels a rough and uneven hum, like something unbalanced and powerful has started up somewhere in the heart of the ship. “Preparing for departure,” says the ship. “If you would like to survive departure, please proceed to an acceleration-safe area.”
“Say again?” says Roche.
“You get used to it,” murmurs Right.
Sarya would be happy to discuss the differences between a Network mind and a homemade AI who’s had no one but Observer to talk to for a millennium or so—but at some future time. For now, practicality is all that counts. “Ship,” she says, “how do we get to an acceleration-safe area?”
“Now displaying path to nearest control room,” says the ship. On its words, an orange holographic line begins to glow a few centimeters above the floor.
Sarya turns to follow it. “And ship,” she adds with a backward glance, “do not let anyone else in.”
“Command acknowledged.”
Somehow that doesn’t seem like enough. “I mean, seriously,” she says. “Do whatever you have to.”
“Countermeasures engaged. Unauthorized entry will be met with lethal force.”
“She just told a ship to kill,” murmurs Mer behind her. “And it said…okay.”
“The same ship has already threatened to kill us,” says Roche. “By accident, but still.”
“What is wrong with these people?” says Mer.
They are her people, but Sarya has no defense. “This isn’t the Network,” she says shortly, setting off after the orange line.
She walks at the head of the group, briskly and in a businesslike manner. She is careful to keep her face forward and out of view, because her eyes are burning again. Her own sentence repeats in her mind and she cannot believe how much she hates it. This isn’t the Network. She wonders if she is the first to say something that will become a common saying among trillions. When this sector is a wasteland of war and destruction, is that what intelligences will say to justify their actions? To justify any actions at all?
Yeah, well…this isn’t the Network.
“I cannot imagine the thought process behind this place,” says Roche behind her.
“Must make sense if you’re a Human,” says Mer.
“Makes sense to me,” says Right.
“Hush,” says Left, glancing fearfully down each corridor they cross.
It takes only a few tense minutes to arrive at the end of the orange line, where a section of wall fades to nothing. Behind it is a chamber just as odd—and just as strangely natural-feeling—as the rest of the ship. It’s a circular room perhaps ten meters across, poorly lit except for the dense cluster of red holographic displays in the center. Around the walls are installed…furniture? Seating? But what kind of creature—