Counting Heads

2.3

Today it was all El and Ellie. They rode in twin seat podules in their private yacht. They traveled alone. They wore matching jumpsuits. And although the mother had been born two centuries before the daughter was decanted, today they were sisters, women of thirty or so, their mutual age of choice.

Ellen sat on the starboard side where the giant blue face of Earth hung outside her window. It loomed, eclipsing the stars. She felt the first bumps of atmosphere, which meant at least another four hours till touchdown. She was bored.

Eleanor, her mother, claimed to know the cure for boredom. It was called work. Because work, according to Eleanor, was play. Indeed, at this moment it looked as though Ellen’s mother was playing house. She had a dozen dolls arranged in tiers in her podule. She barked questions and orders at them. She floated dollhouse furniture, tiny tables and chrome hoops, in the air before her.

These weren’t really dolls, but miniature holos and proxies of her colleagues, employees, and mentar. And it wasn’t dollhouse furniture, but scale models of their solar harvesters and Oships. A breakfast holoconference—or maybe a dozen overlapping meetings. It was work after all. Ellen sighed. She supposed she, too, had work to do. “Wee Hunk,” she said to her own mentar, “call Clarity and see if she wants to work. Wait, what’s her local time?”

Ellen and her business partner, Clarity, owned a small but influential production company for the daily novellas called Burning Daylight Productions. Recently, they had bought up a prematurely obsolete hollyholo character, Renaldo (the Dangerous), and were trying to retool it.

“Well?” Ellen said. “Is she available?”

Ellen’s mentar, Wee Hunk, appeared to be sitting idly before her as a miniature man in a tiny, floating armchair. The mentar wore a tiger-stripe robe and leopard-spot slippers and pretended to be reading a paper book. He marked his place with a finger and looked at her. He said, “Clarity’s valet says she’s currently unavailable,” and went back to his book.

“Wee Hunk, this is important.”

“I have no doubt.”

“No, really. I won’t have time later. I’ll tell you what. Cast a proxy of me and send it to her.” Ellen prepared herself to be cast. She closed her eyes, took a couple of relaxing breaths, and concentrated on the topic of discussion—Renaldo (the Dangerous) and how she and Clarity could fix it. Ellen opened her eyes expecting to see a proxy ready for her inspection, but no such proxy appeared. For that matter, Wee Hunk had disappeared too. Just then, their yacht hit an atmospheric bump, and the earthscape dipped below her window. Vernier thrusters fired to restore the ship’s attitude. Ellen wasn’t alarmed. Reentry was often rocky, but the yacht was controlled by dedicated tandem pilot submentars—avionics subems—so there was little chance of anything serious going wrong.

The seat podules began to rotate to their upright position—that probably meant they were in store for more heavy weather. Then the cabin lights failed, and her mother’s doll-like holos flickered out all at once. Ellen was pressed against her right armrest, and when she looked out her window, Earth was rolling in and out of sight. The yacht was spinning. The verniers fired in staccato bursts to counteract, and again the craft righted itself. The main engines ignited then, pushing Ellen against her seatback. The engines made an odd pocky noise as they burned. Still, Ellen wasn’t frightened. Over the years, she’d experienced a lot of rough rides, but these yachts always knew what to do. She looked over at Eleanor. Her mother was trying to tell her something, but the cabin noise was too loud. “What is she saying?” she asked her truant mentar, annoyed that she even had to ask. “Wee Hunk! Answer me!”

At last Ellen felt an icy stab of fear, not because of the turbulence, but because of her mentar’s silence. She realized she was off-line. It was a feeling she never liked and never got used to. She turned again to her mother. Eleanor sat calmly in her podule, pressing her left hand flat against her windowpane. At first Ellen had no idea what she was doing, but then it occurred to her that Eleanor might be communicating with Cabinet through her palm array. Eleanor’s wily Cabinet would find some way to bounce a makeshift signal to her. Ellen decided to try to reach Wee Hunk that way, but before she could, the cabin lights returned and the ride smoothed out. The shipsvoice announced, “In the interest of safety, please rest your head against your seatback.”

Ellen laughed with relief. “Well, ship, what was that all about?” They were flying over an ocean now, the Pacific she guessed. Things seemed to have straightened themselves out—as they always did.

That’s not the ship; that’s Cabinet speaking through it, said Wee Hunk, his own voice now loud and clear in her head. Do as it says. You’re still in danger.

Ellen felt something warm and sticky at her feet. Sheets of blue arrestant foam were quickly layering the podule from the floor up. Layering her into the podule. The shipsvoice again instructed her to put her head back. The ceiling panel above her swung away, and a safety helmet began to descend along the seatback rail. Ellen obediently pressed her head against the seatback. She didn’t like this at all. The arrestant foam, with its fizzy intimacy, was bad enough, but the helmet terrified her. “Is this really necessary now?”

Something struck her window and startled her. She looked out to see flaming bits of ship streak past. The verniers were firing continuously now, but Earth sank out of sight, and she could discern the reddish glow of their fuselage against the black backdrop of space. The air in the cabin grew thin and sere, and there was a roaring din from the forward compartment. The whole ship shuddered. We’re breaking up, she thought with wonder.

Now she couldn’t wait to pod up. “What’s with the foam?” she said, for the arrestant had layered to her knees and stopped. She glanced up and saw that the helmet had only dropped halfway. She could see up into it, see all the diodes flashing inside, but it came no closer. Her mother was in worse shape; her overhead panel hadn’t even opened, and her podule contained no foam whatsoever. As Ellen watched, her mother unlocked her harness and stood up, bracing herself against the turbulence and clawing at the panel over her head. “Hurry,” Ellen urged her. “Sit down.” But her mother began to climb over the seatback to the podule in front. The helmet there had successfully dropped. She watched her mother resolutely wriggle and squeeze through the podule struts, fighting the ship’s jerky acceleration.

“Wee Hunk, tell Eleanor to hurry and pod up!”

I have relayed that to Cabinet, Wee Hunk said. Cabinet is doing everything it can for her. I’m trying to help you.

There was a sudden, sharp jolt that sent the yacht slamming end over end through the air. Even within the snug harbor of her seat harness, Ellen was shaken almost to unconsciousness. She caught glimpses of her mother wedged in the narrow space between seat support and ceiling. “Jettison the ship!” Ellen screamed above the roar. “Why don’t you just jettison the fecking ship?”

We’re attempting to but are unable. It will have to burn off us.

“She can’t hold on that long!”

In Ellen’s own podule, the midlevel jets resumed extruding layers of arrestant. The congealing foam reached her waist and dampened the worst of the ship’s shuddering.

Listen to me, Wee Hunk said in the calmest of voices. Your helmet is stuck. You must reach up and dislodge it. You must pull it down.

Ellen pressed her head against the seatback to steady herself, but the shaking was just as bad. When she tried to raise her hands, she discovered that they were caught in the foam. “I can’t! I’m stuck!”

Free one arm at a time.

Ellen wrenched her right arm out of the foam, and used it to help leverage out her left one. But the ship shook so much that when she raised her arms, they flailed over her head, and she couldn’t catch hold of the helmet.

Slide your hands up the seatback rail.

She did as she was told and reached the jammed helmet.

Now pull.

She pulled. Her lower body was firmly anchored by harness and foam, and she pulled as hard as she could. Nothing happened.

Cabinet says that Eleanor says to visualize it coming loose.

Ellen laughed in spite of everything. Visualization was a pet theory of her mother’s from an earlier century. But the message meant that Eleanor was watching her and not devoting full attention to her own safety. So Ellen tried again, for her mother’s sake as much as her own. She forced everything else out of her awareness and focused the force of her will on the helmet. “Come here,” she demanded, pulling with all her might, “I want you.” There was a mechanical snap that reverberated through her bones. Grudgingly, the helmet yielded to her, one stripped cog at a time. Soon her forehead reached inside it, and its collar flange was level with her nose. But the ship vibrated so hard it slammed her face against the helmet collar. When she tried to protect her face, the helmet hammered the back of her head. She saw splashes of light behind her eyes, and she slumped in her seat.

Ellen, Ellen. Wee Hunk’s voice drifted to her as from a distant place. She didn’t reply. She was curiously numb. She was growing tired of this whole dreary affair. Why couldn’t things just straighten themselves out?

Settling into the cottony comfort of cerebral hematoma, Ellen wondered about nothing in particular as the ship continued to break up around her. After what seemed like a very long time, something flew down the aisle and bounced off her shoulder. She looked for her mother, but Eleanor’s seat podule was empty.

Ellen, listen to me, Wee Hunk was saying. You must stretch yourself up into the helmet.

“It’s stuck!”

You’re right, it’s stuck. So you must stretch yourself up to it!

It took Ellen a long moment to see what her mentar was driving at. She found it fascinating how a few blows to the head could so immobilize one. That was a fact she must remember to use in a future novella. She looked around again. “Where’s Eleanor?”

Eleanor insists you concentrate on your own survival.

“Where is she? Is she all right?”

Cabinet is assisting her. It’s your job to stretch up into the helmet.

Ellen raised her head just below the collar flange and thought, The helmet is a bell, and I am its clapper. She grabbed the helmet and pulled. It was no good; she only managed to raise herself enough for the helmet to smack her in the teeth.

Your seat harness restrains you, said Wee Hunk. Release your harness.

“I don’t want to go flying off.”

You won’t; the arrestant will anchor you in place.

Ellen wiggled a loose tooth with her tongue.

Ellen! Unbuckle your harness!

“Don’t presume to tell me what to do!” she shouted, spitting blood.

Ellen H. Starke, you will do as I say!

Ellen wiped sweat from her eyes with a clean patch of sleeve. Something was different; something had changed. The violent shaking had stopped. The ride was smoother. For a wild moment she imagined they were safely on the ground, but no, there were clouds streaking by her window. And her stomach told her that they were in free fall.

“We jettisoned!” she said.

We didn’t jettison; the ship has burned off us. Now do as I say and stretch up into the helmet.

“But we’re safe now, aren’t we? We’re a glider now. We’ll glide down.”

Cabinet and I disagree. Too many fail-safes aboard this ship have already failed. We don’t trust the glider core. Already our descent is too steep and too fast.

Just by the free-fall sensation she knew he was right, and when they fell below the clouds, and she saw how quickly the land below was rising up, it finally dawned on her that someone was trying to kill them.

Ellen, use your helmet. We have only moments left.

Ellen craned her neck to look up at the helmet. Years ago, to earn her spaceflight passenger certificate, she’d had to endure an hour-long course in safety protocols aboard LEO spacecraft. She easily met all the requirements but one. There was simply no way that she was going to stick her head into one of these so-called safety helmets. She had tried to talk her way out of it. Donning a helmet took no skill, she argued. All one must do was insert one’s head. And if the need ever arose, unlikely as that was, she was sure she could do just that—insert her head.

The certifying program had been a particularly inflexible subem with a checklist to complete. It didn’t seem to care who she was and simply told her to don the safety helmet or fail the certification.

“Wee Hunk,” she pleaded, “if everything else is sabotaged, what makes you think the helmet isn’t too?”

The Cryostat Safety Helmet is an autonomous, completely self-contained unit. Whatever has taken over the ship cannot compromise it—except by keeping it out of reach.

Well, that made sense. Count on a mentar to make sense. “Wee Hunk, promise me that you won’t—you know—deploy the helmet unless you absolutely have to.”

Ellie, we have less than 180 seconds to impact.

Ellen unbuckled her harness and put her head into the collar. It was easy now with the smooth ride. She reached up and grasped the helmet, which felt hot to the touch. The cabin was a dry sauna, and her upper body was slick with sweat. As she pulled herself up, the arrestant hugging her waist didn’t let go of her, but it stretched, centimeter by centimeter, until she had pulled herself just clear of the collar, and she heard a sharp click. The cincture inflated explosively around her throat, and the collar dogs locked. She was in.

It was strangely quiet inside the helmet; the roaring din of the cabin was replaced by an insect whine of tiny pumps and motors as the machine that had swallowed her head charged its systems. A fine, cool mist of peppermint-flavored talc covered her face, and a very pleasant voice said, “Your safety helmet is functioning normally. You may abort it by saying the word ‘release’ out loud twice, like this, ‘Release release.’ No other abort order will be recognized.”

The helmet repeated its message several times and would go on repeating it until she acknowledged it, but she couldn’t. Her sweaty hands were slipping, and the arrestant was pulling her down against the cincture which, in turn, was strangling her. She was being stretched like a rubber band, and when her grip slipped completely, she felt her vertebrae wrench all up and down her spine. Not that her spine mattered much at this point.

Help I’m choking! she tried to say. Release release! she tried to say, but her throat was squeezed shut against the collar.

Ellen, your vital signs are degrading. What’s happening in there? Speak to me.

Desperately, she wiped her hands on the front of her jumpsuit and grabbed the helmet again. She pulled until she could breathe, but her hands were already slipping.

That’s better, Ellen. Hold on.

Her larynx was bruised; her voice cracked, “How long?”

Another sixty seconds from the surface.

An eternity, she thought. “Foam?”

Top level jets won’t deploy.

That was bad news. She needed either the harness or a podule completely filled with arrestant to hope to survive a crash landing over land. “Fix it.”

Attempting.

“Don’t attempt—do!” Her words stopped her. It was another one of her mother’s pet phrases.

Incoming, said Wee Hunk.

Incoming? Ellen thought, just as a large, soft object hit her chest and rolled away, nearly dislodging her hold on the helmet. “Eleanor?”

Yes, said Wee Hunk, it was Eleanor.

“Mother!” she cried and let go of the helmet to reach out with both hands, but Eleanor was gone.

Cabinet says that Eleanor sends you her fondest greetings.

At that moment, the erstwhile yacht hit Earth’s surface with such force that Ellen’s body was ripped from her head. So sudden and so stunning was this sensation that she heard neither the discharge of the helmet’s cryonics coils nor the crunch of bone as its collar flange irised shut, neatly nipping off her ragged stump of throat.