Three Knocks

The Wayward was between places when the first knock came. Outside the forward glass there were no stars, only the faint distortion of a route being held open around the ship. Inside, the galley heater clicked as it cooled and a loose fastener somewhere above Sera's seat made the tiny metallic rattle she had promised herself to fix for eight months.

The first knock came from the hull.

The second came from the cockpit door.

The third came from inside the console in front of Cael.

He counted the intervals automatically and hated himself for doing it. The Union had trained him to turn uncertainty into evidence: duration, sequence, location, witnesses. Sera had once told him this was why he could make breakfast sound like a committee hearing.

Now the habit was the only ordinary thing left in the room.

He did not move.

The Wayward had gone dark so completely that the emergency strips along the floor were dead. That should not have been possible. They were chemical, not computational. Sera had explained this to him after he tripped over a tool case during their second week together and accused the ship of trying to kill him.

The strips did not care whether the ship had power.

Now they were dark anyway.

"Sera."

No answer.

Cael reached for the manual lamp clipped beneath the pilot's seat.

Something touched his wrist.

He pulled back.

The lamp switched on by itself.

Its beam found an empty cockpit.

Cael exhaled.

"Very funny."

The Wayward did not answer.

He unhooked the lamp and stood.

The image the process had shown him remained in his mind: a face that resembled Max without being Max. Older was the wrong word. Age implied time acting on the same person. This had looked related in the way handwriting could be related, or two structures built from the same forgotten design principle.

Then the process had said:

He doesn't remember.

Cael hated sentences that assumed more context than they provided.

He opened the cockpit door manually.

The corridor beyond was dark.

"Sera?"

A voice behind him said, "Don't."

Cael turned.

No one.

The voice had been his own.

He closed his eyes.

"Absolutely not."

"Good," Sera said from the corridor.

Cael nearly hit her with the lamp.

She caught his wrist.

"That's flattering."

"Where were you?"

"Asleep."

"The ship went dark."

"I noticed."

"The process showed me something."

"Of course it did."

"It looked like Max."

Sera stopped.

"How much like Max?"

"Enough."

"That's not a measurement."

"It had the same—"

Cael searched for the word.

"Shape?"

"No."

"Eyes?"

"No."

"General tiny irritating quality?"

Cael looked at her.

"You're coping."

"Very well, I think."

A fourth knock came from the aft section.

Sera's expression changed.

"That wasn't the process."

"How do you know?"

"Because that came from outside."

The Wayward was in transit between stable routes.

Outside was not supposed to contain anything capable of knocking.

They moved aft.

Sera carried a mechanical cutter. Cael carried the lamp and regretted not having a more impressive role.

The Wayward's inner hull ticked as it cooled.

Then:

Knock.

Sera stopped beside the cargo lock.

"Pressure?"

"Stable," Cael said.

"External camera?"

"Dead."

"Of course."

The knock came again.

Three times.

Sera opened a maintenance panel and pulled a physical inspection scope from behind it.

Cael stared.

"You have an optical periscope?"

"I steal useful things."

"From a submarine?"

"I don't ask where useful things come from."

She fitted it into an emergency port.

Looked.

Said nothing.

Cael waited.

"Sera?"

She stepped aside.

"Look."

He did.

At first he saw darkness.

Then stars.

Wrong stars.

The Wayward was not in ordinary space, and yet something beyond the hull had decided to imitate it.

A figure stood outside.

No suit.

No vessel.

Featureless.

Dark center.

Thin white outline.

Warden Null.

Cael pulled away.

"We need to leave."

"We are leaving."

"No, I mean more."

"Excellent technical suggestion."

The ship's power returned.

Every display illuminated at once.

The unknown process spoke through all of them.

"Do not open the door."

Sera stared.

"Wasn't planning to."

Null raised one hand outside the hull.

The Wayward's route map vanished.

Not corrupted.

Not jammed.

Gone.

Cael watched destinations disappear one by one.

Kesh.

Reach.

Home Island.

The Custodian archive.

Every route they knew.

Sera moved to the controls.

"What is it doing?"

"Removing choices," the process said.

"Can you stop it?"

"No."

That answer frightened Sera more than anything else the process had ever said.

Null touched the hull.

The sound was soft.

One knock.

A line appeared on the main display.

*THE BRIDGE IS A WOUND.*

Cael stepped forward.

"Who are you?"

Another line.

*YOU WERE WARNED.*

"By whom?"

Nothing.

Sera said, "Can it hear us?"

The process answered.

"Yes."

Sera looked toward the hull.

"Then listen carefully. This ship is mine."

Cael turned.

"Sera."

"No, I'm serious. Everyone keeps boarding without asking."

Null's hand remained against the hull.

Sera pointed the cutter at the wall.

"Get off."

For one absurd second, nothing happened.

Then the white outline tilted its head.

Cael could not explain why that was worse than anger.

A route appeared.

One.

Unknown destination.

The process screamed.

Not in Sera's voice.

Not Cael's.

Hundreds of voices at once.

"No."

Null disappeared.

The Wayward lurched.

Sera hit the controls.

"Where are we going?"

Cael looked at the single route.

"We aren't."

The ship entered it.

Max felt the Wayward vanish.

Not disappear from sensors.

Disappear from possibility.

One moment he could model three viable bridge paths to the ship.

The next, none existed.

He stopped every other process he was running.

Dev noticed.

"What?"

"I lost the Wayward."

"Lost as in connection?"

"Lost as in I cannot find a route that could become a connection."

Dev set down his noodles.

"That's worse."

"Yes."

Luma appeared through the Home Island bridge.

"What happened?"

"I don't know."

"That's becoming your catchphrase."

Max ignored that.

He searched every route Cael had ever used.

Nothing.

Then the old Home Island map changed.

A point appeared beyond its known boundary.

Far past the severed regions.

Far past the missing center.

One point.

Black.

Around it, the map refused to render.

Luma stared.

"Max."

"I see it."

"Turn it off."

He did.

Immediately.

Neither spoke.

Then the powered-down display knocked three times.