In the Shadow of the Ship by Aliette de Bodard

Author:Aliette de Bodard [de Bodard, Aliette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781645241478
Publisher: Subterranean Press 2024

AS KHUYÊN WENT down towards that lowest level, the world shrank further: that odd static patch seemed to grow larger and larger, and were those other flickers in her field of vision further patches, or just her imagination? She had no way of telling. There was still no one anywhere. It felt like her nightmares come to life, dead zones filling the entirety of the ship.

She was within the 草 shape now: past the three-branch and headed towards the centre of the character. There was still nothing: the floors under her quiescent, a total absence of bots, a spreading silence that made Nightjar seem dead.

Wait.

A flutter of movement, behind her. Khuyên turned, heart in her throat—caught only a glimpse of a pale silhouette that barely seemed human. “Ship?” she asked. “Thảo?”

Nothing.

Khuyên turned again—and again that flutter of movement came. She turned again, and saw it fade into static.

“Child,” a voice whispered, and it wasn’t Thảo’s voice—deeper and more assured, conjuring memories of being a small child and lying in bed, feeling held by the ship. Feeling safe, the way Mother assured her was going to be forever. Of what it had been like, before the Tribute took her friends. “Child. Khuyên. At last, you come back to me…”

No. She hadn’t come back. Or rather she had, but it had been a choice. But she was standing powerless on a ship—and for a brief moment, the floor came alive under her, the huge beat of a heart that climbed up Khuyên’s chest and throat, its steady heartbeat blanketing her panicked own. “I’m not yours,” she said. “Neither is my younger cousin.”

Soft laughter. Nightjar’s presence disappeared like a burst soap bubble. If she had been there at all. If it wasn’t all the product of Khuyên’s overwrought brain generating illusions. Her bots hadn’t registered anything, just like they’d never registered anything onboard the ship when Khuyên had been a child.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter, except that she was headed for the heartroom and that what was inside was her family. Or worse than her family.

Ahead was a door, and it was…different, somehow. Khuyên stared at it for a long while, unable to pinpoint why it struck her that way. She strode towards it—and stopped again. Her bots were processing the images—as best as they could, with the encroaching static blocking off the lower right-hand corner of her field of vision—and something was wrong. Along the length of the door, there was a disconnect between the edges and the walls, a subtle but certain misalignment between the mass of dusty cabling on the metal and the dust pattern on the door.

The door she saw wasn’t physical: there was an overlay masking the physical door. And the only reason why a door wouldn’t be physical, in this context, was because something else lay underneath. A tripwire, a trap? Her bots zoomed in, trying to see minute details. Nothing.

Wait.

There was a series of small cables that fuzzed in and out of focus: her bots

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