Getting the human inside is the easy part.
Hila's footsteps resonate illogically, as if pulled to the ground by whichever mechanism mimics gravity. Amelia watches her disappear about the room's circumference. She wanders in place; she can see her reflection in the floor. A mosaic blooms from the entrance like ripples on the surface of a lake, echoing from either wall, interfering with itself.
The ship's low roar snaps Amelia from her awestrike.
Hila raises the vessel by invisible handles. She narrowly avoids scraping a long trench into the neighbouring apartment building, in the process tearing the handrails off the fire escape. Amelia's stomach falls behind the vessel as it ascends; she scrambles to the door, watching through its small aperture the world suddenly right itself and shrink away.
"You didn't say we'd be going to space!," she cries.
"You followed two aliens into an alleyway. How did you not expect us to take you to space?," replies Henry.
"Get me down!"
"Relax," says the android, "We'll let you off as soon as we figure out some way to get rid of the Book. There's a better signal up here anyway."
Amelia shrinks into a ball under the window, her knees drawn up to her chest, still somewhat processing where she is.
"Alright... I'll be around the corner if you need me," Henry says, leaving her at the entrance.
A warm breeze swirls over Manhattan. The ringship ascends through clouds everybody swears didn't exist just a moment ago. Amelia's ears fill in the changing pressure and the door releases a sharp hiss, which startles her to her feet. She convinces herself it's safe to wander out of reach of the window. Around the "corner," she finds Henry and Hila bent over a vast, featureless dashboard whose surface ripples like a pool of water.
A liquid computer.
Hila pulls the 35 out of her pocket; she drops it onto the dashboard and it melts into threads of ink. Amelia's stomach churns. Her mind wanders back to the Book, to the cold, to the black.
The Book, as if reacting to mention, emits a noise similar to that of rending the wings of a plane. Its droning captures the attention of pilot and co-pilot alike, who turn to see their wary guest green with indecision.
Henry points at the Book's spine, which pokes out of her bag, "Let me see that," he says.
Amelia hands it over; the buzzing in her fingers quickly fades. Strands of ink coil up from the screen as Henry drops the Book into the dashboard. The liquid's surface bends to the volume, forming a rigid slot around it. Plumes of information surge from the computer, attempting in every way possible to describe the Book and trace any mention of that description.
As the vessel climbs, New York begins more and more to resemble a speck among a sea of identical stains.
Hila finds a connection eleven miles above the Earth's surface, at the Armstrong limit, where its atmosphere begins to fade and human blood boils. She pulls the thread tying her to the Summation, weaving a tighter band between it and her ship. Amelia peers over Henry's shoulder. She finds herself enchanted by the strands of light dancing around Hila's fingers.
She pulls her attention elsewhere. As she wanders the ringship deck, Amelia's shadow curls and frays along the wall. Embedded in the ceiling are a halo of lights which, as the ringship moves, illuminate varying sections of the interior. The canopy breathes like firelight. Shadows appear to bend in unnatural ways only possible under the corrosion of physical laws. The tiling with each step seems to push and pull at a whim. Amelia's eyes wander the colourful interior; they seem to level themselves with every minor adjustment the vessel makes.
YOU ARE READING
The Book of All
Science Fiction"Knowledge is power," most say, but power corrupts all the same. See, knowledge exists as a pyramid. Very many things know nothing, but only one knows everything. To climb the pyramid isn't difficult, up to some point. The climb can be a taxing thin...
