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>Go right out and say it
Oh, God. Is this a trick question? You didn't leave off on the <span class="mu-i">worst</span> terms with Us, but you didn't leave off on particularly good ones, either. What with stealing Gil back. And Teddy. And Claudia. Does it want to talk about those? But why would it be urgent? No, more likely it's Headspace. How many people work for Headspace? You have no idea. How many of those people did you dump into Us? ...Was it a lot?
You lace your fingers. "The new arrivals?"
"WE ARE PLEASED TO SEE THAT YOU ARE ON THE SAME PAGE AS US, MS. FAWKINS."
"Are they, um, causing issues?"
"WE ARE NOT PRIVY TO THE FINE DETAILS. WE ARE SEPARATE NOW." The hands wave. "BUT THE MERE ACT OF LOOKING WOULD REVEAL THE SCOPE OF THE ISSUE. HAVE YOU LOOKED?"
"She's been dealing with a lot," Gil says for you. "She hasn't—"
No, you haven't. You've spoken to people, but it's been one after another. Where are you? The Namway manse. But where <span class="mu-i">are</span> you? You look outward. You and everybody else are standing on a large flat platform, nondescript grey, suspended in the void. Huh. Thrown up temporarily, maybe, by people with little time or imagination or both. You're up high enough, and you're far enough from the edge, that you can't see down.
"WE ARE NOT CASTING BLAME. WE ARE ASKING THE QUESTION. IF SHE HAS NOT LOOKED, SHE SHOULD LOOK. WE WILL WALK WITH HER."
"...I haven't," you say. (It read your mind yesterday, so you probably shouldn't lie.)
"THEN COME, MS. FAWKINS. MR. WALLACE. MR. WALLACE."
You follow the Us-person to the edge of the platform, trying not to look at its feet: it has them, but doesn't move them. You imagine a slug. When you stop, you grasp Gil's wrist again— you have no special fear of heights, but it's not impossible that Us wants him back bad enough to push him off the edge, and you can't handle that right now. If he goes, you go.
The Us-person slides up next to you. "IS EXPLANATION REQUIRED, MS. FAWKINS?"
When you said you were up high, you should've said that your platform was at the very top of the Namway manse. Below it lies everything: the weird Headspace office-spheres, all crooked and jumbled; even more debris than there used to be; distant lights and moving specks within it all; and down at the bottom, a glimpse of Us bulging oddly, stained pink.
That can't be good, but you can't draw conclusions more specific than that. "...Yes."
"IT IS OUR BELIEF THAT OF THESE SPHERES—" Us spreads its fingers. "—NOT ONE, BUT MULTIPLE, SLIPPED THE BONDS OF GRAVITY, CARRYING WITH THEM ALL INHABITANTS, AND WERE COMPLETELY SUBSUMED IN OUR MASS."
No. That can't be good at all. "How many people is that?"
"WE DO NOT KNOW. WE ARE, AS WE SAID, SEPARATE. WE PRESUME MANY."
"It'd depend on which spheres," Gil volunteers. "And what time it was in there. If it were a dormitory during work hours, it could be dozens. If it's the opposite, it could be... thousands."
(1/3)
