"Yes?"

"How do you feel now?"

"No different than usual," I said. Which was true. Whatever the Balrog might be doing to me, I couldn’t sense the changes… any more than I could tell if my "memories" of the aliens at the pagoda were real or artificially constructed.

"Have you checked yourself with a Bumbler?" Festina asked.

I nodded. "The Balrog has spread everywhere."

"If I were in your position," Festina said, "I’d be terrified. Probably screaming my lungs out."

"I doubt that."

"Oh, I wouldn’t scream out loud. But inside my head…" Festina shrugged, then gave a bitter smile. "Inside my head, I’d beat myself up — saying a normal person would scream and what was wrong with me that I never had normal reactions? But I’d still feel like shit."

"I feel like shit too," I assured her.

"Good." She smiled. "That’s a normal reaction." Then she said, "You know I can’t trust you, right?"

I suppressed a shiver. "I don’t trust myself."

"And that partner of yours…" Festina made a dismissive gesture. "When we get to Muta, I’m tempted to go down solo. I’m the only one I do trust."

My turn to make a dismissive gesture. "But you can’t go solo because it violates regulations. No one can go into danger alone when other Explorers are available as backup."

"The precise words of the regulation are ‘when other competent Explorers are available as backup.’ Between myself, Captain Cohen, and Pistachio’s doctor, I’m sure we could find grounds to declare you and Tut unfit for duty."

"I don’t doubt it." I looked at her. "But you aren’t going to do that?"

She shook her head. "The Balrog clearly wants to take part in this mission. If I said no, it would find a way to tag along in spite of me — probably by taking over your body and doing something drastic."

A prickle of fear went through me. "That would be bad."

"I agree. So I’ll let you come to Muta. I just won’t trust you." She looked at me with sad eyes. "Which means I’ve already ordered the ship-soul not to let you near the Explorer equipment rooms unless I’m there to watch you. I can’t take the chance that the Balrog will use you to sabotage our gear. I have previous experience with the goddamned moss. It likes to play games."

Festina waited for me to say something. I didn’t. After a moment, she said, "If it’s any consolation, I’ve told the ship-soul to keep Tut out too."

"Will you let him go with us to Muta?"

"I haven’t decided. Do you want him along?"

"Yes. He’s part of this too."

"Is that Youn Suu speaking or the Balrog?"

"I don’t know." I took a breath. "From this point on, I’ll never know who’s speaking, will I?"

"No. You won’t." Festina lowered her eyes in thought, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. "Okay," she finally said, "I’ll give Tut the choice. This is a dangerous mission — possibly lethal. He can decide for himself whether he’ll volunteer."

I thought about the Balrog giving me a similar choice down in Zoonau. If I’d known what it would entail… suddenly I was conscious of the tiny pain from the wounds on top of my feet.

Festina must have seen some change in my face because she asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

An idea popped into my mind: a way to check whether the pagoda incident actually happened. "Arrange for me to call my mother," I said. "Tonight. A direct link as soon as possible."

"I can authorize that." The navy seldom allowed direct calls home, but the great Admiral Ramos could undoubtedly pull strings to circumvent the bureaucracy. "Anything else?" she asked.

"Yes. Kill me if I start talking like a brainwashed zombie in love with the damned moss."

"Do you think that might happen?"

"I have no idea what I think. I don’t even know who’s thinking." My eyes felt hot. Before I embarrassed myself by crying, I walked stiffly from the room.

Dharma [Sanskrit]: A word with many meanings, all related to "truth." In Gotama’s time, any teaching was called a dharma — the teacher’s view on what was and wasn’t true. Subsequently, Dharma (often capitalized) came to mean the Buddha’s teachings in particular. Dharma can also mean the whole of reality: the ultimate truth of the universe.

From habit, I returned to my cabin… but as soon as I got there, I knew I couldn’t stand being cooped up in a tiny room. All my instincts said, "Go check your equipment. Make sure everything’s perfect." But Festina had barred me from doing that. I felt like a mother cut off from her children.

For something to do, I went down to the mess. It had been hours since my last meal, and I knew I should eat, even though I had no appetite. (Why wasn’t I hungry? Had the Balrog already replaced my digestive system? I imagined the moss photosynthesizing inside me, pumping unknown alien nutrients through my veins, mutating my internal organs. The idea was ridiculous — how could spores in my lungs or liver get enough light to photosynthesize? More likely, they were feeding off me. So why didn’t I feel hungry?) Nevertheless, I forced down a few mouthfuls of the vegetarian dish of the day: a casserole whose components had surrendered their individual identities and blended morosely into a homogeneous mush.

At least the mess’s dining area was empty. I’d come in after the normal supper hour… which was good because I didn’t have to put up with regular crew members asking questions about Festina. ("What’s she really like?") On the other hand, eating alone in the silent room got on my nerves. I felt an irrational urge to shout obscenities or throw my bowl of mush against the wall. If somebody caught me, so what? The Balrog infesting my flesh was worse than any punishment the navy could impose. Besides, I had a perfect defense: I could claim mental incompetence because of the spores. "They made me do it, your honor!" Like a free pass that let me flout petty regulations.

Only one thing stopped me from a heartfelt rampage. Suppose I tried to run amok, and the Balrog froze my muscles; suppose the spores didn’t let me make a fool of myself. They wouldn’t want me getting thrown in the brig — that would interfere with the Balrog’s plan. So I might find myself incapable of causing any sort of ruckus.

I didn’t want to put that to the test. I didn’t want to lose control of my body even for an instant… because that would prove I was lost. Better to retain a false hope that the Balrog couldn’t really make me dance to its tune.

Of course, if it could already plant false memories in my mind… but I still couldn’t decide whether the temple scene was fact or fiction. Pistachio’s comm officer had begun setting up a call to my mother, but it would take at least another hour before I could be put through. Don’t ask me why. Explorers weren’t taught the principles of real-time FTL communication, except that it was fiendishly complex and energy-consuming. Even with approval from the illustrious Admiral Ramos, I had to wait my turn for an opening in the schedule. After all that, I wondered if my mother would answer. She’d be home, of course — she was always home — but sometimes when calls came in she’d just sit in mouselike fear, holding her breath till the caller gave up. It’d be just my luck if the one night I really needed to talk with my mother, she’d be having one of her "spells."

With such gloomy thoughts going through my mind, I stared at the casserole mush and tried to gather strength to eat another spoonful. "Damn, Mom," said a voice, "that looks like cat puke. Can I have some?"

I looked up. Tut stood there, wearing his usual cheerful expression. (The edges of his gold eyes were permanently sculpted into a friendly crinkle. The mouth moved a bit when he talked, but the corners were perpetually turned up in an amiable smile. Tut might be crazy, but he’d had the prescience to mold his metal face into unending good cheer.) I was so glad to see him, I almost wept. "Tut!" I cried. "You’re awake!"