Coyote - A Novel of Interstellar Exploration Part 7

Wendy Gunther feels the s.h.i.+p move beneath her. Throughout the deck, she hears voices raised in terror;no one seems to know what's going on, only that everyone was suddenly ordered to strap in for what was called an "emergency launch." Her locker rattles, flies open; her duffel bag pitches out onto the floor.

She stares up at the empty bunk above her. Where is her father... ?

Eyes half-shut, arms and legs relaxed, Captain Lee lets his body collapse against the soft membranes of his chair. All around him, he hears the low voices of the command crew as they murmur to one another; the quiet tapping of fingers against keyboards, the subdued chitter and occasional electronic beep of instruments. Studying the status board, he sees that all is well: Alabama is behaving just as it should, its complex systems all working within their parameters.

Everyone's going about their work with quiet stoicism, just as they were trained. Dana looks around at him, meets his eye; she gives him a smile, a silent thumbs-up. He returns the gesture, then s.h.i.+fts his gaze to the windows.

Highgate can no longer be seen. It's already many miles distant, falling away behind him. In a couple of minutes he'll give the order for main engine ignition, the beginning of the three-month boost phase, which will gradually accelerate the Alabama to cruise velocity. Long before then everyone aboard will be in hibernation; virtually immortal, they'll sleep for the next two and a quarter centuries, and when they awaken...

No. Now's not the time for this. 47 Ursae Majoris can wait a little while longer.

Lee watches as the silver-blue curvature of the Earth gracefully drifts past the command deck windows.

No one says anything; the bridge team falls silent as they look upon their home world for the last time.

For a moment, there is only the silence of the stars.

Peace. Liberty. Freedom.

Part Two THE DAYS BETWEEN Three months after leaving Earth, the UR55 Rlabama had just achieved cruise velocity when the accident occurred: Leslie Gillis woke up.

He regained consciousness slowly, as if emerging from a long and dreamless sleep. His body, naked and hairless, floated within the blue-green gelatin filling the interior of his biostasis cell, an oxygen mask covering the lower part of his face and thin plastic tubes inserted in his arms. As his vision cleared, Gillis saw that the cell had been lowered to a horizontal position and that its fibergla.s.s lid had folded open. The lighting within the hibernation deck was subdued, yet he had to open and close his eyes several times.

His first lucid thought was: Thank G.o.d, I made it.

His body felt weak, his limbs stiff. Just as he had been cautioned to do during flight training, he carefully moved only a little at a time. As Gillis gently flexed his arms and legs, he vaguely wondered why no one had come to his aid. Perhaps Dr. Okada was busy helping the others emerge from biostasis. Yet he could hear nothing save for a sublime electrical hum-no voices, no movement.

His next thought was: Something's wrong.

Back aching, his arms feeling as if they were about to dislocate from his shoulders, Gillis grasped the sides of the cell and tried to sit up. For a minute or so he struggled against the phlegmatic embrace of the suspension fluid; there was a wet sucking sound as he prized his body upward, then the tubes went tautbefore he remembered that he had to take them out. Clenching his teeth, Gillis pinched off the tubes between thumb and forefinger and, one by one, carefully removed them from his arms. The oxygen mask came off last; the air was frigid, and it stung his throat and lungs, and he coughed in agonized spasms as, with the last ounce of his strength, he clambered out of the tank. His legs couldn't hold him, and he collapsed upon the cold floor of the deck.

Gillis didn't know how long he lay curled in a fetal position, his hands tucked into his groin. He never really lost consciousness, yet for a long while his mind lingered somewhere between awareness and sleep, his unfocused eyes gazing at the burnished metal plates of the floor. After a while the cold penetrated his dulled senses; the suspension fluid was freezing against his bare skin, and he dully realized that if he lay there much longer he would soon lapse into hypothermia.

Gillis rolled over on his back, forced himself to sit up. Aquamarine fluid drooled down his body, formed a shallow pool around his hips; he hugged his shoulders, rubbing his chilled flesh. Once again, he wondered why no one was paying any attention to him. Yes, he was only the communications officer, yet there were others further up the command hierarchy who should have been revived by now. Kuniko Okada was the last person he had seen before the somatic drugs entered his system; as chief physician, she also would have been the last crew member to enter biostasis and the first to emerge. She would have then brought up-Gillis sought to remember specific details-the chief engineer, Dana Monroe, who would have ascertained that Alabama's major systems were operational. If the s.h.i.+p was in nominal condition, Captain Lee would have been revived next, shortly followed by First Officer Shapiro, Executive Officer Tinsley, Senior Navigator Ullman, then Gillis himself. Yes, that was the correct procedure.

So where is everyone else?

First things first. He was wet and naked, and the s.h.i.+p's internal temperature had been lowered to fifty degrees. He had to find some clothes. His teeth chattering, Gillis staggered to his feet, then lurched across the deck to a nearby locker. Opening it, he found a stack of clean white towels and folded robes. As he wiped the moist gel from his body, he recalled his embarra.s.sment when his turn had come for Kuniko to prepare him for hibernation. It was bad enough to have his body shaved, yet when her electric razor had descended to his pubic area he found himself becoming involuntarily aroused by her gentle touch.

Amused by his reaction, she had smiled at him in a motherly way. Just relax, she said. Think about something else...

He turned, and for the first time saw that the rest of the biostasis cells were still upright within their niches.

Thirteen white fibergla.s.s coffins, each resting at a forty-five-degree angle within the bulkhead walls of Deck C2A. Electroph.o.r.etic displays on their lids emitted a warm amber glow, showing the status of the crew members contained within. Here was the Alabama's command team, just as he had last seen them: Lee, Shapiro, Tinsley, Okada, Monroe, Ullman...

Everyone was still asleep. Everyone except him.

Gillis hastily pulled on a robe, then strode across the deck to the nearest window. Its outer shutter was closed, yet when he pressed the b.u.t.ton that moved it upward, all he saw were distant stars against black s.p.a.ce. Of course, he might not be able to see 47 Ursae Majoris from this particular porthole. He needed to get to the command center, check the navigation instruments.

As he turned from the window, something caught his eye: the readout on the nearest biostasis cell.

Trembling with unease as much as cold, Gillis moved closer to examine it. The screen identified the sleeper within as cortez, raymond b.-Ray Cortez, the life-support chief-and all his life signs seemed normal as far as he could tell, yet that wasn't what attracted his attention. On the upper left side was a time code:E/: 7.8.70 / 22:10:01 GMT July 8, 2070. That was the date everyone had entered hibernation, three days after the Alabama had made its unscheduled departure from Highgate. On the upper right side of the screen, though, was another time code: P/: 10.3.70 / 00.21.23 GMT.

October 3, 2070. Today's date and time.

The Alabama had been in flight for only three months. Three months of a voyage across forty-six light-years which, at 20 percent of light- speed, would take 230 years to complete.

For several long minutes, Gillis stared at the readout, unwilling to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

Then.he turned and walked across the compartment to the manhole. His bare feet slapping against the cool metal rungs, he climbed down the ladder to the next deck of the hibernation module.

Fourteen more biostasis cells, all within their niches. None were open.

Fighting panic, Gillis scrambled farther down the ladder to Deck C2C. Again, fourteen closed cells.

Still clutching at some intangible shred of hope, Gillis quickly visited Deck C2D, then scurried back up the ladder and entered the short tunnel leading to the Alabama's second hibernation module. By the time he reached Deck C1D, he had checked every biostasis cell belonging to the stars.h.i.+p's 103 remaining pa.s.sengers, yet he hadn't found one that was open.

He sagged against a bulkhead, and for a long time he could do nothing except tremble with fear.

He was alone. flfter a while, Gillis pulled himself together. Rll right, something had obviously gone wrong.

The computers controlling the biostasis systems had made a critical error and had prematurely awakened him from hibernation. Okay, then; all he had to do was put himself back into the loop.

The robe he had found wasn't very warm, so he made his way through the circular pa.s.sageway connecting the s.h.i.+p's seven ring modules until he entered C4, one of two modules that would serve as crew quarters once the Alabama reached 47 Ursae Majoris. He tried not to look at the rows of empty bunks as he searched for the locker where he had stowed his personal belongings. His blue jumpsuit was where he had left it three months earlier, hanging next to the isolation garment he had worn when he left Gingrich s.p.a.ce Center to board the shuttle up to Highgate; on a shelf above it, next to his high-top sneakers, was the small cardboard box containing the precious few mementos he had been permitted to take with him. Gillis deliberately ignored the box as he pulled on his jumpsuit; he'd look at the stuff inside once he reached his final destination, and that wouldn't be for another 230 years... 226 years s.h.i.+ptime, if you considered the time-dilation factor.

The command center, located on Deck H4 within the s.h.i.+p's cylindrical hub, was cold and dark. The lights had been turned down, and the rectangular windows along its circular hull were shuttered; only the soft glow emitted by a few control panels pierced the gloom. Gillis took a moment to switch on the ceiling lights; spotting the environmental control station, he briefly considered adjusting the thermostat to make things a bit warmer, then decided against it. He had been trained as a communications specialist; his technical understanding of the rest of the Alabama's major systems was cursory at best, and he was reluctant to make any changes that might influence the s.h.i.+p's operating condition. Besides, he wasn't staying there for very long; once he returned to bio- stasis, the cold wouldn't make much difference to him.All the same, it was his duty to check the s.h.i.+p's status, so he walked over to the nav table, pulled away the plastic cover protecting its keypad, and punched up a display of the Alabama's present position. A bright shaft of light appeared above the table, and within it appeared a tiny holographic model of the s.h.i.+p.

It floated in midair at the end of a long, curved string that led outward from the center of the three-dimensional halo representing the orbits of the major planets of the solar system. Moving at constant 1 -g thrust, the Alabama was already beyond the orbit of Neptune; the s.h.i.+p was pa.s.sing the canted orbit of Pluto, and in a few weeks it would cross the heliopause, escaping the last weak remnants of the Sun's gravitational pull as it headed into interstellar s.p.a.ce.

The Alabama had now traveled farther from Earth than any previous manned s.p.a.cecraft; only a few probes had ever ventured as far. Gillis found himself smiling at the thought. He was now the only living person -the only conscious living person, at least-to have voyaged so far from Earth. A feat almost worth waking up for... although, all things considered, he would have preferred to sleep through it.

He moved to the engineering station, uncovered its console, and pulled up a schematic display of the main engine. The deuterium/ helium-3 reserves that had been loaded aboard the Alabama's spherical main fuel tank before launch had been largely consumed during the ninety-day boost phase, but now that the s.h.i.+p had reached cruise speed the magnetic field projected by its Bussard ramscoop was drawing ionized interstellar hydrogen and helium from a four-thousand-kilometer radius in front of the s.h.i.+p, feeding the fusion reactor at its stern and thus maintaining a constant .2c velocity. Microsecond pulsations of the same magnetic field enabled it simultaneously to perform as a s.h.i.+eld, deflecting away the interstellar dust which, at relativistic velocities, would have soon shredded the Alabama's hull. Gillis's knowledge of the s.h.i.+p's propulsion systems was limited, yet his brief examination showed him that they were operating at percent efficiency.

Something tapped softly against the floor behind him.

Startled by the unexpected sound, Gillis turned around, peered into the semidarkness. For a few moments he saw nothing, then a small shape emerged from behind the nav table: one of the spiderlike autonomous maintenance robots that constantly prowled the Alabama, inspecting its compartments and making minor repairs. This one had apparently been attracted to Gillis's presence within the command deck; its eyestalks briefly flicked in his direction, then the 'hot scuttled away.

Well. So much the better. The 'got was no more intelligent than a mouse, but it reported everything that it observed to the s.h.i.+p's AI. Now that the s.h.i.+p was aware that one of its pa.s.sengers was awake, the time had come for Gillis to take care of his little problem.

Gillis crossed the deck to his customary post at the communications station. Sitting down in his chair, he pulled away the plastic cover; a few deft taps on the keyboard, and his console glowed to life once more.

Seeing the familiar screens and readouts made him feel a little more secure; here, at least, he knew what he was doing. He typed in the commands that opened an interface to Alabama's DNA-based artificial intelligence.

Gillis, Leslie, It. Com. I.D. 86419-D. Pa.s.sword Scotland. The response was immediate: I.D. confirmed.

Pa.s.sword accepted. Good morning, Mr. Gillis. May I help you? ** Gillis typed: Why was I awakened? A short pause, then: Gillis, Leslie, It. Com. is still in biostasis. Gillis's mouth fell open: What the h.e.l.l...?

No, I'm not. I'm here in the command center. You've confirmed that yourself. This time, the AI's response seemed a fraction of a second longer.It. Com. Leslie Gillis is still in biostasis. Please reenter your I.D. and pa.s.sword for reconfirmation.

Impatiently, Gillis typed: I.D. 86419-D. Pa.s.sword Scotland. The AI came back at once: Identification reconfirmed. You are it. Com. Leslie Gillis. Then you agree that I'm no longer in biostasis.

No. It. Com. Leslie Gillis remains in biostasis. Please reenter your I.D. and pa.s.sword for reconfirmation.

Gillis angrily slammed his hands against the console. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, then forced himself to think this through as calmly as he could. He was dealing with an AI; it might be conditioned to respond to questions posed to it in plain English, nonetheless it was a machine, operating with machinelike logic. Although he had to deal with it on its own terms, nonetheless he had to establish the rules.

I.D. 86419-D. Pa.s.sword Scotland. Identification reconfirmed. You are It. Com. Leslie Gillis.

Please locate It. Com. Leslie Gillis. It . Com. Leslie Gillis is in biostasis cell C1A-07.

Okay, now they were getting somewhere... but this was clearly wrong, in more ways than one. He had just emerged from a cell located on Deck A of Module C2.

Who is the occupant of biostasis cell C2A-07? Gunther, Eric, Ensign/FSA The name was unfamiliar, but the suffix indicated that he was a Federal s.p.a.ce Agency ensign. A member of the flight crew who had been go Hllen M. Steele ferried up to the Alabama just before launch, but probably not one of the conspirators who had hijacked the s.h.i.+p. Gillis typed: There has been a mistake. Eric Gunther is not in cell C2A-07, and I am not in cell C1A-07. Do you understand?

Another pause, then: Acknowledged. Biostasis cell a.s.signments rechecked with secondary data system. Correction: cell C1A-07 presently occupied by Eric Gunther.

Gillis absently gnawed on a fingernail; after a few minutes he developed a possible explanation for the switch. Captain Lee and the other conspirators had smuggled almost fifty dissident intellectuals aboard just before the Alabama fled Earth; since none of them had been listed in the s.h.i.+p's original crew manifest, the D.I.s had to be a.s.signed to biostasis cells previously reserved for the members of the colonization team who had been left behind on Earth.

Gillis could only a.s.sume that, at some point during the confusion, someone had accidentally fed erroneous information to the computer controlling the biostasis systems. Therefore, although he was originally a.s.signed to C1A-07 while Ensign Gunther was supposed to be in C2A-07, whoever had switched his and Gunther cells had also neglected to cross-feed this information from the biostasis control system to the s.h.i.+p's AI. In the long run, it was a small matter of subst.i.tuting one single digit for another...

Yet this didn't answer the original question: why had he been prematurely revived from biostasis? Or rather, why was Gunther supposed to be revived?

Why did you revive the occupant of cell C2A-07? CLa.s.sIFIED/TS. ISA Order 7812DA What the... ? Why was there an Internal Security Agency lock-out? Yet he was able to get around that.Security override AS-001001, Gillis, Leslie, It. Com. Pa.s.sword Scotland. Repeat question: why did you revive the occupant of cell C2A-07?

CLa.s.sIFIED/TS: OPEN. Ensign Gunther was to confirm presidential launch authorization via secure communication channel. Upon failure to confirm authorization by 7.5.70/00.00, Ensign Gunther was to be revived from biostasis at 10.3.70/00.00 and given the option of terminating the mission.

Gillis stared at the screen for a long while, comprehending what he had just read but nonetheless not quite believing it. This could only mean one thing: Gunther had been an ISA mole placed aboard the Alabama for the purpose of a.s.suring that the s.h.i.+p wasn't launched without authorization from the President.

However, since Captain Lee had ordered Gillis himself to shut down all modes of communication between Mission Control and the Alabama, Gunther hadn't been able to send a covert transmission back to Earth. Therefore, the AI had been programmed to revive him from biostasis ninety days after launch.

At this point, though, Gunther wouldn't have been able simply to turn the s.h.i.+p around even if he wanted to do so. The Alabama was too far from Earth, its velocity too high, for one person to accomplish such a task on his own. So there was no mistake what "terminating the mission" meant; Gunther was supposed to have destroyed the Alabama.

A loyal citizen of the United Republic of America, even to the point of suicide. Indeed, Gillis had little doubt that the Republic's official press agency had already reported the loss of the Alabama and that FSA spokesmen were issuing statements to the effect that the s.h.i.+p had suffered a catastrophic accident.

Since no one else aboard the s.h.i.+p knew about Gunther's orders, the AI's hidden program hadn't been deleted from memory. On the one hand, at least he had been prevented from carrying out his suicide mission. On the other, Gunther would remain asleep for the next 230 years while Gillis was now wide-awake.

Very well. So all he had to do was join him in biostasis. Once he woke up again, Gillis could inform Captain Lee of what he had learned and let him decide what to do with Ensign Gunther.

There has been a mistake. I was not supposed to be revived at this time. I have to return to biostasis immediately.

A pause, then: This is not possible. You cannot return to biostasis.

Gillis's heart skipped a beat.

I repeat: there has been a mistake. There was no reason to revive the person in cell C2A-07. I was the occupant of cell C2A-07, and I need to return to biostasis at once.

I understand the situation. The crew manifest has been changed to reflect this new information. However, it is impossible for you to return to biostasis.

His hands trembled upon the keyboard: Why?

Protocol does not allow for the occupant of cell C2A-07 to resume biostasis. This cell has beenpermanently deactivated. Resumption of biostasis is not admissible.

Gillis suddenly felt as if a hot towel had been wrapped around his | face.

Security override B-001001, Gillis, Leslie, It. Com. Pa.s.sword Scotland. Delete | protocol immediately.

Pa.s.sword accepted, It. Gillis. Protocol cannot be deleted without direct confirmation of presidential launch authorization, and may not be rescinded | by anyone other than Ensign Gunther.

Anger surged within him. He typed: Revive Ensign Gunther at once. This is an emergency.

No members of the crew may be revived from biostasis until the s.h.i.+p has reached its final destination unless there is a mission-critical emergency. All systems are at nominal status: there is no mission-critical emergency.

Eric Gunther. Eric Gunther lay asleep on Deck C1A. Yet even if he |j could be awakened from hibernation and forced to confess his role, there was little he could do about it now. The long swath of ionized particles the Alabama left in its wake rendered impossible any radio communications with Earth; any signals received by or sent from the stars.h.i.+p would be fuzzed out while the fusion engines were firing, and the Alabama would remain under constant thrust for the next 230 years.

If I don't return to biostasis, then I'll die. This is an emergency. Do you understand?

I understand your situation, Mr. Gillis. However, it does not pose a mission- critical emergency. I apologize for the error.

Reading this, Gillis found himself smiling. The smile became a grin, and from somewhere within his grin a wry chuckle slowly fought through. The chuckle evolved into hysterical laughter, for Gillis had realized the irony of his situation.

He was the chief communications officer of the URSS Alabama. And he was doomed because he couldn't communicate.

Gillis had his pick of any berth aboard the s.h.i.+p, including Captain Lee's private quarters, yet he chose the bunk which had been a.s.signed to him; it only seemed right. He reset the thermostat to seventy-one degrees, then took a long, hot shower. Putting on his jumpsuit again, he returned to his berth, lay down, and tried to sleep. Yet every time he shut his eyes, new thoughts entered his mind, and soon he would find himself staring at the bunk above him.

So he lay there for a long time, his hands folded together across his stomach as he contemplated his situation.

He wouldn't asphyxiate or perish from lack of water. Alabama's closed-loop life-support system would purge the carbon dioxide from the s.h.i.+p's air and recirculate it as breathable oxygen-nitrogen, and his urine would be purified and recycled as potable water. Nor would he freeze to death in the dark; the fusion engines generated sufficient excess energy for him to be able to run the s.h.i.+p's internal electrical systems without fear of exhausting its reserves. He wouldn't have to worry about starvation; there were enough rations aboard to feed a crew of 104 pa.s.sengers for twelve months, which meant that one person would have enough to eat for over a century.

Yet there was little chance that he would last that long. Within their biostasis cells, the remaining crew members would be constantly rejuvenated, their natural aging processes held at bay through homeostaticstem-cell regeneration, telomerase enzyme therapy, and nanotechnical repair of vital organs, while infusion of somatic drugs would keep them in a comalike condition that would deprive them of subconscious dream- sleep. Once they reached 47 Ursae Majoris, they would emerge from hibernation-even that term was a misnomer, for they would never stir from their long rest-just the same as they had been when they entered the cells.

Not so for him. Now that he was removed from biostasis, he would continue to age normally. Or at least as normally as one would while traveling at relativistic velocity; if he were suddenly spirited back home and was met by a hypothetical twin brother-no chance of that happening; like so many others aboard, Gillis was an only child-he would discover that he had aged only a few hours less than his sibling. Yet that gap would gradually widen the farther Alabama traveled from Earth, and even the Lorentz factor wouldn't save him in the long run, for everyone else aboard the s.h.i.+p was aging at the same rate; the only difference was that their bodies would remain perpetually youthful, while his own would gradually break down, grow old...

No. Gillis forcefully shut his eyes. Don't think about it.

But there was no way of getting around it: he was living under a death sentence. Yet a condemned man in solitary confinement has some sort of personal contact, even if it's only the fleeting glimpse of a guard's hand as he shoves a tray of food through the cell door. Gillis didn't have that luxury. Never again would he ever hear another voice, see another face. There were a dozen or so people back home he had loved, and another dozen or so he had loathed, and countless others he had met, however briefly, during the twenty-eight years he had spent on Earth. All gone, lost forever...

He sat up abruptly. A little too abruptly; he slammed the top of his head against the bunk above him. He cursed under his breath, rubbed his skull-a small b.u.mp beneath his hair, nothing more-then swung his legs over the side of his bunk, stood up, and opened his locker. His box was where he had last seen it; he took it down from the shelf, started to open it...

And then he stopped himself. No. If he looked inside now, the things he had left in there would make him only more miserable than he already was. His fingers trembled upon the lid. He didn't need this now. He shoved the box back into the locker and slammed the door shut behind it. Then, having nothing better to do, he decided to take a walk.

The ring corridor led him around the hub to Module C7, where he climbed down to the mess deck: long empty benches, walls painted in muted earth tones. The deck below contained the galley: chrome tables, cooking surfaces, empty warm refrigerators. He located the coffeemaker, but there was no coffee to be found, so he ventured farther down the ladder to the s.h.i.+p's med deck. Antiseptic white-on-white compartments, the examination beds covered with plastic sheets; cabinets contained cellophane-wrapped surgical instruments, gauze and bandages, and rows of plastic bottles containing pharmaceuticals with arcane labels.

He had a slight headache, so he searched through them until he found some ibuprofen; he took the pill without water and lay down for a few minutes.

After a while his headache went away, so he decided to check out the wardroom on the bottom level. It was spa.r.s.ely furnished, only a few chairs and tables beneath a pair of wallscreens, with a single couch facing a closed porthole. One of the tables folded open to reveal a holographic game board; he pressed a b.u.t.ton marked by a knight piece and watched as a chess set materialized. He had played chess a.s.siduously when he was a teenager, but gradually lost interest as he grew older. Perhaps it was time to pick it up again...Instead, though, he went over to the porthole. Opening the shutter, he gazed out into s.p.a.ce. Although astronomy had always been a minor hobby, he could see none of the familiar constellations; so far from Earth, the stars had changed position so radically that only the AI's navigation subroutine could accurately locate them. Even the stars were strangers; this revelation made him feel even more lonely, so he closed the shutter. He didn't bother to turn off the game table before he left the compartment.

As he walked along the ring corridor, he came upon a lone 'got. It quickly scuttled out of his way as he approached, but Gillis squatted down on his haunches and tapped his fingers against the deck, trying to coax it closer. The robot's eyestalks twitched briefly toward him; for a foment it seemed to hesitate, then it quickly turned away and went up the circular pa.s.sageway. It had no reason to have any interaction with humans, even those who desired its company. Gillis watched the 'got as it disappeared above the ceiling, then he reluctantly rose and continued up the corridor.

The cargo modules, C5 and C6, were dark and cold, deck upon deck of color-coded storage lockers and s.h.i.+pping containers. He found the crew rations on Deck C5A; sliding open one of the refrigerated lockers, he took a few minutes to inspect its contents: vacuum-sealed plastic bags containing freeze-dried substances identified only by cryptic labels. None of it looked very appetizing; the dark brown slab within the bag he pulled out at random could have been anything from processed beef to chocolate cake. He wasn't hungry yet, so he shoved it back and slammed the locker shut.