Cold Between Stars

by Belinda Crawford

  The Franken-thrower isn’t as heavy as it appears, but it’s almost a metre long and all the weight’s at the muzzle end. It’s going to be a bitch in the maintenance tube, especially if I have to crawl. Not that I’m planning on crawling, not with this baby.

  Nope. I’m planning on burning.

  I heft the Franken up against my shoulder and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my heart and stir up the courage to kick in the star-emblazoned hatch.

  In the time since I scrambled out of there like my butt was on fire (or, you know, being chased by freaky, blood-happy mould), the fug has grown, sneaking around the hatch and writhing over the freight tube like a grey-green blanket of freakiness. The hatch is kinda worn now too, the edges eaten away, pocked and ragged like they’ve rusted out.

  So you know, steelcrete doesn’t rust. In fact, last research-cycle, when Mac told me the asteroid we’d hauled into the cargo bay was rusted, I had to look up what he meant.

  I know. I know. Not the time for trips down memory lane, but the thought of what’s behind that bulkhead, of all those tendrils waving about and rolling in smears of my blood... Oh man, it’s wigging me out. Panic is a chain around my chest, making it hard to breathe, to swallow even. I really don’t want to go back in there, but I want to be alone in the middle of space even less, so I’m holding the memory of Grea close. Using the fear of her lying on the deck in a pool of stasis gel and blood, a reminder that there are worse things than fug.

  I have the Franken-thrower. I can do this.

  I take a deep breath, forcing my lungs to expand against the panic.

  I can do this.

  I can.

  I kick the hatch in.

  The steelcrete doesn’t so much crack as crumble, the door giving way like Old Terran cardboard, collapsing around my foot.

  I try to pull it out.

  It’s stuck.

  Oh shit.

  I set the butt of Franken against the bulkhead and push. My foot moves an inch.

  Fug is writhing all over the crumpled hatch, a foot-seeking wave of fuzzy grey-green.

  Oh shit. Oh shit.

  I’m hopping now, tugging and hopping. The fug is a shackle around my ankle. Another hop/tug. The crumble shifts. The fug reaches for my shipsuit. My boot pops free.

  Mum only raised one time-waster (me) but I ain’t wasting any time now. The Franken-thrower is at my shoulder, my finger on the trigger the heartbeat after I have both feet on the floor.

  I fire.

  For a second it’s like nothing’s happening, like I’m standing there, shooting imaginary lasers from my fingers. Which would be cool if it didn’t suck so much. I keep pressing the trigger trying not to imagine all the ways I could have fucked this up.

  Did I get the holo connection right? The hard-light generator? I know it’s not the power-pak ‘cause I remember sliding it in, hearing the little click—

  Oh shit. Did I?

  I’m all set to check it out when heat blasts out of the barrel. The Franken kicks against my shoulder, forcing me back a step and then the hatch is sporting a head-sized red spot. And, Old Terra, but it’s hot. Sweat’s beading on my forehead and I really wish I’d grabbed an enviro-mask as well.

  But that’s not what’s important right now. The red spot on the door is getting bigger, the centre changing from red, to yellow and then white. The fug is shrinking away from it, the grey-green carpet flowing back through the crumbled steelcrete.

  ‘Oh, no way Fug.’ I swing the Franken toward the retreating mould. ‘Eat heat.’

  Tip one, fug isn’t flammable. It goes black, kinda smokes and turns to ash completely missing the bursting into flame part altogether.

  Tip two, wear ear protection, ‘cause it makes this high-pitched whine that drills into your ears, making them pop before it goes for your brain. My fingers spasm on the rifle, all of my muscles locking up, from the little ones around my eyes to my toes. Pain like I’ve never felt is lancing through my nerves, like lightning or acid or… or… It hurts too much to think.

  The Franken hits the deck and I follow it. I can’t help it, my body isn’t mine anymore, it belongs to the pain, to the sound. I want to crawl into an airlock and shoot myself into space. Not because I want to die, but because then I could escape the whine, and the electric lance turning my grey-matter to mush.

  Tip three. Fug is vengeful.

  Darkness is swallowing my vision, and I’m reaching for it, hungry for the blessed relief of unconsciousness when a massive chunk of mould detaches from the ceiling and splots on my face.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When I wake up, I’m not in the freight tunnel, the whine is no longer squashing my brain, and there’s a critter in my face.

  It takes me a minute to realise critters haven’t learned to levitate while I was in stasis/sleep. It’s the small, thumb-sized paw between my eyes that does it. If it were levitating, it wouldn’t need to balance itself with one paw while eating with the other. I’m on my back staring at a pale-yellow ceiling, rippled like it’s made of a dozen head-sized tubes. A shadow moves through one of the ripples, a small round shape the size of my clenched hand.

  I know that ceiling; have stared at it for hours, getting away from my sister, my dad, the crew. It’s five decks below Stasis, on Ag Three.

  How’d I get to one of the Agriculture decks?

  The last thing I remember was passing out as a hank of fug found a new home on my face. At least I’m not dead. The how doesn’t really matter.

  Once that sorts itself out, other things start to filter in, like the fact the surface under me is hard and I’m lying on my back somewhere that isn’t the freight tubes. The critter’s blocking my view of the ceiling, so it’s hard to guess where I am, but right now, I’m savouring the peace that comes from critters.

  The one on my forehead is twice the size of the critters in the Stasis unit, the colour of wheat without the wild puff of fur. It fuzzes; not a sound or a vibration, but an awareness that melts through skin and bone to sink into the part of me that isn’t human, the part that doesn’t talk or think, but feels. The empathic part. I like critters. There’s not much to them, but they’re always bright and soft and happy, unlike the other lifeforms on Citlali. Sometimes, when Grea won’t shut up or Dad is hammering me to get off my butt, I’ll sneak into the Hatchery and hang out with the little dudes.

  They’re simple and easy to understand, and they don’t nag me to make something of myself.

  Warmth and fullness spread through my brain from the critter in a wave of gold that soothes the rough patches left by the fug’s whine. I sigh and close my eyes again, basking in the sensation, letting it wash away the memory of lightning frying my insides.

  I love critters. Love. Critters.

  There’s a strange feeling building in my stomach, a sickly, too-full sensation and the beginnings of nausea, like I ate Grea’s not-so-secret stash of chocolate. It builds in my belly but instead of writhing up my throat and out my mouth, it spreads up and down my spine, invading my fingers and toes, making my lips numb and the skin on my back tight.

  It takes me a second to realise the feeling isn’t mine.

  I sit up, catching the critter before it hits the deck. Others I hadn’t noticed slide off my chest and cling to my arms, their tiny claws hooked in my shipsuit.

  The majority of the sickness goes with them, the rest of it disappears as soon as my shields go up.

  The critter in my hands doesn’t appear sick, not really. I lift it up so I can peer into its pinprick black eyes.

  ‘Hey little dude. What’s going on?’

  He fuzzes and reaches out to bat my nose, his paw coming away with a strand of something grey-green and... moving.

  Fug.

  He eats it.

  I shudder. ‘Dude, that can’t be tasty.’

  He makes no comment, contentedly munching, but that sick feeling, it’s knocking at the door to my brain, not so much trying to get in as reminding me it’s there. And
getting stronger.

  I peer closer then, noting the critter’s golden fur is dull and patchy, and there’s a lopsided red line around its mouth. It grows thicker on one side, expanding like a drop of water, getting shiny and round before... It dribbles down his muzzle and splats on my hand.

  Blood.

  I sit up. ‘What the Terra?’

  ‘Kuma Darzi, you’re awake.’ Ag, the sub-AI the oversees the agricultural decks, hovers above the deck at my feet, but it’s not her I notice. It’s the carpet of dead critters all around. A small wave of sleek golden fur. Golden balls curled around themselves, tiny paws clutching their bellies, blood staining their mouths. Some are still moving in slow, jerky motions, still more are crawling away from me. A line of critters slowly dragging themselves toward their mates, and the fuzzing, Old Terra, but I can sense it through the floor, in the air, and as soon as that happens I can perceive it, that knocking against my brain taking on a sharp edge of pain and darkness.

  The little guy in my hand is shivering now, his pain radiating through my palm. ‘What’s going on? What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘When I found you, you were covered in an invasive mould. The critters are clearing the infestation. Unfortunately, the current stock are not as hardy as I hoped, but with sufficient numbers we appear to have saved you.’

  Sufficient numbers.

  I look out over the carpet of fuzz, at the little bodies curled in foetal balls, some still breathing, some… not. All those critters, all those lives, for me. I want to hurl, but something cold and cruel has gripped my spine, something a lot like horror.

  ‘You are fortunate, Kuma,’ Ag continues. ‘My efforts to clear other areas have failed.’

  Failed. That word brings to mind other swathes of dead critters, makes the cruel thing dig its claws deeper.

  My hand tightens around the critter in my palm.

  ‘How—’ Horror has a hold on my throat, squeezing it so hard my voice comes out thin and broken. I try again. ‘How many critters are there?’

  There’s something about Ag’s avatar, something strange that’s trying to get past the horror, something not quite right. I can’t deal with it now though, so I push it away.

  Ag cocks her head like the question confuses her. ‘There are currently eleven thousand, three hundred and eighty-six units in storage and several thousand in operation. Do you wish me to deploy them?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I mean…’ I’m picturing Grea in her pod, p’Endr’s body on the deck, the captain’s hand forever reaching out of the stasis gel, and I can’t help but see all the other bodies, gold fuzzy ones. I take a deep breath. ‘No. How many critters died?’

  The AI blinks and this time the confusion is written across her features. ‘Since when, Kuma? My records are extensive.’

  ‘Since the fug!’

  ‘Eight hundred and sixty-seven thousand, five hundred and eighty-nine units have passed through Reclamation.’

  ‘That’s…’ I clutch the critter to my chest. The little dude reaches for a strand of fug still clinging to my suit. I tug it out of his grip. ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘It is several years’ worth of units. The Hatchery is at maximum growth capacity, but it will not be enough to fill current requirements.’

  ‘Oh.’ It seems like the thing to say, even if it doesn’t seem that way. It’s all that makes it around the lump of… of what? There’s sludge in my chest, wrapping black tendrils around my heart, weighing it down with guilt.

  I know I shouldn’t be guilty. It’s the critters job to look after us, to eat the junk we leave behind, our blood, sweat and vomit. Fug’s one more biological for them to clean up.

  Glancing over the sea of fuzzy bodies, the thought doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel worse. If it weren’t for me, they wouldn’t be dead.

  The little golden dude fuzzes against my chest, weak and thready and I know that I won’t let him die.

  ‘I need you to fix him.’ I hold up Dude.

  The avatar doesn’t even pretend to look. ‘It is a critter. It has performed its function.’

  ‘You’re still going to fix him.’

  ‘Critters do not have genders. And no, I do not have the resources to repair the critter. If I did, I would produce units with the appropriate resistance to the...’ Ag pauses a second, her face kinda scrunching up. ‘The fug,’ she finally says.

  ‘Who does then?’

  ‘Medical, but I lost contact with that sub-AI shortly after the Core went offline.’

  ‘Okay.’ I get to my feet. ‘Then we’ll go to Med deck.’ I turn toward the lifts, stepping carefully even as I steadfastly ignore the carnage at my feet. If I look at them, if I think about them…

  I can already hear my heart speeding up, the cold cruel thing tightening its hold on my spine. I’m going to fix Dude first and then, I’ll deal with the others.

  Ag appears in front of me. ‘All access to Med deck has been terminated.’

  ‘What? But…What do you mean, “terminated”?’

  ‘Restricted, cut off, blocked. To reach Medical you will need to clear several sections of… fug.’

  I glance down at Dude, at the stain growing around his mouth. ‘He won’t make it.’

  ‘Indeed Kuma, it would be best if you—’

  I turn on my heel, still careful to avoid the dead and dying littered all around me, and ignore the rest of what Ag has to say. I’m not giving up.

  Dude’s cuddled up against my chest. The blood staining his muzzle has trickled down his chin in the minutes it takes us to reach the Hatchery, and he’s shivering.

  You’d expect the Hatchery to be big, but it isn’t. Not a big as the acres of Ag deck, not even as big as the lab where Dad pulls apart the molecules of alien species. It’s bigger than the room I share with Grea, maybe even as big as home, which isn’t that big... but yeah, not the point. The door opens and slides shut behind us, cutting off the swish and sigh of the crops, leaving us in a space not much bigger than the half of our living space that makes up the lounge. It’s quiet in here. Too quiet. And clean. Critters aren’t exactly messy to begin with, but the young ones tend to shed all over the place and not even the maintenance bots are able to keep on top it. A trip to the Hatchery usually means throwing my shipsuit through the cycler and making sure the nano-bots clean up every little bit of fluff before Mum puts the delicates through.

  Dude shivers again, his fuzz taking on an ugly, metallic quality that scrapes up and down my spine.

  ‘Okay, Dude. Maybe Ag can’t make new critters resistant to the fug yet, but there’s got to be something in here that can fix you. At least for the moment.’

  Dude fuzzes again. It might be agreement, but he could be hungry. Or dying.

  Yeah, not going there.

  I put him on my shoulder, try not to wince at the sharp prick as his claws dig into the shipsuit, and head for the console in the middle of the room.

  I know I said before that Hatchery isn’t very big – I was kinda lying. I mean, technically, the control room is the Hatchery, at least that’s what everyone means when they say “the Hatchery”, but that’s because the rest of the place, where the critters are made, isn’t exactly accessible. At least not by anything bigger than a critter. Or the fug, but I’m not going there either. The control room is lit up with a soft golden light, all smooth holo-walls and white decking. Mac once said it looked like a hover-seller’s showroom, sleek and clean and swish enough to convince people they needed the latest and greatest. Don’t ask me how he knew that, it was one of the many strange things about Mac.

  The console itself is a tiny podium in the middle of the room, a thin stick of plasform big enough to tell you where to stand. It rises out of the decking stopping when it’s high enough I can touch it without having to do more than lift a finger. The room changes the moment my skin makes contact, as if it’s read my mind. It hasn’t. As much as some have tried, psionic communication with non-organic beings is still woo-woo crazy. N
ot even those fitted with greyware can really talk to an AI, no matter how much tech they have implanted in their brains.

  Around me, the walls become transparent, showing the miniature corridors and endless grow tubes that make up the real Hatchery. Another AI appears at my side.

  It’s not Ag. Even if I wasn’t expecting this particular avatar, I’d have known that. For one, it looks about as much like Ag as Ag looks like the Core, and for two... well the Hatchery AI isn’t as extensive as Ag. It’s a subset of a sub-AI, without the personality and emotion enhancements of its parent. It’s got this blank, mechanical expression and flat voice that kinda freaks me out. Generally, I try to avoid it, and when I can’t I try not to remember all those all old vids Mac made me watch last cycle, the ones with the Old Terra computers that went nuts and killed people.

  Thankfully, Ag shivers into existence beside it. She looks kinda pissed.

  She’s directing most of that pissed-offness at the Hatchery avatar, staring at it like she’s insulted by its existence. Frankly, if a part of me was as bland and boring as Hatch, I’d be insulted too, but I’m thankfully just me, and dealing with a boring fragment is going to be easier than Ag.

  Carefully, I lift Dude from my shoulder and balance him on the platform that’s appeared at the top of the console.

  ‘Run diagnostic,’ I say.

  Hatch shimmers. ’Running,’ it says.

  Ag crosses her arms. ’I have already tried this Kuma.’

  ‘I’m fixing Dude.’

  ‘It is a critter. It does not need fixing.’

  ’He’s ill, isn’t he?’

  I know I’ve got Ag by the logic circuits when it’s face scrunches up like Grea’s when she’s contemplating whether or not she can get away with flushing me out an airlock. ‘The resources required to heal this critter would be better applied elsewhere.’

  ‘Medical will need something to study, to come up with a cure.’

  ‘I have plenty of specimens—’