by Rok Chillah
"Speak to me, Ridge," said Tomson in a worried tone.
"I'm all right," Ridge said. "Just thinking."
Jerez imitated in an annoying falsetto: "Eyes on the path. Eyes on the path, or we'll fall in the manure." Several persons laughed, and Ridge laughed too, which sort of broke the tense and scary atmosphere.
A minute later, there was a shriek. The line stopped and people bunched up. "What is it?" Tomson said.
Ridge had one hand on the gun in its web holster on his belt as he looked around. Jerez had shrieked and stood pointing. She was pale. "Look, did you see that?"
"You're hallucinating," Yu sneered.
"What are you smoking?" Mahaffey added.
"No no no," Jerez said, "I saw one of those guys in gray suits or whatever they are wearing. Looks like those sugar candy guys from the Days of the Dead in Mexico, the Dias de los Muertos."
Ridge felt a new shiver on his back: he thought he spotted a pale gray figure, just for a second, across the chasm on the other side. It looked like a man wearing stitched rags and red sunglasses, fleeting from one hole in the wall to another. He heard a scurrying sound, and a noise like air blowing softly through a flute, just for a second before silence reigned again. Amid the silence, water splashed in distant places, as if the place were terminally leaking.
"Get yourself together," Lantz said. "You're trembling, and I hear your teeth rattling." She did what she often did when nervous, which was to loosen her coppery red hair and tied it back in a pony tail with rough, freckled hands.
Ridge raised his hand. "Everyone be still." He listened intently. Why were there holes over there, a thousand yards or more away? Why were there no decks? He thought he could make out twisted, melted girders, but it was too damned dark in this general gloom, and the lights on their helmets did not carry far enough. Just bright enough the lights were so they became targets if someone malevolent were watching them. But who or what would be watching them? What kind of nonsense am I thinking? He listened another second, but heard no more sounds.
"This place is trashed," Tomson said drawing up alongside Ridge. "This place is truly trashed, man. I don't mean just impacted or zipped or zapped by some pebble. This place caught the Huge Bazongo, and I mean long ago."
Ridge had to agree. He nodded and pointed across acres of blackened slag that seemed to hang like a frozen river below. "You're right. This is ancient damage, Tomson. What is going on?"
Tomson frowned and looked back. Ridge involuntarily turned his head back and looked at WorkPod01. Their home gleamed distantly like a white lantern amid gloomy bronze and brown shadows. Tomson said under his breath: "Don't let on you just shat your pants."
"I feel like I might," Ridge said with dry, terrified humor. "I've never been this scared in my life."
"There is something totally wrong with this picture," Tomson muttered.
"Are we going forward or not?" Jerez said with staring eyes.
"Of course," Ridge said. "Let's keep on schedule and stop being distracted. The sooner we get our day's work done the sooner we get back home and lock the door." He wished he hadn't said that, as soon as the words came out, but it was too late.
"I'd like to go back now," Jerez said.
"Me too," Mahaffey said.
"Guys," Ridge said, "we can't-"
"No, bullshit," Mahaffey said loudly, "we're civilians. We don't get paid to risk our lives or a heart attack from fear."
"Really," Jerez said. "I wouldn't mind if we went back now."
"Yeah," Yu said, "I'd like to get some reassuring words from Venable before I drag my tired butt out here and get scared to death."
"We can't go back now," Ridge said. "There is no reason to." He felt a rebellion rapidly brewing in his hands, and the worst part was he wanted to join it himself.
Tomson stared at him. "Your call, Section Leader."
Ridge knew he must think fast. They could not stay here, suspended a thousand feet or more in thin air above an alien-looking field of charred objects embedded in slag. Were they hallucinating or were there pale men running around who had just dragged a stranger to his death. What had the stranger been trying to tell them? Ridge wished he were a lip reader. No time now for nonsense; he must make a decision. Should they go forward or back? Instinctively, he knew the answer. "We can't go back because we are locked out, folks."
Several persons, including Jerez and Mahaffey, protested. Fear was written on their features.
"I don't know the answers," Ridge said, raising his hands and dropping them. "I don't even know at the moment how or why I got to be in charge of us, because I can't even remember my first name right now. Can any of you remember much of anything?"
"What the hell are you saying?" Tomson said, his face suddenly contorted with emotion. "You're crazy, man."
"Am I?" Ridge looked at him. "We can argue later." He turned to the others. "Folks, we're standing on a noodle high up in mid air. We're asking a lot of dumb questions and we have no answers. Suddenly, our whole world is like a house of cards. All I can suggest at times like this is that we hitch up our pants, put aside all the dumb questions, and get on with the job. I don't know what else to tell you. Those who want to go back, you do what you want. I'm going forward and I hope the rest of you follow me. Frankly, I think it's our only option." So saying, he started marching forward at a brisk pace. At first he was afraid nobody would follow. Then the gangway behind him, and under him, began to vibrate in a kind of familiar unison as they all marched in step, single file, holding on to the railing on both sides as they crossed the abyss, and for a short time the illusion of normalcy once again prevailed.
Chapter 5
When they arrived at Ring 61. Ridge was relieved to see lights and hear music. They emerged from oceans of darkness on all sides into an island of light that seemed suspended in gloomy midair.
"What was that all about back there?" Tomson asked. The self-assured sneer was back on his strong, dark visage.
"Temporary insanity," Jerez said as she strode confidently up the last few yards of steel and onto the main platform under a row of large bluish-white lights. The music was common, universal rock stock, the kind one heard in every city of the world, and which had been playing in WorkPod01 as they got ready for the day's work.
The catwalk broadened and opened onto a wide ledge that curved outward toward them as they drew near. In the curving wall some 25 feet beyond the ledge were caves. Narrow-gauge rail tracks ran out of the largest cave and stopped halfway across the ledge. The ends of the two tracks were twisted upward and deformed, as if they had begun to melt long ago. The heat that had caused that was long gone. Ridge stepped onto the ledge with his gun in one hand and a light in the other. Heart pounding, he licked his dry lips and stared from side to side. The ground here was like rock, as though part of the ship had melted and poured inward, covering the metal grating that was partially visible through the long-cold slag. Dust was everywhere, covering bits of broken machinery, casually thrown rocks, debris too desiccated from age to be recognizable.
"Look," Mahaffey said, pointing to a spot where the uneven wall sloped down to the ledge. With the pounding rock music and its frenzied, indecipherable words, Ridge was startled to see the hollow eyes of a human skull peeking from the dust. Mughali walked over in her bulky suit and nudged the ground around the skull with her boot. "It's old," she said simply. "No smell of putrefaction. No traces of flesh or skin on it." She knelt down. "Tomson, look at this." She pointed with a delicate finger along the temple region of the skull.
Ridge and Tomson walked up behind her to look. Ridge kept an eye on the cave entrance and had his gun ready. Tomson knelt down beside Mughali. "Wow, look at that," Tomson said wonderingly. His larger finger traced along a curving mark, following her smaller and more delicate finger. "That's a fracture," he said. "Looks like something bit into this person's head."
Ridge looked over their shoulders and noted that the edges of the fracture were about the same grayish hue as th
e surfaces of the skull. "It's old," he said. "Any more information?"
Tomson ran a probing hand around the skull, pushing dust away. He shook his head, rising. "The rest of the body is elsewhere. Someone or something carried the head here and set it down or threw it down, maybe to..." He stopped and gave Ridge a worried look. "Maybe to gnaw on it."
Ridge scratched his head. "Great." He glanced at the other staff members. Yu, Lantz, Mahaffey, Brenna, and Jerez stood huddled together on the edge, as if ready to bolt back across the catwalk into the darkness from which they had come. "Come on and join the fun," he said, waving his arm. He pointed to the cave. "I'm going to take a look in there."
Yu looked angry and confused. "Where is the work area? What is this place?"
Ridge said: "I'll let you know as soon as I get more information from Captain Venable." He turned to Tomson. "You stay with them. I'll go into the cave. Probably just a misunderstanding. I'm sure our work area is in there someplace."
Tomson said: "You sure we have the right coordinates?"
Ridge nodded. "I've checked and double checked. This was supposed to be a power relay station, and we should be seeing people from WorkPod09 around here, checking circuits while we extract, test, and reset the more complicated wetware and biocybernetics." He shook his head, but that did not clear his thinking. "Keep an eye on them," he said simply, "I'm going in." He told the group: "Just stand down for a few minutes. I'll be right back."
"Be careful," Brenna said with concern, folding her arms around herself as if she were cold, though it was relatively warm and the air had a kind of damp, ripe balminess to it. Ridge could see she was shivering. He wanted to embrace her, hold her, tell her everything was all right, but it didn't seem like something he should do. Jerez and Mahaffey didn't look much happier than Brenna. Yu was a stronger, more reserved and analytical type, and he took his place by Tomson's side. Mughali offered: "I'll go with you," but Ridge waved her back.
The cave, when he started cautiously along the railroad tracks, curved around a bend into darkness. Stumbling over dusty objects, Ridge made his way slowly down the tunnel. The walls were steeped in darkness, but rough edges and ridges shone like black anthracite. Ridge heard Tomson's voice echo: "Are you okay in there?"
Ridge did not stop cautiously moving forward. "Yes, I'm okay so far." The music suddenly stopped.
"What's going on?" Tomson and Mughali both called out.
"The music stopped," Ridge said. He listened in the silence, feeling sweat dribbling down his temples. The gun in his slick right hand felt heavy, and the flashlight in his left wavered.
"Hear anything?" they called out.
"Be quiet so I can hear," Ridge said. Almost immediately he regretted having ordered them to be silent, because he longed to hear their voices. He was around a leftward bend now, out of their sight and out of touch. It was a lonely feeling. The tunnel curved on in a rightward bend, and he heard a faint scratching noise. He called out: "Is anyone there?" He waited. No answer. He raised the gun and flashlight and walked slowly forward.
"Talk to me," Tomson yelled from far away. Ridge ignored him. Air blew softly around him, and he smelled something putrid. Each time he caught a whiff of whatever it was, a fresh current of air blew it away.
Suddenly, the music again started playing loudly. It was an ancient rock and roll tune about cars and girls and racing. Ridge flew back against the wall, trembling, and waited. Nothing more happened. The song looped endlessly, playing the same several stanzas over and over again.
Slowly, Ridge walked forward. He was becoming angry now. What could this tomfoolery mean? He was responsible for the safety and well-being of the other seven members of his team. "I'm beginning to take this personally," he called out. "Whoever you are, I'm going to have a few issues with you when I get my hands around your neck." No answer.
Ridge timed his steps carefully on the dusty train tracks. With each step he glanced down among the debris to see where his next footfall might land, and then up again to make sure he missed nothing, should something come flying at him. He kept seeing the bloody hands of the man in the window, and then the frantic expression and the man's wide eyes as he was yanked away backward into oblivion. As the minutes passed, Ridge was beginning to doubt this was a simple matter of taking someone by the neck to straighten things out. His anger was beginning to yield to questioning and fear again. As he walked forward, he sensed that he was entering a large open space. Cooler and drier breezes blew on his face and dried the sweat on his neck.
With a crash of heavy steel breakers, a surrounding circle of blindingly bright light winked on. In the same instant, the music fell silent. Ridge almost dropped his gun and flashlight. With a yelp of pain, he brought his wrists up to his eyes and staggered backward.
"You come to help us?" a voice said. It was an odd, high voice, but firm.
"Get that light out of my face," Ridge ordered.
The light dimmed considerably. Ridge stood with olive-drab curtains of blindness floating before his eyes. Even if he were attacked now, he'd be shooting blindly. A voice said: "You can put your gun away. You're one of us." Ridge hesitated, still holding up the gun, but slipped the flashlight into a holder on his tool belt. The voice continued: "You have nothing to fear. Are there others with you?" Ridge hesitated to give information, and the voice said: "What WorkPod are you from?"
"WorkPod01," Ridge said. "I have a full crew of technicians with me. You have a name?"
"Caulfield. Are you armed?"
The voice, Ridge began to realize, was that of an elderly man. "I'm Ridge. We have several handguns."
The voice laughed. "You'll need a lot more than that, my friend." He sounded bitter. "We're out of time, Ridge. You're too late."
Ridge felt anger welling up again. He felt frustration, confusion, fear. "What the hell is going on here? We came to do a job."
"Oh yes you did," the voice said. It was an old man's voice, with a quaver in it, and a sibilant halt at the end of each phrase as if the speaker's lungs had make an effort to refill. "Come out into the center. Go on, don't be afraid. They won't go near light."
"Who won't go near light? What are you talking about?"
"Mudmen," the voice said. "They are muddled, dirty purpose-bodies built from muddy DNA and broken codons and mismatched body parts. Lots of old body parts."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Ridge slipped his gun into its holster. He rubbed his eyes with both hands. His sight was returning. He was in an irregular clearing under a high, curving roof that looked like a farm of stalactites. The cavern branched off in two side directions, but the central tunnel was blocked off by a mass of debris in which Ridge recognized a battered work cart, broken lights, torn canvas, glass, bent metal pipes, and shreds of cloth. Looking up, Ridge saw at least two dozen round spotlights in black metal canisters had been mounted in the ceiling all around, and those now winked out in batches. Ridge could hear the breakers cutting out as someone opened them. An elderly man in a ragged jumpsuit stepped out from the central tunnel onto the pile of debris. He looked pale and emaciated, dirty, with wind-blown white hair on a partially bald skull.
"Did the captain send you?"
"Yes. Captain Venable."
"Venable, that louse!" Caulfield wiped the back of a soiled hand across his mouth. "He has betrayed us all, more than once."
Ridge pressed: "What is this work we're supposed to do? We came to make repairs, but I don't remember the ship being this badly damaged."
Caulfield's eyes were wide as he stared into some memories Ridge couldn't imagine. "It must have been a terrible blast," Caulfield whispered in his broken voice, with spittle foaming from the corners of his mouth. "Melted the walls, burned out the catwalks, killed the astronics." His eyes were hollows of nightmarish vision within gaunt features. He looked as though he had gone through a cauldron of horror and come out transformed. He wore the remains of web gear: one canteen, one holster and gun, as dirty and dusty as the man himself. Ri
dge tried to press him for information, but the old man was in a world of his own. "You're too late," Caulfield said, still staring into the distance and hardly noticing Ridge. "They're all dead. I'm the only one left, and I have very little time. There is no time to sit and talk. We have to go."
For a moment they stood confronting each other, the old man ten feet up at the mouth of his refuge, and Ridge in the middle of the clearing. It looked like a defensive position. Ridge said: "I've got seven techs and engineers back there waiting to find out what we are supposed to do here."
"Do?" The old man laughed. "Do? Hah! Survive, if you are lucky. Get them out of here. Go back where you came from."
Ridge felt more puzzled than ever. "What is going on here? Is it the air in the ship?" He felt a bit faint, and shook his head sharply once or twice, tapping a palm against one temple. "I can't seem to remember."
"You'll figure it out soon enough," the man said, bounding down toward Ridge. "My name is Caulfield. WorkPod09." He held out a bony hand, and Ridge shook it. Caulfield's eyes had a tragic yellowish cast, and his face looked like a mask of irony. There was something he wasn't telling. Ridge could feel it. Why? "Get those people out of here," Caulfield said. "I'm coming with you." He grabbed Ridge roughly around the shoulders, turned him back the way he'd come, and pushed.
Ridge resisted, but with the other man pressing roughly on his back, he let himself be propelled along. "What happened to the rest of your work group? Did you send a man to warn us?" Seeing Caulfield’s opaque expression, he added: “We watched a man get torn to pieces banging on the window of WorkPod01. Any idea who?”
"No time, no time," Caulfield whispered, looking back over his shoulder. "Go go go," he urged. "See that on the ground?" Ridge looked down and saw what had given off the putrid smell: a corpse lay huddled against the wall. It was nearly hidden in the shadows by the track. It had a putty-gray color with a greenish-pink sheen of bacterial decay on its naked, stitched up skin. Ridge glimpsed something misshapen, off-center, a sightless face that was only vaguely human, with hands curled up on either side of sunken cheeks. The fingers on those hands were abnormally short, but it looked as though the creature had long claw-like fingernails. The claws were yellowish, almost birdlike or reptilian. Ridge froze a second, until Caulfield roughly shoved him on. "Don't worry. You'll see more of them."