Night Shift

by Robin Triggs

  robin TRIGGS

  Night Shift

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  For JK and L

  ID: SAB6974/243/21M

  Verified: Baurus, RM

  Brasilia Province

  Received: 051046:0312

  Priority: Ultra

  Confirmed and verified

  Attachment confirmed and verified

  Message follows

  Private and Confidential

  RE: Australis Incident

  Madam Director

  You will be wondering why an operations executive is contacting you directly rather than going through official channels. You may already be wondering what disciplinary action to take against me. I have thought long and hard about this, and believe me when I say that I would not be risking my career – my entire future – if I did not think that this was necessary. All I ask is that you suspend judgment until you have read this letter.

  The staff at Tierra del Fuego became aware of problems at Australis when our regular contacts ceased shortly after the night shift began. As O’Higgins Base, our Antarctic port, was frozen, and because all Antarctic flying is suspended over winter, no action was taken until the following spring. Dr. Gabriel (EUG/4454/555/13M), Technician Istevez (SAB2023/499/24M) and I myself were then dispatched to investigate. Our official report is on the system, should you care to examine it. It is enough to say that the situation at Australis is stable, though I fear we will struggle to keep the lights on this year. The Company will also have lost many millions in profit.

  Of immediate concern is the disturbing story we’ve managed to piece together surrounding the events of the long night. All survivors were given SP-117 by Dr. Gabriel as per standard procedure; all then were interviewed individually and their statements recorded verbatim. The events they describe would be hard to credit had the witnesses not corroborated each other from their differing viewpoints. These accounts – in addition to the forensic and analytic reports – have been retained on a secure server should you wish to examine them.

  I have deliberately downplayed the significance of these reports so as to discourage curiosity. I have ordered Dr. Gabriel to say nothing; I have checked his record and do not consider him a security risk, but you might wish him reassigned. He and Technician Istevez have remained at Australis for the time being, to help stabilize the situation.

  The transcript I am attaching – that of Anders Nordvelt (EUE/6887/274/33M) – is fully representative, and I urge you to read it. I cannot – dare not – enlarge on Nordvelt’s narrative in this message, save to say that it suggests that the problems encountered in Antarctica may threaten other Company operations. Indeed, it might not be going too far to say that they may affect the very future of the Company.

  I think once you have read the transcript you will understand the reasons for my direct approach. Had I employed the usual chain of communication, my life would now be in serious danger.

  I await your instructions.

  Ricardo Baurus

  Operations Executive

  SAB6974/243/21M

  Chapter One

  We stood on the pack ice, struggling to keep our feet in a wind that drove the snow right into our faces. I shielded my eyes and watched Fischer and Weng crouching down by the still, suited figure to make certain of what we all knew. The professional part of me sought clues, evidence, footprints. It was hopeless. Our torches illuminated only the smothering blizzard. I tried to find shelter in the lee of the building but the gale seemed to be coming from all around.

  Fischer straightened and looked at me, her feet crunching on the freshly fallen snow. Even through her mask I could sense the anguish. Or maybe that was just my imagination, my own terrors reflected back at me.

  We had good cause for fear. This assignment was rapidly becoming a nightmare.

  Just a few days into the night shift and we had a death on our hands.

  * * *

  Should I go from there, or should I begin with my arrival?

  * * *

  There was no room in the driver’s compartment so I rode with the light goods. A small, hard seat and a small, cheap viewscreen were my comforts. I spent hours pacing the small, gray space, watching progress on the screen map. I tried to read, scrolling idly down the lists of titles on my datapad. I flicked from article to article, but nothing could hold my attention. I settled for switching the screen to show the outside world. It was just…gray. All gray and white and brown. Shapeless mounds drawn in nothing colors, and that was all I could see for miles and miles and miles in every direction.

  My home. For at least the next six months this forgotten land was to be my home. I was to be the thirteenth man, a late replacement for the old security officer. I didn’t know why he had left: the Psych should have anticipated any problems.

  Only twelve other people within a thousand miles. Well, I’d always felt alone, even when surrounded by thousands. Maybe that was why I’d been appointed.

  The smelting plant was the first I saw of the complex. I watched as the giant factory slowly grew in the crawler viewscreen. I had studied the plans of the base, of course, but it was another thing entirely to watch that monster slowly becoming more solid, more gigantic, as we approached. The buildings clustered around its base were to be my home; just those few small structures and, around them, Antarctica’s endless wastes.

  “Ten minutes, Mr. Nordvelt,” the driver called over the intercom. “Best get suited up.”

  I was, I think, more practiced than he knew. I had my Antarctic gear on and ready in half that time. My training had been thorough. I stood sweating in the airlock as I waited for the vehicle to come to a halt.

  * * *

  I emerged into a rough courtyard and paused to let my eyes adjust. Ahead of me a horseshoe ridge rose to meet a quicksilver crack of sun; gloomy lumps of industry stood within the rough shadow-bowl this formed. The yard itself was floodlit, heavy lamps set on top of adjacent buildings, themselves little more than brutally practical concrete boxes. Beyond them, the great banks of solar panels that topped the greenhouse shone liquid blue. Further structures were just pinpricks of light against the black hillside.

  Behind me the crawler was already uncoupling the cargo carriages that made up the land train. Ahead, a fresh row of laden trucks stood ready to be hauled back to O’Higgins Port for shipping to Tierra del Fuego. I had taken the last boat in; this precious cargo of raw materials – coal, oil and iron – would be on the last boat out before the port closed for the winter.

  The distances hit me like they’d never done on my long journey here.

  “Mr. Nordvelt, I presume.”

  The sudden greeting startled me. I hadn’t really been paying much attention to the green-coated figures that had been emerging to greet the crawler as its massive engine growled. They barely looked human in their face masks and body-hugging warmsuits – more like lizards than people. I must have looked the same to them, but I guess they were used to it.

  One of these figures had detached himself from the main group and had come to stand at my side. He held out a gloved hand to me when I turned. “I’m Anton,” he said as we shook. His voice was clear, the earpieces working their magic in my hood. No chance of lip-reading, though. I could barely see his chin move beneath the mask.

  “Commander de Villiers?”

  “If you like,” he said with a dismissive wave. He started to lead me away from the vehicle, towards the largest of the nearby buildings. Above it loomed the smelting plant and the hill it was dug into. “Don’t have much call for rank at Australis. We’re far enough from Company eyes. We know why we�
�re here.” He broke off to pull open the door – not locked, I couldn’t help but notice – and lead me inside. “We all know our jobs – and who we are.” He laughed, loud and rough in my ear.

  We passed straight into the vestibule; not quite an airlock but similar in practice. It was more like a large cloakroom. I stood to the side, backing against a row of lockers as de Villiers shut the door behind us. He removed his gloves and started to unclip his mask. I followed his example, the air cool – but not cold, not freezing as I’d imagined it would be.

  “That’s your locker,” de Villiers said with a nod. “Still has McCarthy’s name on it, but you’ll get used to that. His name’ll be on most of the things you get here.” He laughed again, I’m not sure why. Now his face mask came away and I saw him properly for the first time.

  His face came as a relief to me, even with his too-perfect grin and sandy, devilish beard. The journey, the environment – it was like I’d arrived on some foreign planet., The warmsuits and the rest of the winter weather made monsters of us all. He gestured me out of the way to get at one of the lockers behind me, stowed his gear in there as it came off to reveal a relaxed, weathered yellow shirt. It seemed that I couldn’t escape the fashion for bright colors, not even here.

  I unzipped my suit-front, found McCarthy’s locker and pulled at the door. It opened, to my mild surprise: was there no security code, no bioreader? But de Villiers hadn’t bothered with one either. I pushed the thought aside, saved it for later, as I set my bag down and began to strip myself of my Antarctic clothing.

  “So that’s what you look like,” said de Villiers, with a little twist of a smile. “Come on, let’s get inside and have a chat. Bring your bag.”

  He led me through the inner door and into the base proper. As soon as I was through I felt the warmth roll over me. It felt almost like the savannahs – a dry heat, and I welcomed it. Maybe it was psychological; the warmsuit had kept the chill from me outside, after all, but still I felt the Antarctic wastes melt away from me.

  De Villiers strode casually ahead. “You know the layout of the place?” he asked as we passed doors to the sides of the metal-walled corridor.

  “I’ve studied the plans. There’s only the workshop and storage on the ground floor, yes?”

  He nodded. We’d reached a door at the end of the hall and de Villiers shouldered it open, turning as he did to raise an eyebrow at me. “You know we’re self-sufficient, powered and heated by those solar panels on the greenhouse and by a small oil-lake half a mile away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We can skip all that, then.”

  I followed him through to a stairwell; it only went downwards. Three floors, I knew – staff quarters. Barracks, headquarters, leisure rooms. Gymnasium. All underground to save heat and power.

  “First floor: meeting room, kitchen and refectory, infirmary, recreation room, network room – through which all computer functions are routed, although our relay station, with the actual satellite equipment, is in the comms building half a mile from here,” de Villiers said as we descended. “Oh, Greigor – what’re you doing here? I thought you were out with Maggie.”

  A tall, well-built young man had emerged just as we reached the door that led from the stairwell into the first underground level. We all stopped, startled – an uncomfortable meeting.

  “Mm? Oh, yes,” Greigor said, his eyes wide. He struck me as implausibly, unfairly handsome. He stared at me openly until suddenly snapping back to face the commander. “I just…jus’ going now.” His voice was a smooth baritone with a little South American lilt, his shirt a deep crimson, patterned with darker patches – flowers, I realized.

  De Villiers frowned. “This is Anders. Anders, Greigor Miziara. He works – or he should do – in the greenhouse. The hydroponics.”

  We muttered greetings and shook hands. His grip was too firm. He kept his deep brown eyes on mine and, though he said the right things, his smile was that of a wild dog eyeing up a rival.

  “Right,” de Villiers said. “Get on, Greig. We’ll see you at dinner.” He stared at Greigor’s back until he’d disappeared round the bend in the stairs. “Okay. Where were we?”

  We descended in silence, footsteps echoing around us.

  “Second floor. Crew quarters.”

  According to the plans, there was nothing but the laundry and the generator below us. Instead de Villiers led me through another door and into another corridor. Still he couldn’t help but tell me things I knew already. “My rooms – my office and quarters – are the other way, the corresponding suite.” We reached a corner and followed it round to the left. He stopped in front of the first door. The plaque read McCarthy, G., and then below, Security. “And here’s yours.” He favored me with a grin, the encounter with Greigor apparently forgotten. “The rest of the team follow on from yours and mine, and the doctor has her rooms at the far end, by the emergency exit.” He tapped a code into the lock – 1-2-3-4 – and ushered me inside. “This is your office. Your bed is through there. Guess you’ll want some time to yourself, but don’t take too long. I’ll meet you in the rec room in an hour.”

  I turned to see him leaning against the frame of my outer door. I was going to thank him, or agree, or say something, but he beat me to it.

  “You know you’re going to have the most boring six months of your life, huh? Hope you like people, like reading, because God knows you’ll have bugger all else to do.” He treated me to another of his queer little smiles, but his tone was cold, almost bitter. His eyes froze in the striplights of the office. “Security chief? What a joke. You’re thirty-two, right? You look like you’re barely out of school. I’ve read all the Company has on you…”

  He paused, and unsaid words rang across the corridor.

  “Damn, I want to know who you slept with to get placed here.” De Villiers grinned again, teeth white. “I mean, you’re— no offence, kid, but you hardly compare with the rest of us on experience. Come through the Company system, right? Never seen how the real world works. Guess we’ll all be like you someday.” He stared at me, scrutinizing me closely. “Still, maybe that doesn’t matter. I don’t know what they told you back in Tierra, but you’re only here because we have to have someone, you know that? You’ll walk out of here, your wallet three times as thick and your pick of jobs to walk into. And what’ll you have to do for that? Nothing. There’s no crime here, none at all. No crime, no drugs, no alcohol, only thirteen people, including you. But because it says in some Company rulebook that we must have a commander, a doctor and a chief of security, here you are.” He paused. “Welcome to Australis, Mr. Nordvelt. Good to have you aboard.” He shut the door on me, and I was alone.

  * * *

  My office was small and spartan, not a single spot of humanity. To call it functional would be an understatement. It felt like a cell. I stood with my back to the door and looked. A bare metal chair for visitors, a desk with compscreen, a chair for me and, in the corner, a filing cabinet. God knew what I’d need that for; nothing gets written down anymore, or at least nothing that needs to be kept. On the right-hand wall was another door, marked Private.

  I dropped my bag to the floor and went to the other side of the desk. On the compscreen the Company logo floated silently. I was tempted to scan my biometrics and get straight to work, but – well, why rush? Instead, I went to the internal door and stared at the key panel. The commander hadn’t given me the code. I tried the handle, but it wouldn’t shift. I shrugged, tried 1-2-3-4 and it opened. De Villiers had obviously meant it when he said they hadn’t much use for security here.

  The room beyond was almost as colorless as the office. Fractionally smaller than I was used to in my old home, in the blocks – except now I wasn’t sharing with three other men. To my left was a wardrobe. I looked inside and saw one of McCarthy’s blue-gray uniforms still hanging. There was a gray armchair facing a viewscreen, a metal table with
another compscreen and two chairs, and a metal-framed bed. I ran an idle hand over smooth beige blankets, took in the white pillowcases. There were two metal shelves on one of the walls, and a cupboard for clothes. I wandered into the small kitchen area – just a workspace, a combi-maker and a cupboard – and opened the cupboard to find two cups. Almost as if they’d allow one guest, but no more. As if they expected every member of crew to make a friend – but only one.

  There was another door in the far corner: the washroom. Toilet, shower and sink.

  This was my home.

  I dragged my bag inside, shut the door. First thing I had to do was change the code – just for my peace of mind, to give myself some sense of privacy. But even then I couldn’t quite accept that this space was mine; not since I was five had I had a room of my own. I kept looking for a second bedroom, feeling for the air currents, for signs that someone had been here. Of course I’d known it’d be like this, but the emptiness still sent the hairs on the back of my neck quivering. I’d no idea how I was going to stay sane with only twelve other people for a thousand miles.

  But the Psych said I would. So I would.

  I sat in the armchair and I became aware of a low vibration. It was everywhere; it had always been there, I’d just not noticed it until now. I looked up. It was the smelting plant, I knew – or maybe it was the refinery, or the recycling plant, or the mineworks. It was industry. And it would be here as long as – longer than – I’d be.

  Best get used to it.

  I pulled my bag towards me and opened it up. Everything I owned was in there, in that small holdall. I felt inside, lifted out the neatly folded plain gray shirts and put them on the floor. Below were my few personal items: The letter from my first love; the picture she’d drawn for me, so long ago now; the rosewood-inlaid puzzle box I’d had for…for as long as I could remember. And the memcard: outdated technology with outdated memories. My fingers brushed across the silk-smooth face of a photograph. I didn’t need to draw it out to know what it was: the only picture of my parents I had. I don’t know why I kept it. The memories were always…complicated. Love, hate and anger. Mostly anger.