Night Shift

by Robin Triggs

  I read de Villiers’s and Fischer’s first, but neither contained anything that I didn’t already know. The commander’s read more like a list of conquests than an objective account. It was filled with phrases like “Weng came to my room tonight”, “Saw Fischer in her office”, “Spent evening with Max”. Apart from that, it mostly described plans for improvements in drilling efficiency, or outlined ideas for ways to expand the base.

  In reference to me there was a note of my arrival and of his initial impressions. It seemed Greigor had been right: the commander hadn’t trusted me at all. Not that he’d said anything so direct, but the inference was clear. “He seems unwilling to engage with the crew, a cold fish. Why doesn’t he want to get close to anyone? I can guess.”

  After we’d had the first meeting on the night of the equinox: “Convinced Nordvelt will become a problem. Unhappy at some of our extracurricular activities. But think I managed to buy us a little time – maybe we’ll manage him but I’ll keep an eye on him for now.”

  And the next: “Why would he destroy the comms building? If he was writing a special report, he’d want to keep communications open. But it couldn’t have been anyone else, surely.”

  The only other comments of any note seemed to concern Weng. “Weng continues to be difficult,” one entry began. “Will talk to her next week; until then best to treat her as normal.” So he’d known what he was doing. That entry was dated just before my arrival; I wondered if he’d actually had the discussion he’d been planning.

  There was also a note of the disciplinary meeting he’d had with Greigor. It was one of the last records and said simply, “Spoke with Greigor RE: complaints. Recommended he do the online sensitivity training.”

  I frowned at the screen.

  Fischer’s logs were, if anything, even less interesting. Her notes consisted mostly of treatment records, of which there were few. McCarthy saw her regularly, I noted, suffering from sleeplessness and headaches. On one occasion he’d complained of sleepwalking, said that one night he’d woken in the vestibule, halfway into his warmsuit, with an ice cutter in hand.

  Fischer had not attempted to record her feelings.

  McCarthy’s personal logs reiterated a lot of the previous information. He’d suffered in Antarctica with both his health and his interactions with the rest of the crew. He wrote at length about his arguments with de Villiers. “No discipline,” he wrote in successive descriptions of the commander. “No respect for the rules.” Over the months his records became terser and terser; I could almost feel his lack of sleep through his words. It was with mild interest that I saw that he’d been hired by the same team that had recruited me. But there was nothing that indicated he had any suspicions about anyone, not even de Villiers. It seemed, as everyone had told me, that his dislike was confined to the commander’s personality and methods.

  Dragged by the small chain that connected McCarthy and myself, I drifted back to the series of interviews and tests that had led me to Antarctica. It was oddly hazy; less than half a year ago. I should have had some impression of the people behind the desks. I’d been in that room enough times, could still picture the conference table in front of me. But those gathered on the other side had lost definition. They came back as voices only.

  “Lacks experience.” A woman, disinterested.

  “But his work record shows that he’s never been properly tested. The Psych shows a high ceiling. He has potential.” An older man.

  And then being strapped to a gurney, a white light all I knew, as another barrage of tests was launched against me. A new, upgraded form of the Psych, that’s what they’d said.

  I pulled myself together and pushed away the odd disquiet that had settled on my shoulders. I accessed Fergie’s logs.

  Craig Ferguson, Scots born, Scots educated, Scots trained. His early records were simple accounts of the mineworkings, interspersed with his feelings and impressions of the people around him. For the first few months he’d seemed content and had enjoyed his work. But there was a marked change once the attacks started. The impression of an easygoing man disappeared almost overnight. It was replaced by a man who appeared paranoid and vindictive. If I hadn’t known the circumstances, I would have considered him unstable.

  The Company advised weekly updates, but his now became daily. “Comms building destroyed. Explosives causing avalanche…must watch Nordvelt carefully.” “De Villiers dead. Can’t believe it was an accident – Weng most likely suspect, but Nordvelt….” “Made commander of operations. Can now watch crewmates from better position – must get Nordvelt confined to quarters.” “Worried that the janitor is becoming too close to Nordvelt. Cannot trust her to carry out her duties independently.” “Nordvelt confined to quarters but crew still divided. Does he have co-conspirators?” “Must keep an eye on Max and Dmitri. Hear them talking behind my back…listening devices planted.”

  Damn him. Damn that bloody Scot. I looked round me wildly, trying to find the bug that Fergie must have planted in my room. This I was not prepared to tolerate. I calmed myself and began a methodical search, and eventually I found a small pellet-like device stuck to the underside of my table. I threw it on the floor and stamped on it until it was dust. God alone knew how he’d got it in here; maybe when he’d brought food, or – well, it really didn’t matter.

  I shook my head, my anger spent. I threw myself back in my chair, sighed and leaned back. What was the point? What was the point in even trying to work it out?

  I found nothing to help me prove my innocence, nothing to suggest an alternative suspect. Although I could hardly have expected to find a confession in the personal logs.

  And then I read Greigor’s log. And the anger I’d thought was spent came back, doubled and redoubled.

  I got up and moved for the intercom. Then I hesitated.

  No point going off half-cocked. There was more to be done here first.

  * * *

  There was something else. Whatever bodge, whatever software patch, the engineers had put on my door to seal me in, the system reboot must have erased it. I didn’t realize at first. Whether from boredom or frustration, I had tried my access code a dozen times over the days and got nowhere. This time it worked.

  Again I wondered if Max had she known what she was doing. It was possible – it was possible that this was a setup. It would not look good for me to be caught outside my rooms.

  My heart was thumping as I sidled along the corridor wall, every moment expecting to be discovered. It’d be a hard job convincing the others that I hadn’t broken out to perform mischief.

  With my security override working again I’d accessed the surveillance network to make sure that no one was around. I’d made sure that Greigor was in the greenhouse. Still my palms were sweaty and my breath overloud. I reached the end of the corridor and peered round the corner, ears hypersensitive for any sound that didn’t belong.

  Greigor’s room. I paused, waited a moment for my heartbeat to slow, then overrode the lock.

  I slipped inside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fergie came for me next morning.

  “Come on,” he said without preamble.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, pausing in the middle of a press-up.

  “The basement,” he said. Dark rings circled his eyes, his skin pale and appearing almost brittle. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “We’re clearing out in there. You can help us. What’s that damn music?”

  I jumped to my feet and turned it off, spilling sweat onto the screen. “Does this mean—”

  “You’re still the killer,” Fergie snapped. “You won’t be left alone, I promise.” He still talked tough but the strain was clearly getting to him. He didn’t seem able to look me in the eyes. He stepped back to let me through.

  I’d spent much of the night lying in my bed and staring at the ceiling. My mind was working, working,
working. Someone had to be told about what I’d found in Greigor’s room. Someone had to know. I just had to put it all together myself first and find the right moment, the right person…

  I grabbed a shirt and walked out to the corridor. Dmitri was waiting there, leaning against a wall, scowling.

  “Three days locked up and no trouble,” Fergie said with a note of smugness as he led the way to the stairwell. “Still claim you’re innocent, Nordvelt?”

  I didn’t reply. Dmitri too kept silent as we descended to the lowest level, our footsteps echoing up the shaft.

  “So what’re we doing, then?” I asked as we emerged into the relative warmth of the basement.

  “Moving all this crap up to the workshop,” Fergie said, gesturing at the piles of stored material.

  “We’re readying our move down here,” Dmitri added.

  Fergie scowled at the Ukrainian as if he’d given me too much information. But he just told us to get on with it and left us alone in the strip-lit chamber.

  Dmitri looked at me steadily. He moved over to the nearest stack of material and took hold of one side of a large sheet of steel. “Take the end,” he said.

  With a sigh I did as he asked. Together we spent the rest of the day ferrying metal to the service lift and then stacking it in the workshop. Thinking, thinking, thinking all the while.

  * * *

  I fell back on my bed, totally exhausted. My arms, back and legs ached. I had never in my life put in such a hard day’s work. Dmitri and I had been lugging materials around all day, and yet we hadn’t even managed to clear the first rack.

  I hadn’t seen Max since our argument but I was glad to see her appear with my dinner tray. I struggled to my feet to greet her.

  “Hi,” I said as she placed the food on my table and dropped a bag on the bed. “Are you staying to talk, or are you heading straight back up?”

  She didn’t reply immediately. She stood, hands on hips, and stared at me, unsmiling. “You had no right to bring up my relationship with de Villiers.”

  “I’m still trying to find out who killed him,” I said, unable to keep the snark out of my voice.

  “Don’t give me that shit, Anders. You didn’t ask me because you needed the information. You asked me because—” She didn’t finish the sentence, telling me louder than any words that she knew I was jealous.

  I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it again.

  “You have no hold on me, Anders. You have no right to interrogate me over my personal affairs.”

  “I am security chief – I have—”

  “That’s not why you were asking, though, was it?”

  Deep breath. “No. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Not that I’m not flattered.”

  I kept my eyes on the floor.

  “Right. Okay. That’s that out of the way. Eat.”

  I gave myself a mental shake. “There’s something I need to show you first.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s important.”

  “Well?”

  “I need to go with you to Greigor’s room.”

  She blinked, then burst out laughing. “What the hell are you talking about? Go to Greigor’s room? Why would we do that?”

  Her smile faded slowly as she took in my expression.

  “Why?” she asked. “What’s in Greigor’s room?”

  “I think it’d be easier if I showed you.”

  Max shook her head. “You’re locked in here, Anders. Fergie’d do his nut if I let you out.”

  I grimaced, frustrated. I didn’t want to let anyone know I’d already left my quarters – not if I could help it. Then it clicked. I realized I didn’t have to.

  “The CCTV cameras. I can show you the security footage.”

  “We removed your access to the CCTV.”

  I looked at her carefully. I could see no signs of dissembling, no quirk of the mouth that’d indicate a joke. Good acting? Could be. I didn’t say anything, just went to the compscreen and dialed up the right images.

  “How come you can get access?” she snapped, grabbing me by the shoulder.

  I didn’t answer. Just stepped back and indicated the screen.

  * * *

  I thought I’d seen Max angry before. It was clear now that I’d not seen a thing.

  I trailed in her wake, striding, almost running through the corridors. Finally she reached the canteen and, barely breaking step, thrust her way inside.

  “Max, what? Hey, Nordvelt – wh—”

  “You little turd!” Max snapped, pointing a finger at Greigor. Her arm barely trembled. “You little sniveling wretch! I’m gonna kick the shit out of you, you motherfucker!”

  Everyone was scrambling to their feet now, plates hastily pushed away, cutlery falling to the table. Greigor looked totally perplexed, stumbling back as his chair fell with a thump.

  “Max, what is this?” Maggie asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Why the hell is Nordvelt here?” Fergie demanded.

  Max took another pace forward, eyes still consuming the Argentinean. “This worm, this thing, has been spying on us. He’s broken into the security system somehow, he’s been—”

  “It’s n-no’ true,” Greigor stammered. “I never—”

  “Don’t try and deny it, you little shit. Anders showed me the footage.”

  I ignored the glances aimed at me, kept fully focused on the rat Greigor.

  “You’ve got recordings of…” She hesitated. “You’ve got footage of me and Anders… You’ve got footage of me naked. Couldn’t have me yourself so you thought you’d try a little voyeurism, huh? Well, I hope you fucking came hard, shitbag.”

  Now all eyes were on Greigor. He shook his head desperately. The silence lay heavy across the table.

  “Greigor, is this true?” Maggie asked, voice shaking only slightly.

  “Oh, it’s true, don’t you doubt it,” Max said. “He’s got hours of video. Of me, and of Weng.”

  The Chinese woman, who for months had been seated next to Greigor, gave a little gasp and edged away.

  “I jus’…” Greigor hesitated, looking around wildly. “I jus’ looking for the murderer, for the saboteador, yes? I do—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit!” Max said. “Just looking for the saboteur, huh? Did you have any particular reason for thinking the killer would be in Weng’s room, or mine, just when we’re getting undressed? Did you have any reason to collect these – these videos back in the day shift, way before we had any problems?”

  Weng was muttering something under her breath. She looked absolutely horrified, was still backing away. Maggie said something to her in some form of Chinese, but the woman just shook her head, turned and ran; she pushed past me and fled the room. Maggie gave Greigor one last, furious glance, then hurried out after her.

  Max leaned forward, knuckles on the table. “You’re going to pay for this, you little maggot.” She held his eyes for a long moment before she too swept out.

  Now only the men remained in the canteen. All thoughts of eating had been abandoned.

  I cleared my throat. “It was you that hacked my computer, wasn’t it, Greigor?”

  “He did what?” Fergie asked, looking between us.

  “He hacked into my compscreen and left a message for me, didn’t you, Greigor? He wanted me to know I was being watched. That I’m not really a part of this crew.” I felt immune to emotion in that moment; I felt like an automaton, could store my feelings in a locked-off file to access later.

  Greigor was still shaking his head but he couldn’t keep the truth from his eyes. To his credit, he pulled himself together quickly and straightened. He wiped a lock of his hair away from his face and gave me the full impact of his good looks, his cool Latino eyes. “Okay, Nordvelt. Yes, I reprogrammed
your compscreen. I was just doing what the commander wanted me to do—”

  “The commander wanted—” Fergie began.

  “Just before he dies, the commander calls me in for a meeting—”

  “Where he was goin’ to discipline you—”

  “I told you already, de Villiers didn’t trust our new security chief! He told me to keep an eye on him.”

  “Really?” It was nice to have Fergie’s skepticism aimed at someone else for once. “He said that?”

  “Well—”

  “What precisely did he say to you?” Dmitri asked.

  Greigor looked around and saw that everyone was still focused on him. “Well – he say – he said… De Villiers was preoccupied, all through our meeting. I ask him why and he says that he’s worried about Nordvelt—”

  “What about Nordvelt?” Fergie demanded, sparing me a look.

  “The commander, he said that he’d need an eye kept on him—”

  “That’s what he said?” I asked. “An eye? He didn’t say anything about you hacking my compscreen or spying on the—”

  “It was clear what he was trying to say!”

  “—and he didn’t say anything about spying on the women,” Fergie said.

  “—and it was a good job I did,” Greigor said over him, in a rush to get the words out. “Because I know a lot more about you, Mr. Nordvelt. A lot more than you’d like, yes?” He grinned at me, fierce and triumphant.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “What—” Keegan began, but Greigor cut him off.

  “I was right to check you out, wasn’t I, Nordvelt? Go on. Go ahead. Tell all these good people what the Psych says about you, yes? Tell Mr. Ferguson, Mr. Kalinchenko, Keegan, Abi – tell us all about who you really are, why not?” he snarled.

  “This is not about me—”

  “You want me to do it for you? Okay, then, that’s how it is, huh? Well—”

  “Shut the fuck up, you little shit,” I roared, suddenly breaking like a tsunami. The next thing I knew, Dmitri was holding me by the shoulders, big hands gripping me firmly. Fergie was standing in front of Greigor, shock covering the Scotsman’s face. The little rat behind him looked smug, and I squeezed my fists tight, tighter.