The control deck started to close in.
If Alex hadn’t been wearing gloves, both he and Nutrene would have seen his fingers covered in sweat.
“I, uh…” Alex didn’t expect his voice to crack so blatantly.
Oxade tilted his Rez-9 and ran his thumb on the side lever, arming it, “Come on, explain.”
“I, uh, just…”
“You just what?”
“I read up about it before we left—”
“—Lessense,” Oxade lowered his gun and eyeballed Alex with a devilment usually reserved for people who murder family members, “I’m not stupid, you know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed what’s going on.”
“Wh-what? N-Nothing’s going on—”
“—Then wh-wh-why are you st-st-stuttering like a goddamn f-f-fool?” Oxade mocked with viciousness and aimed his gun at the boy’s face, “Answer me, you st-stuttering d-d-dick.”
“I j-just…”
“Answer me.”
“Oxade,” Nutrene screamed in his ear, “Are you out of your mind?”
“If he doesn’t answer me, he’ll get a Rez-9 charge in his,” Oxade pulled his index finger back, teasing the trigger, “Hughes?”
Alex licked the dryness from his lips and hyperventilated, “I’m n-not… I’m…”
“Who are you, Alex Hughes?” Oxade roared.
“I’m… I’m… Alex—”
His speech slowed to a complete halt.
The ground twisted into the air and punched him square in the face, knocking him flat out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Crew Quarters
Space Opera Beta
Tripp sat in front of his N-Gage screen and stared at the eleven-year-old boy on the screen; his son, Rogan. He’d begun to resemble his father. The comparison of their jaw lines and eyes were unmistakable.
Almost five years had passed since Tripp had left home. It had been ninety seconds since he spoke to his son.
Rogan’s ears pricked up as Tripp’s last sentence rolled into the front room. He turned to the screen.
“We’re on a ninety-second delay, which will make talking to each other interesting, won’t it? How is school?”.
Rogan eventually sighed, “School is okay, Dad. I hate my math teacher. He’s very strict. Why haven’t you come home, yet?”
Tripp had to wait another ninety seconds for the message to reach him.
Rogan would be a teenager when he returned home. Tripp looked away from the screen and covered his face, refusing to reveal his emotions.
“Why are you crying, dad?”
Tripp wiped the pink liquid from his eyes and cleared his throat, “I’m not crying, son. It’s just that I’m so happy to see you. Where’s Spooky?”
Rogan leaned into the screen and moved his eyes left and right trying to soak up his father’s quarters, “Is that your room?”
“Yes,” Tripp muttered, “How is everyone?”
“Spooky died, dad,” Rogan said, clearly antagonized by the memory of the event, “She got really ill. She really missed you after you left.”
“Dead?” Tripp closed his eyes and felt the bottom of his heart crack open, “Oh.”
Tripp wiped his face and saw his wife, Samantha, peer into the screen. She raised her eyebrows in shock before she burst into tears, “I thought you were dead.”
Finally, a bit of good news to counterbalance the bad. His wife looked healthy and vibrant as she held their son against her chest.
“Why did you think Daddy was dead?”
“Oh God. Tripp,” she traced the screen with her fingertip and burst into tears, “Why didn’t you send us a message?”
“Aww, mom. Get off me.”
“What message? We couldn’t send any messages while we were away.”
Another ninety, torturous seconds passed by. It allowed both parties to absorb each other’s facial reactions. A sense of dread crept into the delayed conversation.
“Tripp, sweetie,” Samantha cried into the screen, “I’m so sorry.”
“What? What do you mean you thought I was dead?” Tripp slammed the desk, spilling his tears onto his fists, “I’m not dead. I’m coming home.”
“We thought they switched you off. They said they’d try to rebuild you if they ever found Opera Beta.”
Tripp ran his fingers under his left earlobe. He prodded his fingertips into his neck, seconds away from tearing his own throat out and ending it all.
“You knew I was an Androgyne?” He muttered through his weeping knowing it’d be another ninety seconds until he got confirmation from her, “You knew all along?”
Another man about the same age as Tripp leaned over Samantha. He ran his hands over her shoulder with over-familiarity, “Is this him, sweetie? Not bad-looking for a Series Three unit, is he?”
“Sweetie?” Tripp felt the saliva escape from his mouth. His esophagus turned to stone. The walls in his quarters threatened to entomb forever, “Wh-who’s that?”
Samantha took the man’s hand in hers and ran her face along his knuckles, “You can’t blame me, Tripp. I didn’t know. USARIC told us you didn’t make. They even paid for your funeral.”
“They did what?” Tripp huffed and yanked on his inner-suit collar, “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”
She turned to the man and waved him away as gently as necessary, “Please, not now, Charley.”
“Okay, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” he bent over and picked up a toddler in his arms.
“Who’s that?” Tripp gasped.
“Oh, sweetie,” Samantha tried to block the lens with her hand.
“No,” Tripp slammed the desk in fury, “Who the hell is that?”
“That’s Tracey, Dad,” Rogan said. “My little sister…”
“No-no-no…” Tripp stammered and felt his left arm tighten. A tingling sensation morphed into an agonizing jolt of pain down his left arm. His fingers moved from his ears and scrambled at the surface of his console, “I c-can’t,” he huffed and slid off his chair.
“Tripp, sweetie?” Samantha leaned into the screen, trying to see where he’d gone.
Everything went black.
***
When I was a little boy all I ever wanted to be was an astronaut.
I used to spend every waking second looking at the stars and the constellations. Before they became USARIC, the Space Agency used to show reports on Individimedia about what they found.
I remember when they found the first flat surface planet in Andromeda Twelve. It was so exciting to me. Imagine, a planet that wasn’t like the shape of a giant soccer ball.
A place where, if you traveled far enough, you could fall off the edge of the universe.
My second love was my cat. I don’t remember her name because it was so long ago. One day, we had to put her down because she was sick. The medician said she was in a lot of pain and I didn’t like it. We never got to see the medician inject her and I liked that I never saw it.
I don’t know about other people. When I think of things that happened in the past, I see them as images.
Right now I can see a bright new star in the night sky. It’s not far from the Great Bear. You know it. The arrangement of stars that looks like a frying pan with a wonky handle.
I remember my teacher asked me one time, “Tripp, why are you so in love with space?”
I couldn’t answer her.
Why do I love space so much? Because out there are billions upon billions of stars. The law of averages says there must be at least a million other lifeforms out there.
There has to be, right?
I don’t regret my decision to put my health, family, and friends behind my first, true love.
Does that sound selfish?
The only thing I would have regretted was indecision…
***
Jaycee’s thumbnail lay on the floor. It projected an audio waveform in the middle of the Fit Room.
He wiggled his gloved fingers on his ri
ght hand, taking an unusual interest in their operation. He lifted his head and looked at the soft padding stretched across the wall.
The USARIC logo stretched across the padded canvas.
He clenched his fist and turned to the projection. As he spoke, the waves rose up and down, recording his voice.
“My name is Jaycee Nayall, USARIC weapons and armory. I hope those in charge can hear what I’m about to say.”
THWACK!
Jaycee’s fist connected with the ‘U’ in USARIC. He pulled his arm away and spun his wrist three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, resetting for another hit.
“When I was drafted into the Opera Beta program I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for. If I’d known what I know now, I would never have gone.”
Jaycee lifted his fist and threw it against the padding with all his might.
SLAMM!
The plastic flaked out upon impact. The wall shuddered a second later.
“We’ve made a discovery,” Jaycee twisted his hand around and took one step back. The “S” in the logo seemed to laugh and taunt him, “We don’t know the full facts, yet. But know this. It’s a discovery far beyond anything any of us can comprehend.”
SCHLAMMM!
His punched the canvas so hard that it rocked the Fit Room.
“You can’t see this,” Jaycee moved back once again as the waveform slipped up and down, “But the noises you hear are me taking out my frustration on my employer, USARIC. One punch for every member of my crew that lost their lives. Every husband, wife, son, daughter… who are no longer around because of USARIC and their bottom line.”
THWOCK-SCHLAMM!
A furious double-punch, this time to the “A”.
“That’s for you, Maar Sheck. Two As in your name, and two extra special blows to your face. If you’re listening to this, just know that I want answers. And they’d better be damn good.”
Jaycee pulled his elbow back, ready to strike the “R”.
“And this one’s for Bonnie Whitaker. My friend and colleague who’s no longer around to ask you anything.”
Jaycee went to throw his fist at the canvas, when he heard a wallop coming from the other side of the door. He lowered his arm and squinted with confusion.
“Huh?”
He made his way to the door, “Stop recording.”
The audio waveform flat-lined and beeped.
“Save message?” asked the holograph.
“Yes, save and send. Now.”
***
Jaycee approached the crew quarters and spotted Tripp’s door was wide open.
“Hey, Tripp? Are you there?”
He peered inside and saw Tripp unconscious on the floor.
“Jeez,” he moved in and clocked Samantha and Rogan on the screen waiting for her husband to return to the screen. They were unaware of what had happened.
“Tripp?” she asked. “Where are you?”
Jaycee leaned into the tiny lens above the screen. The inset picture in the corner of the screen showed his face enveloped the whole square.
“Samantha?”
He crouched to the floor and slid his giant arms underneath Tripp’s. It took thirty seconds to lift his passed-out friend up to his feet - and another thirty to set him down on the chair.
“Jaycee,” Rogan beamed with delight, “You’re alive, too.”
“Nayall?” Samantha gasped. “Is that you? Where did Tripp go?”
He removed his right glove and felt Tripp’s neck with his fingertips.
“He passed out. Hey, Rogan. Look at you! You’ve grown into a handsome, young man.”
“Yes, it’s been years.”
“What happened, here?”
The seconds whizzed by as Jaycee adjusted his friend’s head against the back of his chair. “Healy? It’s okay. I think you passed out.”
Samantha held up her hands, shirking responsibility, “I don’t know. We were just talking and he vanished.”
Jaycee stood up and pointed to Tripp, “He must have fell—” he stopped talking when he saw Charley carry their daughter in his arms.
“Samantha? Who’s that behind you?”
Jaycee turned to the unconscious Tripp. Two and two slotted together in Jaycee’s mind, “Oh no.” He turned back to the screen and scowled at Samantha.
“It wasn’t my fault, Jaycee. What was I supposed to do?” she sniffed, “The wait was too much.”
Jaycee’s heart erupted with anger.
Samantha to turned from an exquisite angel into a selfish harridan in Jaycee’s eyes. It only took ninety seconds.
“God, I’m so sorry, Jaycee. The news must have broke his heart. But, please, you have to see it from my point of view—”
Jaycee scrunched his face and turned away, happy that the woman wasn’t in the room with him.
“Bitch.”
“—You spend close to five years without hearing a damn word,” she screamed, scaring Rogan from her arms, “And then Viddy Media goes wild with speculation. Tripp and the crew disappears. No oxygen. I’m sorry. I swear to you, Jaycee, we thought you were all dead—”
KER-SMASSSSHHH!
Jaycee‘s fist flew through the screen. The plastic exploded around his wrist as his elbow went through the frame. Samantha’s image frazzled and froze on the spot around his forearm.
He wrenched his arm out and flung away with the transparent debris. The noise slapped Tripp out of his slumber.
“Wh-what’s g-going on?” Tripp yelped. He shifted in his chair and grabbed the armrests, “What happened?”
Orange sparks and a thick, black smog drifted away from the smashed screen.
“Technical problems.”
“What did the screen do to you?”
“Ah,” Jaycee walked to the door and did his best to change the conservation, “It looked at me the wrong way. You know my temper. What do you remember?”
Tripp blinked and stood up from the chair, recollecting what had happened, “I, uh, tried to call home. Waited ages for the connection.”
“Okay. What else?”
Tripp’s face lit up with joy, “I never got to say anything. But I saw my wife and son’s face again.”
“Did you speak to them, though?”
“No, the connection must have gone down—”
“—You didn’t speak to them?” Jaycee reaffirmed, once and for all.
“No. Everything went dark.”
Jaycee held Tripp’s shoulder and took a deep breath, “Listen, don’t try to contact home until we get home. Okay?”
“Okay,” Tripp looked up at him with dogged, innocent eyes, “Why?”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
Tripp pointed at the smashed screen, “Of course I do. But can’t I just—”
“—Then just trust me on this, Healy. You know your family are alive and healthy. They know you’re alive. That’s all you need. Promise me you’ll drop it.”
“Okay? I promise.”
“Good,” Jaycee walked out of the quarters, leaving a thoroughly confused Tripp - and smoldering N-GAGE screen - in his wake.
Jaycee stormed along the walkway in a fit of rage. He thumped the walls a little too hard, “I swear to God, someone hand me USARIC on a plate and I’ll eat them for breakfast.”
He tried to calm himself down.
It was no use taking his frustration out on the ship, despite the fact that it belonged to a company that Jaycee perceived to be the enemy.
The USARIC logo angered him further.
Just thinking the Healy family revelation threatened to push him over the edge.
No sooner had Jaycee caught his breath than he heard a retching sound at the far end of the corridor.
BWUCK-BWUCK-KROITCH.
He lifted his head up and tried his luck, “Who’s there?”
No response.
The noises stopped. Jaycee knew he wasn’t hearing things.
“Ugghhhh,” came a very familiar voice, spluttering in pain, “I d-don�
�t feel too well.”
The voice waded down the corridor. It sounded like it belonged to Tor.
“Rabinovich? Is that you?”
Jaycee sprinted around the corner and skidded on his heels. He went for the Rez-9 on his belt, “Christ, Rabinovich. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Tor doubled-over the staircase rail and coughed up some bile.
SPLOT-SPLISH.
The pink liquid splattered against the floor a few levels down.
“Guuuuh,” Tor pushed his top half away from the railing and threw his head back, “Must have been the hyper-sleep. I really don’t feel too good.”
“Come here. Let me look at you,” Jaycee held the man’s face in his hands, “Show me your eyes.”
His thumbs pressed against Tor’s forehead and lifted his eyelids up.
Tiny streaks from Tor’s bloodshot eyes snaked across the whites of his eyes.
“You’re definitely ill. Where were you going?”
“R and R,” Tor said. “Get some water. Maybe have a lie down.”
“That’s a good idea. We need you fit for when Charlie docks with us.”
Tor hyperventilated in Jaycee’s arms and pushed himself away.
“Th-they’re c-coming to t-take us—”
Tor projectile vomited on Jaycee’s exo-suit.
“Ugh, that’s gross,” Jaycee bopped Tor on his shoulders with disgust, “Really?”
Tor spat a mound of pink liquid to the floor. He hugged himself and shivered up a storm, “I’m s-sorry, J-Jaycee,” he sniggered through his illness, silently happy that he’d taken some form of revenge on the man.
Jaycee didn’t spot Tor’s semi-delight, putting his puking down to a spell of extreme misfortune.
He scooped up the puke and flung it to the ground, “You know, not many people vomit on me and get away with it.”
Jaycee looked at the shuddering man buckled before him. He ran through the events of the past few days and, for the first time in their relationship, took pity on him.
“I’ll look the other way on this,” Jaycee cleared his throat and pointed at the staircase, “Be careful you don’t fall down the stairs on your way to R and R.”
“Yuh-yuh,” Tripp nodded and leaned against the railing.
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