We Have Always Been Here

by Lena Nguyen

  Holt lay at Park’s feet, twitching. His arms were crooked up into the air, like a corpse in rigor mortis. For all she knew, that was what he was. Park opened her mouth but didn’t scream. She felt the liquid dripping down her face and closed her mouth again.

  Jimex stepped out in front of her. He said something indistinct to Boone, who turned and began resealing the utility room, his gun now dangling loosely in his left hand. His motions were abrupt, agitated; he fumbled with the panel housing the door lock. Jimex drew Park backward by the hand, then knelt to check Holt’s pulse. He stood up again and said something to her.

  “What? What?” Park said. Then: “I can’t hear you.”

  Jimex’s face drew closer. His face was as unmoving as a statue’s; his gray eyes were flat and calm and wary. “Eric Holt is alive,” he said. “He requires medical attention. You need to alert Dr. Chanur.”

  Park looked at him uncomprehendingly. Jimex’s grip on her arm tightened. “Please,” he said softly. “You are in danger. He might shoot you, too.”

  Boone was turning around again, cursing. His eyes looked wild; his hand seemed to spit arcs of green lightning. He caught sight of Park standing there and said, “Park. You saw. I had to do it.”

  Park found herself shaking her head; she felt as if she were watching herself from a great distance. “You didn’t have to,” she answered numbly. “You—killed him.”

  Boone’s eyes hardened. It was then that she felt the edge of danger, darting through her like a line of heat. She looked at Jimex again, who was watching her steadily.

  “Dr. Park,” he said. “Please run.”

  * * *

  —

  Park ran. The Deucalion was shifting its trajectory again; the proton storm was waning. It was time to land. Park’s body pedaled stupidly through the air as gravity lifted and dropped intermittently, like a series of sighs. At points she found herself swimming through the corridor, sweating as she plunged towards the medical ward.

  Her mind was a vast blankness. The numb, unfeeling chill had fallen over her heart again; it was beating so fast that it felt like a hummingbird’s wing, hardly there. Her chest was an empty cavity. She dove through a trio of crewmembers, sending them scattering. One of them—Fulbreech—shouted, “Park! What’s wrong?”

  She didn’t answer; instead tumbled and somersaulted madly through the air. Artificial gravity dragged at her legs. She wasn’t going anywhere fast—she needed a kick-off point, something to give her momentum. She looked like an idiot, she knew. But she didn’t care. Nothing mattered more now than getting help for Holt. And Jimex, whom she’d left alone down there. To hell with secrets, she thought. And to hell with Boone.

  She burst through the doors of the medical ward. Chanur looked up, with languid impatience. She hadn’t bothered to answer any of Park’s missives over the inlay system. Park blurted, “Boone shot Holt with an EL gun. Down in Deck C—the utility rooms. He needs help.”

  “I’ll call Wick,” Chanur said. She turned away and began speaking to someone over the neural network.

  What? Park thought. No—Holt needs help now. She looked around frantically for Elly Ma’s ward: she thought to seize one of the four androids on guard duty there, drag them down to Deck C with her and force them to tend to Holt. She shoved her way past Chanur—who half-turned, protesting, “You can’t go in there!”—and rushed into the nearest room.

  But it wasn’t Elly Ma’s room. It was one of the cryogenic chambers. Reimi’s room, she thought. She knew it the second the pneumatic door opened, sending a rush of freezing air slamming into her eyes. The dampness on her face crusted over instantly; for a moment she thought her eyelashes had turned to ice and broken off. Chanur was calling someone else behind her. Park thought she heard Boone’s name. It didn’t matter. She just needed to find one of the androids and go.

  Then she stopped. The cryogenic tank in the middle of the room looked the same as any other: a dark, oblong, upright pod, like a sleek black closet with a window in it. But the person in the tank wasn’t Reimi—wasn’t the young, lithe form floating in oblivion, as Park had expected. It was someone older, more shriveled, wedged into the black sleeping suit with gray tubes and filaments gathered around her face like ashy kelp. Her face was bent into an expression of frightened sadness.

  Dr. Keller.

  Chanur slammed open the door. “Wick is on his way,” she said. “Come out of there so I can attend to Holt.”

  “What happened to her?” Park asked. Half-shouted. Neutrality and hospital calmness had gone out the window. She felt as if her skull were clamped too tightly against her brain. She wanted to dive into the sharp, icy corner of the chamber and burrow down into herself and hide.

  Dr. Chanur walked up and looked at her. For a moment Park wildly suspected her of being an android: her face was so indifferent, so void of emotion, that Park was suddenly afraid that she had been duped. That she could no longer tell the difference. That no one aboard the ship was real except for her.

  “She’s been placed in cryogenic stasis,” Chanur said.

  Park surveyed Keller’s still body, encased in its black swathe like a mummy in a sarcophagus. Only her face was visible in the fogged glass of the cryo-tank; her pale eyelashes had bits of frost clinging to them. She looked impossibly fragile. Park tried to say something, but her throat worked uselessly.

  “She fell sick,” Chanur continued. “She was having nightmares. I had orders from ISF.”

  Park said nothing. She felt as if she had swallowed a cactus. Chanur moved away, and Park stood there, frozen, looking at the lump of Keller’s slight form. The cryogenic liquid churned softly around her like a heart pumping blood. Unthinkingly Park pressed her hand against the cold glass that now housed her mentor’s body.

  I’m alone, she thought, her thoughts a blur. Actually alone. I am the Deucalion’s only psychologist. But how can that be? I’m—

  Something on the ship slammed shut, far off, and the echo of it sounded like a dull roll of thunder. Park staggered as the Deucalion broke through Eos’s atmosphere with a heart-jerking shudder, rattling the walls and the glass of the pod. She felt as if she were plummeting down to earth with all the force of a falling comet. Keller’s body slowly rotated until she was facedown, slipping under the dark waters within the tank.

  Neofelis, Park told herself. I’m neofelis nebulosa. A thing that has gone extinct.

  Keller’s body had disappeared from sight. There was nothing but darkness within the tank. Park was left standing there, reaching out to nothing—only staring at the frightened face of her own reflection.

  7.

  [Hi,

  Weirder and weirder shit. Can’t talk much. They have bots watching us at work now. Don’t know if it’s because of the terrorists or because they suspect us of something. Please—watch your back.]

  VIDEO LOG #23—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079

  Day 5: 06:54 UTO

  [The HARE reactivates in a dark room; the camera surges suddenly into the air as it unfolds its mechanical limbs and looks around. It’s in the ship’s bunk room, which has been divided by a makeshift partition (made of scrap?). Fin Taban lies on a cot nearby.]

  Taban: (sigh)

  HARE: Good morning. USER Daley has already begun his morning activities.

  Taban (speaking quietly): Of course he has.

  HARE: Shall I notify him that you’re awake?

  Taban: No. I think I’ll just lie here for a while.

  HARE (processors whirring): Are you feeling tired?

  Taban: In a manner of speaking. I’m tired of going out there, that’s for sure.

  HARE: You haven’t informed USER Daley.

  Taban: What good would it do? He’s obsessed. All it would do is cause a fight, which is the last thing I want when the guy’s the only one who can fly us home.

  HARE: USER Daley believes that
the work will be finished soon.

  Taban: It’s just bullshit he says when he can tell I’m getting antsy. You should learn to recognize that, you know. Bullshit. It’s a valuable skill.

  HARE: Understood. I will attempt to acquire.

  Taban: You do that.

  [A few minutes pass in silence. Taban closes his eyes and folds his hands together on top of his chest, whispering something indistinct.]

  HARE: I’m sorry. Please repeat.

  Taban: I’m not talking to you.

  HARE: I am the only one present.

  Taban: I’m praying.

  HARE: I’m sorry. I don’t understand.

  [Taban ignores the HARE as he continues to pray silently. Finally he opens his eyes again and sits up.]

  Taban: You really don’t know what praying is?

  HARE: I have downloaded the definition. But I have not acquired an understanding of the subject matter.

  Taban: Lots of humans do it, across all cultures. You know about cultures? Religions?

  HARE: I have downloaded some data. But I have not acquired—

  Taban: Well, we won’t get into that today. But praying’s like—it’s like—talking to someone greater than you. For comfort, or guidance, or whatever. A higher authority.

  HARE: An authority that is not present?

  Taban: Well, they’re present. They’re with you at all times.

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  Taban: You get it?

  HARE: Yes.

  Taban: Good. Now turn around.

  [The HARE faces the wall while Taban rises and begins to change into his decksuit. As he’s changing, the HARE addresses him again.]

  HARE: What do you pray about?

  Taban: Now that part’s none of your damn business. Let’s go get breakfast.

  [He leaves the bunk room with the HARE. Daley is sitting in the pilot’s seat of the cockpit, eating a breakfast ration.]

  Daley: Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey. (tosses ration packet to Taban)

  Taban: Gee, thanks, Ma. You shouldn’t have.

  Daley: Weren’t no trouble, sweetie pie. But seriously, hurry up. We’re burning daylight here.

  Taban: I just woke up. At least give me a few minutes.

  Daley: Not my fault you can’t get your lazy ass up on time.

  Taban: “On time” according to you means getting four hours of sleep a night. How are you still alive? Sure you’re not going to burn yourself out?

  Daley (boxing in the air): No way. I got enough energy to whip six of you into shape.

  Taban: Lucky us. (shaking foil packet to activate heating process) Ugh. Smells like maple sausage again.

  Daley: Hey, don’t bitch. I know it’s all the same to you richies on Mars, but any real meat back on Earth was a luxury. Comeback wiped out all the livestock. Hell, we were lucky to even get SPAM on Solstice Morning.

  Taban: You know, Daley, I’ve been meaning to say—

  Daley: What? You don’t eat meat on Mars, either? Think it’s inhumane to make animals suffer? Even the brain-free ones? I’ll take your sausage, if that’s the case.

  Taban: No, I—

  Daley (checking wrist console): You know what, tell me outside. I’m going to suit up and check the drill real quick. Hurry up.

  [Daley exits the room. The cockpit’s door seals shut behind him. About three minutes later, there’s the sound of the ship’s airlock opening.]

  Taban (speaking quietly as he looks into his foil packet): Does he seem . . . manic, to you?

  HARE: USER Daley’s behavior seems to be more animated than usual.

  Taban: You keep track of our biometrics, don’t you? Is he sleeping?

  HARE: USER Daley’s delta waves indicate that he sleeps fitfully, for an average of three hours a night.

  Taban: So . . . no. That’s not good.

  HARE: Affirmative.

  Taban: Hey.

  HARE: I’m sorry. I mean ‘yes.’

  Taban (chewing): Okay. So he’s staying up most of the night. But where’s he getting all that energy from? And why is he staying up?

  HARE: I’m sorry. I am unable to answer your query at this point in time.

  Taban: I know. I’m just talking out loud.

  HARE: I see.

  Taban: He thinks I’m from Mars. I guess I don’t blame him—the tattoo and all.

  HARE (processors whirring): You are not from Mars?

  Taban: No. I’m Earth-born, actually—just like him. I only moved to Mars about ten years ago.

  HARE: Why did you leave?

  Taban: Earth or Mars?

  HARE (processors whirring): . . .

  Taban: Actually, same answer for both. It’s a long story. (rising, crumpling packet up) Let’s go outside.

  [The HARE scuttles after Taban, who heads to the airlock and enters his exo-armor suit. They find Daley outside, examining the ship’s drill and the hole it’s bored into the ice. The air is now utterly still and clear; there is no wind.]

  Taban (looking into the hole): Ice, ice, and more ice. Nice.

  Daley (kicking the edge of the hole): I really thought there would be something else down there. The drill went down almost one thousand feet. The surface of this damn place is frozen solid.

  Taban: Or it’s all just ice, down to the core.

  Daley (grunt): Maybe. But maybe not. In any case, maybe we can take some of this stuff back. Get some brains to test it.

  Taban: What, the ice? How are we going to keep it cold in the cargo bay? It’ll melt. Plus, we don’t have room.

  Daley: We’ll figure something out. Gotta have samples for the scientists, right? (pointing sunward) Ready to head out?

  Taban: I guess.

  [After a few more minutes of preparation, they begin to trudge together across the tundra, with the HARE trailing after. Daley is in front, his shoulders set very far forward, while Taban follows behind reluctantly. Their boots do not appear to leave prints in the strange dense ice.]

  Taban: Do you see them today?

  Daley: No. But I know I spotted them when we landed. The thing did too, right?

  HARE: Yes. This unit captured footage of the structures that USER Daley observed.

  Daley: So we know I’m not crazy.

  Taban: No one said you were. I saw them, too.

  Daley: I know. I’m just saying.

  Taban: Yeah. Me too.

  Daley: . . .

  Taban: . . . So where are they?

  Daley: Dunno. We must be behind some kind of ridge, or maybe in a valley. Something that’s blocking them from sight. We just gotta keep on pressing north, and we’ll spot ’em eventually.

  Taban: But if you and the HARE are right about direction, we should have been on them at some point. How far’s the third marker, again? Like five klicks?

  Daley: About three miles.

  Taban: Okay, so almost six kilometers, or in other words, a picobuttload. Which is about how far the HARE estimated they’d be. You’re not concerned that we haven’t even seen these gigantic mirror tower crystal things?

  Daley: No. Not really.

  Taban: And . . . why is that?

  Daley: Because I know we’ll find them eventually. And when we do, hoo boy! Imagine how much something like that would sell for, even just to see! A cluster of giant space shards!

  Taban: Right.

  Daley: Let’s just not bitch today, huh? It’s a beautiful day, and all we’ve got to do is walk in a straight line north. Easy, right?

  Taban: Yeah. Sure. Easiest thing in the world.

  [The men fall silent. The HARE turns away from them to regard the flat, unchanging horizon.]

  VIDEO LOG #23—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079

  Day 5: 08:15 UTO

  [The strange cry
stal formations come into sight as the HARE rotates its head and scans the horizon (timestamp 023-2:17), appearing about a kilometer away from the group. However, the formations seem to vanish again when the HARE turns to look directly at them, the shapes flickering from view like a mirage. Neither man seems to notice. As the group hikes on, the formations do not appear again.]

  VIDEO LOG #23—Ship Designation CS Wyvern 7079

  Day 5: 09:22 UTO

  [After 2.5 hours of marching north, Taban and Daley have stopped talking. The two suns are now high in their arcs, casting the ice in a hard, blinding light that makes it difficult to distinguish the ground from the sky. The third and farthest marker from the ship is behind the group by about forty minutes. Daley has been breathing heavily for about half an hour.]

  Taban: We should head back.

  Daley: Not yet. We need to make it a little farther before we can put down another marker.

  Taban: I feel like we’re cutting it close on oxygen. My readout’s at 40%—that’s just enough to make it back. What about you?

  Daley: Just a little longer.

  Taban: . . .

  Daley: You know. Maybe we can start sending the HARE out at night.

  Taban: What do you mean?

  Daley: I mean. We’re not having the greatest luck ourselves, here. Not that I don’t enjoy being on this Mickey Fuckin’ Mouse parade with you. But the bot can cover way greater distances without us, right? And it doesn’t need oxygen.

  Taban: . . .

  Daley: So, say we’re wrong on the direction, or even the distance of these structures. The HARE doesn’t do anything except sit around at night. Why not send it out and let it do the finding for us? Like how we sent it out that first night.

  Taban: I don’t think that’s a great idea.

  Daley: What? Why not?

  Taban: I mean—what if it gets damaged? Or what if it doesn’t come back? And it has a limited power source—

  Daley: So what? We don’t need it for anything else. And it’s insured.

  Taban: I just feel like it’s not going to find anything.