Finder

by Suzanne Palmer

  Whoever had decided on the spacing between the cargo bypasses and maintenance niches liked to live dangerously, Fergus decided the third time he barely made it clear of the tunnel before a large crate flew past at crushing speed.

  He reached an outlet into one of Mezzanine Rock’s other cable terminals and was lurking just inside the gate waiting for the platform to empty when he felt the distinct rumble of another crate heading his way. Nowhere else to go, he pulled himself out of the cargo tunnel and into the middle of a small group of startled people.

  “Sorry,” he explained. “Lost a dare.”

  Before anyone could call security, he sealed his face shield, pushed past them across the platform, and cycled out through the envelope. The external platform was empty. Two lines connected here, but he had no idea which platform he was on, much less where they went.

  Along the platform’s edge, a lone flystick was locked to a rack, painted with purple glittery starbursts. Fergus took his kit out of his pack, cracked the lock on the flystick, and caught it as it popped loose. When he powered up the ’stick, the starbursts lit up and miniature holographic fireworks in glowing rainbow colors appeared all around him. He pushed off the platform and fired up the ’stick’s engine, wanting nothing more at that moment than to be far away from that platform as quickly as possible.

  The flystick was surprisingly well powered. He spiraled out and around Mezzanine Rock, trying to get his bearings, until he reached a platform sealed off with hullfoam. The view from there was familiar: a single distant hab, the thinning lights of the outer Halo beyond. Blackcans.

  It gave him the point of orientation he needed. To the right of Blackcans was a tiny, indistinct blob that he was certain must be Leakytown. Thumbing the ’stick up to full, he cringed as it blew little puffy purple clouds of holo-glitter in his wake. Please tell me there’s an off switch, he thought, cycling through the ’stick’s menus in increasing desperation. He didn’t find it before the glitter cut out; apparently the effect was triggered by acceleration.

  I’m being punished for something, he decided.

  Now that he was moving in a straight line toward Leakytown, mingling into a small flood of people fleeing the inner Halo on or along the lines, he had time to think about the handshake keys. “Ring Me!” was the tagline of the main character, Rocket, in a 40s 3-D interactive toon set on Mimas. It was also precollapse American Earth slang for requesting that someone contact you. If there were other obvious associations, he couldn’t think of them. Syrup of figs was nineteenth-century Earth rhyming slang for “wigs”; it was a stretch, but there was a villain on some toonshow from when he was a kid named Mr. Wigs.

  If the theme was toons, then Moose was obvious.

  The comm he’d stolen off the dead man lit up, interrupting his train of thought. “Team Blue Five, this is Blue Base. Check in,” some unknown, unhappy voice spoke in his ear bud in a cloud of static. “You’re late for contact.”

  Another voice responded. “This is Blue Four. We lost contact with Five and haven’t been able to reestablish.”

  “Do you know the status of the shipment?” Blue Base said.

  “Target Two is at a local med center. Rumor is Five acquired Target One, but we haven’t been able to verify or locate. Golds watching the platforms say they spotted Target One leaving the Rock solo and sent a team to pursue.”

  Fergus glanced over his shoulder at the swarm of Halo refugees behind him. If the signal had gotten through the jam, that meant he wasn’t far from a “Blue” transmitter/repeater.

  “We don’t want the Golds to take Target One,” Blue Base said. “Check in with Blue Twelve; they are collabing with the Golds and may have more current info. Twelve is outside the circle, Blue Four. Repeat that you understand.”

  “Blue Twelve is outside the circle, Base. Got it. Will be back in touch in fifteen.”

  “Thanks, Four. Base out.”

  Silence again. Outside the circle? Did that mean Cernee’s inner Halo or something else entirely? It seemed obvious he was Target One, but if so, why would Vinsic want him?

  Glancing back again, he thought he caught a glimpse of gold. He could break from the pack and go to full burn, but once out of the crowd he’d be an obvious target.

  “Base, this is Blue Four.” His stolen comm came back to life, the signal clearer. “We have one man confirmed down from Blue Five, one missing. No sign of Target One. Blue Twelve reports the Golds left, quote, ‘on a kill.’ Should we pursue?”

  “Negative. I’ve got Blue Three at the Leakytown platform waiting. If Target One is on the line, we’ll get him first. In case he’s not, keep working the Rock and try to locate the other half of Five.”

  “Will do, Base.”

  “Base out.”

  Fergus could speed up and get caught by the Blues or slow down and get killed by the Golds, but he couldn’t see any way he could avoid them both. Think, Fergus, think. There was always a way out. Wasn’t there?

  Someone on a ’stick suddenly veered out of the crowd. Dreading the worst, Fergus looked back to see that a two-man had collided with a fast-moving four-man and become caught on it, a small cloud of debris spreading into space around them. People were in frantic disarray trying to avoid each other and the mess. It was a good distraction, the only one he might get. He pulled in just ahead of the thickest part of the chaos and then turned at a sharp angle away from the line, shut down his ’stick and suit lights, and went completely dark just as he moved out into empty space.

  He was drifting away from the line at a good clip. Looking back, he couldn’t see anyone following him, but there was no guarantee that someone else hadn’t just done the same trick.

  Ahead, the darkness of space was broken by a narrow band where the light of Cernee’s white star leaked between the sunshields. He hunched over on the ’stick as he sailed across it, desperately hoping no one was looking his way. Once he was safely back in the shadows, he stared behind him to see if anyone else crossed the light. If they did, he didn’t spot them.

  Well, shit, he thought. I got away?

  He had to change his trajectory to hit Leakytown on the far side; the hab was big enough that he doubted the Blues could have the entire thing covered. He reached down to thumb on the ’stick’s engines, then froze, one gloved finger above the glitter-covered starter. If he hit that button, everyone within a thirty-degree arc was going to know exactly where he was.

  He coasted, still moving fast, toward the edge of the Halo and open space beyond. His oxygen supply was good, his suit and the ’stick well charged. Once I’m far enough out, the light show won’t be as noticeable, he thought. Then if I turn around and come right back in, I should be okay.

  Leakytown passed by. To his left he could make out first Blackcans, then the Wheels where it protruded past the last of the sunshields. A small armada of ships surrounded it in a defensive line. Beyond it, like a wolf outside the sheep pen, the familiar shape of Venetia’s Sword prowled past, a scattering of one-mans trailing in its wake. Fergus’s heart ached to see the ship so near, so out of reach.

  He had thirty-nine hours left to find a way to close that distance.

  As he watched, a small torpedo shot from Venetia’s Sword toward Harcourt’s hangar where it hung off the Wheels. Covering fire from multiple directions caught it, and there was a brief flash as it was destroyed well away from its target.

  The Wheels was defended and holding. He hoped Mari was safe and sound with the rest of her odd family, not trapped on the other side of the lines somewhere.

  Unbidden, he thought of Dru, who had been about Mari’s age when the Mars Colonial Authority dragged her off for being part of the Free Marsies, for committing acts against the government that he himself had participated in. He’d been even younger, knew nothing, could do nothing, but he still felt the guilt like a stone deep in his chest. Never again. The only life he was willing
to risk, if he had any choice in the matter, was his own, and whatever bad end he inevitably met, he’d rather face it alone.

  Speaking of bad ends, something Mauda had said struck him. Momentum had carried him past the nebulous borders of Cernee’s outer Halo. There seemed to be nothing in front of him now except distant stars and emptiness, but he knew that wasn’t quite true.

  He needed quiet to think through the remaining keys, someplace where no one was going to look for him. He didn’t have time to be picky about it, but even still . . .

  Maybe it won’t be there anymore, and I’ll just turn around, he thought. But no, with his goggles on full zoom he could make out the dim shape against the stars, a medium-sized cylinder floating untethered, spinning slowly out beyond the thin edge of Cernee: the abandoned hab, Turndown.

  Mauda had said it had been dark for more than a decade. He was certain spore ticks couldn’t live that long. Could they? Fear crept into his thoughts on tiny black parasite legs, and he began to feel itchy, cruel pinpricks of his imagination.

  He fired up the ’stick for a half second to adjust his trajectory. The void around him had just started to fill with scintillating gold smiley faces when he shut it down again. As soon as he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed onto the hab as it rotated past. He pulled himself along a bar that ran horizontally between solar panels until he reached the end of the cylinder and found Turndown’s airlock.

  Fergus took a deep breath and pressed the open button. Nothing happened for a long time. Then there was a faint grinding, and the outer lock opened.

  The surface of Turndown was almost completely covered with solar panels; there should have been plenty of power unless they’d intentionally shut it down. Wouldn’t you? he thought. Die quickly of cold and asphyxiation, or slowly be eaten from the inside out by spore tick larvae?

  He climbed in, bringing his ’stick with him. Fear mounting, he tried to drop his shoulders and relax as the outer door closed and sealed. The inner door opened onto a dimly lit space, lights returning to life in tiny increments. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but somehow he hadn’t thought about actual people bodies. One floated, slumped over, on each side of the airlock door, suits on but face shields up, pistols in hand and trails of ice crystals encrusting their desiccated eyes and cheeks. On the other side of the room, several more hung near the far door like a macabre mobile; unsuited, their flesh was pocked, missing in ragged chunks. The two at the airlock must have been guarding the exit to make sure no one fled and carried the infestation with them to the rest of Cernee.

  Pushing his way carefully across the room, Fergus ducked under and around the bodies and opened the far door. Turning his face away quickly, he fought to keep from throwing up. He closed his eyes, took deep, steadying breaths, and then made himself look again.

  Families. Not anonymous gray corpses or casualties in battle, but small children in gaily colored dresses and overalls. One small girl, still in her mother’s arms, legs consumed, throat slit for mercy.

  Bad things happened in space, bad stuff just like this, all the time. He knew it, knew all about it in a detached, objective way, but he had never thought he’d come face-to-face with it quite like this. Here was death in all its ugliness, an entire community preserved for eternity as if the pain of these people’s last moments were some grand, gruesome exhibit.

  I shouldn’t have come here, he thought, far too late.

  Grimly, he turned the floating corpses in the airlock vestibule and gently propelled them through the door into the inner room, then did the same for the two watchers by the door. “Be with your loved ones,” he said out loud, as if the words could matter to anyone but himself.

  The chamber now free of the dead, he leaned against the door and wept, in fear and horror and loss, for the first time in a very long time.

  * * *

  —

  Eventually he slept, then woke from terrible dreams of too many arms and hands dangling down around him, corpses crowding the ceiling trying to pull him up into their midst. He shook his head, trying to shake out the vision that felt like a physical weight inside his skull. He had never had cause to regret his bottomless pit of a memory as much as he did now. Think about something else, he told himself. You’ll revisit this place in your dreams enough as it is.

  He checked his suit display: four and a half hours of sleep, give or take. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do; he was not willing to slip down into that nightmare world again until he was well away from here. He needed distraction.

  Taking out his pad, Fergus checked the keys again. Moose, Syrup of figs, Ring Me, Tot, McFadden’s Row, C’ga A⊄, Pluto.

  McFadden’s Row clicked. Another toon; another old Earth reference. That clinched it for him. He already had the first three, the fifth, and the last. C’ga A⊄ was a humanized transliteration of Celekai for Help us, famous words exchanged at humanity’s First Contact, although he couldn’t think of any toon associations with it. He set his pad to search his internal database for any animated productions made or set on Io Colony around the end of the twenty-second century.

  That left Tot, a complete mystery. Fergus built a separate query for that. Then he closed his pad, let his eyes drift around the room, couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like to die here, to know everyone you loved was going to die too, and horribly, for no reason at all.

  Turndown’s power reserves were slowly rebuilding, but air and heat stayed resolutely off. Once the airlock console had powered up enough to become responsive, it showed that they’d been intentionally disabled. Maybe that had been some small mercy at the end. He couldn’t enable them from here, and he didn’t want to; no matter what assurances his knowledge-base gave him about the maximum resilience of spore ticks to vacuum and the cold of space, he had zero interest in testing it.

  The airlock vestibule had everything he needed in the short term except peace of mind. He powered up an outlet from the console and plugged in the flystick to recharge. Then he activated an air recharge station and second outlet. It took some doing to plug both into his suit without taking it off, but after some contortions he found himself floating cross-legged midair, loosely tangled in the cables.

  Tot. How many thousands of cartoons over the centuries had featured small kids? It seemed way too broad a clue for the usual Shipmaker imagination, and as Fergus expected, his pad declared too many hits and asked for refinement. How could he refine it, though? There were no other clues. Unless Tot meant something else entirely.

  A flash in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he’d spent enough time thinking about spore ticks that he freaked, letting go of his pad and flailing against the cables, before he realized it was the comm unit on his suit flashing a tiny yellow light.

  Incoming signal? he wondered. No, it’s the Boolean alert—

  “Hell!” Fergus swore. He unplugged himself from the wall and fish-swam across the room, putting the entire hab back into total shutdown. In moments he was floating in silence, everything pitch dark except that one insistent yellow light. Hardly breathing, he moved his hand off the wall panel and covered it up. They can’t see in here, he told himself. They can’t see one tiny light through two meters of metal and insulation. You’re being stupid and paranoid. Still, he could not bring himself to move his hand away again.

  Thirty-three and a half hours left. It was all he could do not to scream in frustration.

  Gilger wouldn’t dare blow up the cable, Mother Vahn had said. Gilger wouldn’t dare risk a coup, Harcourt had said. The Asiig only fly by a couple of times a standard at most, everyone had said, and now here they were poking around Cernee for the third time since he had arrived barely more than a week ago.

  It’s like nobody here has any bloody fucking clue about anything, he thought. Do I have any good information at all?

  Not that anyone had good information when it came to the Asiig. The
re were aliens, and then there were aliens. For all that humanity had moderately good relationships with dozens of other sentient species in the galaxy and understandings of peaceable distrust with even more, the Asiig were the only ones Fergus knew of that genuinely terrified the shit out of everyone equally. It was difficult to know what a species wanted when they returned your ambassadors to you turned inside out. Even the Bomo’ri condescended to terse exchanges—usually complaints—with humanity now and then, when they couldn’t get someone else to do it for them.

  Fergus pulled himself over to a small portal window to the outside and peered out at the universe as Turndown slowly rotated through it. Leakytown came into sight first, then Blackcans and the Wheels. What activity there had been, the flyby had put an end to it; everyone had scampered back into hiding when the alert had gone out like bugs back into the shadows.

  Don’t think about bugs.

  The Wheels passed out of his narrow field of view, leaving him nothing but empty space to stare at. Eventually Leakytown appeared again, then the Wheels. Something seemed different, but nothing was obviously moving. He watched, face against the glass. On the next pass he spotted it: a small two-man, running dark, heading towards the Wheels obliquely from behind Leakytown.

  Fergus checked his comm. Either he was out of range or the jam extended even this far. He had no way to warn anyone.

  Or did he?

  He threaded his way out of the vestibule, doing his best not to see anything in the dark that he’d have to add to his burgeoning stock of nightmare material. Surfaces parallel to the exterior were scattered with clumps of black dust, deposited there over the years by the hab’s gentle rotation, and it was only when he dipped a boot down and accidentally stirred it that he realized it wasn’t dust at all but pinhead-sized, newly hatched spore ticks. Deprived of living hosts, oxygen, and heat, they too had died here.

  Fergus was painstakingly careful not to go anywhere near the walls or floor again.