by Diane Carey
“I’m not eating no chicken that died in cryo. You sure the blue one has chickens inside? Looks like somebody rolled it down a hill. Looks like a big dumpster.”
“Chickens. Eight thousand Rhode Island reds, speckled Cornwalls, black Herpingons, leghorn longhorns… just think about it. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving! I can serve real roasted chicken breasts stuffed with pesto croutons. On Friday we’ll have grilled drumsticks and thighs. On Saturday, chicken stew a la Dark Chef. On Sunday, chicken tenderloin salad with celery salt, and on Monday I’ll render the bones into broth and pour it over noodles. I can smell it, I can just smell it now. Real chickens. Not chopped… not minced… not freeze dried… not condensed. . . not air-puffed… not jerked… real… fresh… living… clucking… roasted chickens…”
“You’re slipping into a fantasy world.” Gunny’s snarl of doubt showed in wedge-like shadows on his craggy face. His squinted eyes reflected the red track lights, making him look like a crouching demon waiting for orders. “You better be right. I want a real chicken dinner.”
Keith shook off the image. “Everybody does. Don’t you think a non-synthetic Thanksgiving dinner would be nice for everybody? Don’t you think they deserve it? Centuries of culinary science and storage, and there’s still nothing like the taste of fresh, real meat. Nature’s had billions of years. We’ve had a couple thousand. Fresh is bound to be better.”
“You’re just a thief, is all—”
A loud chunking noise drove them both almost to their knees, sounding as if the whole deck structure were about to come down on their heads. Gunny looked up and made a foul noise. “Aw, it’s just the swivel hooks going back to their stations. Damn, they’re loud!”
Keith turned, and held up one warning finger. “I’m not a thief. I’m Robin Hood. I’m not doing this for myself.”
“Are you gonna eat some?”
“Only after the crew eats. You have a small mind, don’t you?”
“If you’re Robin Hood, what does that make me?”
“An enabler. I hope you’re the wizard you think you are.”
The container sat in repose on the third level, stacked on top of the other two test containers that had been boarded first. The mobile walkways provided easy access and would be in place until the next autoload. The starboard hold was a very quiet place right now, because all the activity was in the port hold, where the second phase of loading was just finishing up. The two holds sandwiched the habitable decks of the ship, the storage and utility decks, and Keith’s home base, the galley.
“This is really tangled up,” Gunny said. “It’s been manipulated out of sequence. Maybe it malfunctioned. Sure is old…”
“Bring it back to life for five minutes,” Keith encouraged. “Then it can die a peaceful death in some industrial boneyard.”
Gunny stopped talking as he focused on the locking box. He never talked while he worked, as if his brain could only manage one protocol at a time. Keith dutifully went silent, knowing that Gunny did better work when nobody was talking to him. Chicken recipes bowled through Keith’s mind, pesto chicken, orange and pineapple chicken, country captain, chicken with pine nut stuffing… wouldn’t the crew be surprised when there was no rock candy drizzled on the meat? No seaweed twists?
In the depths of the hold, a throaty mechanical sound thrummed, then ended with a clank.
“What’s that?!” Gunny drew his hands under his chin like a big squirrel. “Somebody’s coming!”
“Just keep working,” Keith said. “I’ll have a look.”
He picked along the edge of the walkway, shivering slightly in the cold air of the hold. By not heating the enormous holds, the ship could afford the power to make the living quarters comfortable, but trips to the hold were chillers, and he and Gunny were already on their nerves’ edges. Around him the sheet sides of stacked containers loomed like cliff faces, giant letters and markings clawing high up and sinking down until he couldn’t see where the colors ended. Dim red lighting, designed to ease the eye, blurred into black shadows like blood draining into pumice.
When the click-snap came behind him, he almost jumped off the walkway. He spun around. “Did you get it? Is it unlocked?”
Gunny didn’t answer, but looked up at the huge container hatch. The hatch, a garage door in the blunt end, suddenly cracked with a chunky mechanical shift. Air rushed in as the gasket suction abruptly released. That should’ve been it, but instead of just opening, the hatch sucked air and resisted releasing its tongue-in-groove seal. The whole container began to hum from inside with a long breathy mmmmmmssssssk.
Gunny jumped back. “Why’s it pressurizing? This jug isn’t supposed to be depressurized!”
“Try not to talk so much,” Keith suggested.
But Gunny’s weatherworn face turned ghastly. “Cryo-containers aren’t supposed to be depressurized! We’re opening the wrong container, Mr. I’ve-got-it-figured-out!”
A chittering sound made Keith’s shoulders hunch— not the sound of mechanics or air or a computer, but an animal sound, a sound of living creatures, and with it the squirming feeling of not being alone anymore. The gush of air from the gaskets fizzled out and the hatch opened automatically, its folding parts retracting in sections. A short gray ramp came out like a tongue and shoved Gunny back until he fell on his buttocks, engulfed in spraying fog from deep inside the maw.
There was a moment of sudden silence. Enough for Keith to take one step forward, to lean inward—to be knocked back by a streaking mass, as if he’d been smacked in the neck by a wet towel. Then another—and another!
He spun and landed on one knee, guarding his face with a crooked arm as two more wraiths shot past together, then another, then two more.
Teeth gritted and eyes crimped, he peeked over his bent arm. Into the depths of the hold went the thin chittering noises, until they faded completely away as if disappearing into a canyon. Almost like sea birds crying in the clouds.
Gunny jumped up, slammed the flat of his hand to the control panel and the locking mechanism. The hatch groaned, thunked, retracted its ramp, and unfolded its segments until it once again made the shape of a single door, then drew itself back inward and began the humming and hissing process of repressurizing.
Gunny stumbled back, twisted around, and looked out into the hold.
“What—were those! Were those chickens?”
Keith hunched his shoulders. “Why were they awake? Did we wake ’em by opening it?”
“This is bad—this is real bad—”
“Forget it… They’ll just go off and starve someplace. It’s not like there’s chicken feed on the deck.”
“This is bad…”
“They’re chickens!” Keith insisted, forcing himself to believe the only good answer. “Forget about it.”
“Forget the whole thing!” Gunny snapped. “I’m not this hungry.”
“What’s going on?” a third voice cut through the gloom. Gunny let out a yowp of shock and spun around just as Jonsy Coyne materialized out of an angular shadow and demanded, “What are you clowns doing up here?”
“Nothing,” Keith attempted unconvincingly. “Nothing at all.”
But Gunny folded without interrogation. “There was these little ugly things… we thought they was chickens!”
“Little things?” Jonsy’s face abruptly dropped its color, and with it all the personality he possessed. “Where?! Where?!”
“This blue jug—”
Jonsy seized Gunny by the collar and drove him back into the container’s hatch. “You didn’t open it!”
“Of course not,” Keith said. “He’s making up stories.”
“They run off!” Gunny howled. “We just wanted chickens for dinner! Roast chickens! Chicken salad! Thighs! Wings! Drumsticks!”
Jonsy suddenly breathed in choppy gasps. “Oh, God! Where?! Which compartment?! Oh, God save us!” He broke into a full run, pounding down the middle of Container Canyon, the walkway ringing under his boots.
&nbs
p; “Rockie! Rockie!”
“What’s the problem?” Keith called after him. “They’re chickens!”
Jonsy’s voice got higher, fainter, and more frantic as he ran down the thousand-foot hold. “Oh, God, God, God, oh, God! We’ve got to get off the ship! We’ve got to get off the ship!”
Like the chittering things, Jonsy’s cries faded off into the hold, deeper and deeper, increasing in panic as they decreased in volume.
Keith stood there, looking across the walkway at Gundersion, as the hatch made its final slurping noise and locked itself again.
“Because of chickens?” he asked.
4
“Okay, happy campers! It’s time to give the ship the Big Hug!”
She had a lilting voice, like music on a stringed instrument. Not like a sailor or a worker or anything so earthbound, but the voice of a cheery sprite, rallying the morning dewdrops. Yet Dana, pacing the deck in the imitation of a drill sergeant, didn’t smile nor show any facial expression of the sound she made in her voice.
“You’ll be divided into a ‘soles and bowls’ crew, and a washdown crew for the holds and the outer hull. The outer-hull wash includes remote operation of cleansing equipment, so it’s more complicated than it sounds. Inside, ‘soles and bowls’ means cleaning the interior soles and ceilings—that means the thing you’re walking on and the side bulkheads— and, of course, complete sanitation of those wonderful sanctuaries of repose and reflection… the ships heads.”
She was the first officer of this muscular ship. Ned Menzie was impressed as Dana spoke to the collection of teenagers of which Ned was part. Like Dana, Ned had dark hair, but his was not so fluffy nor appealing, nor did it have those little umber highlights under the utility lights. Her skin was deeply tanned, or perhaps just naturally golden, while his was pale and unremarkable. And she had nut-brown eyes, while he had only his dad’s simple greens.
But it was easy to be impressed here, for a farm boy. He’d always known he and his family lived in the past, and this adventure had thrust him whole-hog into the modern age of outer-space science.
Whole-hog. Hee. Pun intended.
Ned pressed a smirk out of his lips. Usually in the company of the sheep, goats, deer, and his herding dog, Kite, Ned could let fly any facial expression he pleased, and since he liked to talk to himself and the animals always laughed, his expressions were many and varied.
Here, among these other teens and the adult crew of the space cruiser Umiak, he restrained himself from being the star of the braeside show. This was a whole new thing for him and his sister Robin—he glanced at her, a few kids down—and though they were out of place and had never before this been across so much as an ocean, they knew this whole expedition was set up to handle them. There were adults here whose job it was to take care of the teens, and no matter how strange and mystifying this environment, this far-flung reach into the stars, he knew they would be taken care of. Therefore, a sense of humor and a light heart were the order of his day. Things would happen in their own time, and he would ride them out. This was a one in a million chance, to take part in this special program for young spacefarers, an exclusive program which would be the tale of his lifetime.
Then he would go home and tell the sheep and Kite what happened.
Just as First Mate Dana parted her lips to continue speaking about the duties of the day, one of the teenagers popped up with a question.
“We have to clean bathrooms?”
Not the best of informational trawling.
Dana raised one brow. She could’ve been a model in an advertising campaign for perfume or—
No, wrong. Ladies’ outerwear. The autumn line. Jackets, cloaks, ruanas, and wraps.
Who do you think does the cleaning on a ship?” she asked, while Ned envisioned her in a corduroy camp jacket with plaid lining and leather riding boots. And a tartan scarf. Lamb’s wool. He knew just the one, of course, being a farm boy from a wool farm. It was his stock in trade.
“The slaves, apparently,” commented a bold young man two down from Ned. By his aristocratic demeanor, superior clothing, and polished appearance, the boy with the sweeping golden hair was unimpressed by Dana or any of the other crew members. Ned guessed the tall boy was here against his will. Or at least against his inclinations. He had the air of someone who thought his time was being wasted.
“Going to space is a big thing,” Dana went on, brushing smoothly past the unfriendly comment. “Appreciate it. This cadet program is a new adventure in human history and you guys are right at the cusp of it. You’re cutting new ground for human beings. Live up to it. Clean the heads with gusto.”
“I’ll clean the heads,” Ned volunteered. He hadn’t intended to speak up so soon, or at all, but he knew where his talents lay. If trouble could be averted, wouldn’t that be better?
“As will I,” his sister spoke up immediately from two kids down.
“That’s the spirit!” Dana applauded. She was a tall woman just out of the Coast Guard on Earth, with previous experience in the Colonial Marines, but Ned couldn’t imagine her as a soldier. She looked like an actress, with a perfect frame, long limbs, and dark chocolate hair and the facial features of a painting. Artists never painted soldier girls. Men, but not girls. Yet, there was something about her that held distant. She used that artificial tone of voice, the way an adult talks to children at camp, but none of the enthusiasm transferred to her expression. She spoke in this encouraging, rousting way, but none of it was in her eyes. It was a job to her. She was going through the steps.
But if she treated them decently, what else was needed? Ned decided not to judge. She seemed comfortable, competent, and experienced, and he would follow her directions.
“You’re going to start where all sailors have started for centuries,” Dana went on, gesturing to the other crewman standing near her, a fellow no older than twenty. “You are now in the clutches of Dustbin Dustin. Dustin is in charge of all the small engines, pumps, motors, and other intra-ship power systems. When he’s not doing that, he’s our head janitor. The rest of us, we’re the assistant janitors, and you cadets are the apprentice janitors—oh… Captain.”
She fell quiet as a statuesque man entered the salon. The man was still on the young side of middle-age, and Ned had never seen him before, despite having been in space now for nineteen days. Nineteen days of travel at breakneck speeds, soaring deeper and deeper into the night sky, until all they knew was far, far behind. They looked out portals and through telescopes at special bodies and nebulae and trunk formations, and went on tours, experienced the ship’s mess, and the food of their funny round cook. The first two weeks had been only the end of their school year, a series of tightly organized classes geared to each of their age requirements, from fourteen to seventeen, so they could tag along with another outgoing convoy for the first six days to get safely into space, but not miss getting full credit for the year. Ned and Robin had been out of place on this aspect, not having attended Earth’s finest primary education schools, not having achieved the world’s highest scholastic merits, and not having parents with influence. Ned had no illusions about competing on brain power. Still, the ride would be something to talk about.
Ned’s attention was now held by the magnetic man whose presence drove all to silence. Until this minute he had remained isolated from the teenagers, as if the ship were two cities and he lived in the other one.
“Well, Captain, we have a fine show of cadets here, anxious to serve the good ship Umiak,” Dana told him. “I respectfully submit that Mr. Nielsen read the manifest to you.”
“Granted.” The captain folded his arms and gave her a nod. The long sleeves of his silver shirt displayed naturally muscular arms. The shirt seemed to gleam as bright as a midsummer moon beneath the salon lights.
Ned took all this as a nice show, for the benefit of the teenagers, and supposed the others took it in the same way. Then again, as he looked down the line, the variance of expressions told different tales.
>
Mr. Nielsen, the ship’s education officer, a specialist himself in the art and science of teaching arts and sciences, stood up from where he’d been perched at the end of the bench. He was a friendly and open fellow of a fatherly age, with a family back home, and he seemed to genuinely like the kids and enjoy teaching. Ned got the feeling that Mr. Nielsen would teach even if he weren’t paid to do it.
“Thank you, Captain. Thank you, Dana,” he began. “On the port side we have Daniel, Adam, Christopher, Leigh, and Pearl. On the starboard, we have Stewart, Mary, Dylan, Ned, and Robin.”
Ned suddenly found it amazing that the two groupings of teens hadn’t really interacted at all, but had been kept separate by the watch schedule. Only now did he realize that he didn’t even know the names of the other group. They’d been on completely different schedules, awake while the others were asleep, and even had separate classes, run by the education officer. He knew Mary and Dylan well enough for lunchtime talk as classroom acquaintances went, but the others—they were yet strangers to him. Nineteen days in space, and he still hadn’t met so many of these important people… he made a secret vow to be a little more forthcoming.
“Thank you, Mr. Nielsen.” The captain surveyed the teenagers, lighting briefly on every face, then scanning on before anyone became self-conscious. He was not a tall man, but broad of shoulder and perfectly proportioned under those shoulders. He gave the image of being bigger than life, with a topper of rich brown hair, neatly cut, but enough to wave in an imagined breeze. He seemed to move and stand as if he were constantly being filmed… move… stand… stride… fold arms… turn… lay a hand on some part of the salon, the table, a monitor hood, a display case. In fact, there were lots of places here in the main salon to be theatrical, for it was a place as solemn and polished as an English library. Ned had seen such a place once, on a trip to London for a medical treatment. This place was paneled in wood burnished to a depth like wine, with brass-lined display cases carrying a collection of artifacts or mementoes—Ned couldn’t yet tell which, but they looked old and cherished. Was this the captain’s personal shrine? Was the captain doing this step-pause-step on purpose, or was he in fact just poetic by nature? The movements were elegant, calculated, and he cocked his hip just slightly with every pause. Ned watched, wishing he could do that.