I banged on the door.
“Hello!” I shouted. “Hey, wait, I need to let you guys know something important!”
My shouting and banging did get someone’s attention.
“Stay inside. Don’t open the door. We’re in the middle of an iodine sweep.”
“No, listen,” I said. “The door has a busted seal. I can show you a picture of the bleach leaking through. How do I send it to you?”
“Shit,” said a woman’s voice. “Just stay inside. We’re incinerating everything in there as soon as you’re out.”
“Why’d you put me in a storage room if you’re burning it all?”
“I didn’t put you there,” she said. “Just stay inside. We’re going to clear that room out, too, once you’re done. A little leak won’t bother the gel, and we can fix it later. Where is the leak, on the top or the bottom?”
“Bottom,” I said.
“Okay, well, hold tight and we’ll handle it. She’s a leaky old tub. What’s your rank and name?”
“Ensign,” I said. “I’m Ronaldo Aldo, from the Pacific gyre. I’m your new AstroNav.”
“Welcome to the Citadel, Ensign. I’m Tech Private Ann Watkins. It’s a shit assignment on a shit world, but it’s our shit,” she said. “Uh . . . sir.”
I didn’t feel bad about exploring the different boxes, then. It gave me something to do after the forms were all filed. I found lots and lots of soaps and ration bars. I found a few boxes of towels, way in back of the storage room. There were all sorts of strange chemicals and packages, and I opened none of them to investigate. Eventually, this grew dull and I returned to the cot to lean back and investigate the tablet. The data treaty with the monastery and the clogged arteries of the ancient ansible meant very little of what I saw was up to date, if it wasn’t located directly in the Citadel system. I recognized old planetary designations in the database, where newly formed stations were still demarcated by their old number and letter codes. Once I had access to navigation computers, I would push an update through the queue. The long quarantine ended when I thought it would be eternal. How appropriate to begin my life on the Citadel imprisoned. Eventually, my release came when the door alarm pinged, the door opened, and Obasanjo on the intercom buzzed me out of my stupor.
“Still alive in there, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Report to MedTech for clearance. Sixth floor, room six.”
“Six and six, yes, sir!”
Outside, in the hall, I had no idea what floor I was on. I looked around for signs of direction. Finding none, I checked doors for stairs or elevators. All I found was storage. For almost an hour, I walked uphill, opening doors. Soon, I remembered that much of the station used to be a warship. I checked between doors for the invisible seam signals, designed to make boarding parties difficult early in the war effort, when we thought the enemy would board ships, and immediately found a stairwell. Inside, the floor was listed as AB-23. I had no idea whether six was up or down. I guessed down because gravity seemed light up here, and medical was usually a little heavy. The blood flow likes weight. I went down a level, looking for a sign of the sixth floor. The floor levels were named after the old warship levels on this side. Memory of old schematics glanced at while in training did me no good. The ships did not spin the way that stations do, and they did not name their floors the same way, as a result. AB meant I was Aft-Bridge, and 23 meant I was that many floors separated from it. In the station, the sixth floor would be in relation to just the livable spaces, up from the bottom. Gravity was only Earth-like in a certain shell of the spinning ball. Much of the ship’s space was dedicated to protecting the ansible at the core, and building up around it with storage and machinery and engine parts. So much of what was the ship was a series of moving parts, and so much of the crew of enlisted were highly skilled mechanics for the advanced machinery. The officers were really the only warfare-certified specialists on board. If war actually came, we would reserve space in the ansible for far more, but it had been a hundred years since the enemy was in our corner of the Laika, and, at the moment, there was no organized piracy and no crime on this remote station meriting any sort of strong military presence. On the planet surface of the Citadel, there weren’t even a thousand people yet.
Down, I climbed, and down and down, falling into heavier and heavier gravity. I felt the weight of my body. I felt the way my feet steadily got heavier and heavier. I checked the door signs for the numbers, and found none. When I felt I was reaching the edge of useful gravity, I opened the door and started to look for a terminal that might point me in the right direction.
I was far lower than useful gravity and didn’t realize it right away. Going down, and disoriented, without understanding the numbering system, I had allowed the weight of things to fool me. I had gone down too far, into the storage tanks where light gases are compressed into liquids in huge tanks, and water is recycled in open vats that released oxygen from the algae in the pools, though it stank like a sewer. I knew right away that I had gone too far, but I saw no terminal. I did see exoskeletons for high-gravity work, and drifting plates that could lift objects and tanks. I thought I should be able to find a terminal relatively easily. Every schematic I had ever seen for stations had terminals dispersed every twenty yards. Even an old station like this one ought to have terminals around for workers on the level.
The gravity weighed me down, and made the top secret briefcase far heavier than I expected. It was not so heavy that I couldn’t be fooled, but it was heavy, and I should have taken an exoskeleton. Again and again, my early steps on the station were marked with mistakes. The first impression I gave was not of a promising, young officer, but of a bumbling newcomer with no clue how to function on board. The only good thing was my briefcase was intact, but it was heavier by the minute and my hands ached from carrying it.
Soon, I was so exhausted, I stopped to rest near one of the bubbling algae tanks. I was breathing hard, and my joints were aching. I put the briefcase down and tried to rub life back in my hands.
I heard a ring, and a booming voice.
“Ensign, are you down here?”
I shouted. “Hello! I’m lost!”
“Yeah, you are. Did you not see the directions on your tablet?”
“No,” I shouted.
“Why did you leave your tablet back in the room?”
“I don’t . . . I assumed it would all be destroyed after quarantine.”
“Why would we . . . Listen, where are you?”
“I’m next to an algae tank. I don’t know which one.”
“We’re not going to mount a search party. Can you knock on the tank with something? A button, or something? Make some noise without losing your voice?”
I tapped the pipes with the handle of the briefcase and it made enough resonant noise to be heard by the intercom.
“Okay, we’re going to send Corporal Adebayo Anderson down to get you. Keep tapping so she can locate you. You need to stop trying to move around on your own.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, continually tapping on the tank.
The intercom cut off. I listened to the sound of my own tapping, echoing up through the tank. I listened for footsteps. I heard, instead, the low hum of a lifter driving through the halls on wheels that needed to be serviced.
I kept knocking, and sat up. I turned to look, and saw her floodlights on, driving toward me in the fluorescent halls. I called out to the soldier behind the lights who was only a silhouette. The lights dropped away and it rolled to a gentle stop. The soldier there was a beautiful African woman with an accent from somewhere I couldn’t place. “Ensign Aldo, is this where the devils led you, sir?”
“Afraid so. Nobody said to keep the pad. I heard the room was going to be liquidated.”
“Welcome, welcome. If you are on a floor with braces, wear them. The heavy gravity is a devil on knees and blood.” She threw braces to me that clattered on the ground at my feet. I slipped into them clumsily, until t
he machines locked in and took over. Standing up was much easier, then.
I noticed she wasn’t wearing any, but moved as nothing. She trained in high gravity to build tolerance and strength. She was very fit, even compared to Wong, whom I hadn’t met yet. Certainly, a raw graduate was outmatched by her exceptional strength.
“We are small enough to only maintain habitation on three floors. The rest is storage. Down this low, there are nothing but water tanks and algae. If it wasn’t for PT, we wouldn’t even maintain an oxygen cycle down here.” She helped me up onto the lifter and took off with a playful lurch. The braces caught me.
“My husband is the warrant officer pilot, Sergeant Anderson. Jon. He will be happy to get a break from flying with a real AstroNav around. He is out on supply now.”
“I can’t wait to get to sky,” I said. At this point, I would say anything to distract from my embarrassment. She talked about the volleyball team and their training regime. They have won the last fifteen tournaments on the planet, and will win the next one, too. Anyone may join. “Are you an athlete, Ensign?”
“No more than usual. I am a good swimmer.”
“These tanks are the only ones large enough to swim in for light years around. You think you swim in these, huh?”
The algae made slight bubbling noises. It stank of an open sewer even as it cleaned the air of toxic gases. “I might someday, if I keep messing up. The admiral will throw me in.”
She didn’t laugh. “The admiral would never, never do that, sir.”
It was the last thing she said.
When we reached the lift, I stripped the braces, and felt my weight sink into my knees and shins. She left the lift to park itself and chose a floor far above us on the elevator, not the stairs.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said.
“I am not offended. Sir, I should not be so friendly with officers. It causes trouble.”
“Is that really what you’re worried about, Corporal? You have been on this station longer than I have and I am the one who inconvenienced you by getting lost.”
“Ensign, forgive me for being philosophical. Few will greet you with a warm heart. We are 16.3 percent more likely to commit suicide at the Citadel in our first year. Almost one in four will commit suicide before retirement, on the Citadel. The regular service on most other stations has only between two and seven percent, between all postings. Ergo, the philosophy is to try and keep distance until new clones are here awhile. Let us leave it there, yes?”
“I did not come here to commit suicide, Corporal.”
“I hope not, sir.”
“When was the last suicide?”
“Your predecessor, sir. It was not long ago. We actually lost two in the same week, but biotic technicians are much easier to replace than War College graduates.”
In silence, then, we ascended, and I enjoyed the silence. The more I communicated with her the crazier I felt. I was separated from her and the station. And in my separation, aloof to this place, my pride held me up. I stood with soldier pride, back straight and head high.
In the hallway, gravity was light as silk after the depths with the tanks. In the hall, I heard the sound of muted laughter. From behind some doorway, men were laughing. I ruffled. I could only assume I was the butt of some joke.
She gestured to the door ahead, nondescript and unmarked. “You will learn the way around soon. Here is the admiral’s office. Good day, Ensign.”
Day, she had said, as if there were such a thing here. We were not meant for starships and stations. Even the ghosts of language long for the summer sun.
Only after she left did I realize that she was the first person I had ever seen, despite my memory of before. Shade of quantum lives not mine, illusions to me, newly born—if I were a duckling, she would be my mother. I could not have asked for a better one.
The briefcase was heavy as if with child and I was glad to be rid of it. Upon entry into the admiral’s chamber, I expected a secretary or reception or at least an ExO, but the door opened upon his tiny room. A gruff, dusty man looked up upon me with alarm and disdain. “Who the hell are you?”
“Sir?”
He wore the uniform of an admiral. He was bald and steely-eyed like one. His name was Admiral Antonio Diego, and he was not my friend. “In or out,” he said. “Don’t be a cat.” His teeth were black and brown, some missing. It gave his words even more menace to see his diseased teeth.
I shut the door, straightened my uniform, and tried again, this time knocking first.
“Enter,” shouted the admiral. I opened the door.
“Sir,” I said, stepping in and saluting.
“You have wasted a lot of time and resources, Ensign Ronaldo Aldo.”
I said nothing.
“What were you thinking when you ripped into our stockpile?”
“Sir?”
“You were not instructed to open boxes.”
“Sir, the tech said the room would be incinerated.”
“And you believed him? Were you instructed to open boxes?”
“No, sir.”
“You were instructed to keep your tablet with you. Where is your tablet?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t?” He reached into his desk and threw it across the room at me. I caught it, at least. I did not drop and stumble. It was difficult with the briefcase in my hand, and for just a moment, I was proud of my dexterity, I admit. Even there, being dressed down by my commanding officer, I felt my pride swelling over my successful catch.
“Ensign, are you aware why you are here on this pimple at the edge of God’s fart-nozzle, instead of some other colony unfortunate enough to earn your inadequate services?”
“No, sir.”
“You are not aware? Really?” He stood up and touched the wall and a video started. A man in a space suit stood alone on the side of a station wall. “This is the last AstroNav we had.”
The man in the suit was not responding to the shouting in the video. Voices were shouting questions, orders, alarm. He stood unmoving. He reached briefly and swiftly for the helmet, but stopped and hesitated. I heard his long shout, and his hands rushed in a dart to the helmet seal, releasing the glass with a sudden, sucking zip into silence. The helmet floated away, and the head exploded under sudden pressure shift. Blood and liquid brain matter floated in a corona. He had put his pressure setting painfully high on purpose to blow his skull out in the shift.
The video stopped. “Ensign, you are here to replace that man. He is the third consecutive AstroNav to end his life. You are not permitted to kill yourself. I will not have them send me an officer less competent than you. I get sent flunkies that no one ever wants sitting in a cockpit. Your test scores are mediocre. If you kill yourself, they will just send me someone worse. You understand, Ensign?”
I said nothing but yes, sir. Admirals only ever liked to hear themselves, anyway.
“You will obey. You will train to improve your excremental flight rating. If the enemy returns, you will lead the charge to distract their weapons long enough for someone else to save the day. You will likely fail at that, too, because you have proven to me that you are not worth the water and hydrogen we used to create you. Try to improve yourself, and maybe you might prove me wrong, someday. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
He pointed at the briefcase. “That’s mine,” he said. “Give me my briefcase, Ensign. If you broke the seal, I’ll court martial you.”
In a flash, I saw the commandant’s face in this bald, surly, black-toothed admiral. One clone had handed me a briefcase to give to another. The admiral snapped the briefcase away and cut the tape with a long pinky fingernail that was sharpened to a point. He opened the briefcase and showed me what was inside. It was seed packets, all corn and bean and other things labeled and unrecognizable, plus two sturdy bottles of very fine bourbon. He produced a single, small glass tumbler from behind his desk and poured out a small finger of the bourbon. He smelled
it like he was about to drink it through his nose. He slowed down, and savored the smell, his hard face breaking into a crazed fervor. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Get out of my office, Ensign,” he said. “And don’t forget your goddamn tablet again.”
“Sir,” I said. I left. Anyone only ever got alcohol if it came over the ansible, or made it in some sort of illegal fermentation. It was a rare and legendary commodity on the highly regulated Citadel Station. On the surface, no food-based sugars were ever left over enough to permit fermentation and distillation. There simply wasn’t enough water to grow materials that were not for immediate consumption on the ground below, and what illegal distilling the Biotics attempted were rumored to be mostly undrinkable swill. I was never brave enough to try.
The admiral’s original copy at the War College apparently had been sending over illegal briefcases every time anyone was cloned across, in total disregard for the law and order and the resources available to be used for the raw material of transfer. The admiral’s legendary treasure trove of alcoholic beverages has been the source of much debate on station. We spent many hours over cards speculating the hidden location, and not even a lowly tech managed to stumble upon the precious bottles while sanitizing a closet. Sometimes, the admiral was drunk or hungover, and this was the only clue that the mysterious treasure still existed, at all. Even after his death, his legendary treasure is hunted, but has never been found. I theorize that it was all consumed before he left us.
* * *
The tablet was my master and commander for the days to come. It guided me to the quarters. It pointed to the mess hall and the physical therapy room for exercise. I was led to the quartermaster’s warehouse to train on piecemeal equipment like a raw pilot recruit. I had to prove I understood the drive mechanics and could troubleshoot in zero gravity. Then the tablet would run me through small simulations. Then, I would sit in a simulator made out of spare cockpit parts and certify flight maneuvers. The quartermaster, Captain Quiswanathaa—Q, we called him—was my official direct supervisor in chain of command. He was far too busy repairing our ancient station to supervise my recertification. Q was a thin, brown man with close hair as rough as if he cut it himself with utility scissors. He had no humor, at all, and reviewed my reports with a stoic indifference to my scores. “You need to score perfect,” he would say. If I did score perfect, he’d say the same in the same tone of voice, as if he didn’t notice that I had achieved the desired outcome. At the time, I assumed he was just another overworked quartermaster, in the long tradition of exhausted mechanical engineering and biotic personnel.
The Fortress at the End of Time Page 3