“What is it, Ensign?”
“Corporal Xavier has a broken drone. She is checking it out in the inner hull.”
“What happened to it?”
“Will advise,” I said.
She slammed open the supply tunnel that joined the cockpit with the tanks. “I said that it’s probably a drone. I don’t know what it is. Keep your hands on the wheel and an open line, Ensign. I will have to depressurize the tank if I need to make any repairs, so be ready on my mark.”
“Probably a drone?” said Obasanjo. “Sergeant Anderson reported some caustics in the air, in the vicinity. You didn’t fly through any gas, did you?”
“No, sir. We gave a wide berth to the caustics.”
“I will stay in the line, but I have a lightspeed quickconnect conference call with Station Argo and Station Cypress in five. The drone’s probably nothing serious. Anything strange on the dial?”
“Nothing,” I said. On my readout we were just an object floating in the black, our engines humming and kicking out microwaves behind us. Everything was green on the dials. “Should I kill the engines?”
“It’s your call, Ensign. You’re the pilot.”
I decided to flip them off. “Corporal, I am about to kill the engines. Do you hear me? We’re in no rush, and I don’t want to take chances.”
“Yes, go ahead, Ensign, but I don’t know if it’s necessary yet.”
“It is procedure, and . . . Done. Until we know what you see, I don’t want to risk anything.” Before I could finish my sentence, she was likely already aware of her imminent death. I heard her curse through the line, to herself, but did not know what it was about. I heard nothing else.
That was my fatal mistaken judgment. When I switched the engines off, as was a usual procedure when unknown damage was possible, energy stopped flowing along the outer shield, leaving only the hull alone in place. Generally, more energy on a broken hull only exacerbated damage. It should have been fine. There was no indication of a damaged hull on my dials, and troubleshooting always began with turning off the engine. We only had the radiation blockers up and if we needed larger repairs, we would suit up and turn those off, too. It was all standard procedure. It was normal.
The blowout, when it came, was so suddenly quiet that it was like a single, loud knock at the door, within moments of flipping the switch. All the dials went red. A drone had banged against the wall, while we were sleeping, having malfunctioned. It had a rogue biome impacting inside the silicates of its circuits. It caused a microfracture in the hull, that was not exacerbating because the shielding was up, and all wires were on, and the pressurization was supplemented by the engine line. Once turned off, only the radiation wall remained, and the microfracture lost the grip of the power lines. The structure of the old bird shattered from the contorting pressures of vacuum pulling on old metal.
Cursing my name, the corporal jumped for her safety gear, but lost her footing. The vacuum grabbed her. She slammed into the crack, headfirst, knocking her unconscious. That was the knock. The crack was large enough to pull hard, but not so large that a full body could pass through. The sliver in the hull cut into her, ripping out her soft flesh from her body, where she was unable to fight against the flood. Her body sealed the crack just long enough for me to turn the emergency hull reinforcement system on, but this only made it worse, because what parts of her that were outside of the hull, parts of her head and some shoulder tissue, were sliced away, and blood poured out far beyond what little first aid could be rendered here. I did not know it was happening until I saw the nearby drones going all alert at the breach and the detection of blood. Then, I saw it on all the screens, from every angle, her body being pulled out into space in a sudden pressurization accident, cut and broken in multiple places, blood glittering like lost rubies.
Her death was very quick, I am told.
It was an accident. I held still a moment in horror, watching her bleed out through the monitor screens.
“Obasanjo,” I said. “Obasanjo. Jesus.”
“What is it? I’m busy. Oh, shit. You’re all red. There’s a breach. Are you all right, Ensign?”
“No.”
“Put your zero gravity gear on right now. Right now. Put it on. Do you have it on?”
“Okay.” I held still, staring at the blood, frozen in terror and shock.
“Are you putting it on?”
“Yes,” I said. Air was leaving the ship very quickly.
“You need to put your zero gravity gear on right away, Ensign. Snap out of it. You’re losing pressure. I can see it from here. I’m getting drone readouts now, and . . . Okay. Get your gear on.”
I closed my eyes. Air was leaving, and I was exposed to air, breathing it and running out of it. She was already dead. I needed to put my gear on to save myself.
The worst thing, beyond the guilt of flipping the switch that killed that poor woman, is the freeze afterward, the sudden and overwhelming feeling of incompetence that haunted my career. In the face of such horror, I did not move fast enough. I took no lead. I froze in fear. I got my gear on because Obasanjo was shouting at me, and I opened my eyes.
“Now switch the drones into recovery mode. You need to check the ship. The corporal is already dead. You need to make the ship safe, and preserve your oxygen tanks and get the equipment home. Ensign, focus.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. There is no nakedness more than knowing one is losing oxygen days away from the station, alone in a broken vessel. It is like being naked in a blizzard, and holding a single sheet still against the wind to stay warm. I threw up before I did anything to save myself. I couldn’t think straight. Obasanjo had to talk me through the damn pilot’s manual, himself.
We sealed off the tanks, and shut down the airflow into the chamber. I sent the drones after her body as soon as it was safe to pull them off emergency repair, and saw the corrupted one struggling with navigation. That one, I turned off quickly, before it could do any more damage.
Forbidden from doing anything else until the investigation, I handed the controls over to the computer that flew us home on emergency navigation. I didn’t even have a way to seal her body against the stink. The tanks were off limits, all connected and re-welded over the broken places in the hull. I placed her in the enlisted bathroom, and sealed the door. The separate bathrooms made sense to me in a flash. They were each perfect for a coffin, with water pipes and cleaning supplies ready to peel away the biota that would result afterward, and I could seal the door so I would not have to experience the smell.
Returning, then, in shame and infamy, and all the station would hold against me my foolish pride. Abashed, I waited for Admiral Diego to come down from his office to lambast me in the airlock.
I was surprised to note upon my arrival that Corporal Watkins was the ranking man present, with the biotic sweepers, to claim the body. He did not say anything to me about a judgment against me. He was calm and professional. He didn’t touch my arm, even, to comfort me. He was putting on these huge rubber gloves, and asked me where the body was.
“I put it in the enlisted bathroom,” I said. “I have washed since. I should be clean.”
“Doesn’t matter. Keep your gear on tight. Tell me when you’re ready.”
I held my arms out and let the bleaching mist pour over me in a cloud. “You need to keep your gear on and go to medical for clearance, Ensign. We can take it from here, okay?”
A biotic infestation in the circuits of a drone, a small microfracture in an ancient hull that quickly escalated into full breach, and death. I didn’t even know what had happened. All I knew was that someone had died, and I was flying when it happened.
Humans were not made for space. We are made for oxygen and nitrogen biomes, carbon landscapes with trees and long grasses, never space. Our guts don’t work right, our bones elongate and become brittle, and our blood thickens inside. Then, when the slightest error occurs, it kills so suddenly it is as if we were never meant to be alive. I had a thought
in my head while I followed my tablet to medical. The rank of corporal comes from the Greek just as does “corporeal.” She had been promoted to the rank of body. There are enlisted men who aren’t even worthy of being considered bodies yet. These people in space, clones all, are just a bunch of bodies.
Her body was taken to a storage room in a sealed bag for processing. Her religious preference was listed as Wiccan, and on the next transport to the surface, she would be taken down and placed in the grounds of an unaffiliated garden, and a tree or large shrub would be planted above her. Her faith suggested roses and oaks, but we have none of those here. A lightspeed quickconnect exchange was arranged between Brother Goodluck, the head groundskeeper, and a Wiccan representative from a neighboring colony, with Captain Obasanjo’s intermediation. They negotiated for a long while, waiting out the weeks for light to travel there and back, and settled on a jujube tree. They are gruesome, gangly, and spindly with copious thorns, but they are large enough and they produce flowers and the fruit is a staple of our diet here. They do not need much water, either, to grow and live a long time.
In medical, I expected the quartermaster to come howling at me, for killing his experienced flight tech. He did not come. Instead, the medical tech was checking my biome, and the medical computer was checking my physical health, and I was slowly allowed to peel away my emergency kit one piece at a time. The medical machinery found nothing wrong with me, and the tech gave me a high-fiber supplement to help my digestive tract recover from the influence of weightlessness. And the tech said nothing about the loss of a crewmember. Wong came for me just as I was leaving medical. He was smiling like any other day.
“Welcome back, Ensign. Good to see you survived the incident.”
I didn’t really know what to say. I looked up at him, and thought about responding, but all I could think of was how my very first flight ended up in the death of a crewmember.
“The officers want to meet with you in the conference room to go over what happened. Obasanjo has already shown us all the tapes. We still need to debrief you for the records, okay?”
“I’ll see you there, Lieutenant. I want to take a shower in my own quarters, if I have ten minutes.”
“I’ll have to be with you when you do, Ensign. I don’t want to see that,” he said. He leaned back against the wall and smiled at the medical technician, who became uncomfortable.
“Is everything all right?” I said.
“No,” said Wong. “It will be fine, though. This is all just procedure. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“A crewmember died under my command,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Wong. He patted my shoulder. “So, there’s going to be an inquest, and it’s happening in just a few minutes, and you are going to tell the truth about what happened and it will line up with the camera records and audio files. Then, everything will be fine.”
“It was an accident,” I said.
“The officers will decide what to tell HR in the Terran system,” he said. “But, yes, it was probably an accident. If we say it is, then HR will say it is. Until they say it is, it could be anything. We would like to resolve this quickly. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
The medical tech put down his equipment. “Do I need to leave the room, sir?”
“Of course not,” said Wong. “Nothing confidential will be said here. This is all just normal procedure, and it’s officer stuff. It shouldn’t have anything to do with the enlisted. Everyone knows what happens when someone dies unexpectedly. We’ve all been there, Corporal. The number of suicides and accidental deaths on this station, we’ve all seen inquests. This is just like those. There will always be an inquest, even if the person who died suddenly jumps out an airlock after a bad breakup. It’s a normal procedure.”
“The suicide problem,” said the tech. “We need more time planetside. We need more uncensored data access.”
“We have addressed our concerns to the monastery, Private, and we have to abide by the governing body of the Citadel planet. Obasanjo’s ansible restrictions are what keep us alive and floating. We are working toward a solution. In the meantime, don’t kill yourself. It is a real hassle for your commander because we have to do an inquest. Then, some other fortunate soul arrives to this posting to reap all the rewards you have failed to acquire.”
The med tech looked down at his hands. “Corporal Xavier was my friend,” said the med tech. “I’m going to miss her.” Then, he started to cry.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said. I grabbed him by the shoulders. I tried to hug him. He pushed me away. “I’m sorry,” I said, to his back. He pushed the door hard and locked it behind him.
In the hallway, Wong, ever smiling, asked me if I had been trained on interrogation techniques.
“Pilots generally aren’t.”
“I can tell,” he said. “In the future, never let yourself be seen apologizing until after the inquest. I say this as your friend. I will have to take note of that, as an officer, during the inquest. It looks bad to apologize if it isn’t your fault.”
“She was my responsibility, even if it wasn’t anyone’s fault. I will be writing a letter to her family and her original about her death. I know that. It is the least I can do.”
“It is, but never apologize until the inquest is complete. If you like, I can guide you through the whole process. I can minimize everything I possibly can.”
“You can?”
“Yes. It is not a hard thing to do, when the head of security believes a man innocent, and there is simply a procedural task to fulfill for an unfortunate accident. It will be good to have you back at the poker table. We could play a special hand, just you and me.”
I felt very cold. “No poker for me, Lieutenant.” I walked past him, and kept my back to him, then. I went straight for the meeting.
The inquest was in the conference room, which was on a floor with slightly lighter gravity, where the weight of the body felt lighter. It increased my nausea. Admiral Diego, Captain Quiswanathaa, and Captain Nguyen sat in triumvirate on one end in what was probably their best approximation of formal dress uniforms, while Wong took a seat on the other side of the table and encouraged me to join him. Admiral Diego’s uniform was a crumpled mess, full of creases and a few mysterious stains. Q was missing half the formal uniform, and was wearing regular pants and no gloves. Captain Nguyen had managed most of his uniform fine, but he barely fit in it. I don’t know how anyone manages to gain weight on the food we have.
“Has Lieutenant Wong explained procedure?” said the quartermaster. The admiral was stone-faced. Nguyen was uncomfortable, staring at his hands and fidgeting.
“No, sir.”
“Whenever a crewmember dies outside of combat, the death is investigated to ascertain not only what happened, but if anyone is responsible. The tapes are reviewed, and senior officers come together to send our recommendation to HR,” he gestured toward the three of them, on their side. “Obasanjo recused himself as he was present on the tapes. So, Captain Nguyen is standing in. Wong will ask questions; we will listen. Answer truthfully and it will be over soon.”
Wong asked me everything, then sought clarification, and would come back to every point again long after it seemed done. Three times I answered every question in that fashion. The tape was played back, and I heard myself in my worst moment. I felt such shame, such incompetence. When it was done, the admiral finally spoke. “We’re done here. It is getting close to dinner. Shut down the tapes of the official record and save.”
The officers stood up, and held their hands out to me for a handshake. I went in order, left to right, from Q to Nguyen. Wong patted me on the shoulder and left, without another word.
Alone, I sat in the room while the others filed past me. Captain Nguyen paused at the door and turned back. “Cheer up, Ensign,” he said. “The worst is over.”
“Is it?” I was still at the Citadel Station, where the previous pilot had killed himself.
“Yeah,” he said. “Q will go over the physical material and once we have the forensics, we’ll write up a formal report. The next ice comet will arrive soon. You are still alive. Cheer up. We’re going to send our recommendation to HR, along with the tapes. It’s a big fucking waste of everyone’s time. They aren’t going to want to send anyone to replace you. Okay? No matter what happens, you’re going to be fine because HR will not want to send anyone if they don’t absolutely have to. Your career is procedurally inviolate as long as this posting is such a piece of shit. So, cheer up. Or, kill yourself. If you’re going to kill yourself, don’t make a mess on my computer networks. The last AstroNav was kind enough to go outside.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Between you and me, Captain Nguyen, I wasn’t planning on doing anything drastic, but if I do, it will be a giant clusterfuck all over your most critical terminal, just for you.”
He thought I was joking and laughed.
In my mind, I considered what would happen if I was found at fault, but retained my commission. I decided that the honorable thing was to offer my resignation. I questioned whether I had the courage to do it, then and now.
The corporal’s funeral service was held the next day. We gathered in leg braces down by the tanks where her body was in cold storage until she could go down on Anderson’s next supply run, and Brother Goodluck was video-conferenced in on a twelve-minute delay from the monastery to try and fulfill the requisites of a Wiccan ceremony. He was old, even then, and weather-beaten, and bald as a rock. He stumbled through a Wiccan ceremony, then stopped and looked up at all of us. He said he would pray for us, the human vanguard, and the repose of the soul to any god that would care to listen. He sang a little hymn in a bright tenor that seemed to come from nowhere at all, not those cracked, hard lips. It was a beautiful hymn, beautifully sung, whatever it was. It shook me deep.
Two days after the funeral, I got a message from the admiral.
The Fortress at the End of Time Page 8