by Phil Rossi
There were voices in this black place. Men and women. Some people laughed. Some shouted. Marisa opened her eyes and gasped. She found herself stumbling down crowded Main Street. Her hand still clutched the hammer. Marisa looked down at her lap in dawning horror. She had put on pants at some point before going on her little walk, at least, but there was an alarming dark stain where she had soaked through her underwear and jeans. She hadn’t wet her pants. She wasn’t menstruating. Good lord, she thought, Oh my sweet lord. Her eyes darted around for familiar landmarks to measure how far down Main Street she had wandered. The glowing neon scrawl that proclaimed Heathen’s was just a block away—she had somehow traversed almost three quarters of Main Street’s bazaar. She ducked into a terminal booth and closed the curtain. Had security seen her? Surely the cameras had picked up her trek. She looked at the rusty hammer and wondered if those old flakes were really rust at all. Revolted, she threw it down. It sang for an instant as it clattered to rest. The sound made her head spin. Her fingers worked fast to enter a number into the terminal.
The screen glowed to life. She leaned in close, one arm draped over her head.
“Gerry!” she gasped.
“Marisa?” He paused and his forehead creased with concern. “Are you crying? What’s wrong?”
She hadn’t realized it, but she was crying—in big, shaking sobs.
“Come get me. Please.”
“What’s going on, what’s wrong?” he asked her again.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me. Please, come get me.” She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Gerald looked down and she concealed the wet spot by pressing her hand there. It felt good and she recoiled. Then she realized that Gerald couldn’t see anything below her neck. He was only reading the address bar on the screen of his apartment’s terminal.
“You’re at the booth by Heathen’s?” he said.
“Yes. That’s the one. Please hurry.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said and the screen went dark.
Black.
(•••)
Gerald threw back the curtain of the terminal booth and stuck his head in. It was empty. He spun and looked up and down the length of Main Street. The sun globes shone with a fading purple light; nighttime was coming on strong. People glided up and down the sidewalks, orange street lamps cast long, caricatured shadows. He didn’t see Marisa anywhere. He spent another ten minutes weaving through crowds of people and poking his head into storefronts and fashion booths, but she was still nowhere to be found. Gerald was worried. She’d been acting so damn strange lately. He knew he should’ve been keeping a closer eye on her.
He thought of Ina then, of the way her hair had hung into his face and smelled like flowers. A pang of guilt stabbed him directly in the chest. He was a bastard. Bastard or not, he had to find Marisa.
Gerald strode through the batwings and pushed his way toward Heathen’s main bar. It was happy hour, and the room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with bodies. Maerl was behind the counter, mixing up drinks and pouring beers in a flurry of shakers, ice, and foam. One of Heathen’s female bartenders—a pretty girl with long, black hair and large breasts that nearly spilled over her black corset—smiled at him.
“What’ll it be?” she asked sweetly.
“I gotta talk to Maerl,” he said. She held a hand behind her ear in the universal I-can’t-hear-you gesture. Gerald leaned in and spoke into her ear while he pointed at the bald bartender. “Maerl! I’ve got to speak to Maerl!”
Her smile widened and she nodded. The bartender turned away and went over to place her hands on Maerl’s shoulder. Balancing on tiptoes, she spoke into his ear. Maerl looked over to Gerald and grinned. He finished filling a round of shots and slid them over to a group of young women. Once he had taken their credit wafer, he went over to Gerald.
“What’s up, kid?” Maerl asked, leaning over the bar. “Why so pale? See a ghost or something?”
“Marisa—she’s in some kind of trouble. Did she come in here?” Gerald looked around. Some of the bar-goers seemed lost. Their eyes were ringed with dark circles. Some faces were slack-jawed and utterly without expression. Pint glasses traveled listless paths to frowning lips.
“Sorry, Gerry. Haven’t seen her at all today,” Maerl said, and Gerald turned his eyes back to him.
“If she comes in here, don’t let her leave. Call my PDA, all right?”
“Sure thing. Hope she’s okay!”
“Yeah, me too.”
Gerald left Heathen’s twice as overwhelmed as he had been when he had gotten there. He looked up Main Street first, and then down. The scattering of storefronts and alleys all looked the same—painted in identical swatches of artificial night glow and streetlamp light. He had no idea where to begin looking, but he started walking anyway. He would find her. He had to.
(•••)
The water was ice cold on Marisa’s naked legs. It didn’t matter. Fire radiated from the hammer, up her arms, into her belly, and then into her crotch. There it exploded as a supernova and spread through every single nerve ending. If some part of her was cold, it was distant. She submerged herself again and felt around the floor of the cistern. It was rough with mineral deposits, but otherwise featureless. Keep looking, Naheela’s voice had been joined by a chorus of a thousand others. Marisa came up for air and went back down. It was ink black under the surface of the water, but she found she could see when her eyes were closed. It was as if something else was seeing for her, in a relief of chartreuse and onyx. A raised area stood out on the cistern floor in her vision. It was the height of a credit wafer and no wider than the palm of her hand.
Yes! the voices in her head gasped; she felt another wave of warm tingling. She swam toward the shape. Centuries of mineral deposits had fused the object to the floor. She began to hack to at it with the hammer’s prongs. Hunks of deep red deposit drifted away. She hacked and hacked.
Gentle, now, the voices in her head told her. Naheela’s voice was no longer part of the chorus. You’ve almost got it now.
She came up for air, taking it in gulps and gasps, and then went back down again. The shaft of the hammer clenched between her teeth, she used use her fingers on the object. Marisa felt it give, like a loose tooth ready to come out of its socket. She pushed and pulled on it, and finally the thing was loose and in her hand. She resurfaced and a shiver ran through her body. Cold. She was so goddamned cold now. The sound of her swimming echoed into the darkness.
(•••)
Marisa was in her apartment. She lay on her back. Naked. Her hair was still wet from the cistern. The hammer lay out of its sheath on the carpet. She was no longer interested in the hammer. The object that she had retrieved from the floor of the cistern was demanding her full attention. She had the thing pressed to her heart. The peculiar optical disc was cold on her hot skin. She held her prize up in front of her face and the deep, red glass-like substance first reflected but then seemed to devour the light from the halo-globes.
She didn’t care about its purpose. Marisa was focused on her reward.
You must do it now. Destroy it! she heard Naheela say.
Marisa sat up and took the hammer in hand. She held the crimson head of the mallet just above the disc’s reflective surface and the object immediately began to warm in her hand.
Shadows drained down the wall. They flowed over the carpet and wrapped around Marisa’s naked body like a shroud. Marisa’s head felt like it was filled with cotton candy—sweet and gauzy. The Black whispered into that space and told her to stop. The Black told her the crone had only given her the hammer out of jealousy so that Marisa would ruin the true gift: the beautiful glass disc. How evil of Naheela! Marisa thought dreamily. She crawled over to the garbage chute and opened the panel, then threw the hammer in without hesitation. It rang as it fell down the shaft. The sound grew distant and then died altogether. Marisa felt a pang of deep sorrow at the sudden silence. But she was becoming very sleepy, so she igno
red the sadness. There was no time to be sad. She had one more task to complete before she could rest. She had to hide the disc. She had to keep it safe.
Marisa was in bed when Gerald finally came to her. She stirred, only vaguely aware of his presence. He was talking to her, but she didn’t understand the words coming out of his mouth. She heard herself tell him she was fine now and that everything was okay. Of course, that was the truth. She felt Gerald slide beneath the covers of the small bed and wrap his arms around her. He was warm, so warm. It felt good.
You can’t trust him, the Black said.
Yes, I can. Marisa responded. He’s Gerry. He takes care of my shit.
The voice didn’t answer, and Marisa fell into a deep, fitful sleep.
(Part IX)
Nigel Swaren wiped his hand across the mirror, leaving a wide streak in the condensation. He tilted his chin up and turned his head first to the left and then to the right. His stubble was shaved down low, but Nigel was cursed with a beard that grew like hellfire. In half a day, the shadow would be dark again. His short hair was combed back, the strands in perfect rows. Dark strays were tucked back neatly behind his shower-pink ears. The air handling system hummed and hissed above his head and cooled the still-damp flesh of his bare chest and shoulders. He took the white tee shirt that hung from the washroom door and pulled it over his slender and toned torso. He tucked the tee shirt into the waistband of his blue, straight-legged Core Sec security pants and dropped his eyes to the octagonal PDA that was strapped to his wrist. With a thumb, he cleared the fog on the small LCD.
The merchant vessel Oasis would be arriving at Crescent soon.
Someone began to beat upon the bulkhead that separated his quarters from the rest of the ship. Nigel hated hitching rides. Privacy was a horrendous thing to maintain. He grimaced and opened the washroom door. The pounding continued. Nigel paused, washed his hands, dried them, and then examined his well-manicured nails. He turned the light off and stepped into the narrow berthing quarter. More pounding. Nigel took his time pulling the uniform jacket off the sleep-rack and slipping it over his shoulders. He buttoned it up and then went to the door. When he flipped the lock toggle and the door slid open, the captain of the Oasis, Wrenfeld, stood on the other side, fist raised mid-knock. The captain’s gap-toothed grin beamed from the dense forest of a dark, springy beard. His chestnut eyes shone with a peculiar eagerness.
“Mr. Swaren, we’re about to begin our final approach to Crescent. Figured you wouldn’t want to miss it,” Captain Wrenfeld said before perching the stub of a cigar between his wet lips. The brown thing was unlit and Nigel was glad. He detested the smell of cigar smoke. During the trip, the recycled air on the Oasis had been laced constantly with the stale odor of tobacco.
“And why is that, Captain?”
Wrenfeld raised his dark, bushy brows and barked a laugh around the unlit cigar.
“Crescent is quite the gem. Everyone wants to see her.”
“I’m not everyone, Captain Wrenfeld.”
Wrenfeld laughed again; the sound was followed by a litany of dry coughs.
“Be that as it may—you’re still gonna want to see it. Trus’ me.”
“Do I even have a choice in this?” Nigel asked.
“’Fraid not,” Wrenfeld said, his tone apologetic.
(•••)
Nigel stood alongside Captain Wrenfeld in an observation lounge that was no wider than Nigel’s washroom. The small space was a haze of smoke. Nigel wanted to gag. The dark side of Anrar III could be seen through fingerprint-smeared viewports. The planet’s girth blotted out more and more stars as it continued to grow with Oasis’ steady approach. Droplets of fire grew along the planet’s fringe and the sun rose in a blinding flash of yellow-orange light. Nigel squinted; the viewport polarized to accommodate the change in visual radiation. Wrenfeld pointed.
“There.”
A small black hook was silhouetted against the cresting sun in the direction of Wrenfeld’s pointing finger. It looked like a nail clipping; not what Nigel would have categorized as awe-inspiring. But as the Oasis drew nearer, that fingernail clipping grew into something less than ordinary. Nigel pretended to be unimpressed, but in truth, of all the stations he’d traveled to as a Core Sec internal security auditor, he’d seen nothing like Crescent. As it grew in the viewport, it appeared almost as a living thing—an ancient creature you’d see dwelling at bottom of an ocean. The station’s long, curved hull was weathered, beaten, and crudely patched. The surface looked like it had grown its fair share of tumors in the form of repairs and modifications. The mismatched hull plates, docking tubes, and sensory arrays looked natural—the adaptation and evolution of this ancient, void-dwelling beast.
“She’s somethin’, ain’t she?” Wrenfeld said and stabbed his cigar out in an ashtray. “You can stay here. I’m needed on the bridge so we can dock.”
“They never finished it. The original engineers… ” Nigel said and his voice trailed off. He didn’t know much about Crescent. It was just another station to him. He’d heard plenty of rumors that it was a nasty place, even before it had come into his mission dossier. Security reports confirmed that it was no vacation spot. But still, he didn’t expect to see a quarter-completed, seemingly abandoned space hulk.
“Didn’t do your homework?” Wrenfeld waggled his brows. “Never heard of the curse, then?”
“I did my homework, Captain—folklore wasn’t part of it. When I’m dispatched to a station or outpost, I don’t make it routine to study up on the design history.”
“Well, that might’ve been helpful in this case. As you can see, Crescent isn’t like most Core Sec facilities. She’s old. I won’t say she’s the oldest, but she shows her age. She was built before the Core. Something bad happened on her—something downright evil. And that was it. The buildin’ stopped and she was abandoned. Only thanks to the New Juno colonization efforts did she come back into service.”
“Quaint. I’m sure there’s a more logical explanation to things than a campfire story, Captain. I don’t care either way. I’m not here about this station’s past—I’m here to see if Crescent has a future.”
“And I’m just here to drop ya off.” Wrenfeld winked. “Enjoy the view.”
Wrenfeld took his leave and Nigel moved closer to the viewport to examine the station. He’d been to some rough places—mining depots that were under riot, research facilities in need of outbreak containment—but when he looked upon the strange, incomplete space station, there was a tingling in his nethers. The sensation told him with certainty that Crescent was going to be a somewhat different experience.
(•••)
Nigel inhaled a lung full of hangar air. He could not have been happier to be off the small and smoky Oasis. Nigel looked to where Captain Wrenfeld was supervising a crew of Crescent deck hands, a fresh cigar planted between beard-obscured lips. The crew carted various crates down the docking ramp to be hauled away by station collector bots. Wrenfeld was making one wisecrack after the other. The dockhands seemed either not to understand the jokes, or not to care. Their slack expressions never changed, and their eyes—they looked downright weary—were focused on the crates as they should have been, not on the comedian ship captain and his antics. That fact did not seem to deter Wrenfeld one bit; he went right on with the humor between plumes of heavy smoke.
Duffle bag in hand, Nigel made his way down to the deck to where two individuals, a man and woman, were waiting for him. Nigel guessed the man was middle-aged, it was hard to tell—the fellow’s long horse-face was covered in patchy hair growth. In some places the curling strands wanted to be a beard, in others they weren’t quite so sure. Salt and pepper hair, greasy and stringy, hung to his shoulders. At the man’s side stood a woman who wore the Core Sec blues. Her hair was twisted onto the top of her head in a tight bun. Her pale features were delicate but her expression was stern as her green eyes regarded him. When Nigel reached them, the woman extended her hand, which he took for a single
, downward shake before letting go.
“Welcome to Crescent, Captain Swaren,” she said, flashing a brief and polite smile. “I’m Lieutenant Marisa Griffin. This is Walter Vegan, Crescent’s Chief of Operations and deck master.” Officer Griffin looked up at her beastly companion. He didn’t speak, but he wore a scowl on his horse face that said plenty. Walter Vegan did not welcome Nigel to his station.
“How was the trip?” Officer Griffin asked.
“If you won’t be needing anything more from me, I’ve got some work that needs doing,” Vegan said. He looked to Nigel and offered a tight, little bow. “Captain Swaren.” Nigel nodded and returned his attention to Officer Griffin, who was far more pleasing to the eye than Vegan.
“Just to clear the air right off the bat, Officer Griffin, most people instantly believe me to be the bad guy. That’s not the case. When given a chance, I’m actually pretty much okay. I only become the bad guy when people interfere with my audits. If I ask for your help, you should give it to me. You’ll find that we’ll get along just fine.”
Officer Griffin flashed one of her polite smiles. “Of course,” she said. “As your liaison during your stay here on Crescent, I will be of as much assistance as I can possibly be.”
“I appreciate that,” Nigel said.
“Now, if you don’t mind too much, I need to check your bag and perform the standard security checks on your person.”
“See? You’ve already passed the first test.” Nigel smiled.
(•••)
Kendall leaned forward in his chair; the leather creaked beneath him. The security feed from the main docking port floated above his desk and he listened intently to the exchange between Officer Griffin and this Captain Nigel Swaren. Griffin was being polite—not too polite, Kendall was glad to hear. Too polite would be suspicious. She just had to do her job. Kendall narrowed his gaze at the pixelated image of Swaren. At the current level of zoom, it was hard to make out too many distinguishing features. Swaren looked young. But to misconstrue youth as naïveté would be a mistake. According to Captain Swaren’s Core Sec profile, he was a highly decorated auditor. If there was something wrong at a station or outpost, Nigel was sent there. And when he left, that problem no longer existed. There was nothing wrong on Crescent, Kendall knew. He ran her tight as always. Kendall’s side activities didn’t interfere with the station’s day-to-day operations. If anything, the special goods being produced the beneath the Farm assured the station’s safety in this volatile region. Kendall wouldn’t let an auditor fuck with that. In truth, Kendall did not know why Core Sec had sent the auditor to the station.