by Tom Barber
Pause.
‘Roger. We’ll pick you up on our way through; ETA ninety minutes. Rendezvous point?’
‘The research station,’ Miller said. ‘Search for the beacon. You’ll be able to land on the roof.’
He glanced at the bearded man again as he said this, who nodded in confirmation.
‘Copy that. See you shortly, Corporal. Out.’
Miller replaced the receiver, then tilted his wrist.
He pushed a button on the side of his watch, setting the timer to 90:00 and pressed it, counting down.
89:59.
89:58.
Satisfied, or about as close as he could be considering the circumstances, he turned to the other man, who was watching him closely.
‘Success.’
‘Ninety minutes to kill.’
Miller nodded, then looked around the room. For the first time since the crash, he started to calm slightly, his tension and nausea settling. He thought of Bailey then remembered the blonde woman was keeping an eye on her. If she woke up, there would be someone there to reassure her and tell her where she was. She was in good hands.
‘Fancy some coffee?’ the bearded man asked.
Miller smiled.
‘You read my mind.’
*
Two minutes later, the pair were sitting at the main desk, the ruined portable pushed to one side along with the toolkit and duct tape.
Miller had placed his assault rifle beside him, but with the safety on and the barrel aimed at the wall. The other man had disappeared and returned with a pot of freshly brewed blend and two steel mugs. It tasted dreadful, packaged shit, far too strong and with no milk, but it was caffeine and would keep Miller going until rescue arrived.
In the other man’s absence, the slender Hispanic guy from downstairs had entered the room, not saying a word and just looking outside through the windows.
He’d only remained for a few moments and then left as quickly as he’d arrived.
With the door still open, Miller had watched him walk down the 2nd floor corridor then turn left and move up some stairs.
He’d heard another door open, which he guessed was the access to the roof.
Now alone again with Olson, Miller took a deep pull from the steel mug then looked around the room and out of the windows.
Across the plain he watched the transport burn in the distance and thought of his team inside.
He turned away and focused on his company instead.
The man’s overalls were rolled down and tied in a knot across his waist. His t-shirt was faded and looked worn, the same as its owner; he was in average shape, not thin but not fat, somewhere in between.
Miller glanced at the Cardinals logo on the t-shirt, a maroon eagle’s head with a stern look and a gold beak.
‘That’s my team,’ he said, pointing at the t-shirt.
The man glanced down, but didn’t respond.
‘We never made introductions. I’m Miller,’ he said, leaning forward and offering his hand.
‘Olson,’ he said, shaking it.
‘Thanks for your help outside. Sorry about the reception I gave you. Can’t be too careful.’
‘You’re bleeding, Corporal,’ Olson said, pointing to Miller’s temple.
Miller reached up and touched the skin; his already blood-stained hand came away with fresh blood.
‘Yeah, that’s my job.’
Olson looked blank, then realised Miller was half-smiling.
He drank from his coffee and didn’t reply.
‘What sort of work do you do here?’ Miller asked.
‘A bit of everything. Mining, weather research, excavation, terra-forming. We built most of this station ourselves. Eventually they want to put a colony here. We’re the outliers.’
‘How long has this place been cubed for?’
‘Three or four years.’
‘You came out here alone?’
Olson nodded. ‘Contracted.’
‘There are easier ways to make money.’
‘Like being a soldier?’
Miller didn’t have an answer for that. He took another mouthful of bitter coffee and looked around the room instead, getting a feel for the place.
Sustaining human life all the way out here in the year 2113 was only possible due to a major scientific breakthrough twelve years ago by an English professor and his team at the University of Cambridge working closely with a team from MIT. Miller knew from the history books that mankind had been obsessed with space travel and exploration for a long, long time. It had remained a dream until a summer’s day in July 1969 when Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon. Since that triumphant moment, NASA had continued to spend billions of dollars over the years sending exploratory vehicles, shuttles and pods up into space, but only a relatively few human beings. Astronaut training and the equipment they used cost millions of dollars, sometimes billions, and the hostile environments found in the solar system meant mankind living anywhere other than Earth or within the confines of a space station was only ever going to be a dream.
The biggest issue was atmosphere. Without oxygen and a protective suit, a human being couldn’t survive. Last century, just getting people to Mars required millions of dollars of training and investment; the journey from Earth back then took six months and the biggest challenge had been keeping people fit and healthy enough to be in good physical condition when they arrived. However, with the advances in ship technology and the Alcubierre warp drive theory being proven, the resulting increase of speed in travel and ability to grow food within the space stations meant people could spend years out here if they wanted to.
Now, the journey from Earth to Mars only took a week.
However, the next problem had been not just surviving, but actually being able to make the most of their new environment.
And that was where Professor Christenson had come in.
Twelve years ago, he’d developed a device that was truly revolutionary; it enabled the creation of a liveable atmosphere and stabilised the weather in its chosen surrounding environment, oxygenising the air to make it breathable and support human life. After years of experimentation, it had finally been fully refined and tested until its use was proven in previously completely hostile environments.
Shaped like a box, the invention was dubbed Christenson’s Cube and had been declared one of the most important inventions of all time. The Cube, as it was known, had landed the Professor the Nobel Prize for Science but more importantly it had solved the biggest scientific problem human beings had previously faced in space exploration.
The Cube opened up seemingly limitless boundaries and new worlds. Humanity could now not only live elsewhere in the solar system, but people were now able to walk around freely and breathe the air without the confines of a space suit, the shell the Cube created stabilising gravity and filtering the sunlight. The ecosystem it provided had transformed everything.
So far, Mars, Venus and over a hundred moons had been Cubed. Mercury was too close to the Sun to be safe, but given the opportunities the Cube afforded, vessels had pressed on towards Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune. It was predicted that in the next ten years, all of their moons would be Cubed and colonised; some already had been.
It was an incredible invention, far beyond Miller’s comprehension, and had saved decades of experimentation and loss of human life. It also meant that hundreds and thousands of miles from Earth, people were earning a living out here, people like Olson and his team.
Now, if Earth wasn’t working out for you, you had other options.
However, there was a flip side. Day-to-day occupations on Earth could be mundane and sometimes isolated, but that was taken to a whole new level in space. Teams like Olson’s were put out on the Frontier in shitty jobs that were thankless, repetitive and isolated. Miller had been out here for eight years but he’d spent every day of that time with a group of soldiers, their familiar presence providing much-needed companionship in some of the loneliest pla
ces mankind had ever stepped foot. They’d been on the move constantly, never in one place for too long, their lives not mundane or routine in the slightest.
In the meantime, Olson and his team would be stuck on this rock until their contract ran out, no matter how they felt about it.
If you signed on that dotted line, your ass was staying put for every second of your rotation.
You couldn’t exactly quit.
As the thought crossed his mind Miller heard his exchange with Olson again. There are easier ways to make money.
Like being a soldier?
Every job has its down side, he thought, drinking from his coffee. The blood staining the hand holding the mug was a reminder of that.
He took another look at Olson and noticed the man seemed jaded and tired, like the #94 sign outside, beaten and battered by the wind and dust. Miller wondered about his past and what had brought him out here. Maybe he was divorced, or escaping from something. Maybe both. Whatever his motivation, Miller guessed from his general demeanour that the reality had fallen far short of what he’d imagined.
He’d seen it many times before, people who’d ventured out to the Frontier full of excitement and hope, civilian contractors wanting to escape Earth and get rich quick. The reality was loneliness and almost total isolation. The Spartans had been deployed to planets and moons with colonies like this that were a hundred times bigger, and the people in those places were often desperate for them not to leave.
He’d noticed since his arrival that Olson seemed intrigued by him, as had the rest of his team downstairs; he’d seen that reaction before. Out here, guests would be a rarity.
Especially ones who’d made the sort of entrance that he had.
Glancing over his shoulder, Miller examined the bleak, dark moonscape outside the window.
A hell of a place to earn a living.
Back on Earth, people thought they knew what loneliness was.
They had no idea.
‘So what’s your story, Corporal?’ Olson asked, breaking the silence.
‘Not much to tell.’
‘You’re a soldier. Soldiers always have stories.’
He paused. ‘
You’re headed to MC1?’
‘In eighty five minutes,’ Miller replied, checking his watch. ‘From there, I’m transferring to the next transport back to Earth. I’ve done my time.’
‘You’re leaving the army?’
He nodded. ‘Like I said.’
‘How long have you been out here?’
‘Eight years, nine months, sixteen days and about five hours. Give or take.’
‘That’s pretty exact.’
‘How long have you been out here?’
Olson paused. ‘Two years, eight months, sixteen days and several hours.’
Miller smiled. ‘Gets to you, doesn’t it?’
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Just did a two month rotation on #112. Hell of a fire fight. One of the worst I’ve been in; it was a damn miracle we all survived. Those boys just didn’t want to hand over the land.’
‘Where’s #112?’
‘Europa. One of Jupiter’s moons. No one’s settled there yet. Lots of ice and water, a big iron core perfect for mining. Prime real estate with a hell of a view. Everyone wants a piece of it. And that’s where things got ugly.’
Miller finished off his coffee, tipping the mug all the way up so he got the thick silt from the bottom, then noticed another first-aid kit on a shelf across the room as he swallowed.
He heard a drill instructor’s voice echo in his mind, all the way back from Basic in Georgia almost a decade ago.
Whenever there’s a break in battle, eat, drink and patch yourself up.
You never know when you’ll get another chance.
‘Got anything to eat around here?’ he asked.
Olson paused. ‘Afraid not.’
‘No food? Where’s the kitchen?’
‘Ground floor. We passed it when we walked in with your two friends. But we’re down to our last supplies. There’s a new shipment due any day, but no one goes in there outside of meal times.’
Miller nodded, understanding. He guessed Olson was lying, being protective of their supply, but he’d be back at MC1 in a few hours and could grab some chow there. He was covered nutritionally until he got back anyway; the coffee had been thick enough to serve with a spoon, several sugars inside which was good enough until his ride out of here arrived.
He placed the cup down on the desk and looked at his hands, stained with dirt and Keller’s dried blood.
They were shaking slightly.
The caffeine from the coffee and aftermath from the adrenaline dump from the crash were having an effect.
‘There a bathroom on this floor?’ he asked. ‘I’m going to clean up.’
‘Downstairs,’ Olson said. ‘Halfway down 1, on the left side. Can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’
Miller rose, taking his rifle, then moved across the room and pulled the first-aid kit from the shelf.
He stepped through the open door and headed for the floor below.
Olson watched him closely as he left.
Then quickly glanced over his shoulder at the plain outside.
FIVE
Miller didn’t encounter anyone as he made his way down the stairwell and along the first floor corridor, and found the bathroom exactly where Olson said it was.
Stepping inside, he pulled the door closed behind him and locked it, then looked at the interior.
The place was definitely no frills, the walls concrete with a lick of off-white paint, a shower, toilet, basin and mirror. He checked the safety of his M16 203 then placed it to one side, leaning the weapon against the wall.
He put the green first-aid kit beside the wash basin, opened the box then looked in the mirror, examining the weary, dusty face that was reflected back.
There was a trickle of blood running down the side of his head from the gash by his temple, the only real injury he’d sustained in the crash apart from the blow to the back of his head which had knocked him out. He’d been lucky. The cut wouldn’t need a bandage or stitches, but it had to be cleaned nonetheless. The last thing he needed was an infection this close to his journey home.
Quarantine at MC1 was strict and he didn’t want to be delayed for any reason when he got back.
He rooted around in the medical kit and found some gauze and a small bottle of antiseptic packed neatly alongside some bandages, band aids, pain killers and other stuff in small packets. Taking out the antiseptic, he twisted off the cap, then held a piece of gauze to the bottle and tipped it, the cotton absorbing some of the liquid.
He placed the bottle to one side and started wiping the wound across his temple, catching his breath as it stung.
As he held the gauze to the cut, letting the antiseptic do its work, he looked at his reflection.
Although it was just himself looking back, he found it reassuring to see a familiar face.
Everything that had happened in the past hour had totally disorientated him.
He was tanned, his eyes an unusual green. He had brown hair that had been close cut a few months ago but had grown out given his recent stint out on the frontline. He looked tired and drawn; he could see he’d lost weight, his cheekbones and jaw defined from a diet of field rations and snatched periods of sleep interrupted by night attacks and the constant threat of unexpected fire-fights out there on Europa #112.
He finished cleaning the wound, then threw the gauze into a trash can beside the wash basin and examined his face for any more injuries. Everything looked OK. He ran his hand over his head, wincing as he felt a lump forming at the back. His hand moved around over the five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin.
Somewhere under all that dirt, blood and fatigue was a twenty seven year old man.
When he’d been in history class back in high school, Miller had seen the old comparison photos of guys sent out to the fron
tline in Earth-based wars from the past and how much they’d visibly aged after they returned. World Wars 1, 2 and 3, Vietnam, Desert Storm, the War on Terror and the Middle East. It was always the eyes that told the story.
The difference between the two pictures was often startling, looking at a man and a boy separated by just a couple of years but by a lifetime of stress and experience.
Gone was the innocence, the fun, the glint of humour, sometimes the humanity, replaced by either cold detachment or a thousand yard stare that went right through the lens and somewhere far beyond.
The eyes really were the window to the soul.
He looked at his own staring back.
He’d seen too much out here to ever be the same kid who’d first arrived on MC1 eight years ago, but he felt he was doing OK. His hair was still brown, anyway. Keller had started going grey around the temples. Seeing as he’d only been twenty seven, that had really pissed him off and the rest of the team had mocked him for it endlessly.
Miller smiled at the thought but the smile faded as quickly as it had appeared.
That joke would never be made again.
The Spartans had made it through two long tours out here and never lost a man or woman on the line. They’d been in some ferocious skirmishes and fire-fights, none more so than the most recent on Europa, but had covered each other’s asses and done their Company proud.
And they’d got lucky. They’d seen all that action and survived.
Then all but two of them had been killed as they were almost back on Mars and their transport home, the supposed safest part of their trip.
It was too painful for Miller to consider it ironic.
As the thought crossed his mind, he glanced down at his black body armour. He’d almost joined them. The chunk of shrapnel previously embedded in there had punched a hole in the combat vest, right where his heart was. One of the first things he’d learned out here was never take the vest off unless you were on MC1; everywhere else, he ate, drank, walked and slept in it. It had taken a number of bullets in the past and had once again saved his life in the crash. Some people thought guardian angels were spirits. Miller knew that they were really made of hard steel.