by Tom Barber
He tapped it gently, like thanking an old friend for doing his job and watching his back, then glanced down, making sure the rest of him was unwounded.
His fatigues and boots were old and faded. Like him, they’d started out fresh and bright but had lost their gloss over time, the sheen hammered off them by the hardy conditions. Shifting his gaze, he glanced at the assault rifle leaning against the wall. The 101st Spartans, much like their namesake, used basic weapons in combat. The three hundred men at Thermopylae had been armed with just a shield, spear and sword. That was it. No bows, no arrows, no other weapons or fancy armour. The 101st Airborne Spartan Unit thousands of years later used comparatively basic weapons too, and they were renowned for matching the three hundred with their toughness, courage and for never surrendering, no matter the odds.
Miller hadn’t had time to grab his own weapon inside the transport seeing as the fire had already started by that point; he’d used the same rifle out here for the last three years since he’d been shot and lost his original in a fire-fight. Spend that much time firing the same weapon and you get used to it, which way it pulled, the particular weight, the feel, where it was worn or scratched. He noticed the one he’d grabbed had some marks on the muzzle and barrel, and had definitely seen better days. He didn’t know whose it was, but he had absolute faith in the rifle nonetheless. He’d have felt naked without it.
The Spartan issue handgun was an old style Beretta 9mm which Miller already had slotted in a holster on his thigh before they crashed. He had a spare clip on his hip containing another seventeen rounds, which meant in total he was carrying 130 bullets and three grenades about his person, enough to hold his own in any kind of hostile situation.
Satisfied, he looked up at his reflection, examining the weary face that peered back.
He’d been hopelessly naïve when he first came up here eight years ago. He’d seen many visions of the future in old magazines, books and movies, the ray guns and light-sabres, flying cars and robots carrying out everyday tasks, but none of that shit existed on Earth. There’d been major advances of course, but not in the ways people envisaged back in the old days, so he’d wondered if he’d find any of that high-tech stuff out in space instead.
He hadn’t. Things were pretty much the same. Not a ray gun or light-sabre in sight and no cryo-sleep to dull the tedium of the long voyages that still took a while even at warp speed.
Technology had peaked at a certain point and then it became about ownership, as it always did when human beings were involved.
Aside from the military, scores of companies and corporations were out here trying to get ahead of the competition and lay claim to places, establishing mining rights. Everyone was looking to make a buck, and if they had to screw over someone else to do it then so be it. Like the Wild West gold-seekers, world-wide companies were sending research teams like Olson’s out to check the land and search for anything of value they could mine, getting the jump on everyone else and going to any length to establish a claim if a place proved valuable.
But none of that was the most depressing thing.
That honour belonged to the reason why Miller was in combat BDUs and carrying an assault rifle in the first place.
It was why he’d been shot down and why he’d been constantly on his guard ever since.
Despite being hundreds of thousands of miles from Earth and the huge advances made over the decades, human beings were still fighting and killing each other out here over land.
SIX
Standing there alone in the bathroom, facing his reflection, Miller thought about the fights and skirmishes he’d spent the last eight years engaged in and the futility of it all.
Once the first successful mission to Mars had taken place and it was colonised, every nation on Earth which could afford it and some of those who couldn’t had quickly followed, desperate not to be left behind in the race for land and mining rights.
Things had turned sour quickly and war had broken out between many of the nations.
In strange and distant worlds, where people had only just set foot, they still couldn’t learn to co-operate.
And out here, people could do things that they wouldn’t get away with back home, far away from news cameras, sanctions, social restraints or consequences.
In their experiences on the various planets, planetoids and moons they’d been deployed to, the Spartans had frequently found scores of graves, entire teams and crews of people murdered and buried in the dirt. Sometimes it was hard to believe that some of the things he’d seen had been perpetrated by members of his own species. Take away the consequences of being caught and the basic restraints of civilisation, and man was capable of some truly hideous acts.
Miller had seen the aftermath of many.
He’d come out here ready to do his part and fight for his country and its official stake, but any illusions he had about what was going on had faded very quickly. He’d only done the second four year tour because he needed the money before he went home.
Now, it was time to leave, before he joined the rest of his squad on the flat-line. He’d made it this far, surviving countless battles and conflicts, the mere thought of the possibility of a peaceful life back on Earth one day his only motivation.
He was going to do everything he physically could to make it back.
He turned on the cold water and started washing the blood and dirt off his hands, working quickly to conserve the water supply. Stations like this had electricity and water generated by fuel cells but also their own water-collection systems thanks to the occasional rain generated by Christenson’s Cube. Even though both provided ample water, there was still an unwritten code to only use what was necessary and he didn’t want to be an asshole.
He ran his hand under the soap dispenser then rubbed his palms together, working off all the remaining dust and dried blood from his fingers. He wasn’t going to miss it out here. People had been fighting over land on Earth since they’d first learnt to stand upright, and although there’d been huge technological advances in the past couple of hundred years human behaviour hadn’t developed with it. Greed and brutality seemed to be lurking everywhere, the only constants in uncertain worlds.
He turned off the tap, then grabbed a towel from the dispenser and dried his hands.
Throwing the towel in the trash, he checked himself in the mirror one last time.
You look like shit, Will, he thought.
At least I’m still vertical, his resolve answered back.
He clipped up the medical kit and scooped up his rifle. Then he undid the lock on the door and walked out of the bathroom into the 1st floor corridor.
Straight into someone rushing the other way.
Stepping back from the collision, Miller saw it was the third member of Olson’s team, the Hispanic guy who’d been standing in the doorway after Keller had died. He was lean, somewhere in his thirties, with jet black hair and razor-sharp brown eyes.
People working in places like this often had a resigned, glazed look from the isolation, but this guy looked alert and on the ball.
He’d been moving fast down the corridor and had bumped straight into Miller.
‘Sorry,’ Miller said.
‘No problem.’
Pause.
‘I’m Garcia.’
‘Miller.’
There was a pause as the two men looked each other in the eye. They didn’t shake hands.
‘Excuse me,’ Miller said, stepping past him and heading on his way.
Garcia turned and watched him as he left, then continued down the corridor and disappeared through the door the other side, moving in a hurry.
As he walked the opposite direction, Miller checked his watch.
78:30.
78:29.
78:28.
Just over seventy eight minutes to go.
SEVEN
Using the same stairwell as before, he went down to the ground floor then headed along the corridor towards the rec roo
m.
Now things were calmer, he’d had a chance to figure out the simple geography of the building. Three floors with two stairwells, one on each side of the building. The control room with the long windows was on 2, the bathrooms and sleeping quarters on 1, the rec room and kitchen on the ground floor with the garage down the far end through the two doorways. As he’d walked down the stairs, Miller noticed an A in white paint on the wall of the stairwell, and remembered seeing a B on the other side when he first carried Doc Bailey inside after the crash.
Stairwells A and B.
Simple.
Most of the doors were vertical sliders controlled by a button on a panel beside each doorway. The bathroom seemed to be the only exception, though he remembered seeing an old-fashioned lock on a door in the garage beside the rolled-up grille.
Making his way along the ground floor, Miller arrived at the rec room and stepped inside.
Bailey was in there alone, still lying on the pool table and still unconscious.
The woman keeping an eye on her must have stepped out for a minute.
He watched her for a long moment, then examined the room around him. The couches and chairs were all worn, the springs underneath sagging, the paint on the walls starting to chip in places. His eyes were drawn to the fridge full of trade beer to his right. He was thirsty but needed to keep his shit together until he got back to MC1 and couldn’t have any alcohol clouding his judgement.
There was a dartboard with three darts buried in the bulls-eye, and a table to the left with some half-filled bottles of liquor. He noticed a calendar pinned to the wall, each day methodically crossed off with a big red X, like an inmate counting the days until his release.
He looked at today’s date. March 29th 2113. Someone had either forgotten to do the last six days or just been too busy; he stepped forward, took hold of a pen hanging from a string beside the calendar and crossed the days off.
Near the refrigerator was a music player in the corner of the room, the most high-tech thing he could see. Turning from the calendar, Miller approached it and tapped the screen, hitting Previous.
The moment it started to play, he recognised it.
Sarge had been a big classical music fan and Miller had heard this music playing in his quarters more than once on MC1. He’d asked him what it was, having never heard anything like it.
Apparently it was called Clair de Lune, by some guy called Debussy.
It caused Miller to pause momentarily as the sound flowed over him, in the timeless way that truly great classical music could, no lyrics, just melody. It must have been recorded over two hundred years ago, the composer and musicians never imagining that one day it would be heard hundreds of thousands of miles away in space.
It was strangely peaceful and slightly surreal given the events of the past hour or so, the crash, Keller’s death and everything that had happened since.
Miller looked down at his dirty, dusty BDUs, his cut-up hands and the large assault rifle they were cradling.
He probably wasn’t the typical audience Mr Debussy had had in mind either.
As the music drifted around the room, he glanced over his shoulder at Bailey, who hadn’t stirred. Maybe the music would help. It suited her.
Closer to him, Keller’s body was still on the main table, his BDUs open, the defibrillator cast to one side and abandoned.
Miller looked at his dead comrade for a moment and realised he hadn’t yet taken his dog tag.
He stepped forward, took hold of the chain around Keller’s neck and pulled the tag from a second loop. Then he reached inside the dead man’s BDUs and found his death letter, which was stained with blood. When the transport came, he’d take the body with him so it could be preserved and taken back to Earth for a proper burial. Standard procedure for a KIA and something much appreciated by families.
It was a luxury the loved ones of the rest of the squad would never get.
He stared down at the dead man, his old friend, as the music continued, and suddenly smiled.
He and Keller had done a stint of punishment duty together five months ago after an incident that got Miller busted from Sergeant to Corporal. After he’d returned from a deployment, cleaned up and got some chow, Miller had walked into a bar on MC1 to find a group of drunk miners goading some of his squad who were in there grabbing a beer. He’d stepped in to back up his guys and before long a huge bar fight had broken out between the two sides.
The miners had quickly realised they’d pissed off the wrong team.
Especially when Keller and Miller put the leader of the group through a window headfirst.
Miller stayed there for few moments, smiling at the memory, then stepped around the table and walked over towards Bailey.
Her eyes were closed, her head turned to the side. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he reached forward and checked her pulse.
For a moment, he panicked, feeling nothing, but then he realised it was there, beating rhythmically under his two fingers.
She didn’t react to his touch though.
She was still out cold.
He checked the wound on her leg; the limb was at a strange angle, definitely broken, and was going to hurt like hell when she woke up. She wasn’t going anywhere without his help; the last member of his team still alive apart from himself. Her condition was like a single flickering flame in a rainstorm, dancing and fighting to stay lit against the elements. Miller would do everything he possibly could to keep it alight.
He’d heard once that talking to the unconscious was therapeutic. Even though a person was out cold, they might be able to hear what you’re saying. In any case, a familiar voice might comfort her and find a way somewhere into her subconscious. Miller remembered when he got shot how she’d patched him up and gripped his hand, not leaving him and constantly reassuring him as he went into shock.
Looking down, he saw despite the dried blood in her hair she seemed peaceful, her cheekbones defined.
He noticed a mole under her eye he’d never seen before.
‘I haven’t forgotten you owe me fifty bucks, Doc,’ he joked. ‘I guess I’ll let it slide right now.’
There was a pause.
His smiled faded.
‘I’ve got to knock on sixteen doors already when I get back. And you’re going to be right there beside me.’
Pause.
‘I’ll need some help. I’m not good at conversations like that.’
The music continued to play in the corner and merge with his words. He hoped they would find a way through and comfort her somehow.
Suddenly, he became aware of a presence by the door and looked up.
The blonde woman who’d come out to the transport with Olson was in the doorway, observing him silently.
‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ she said. ‘Just stepped out to grab some food.’
Miller nodded. ‘It’s OK.’
Pause.
‘I’m Weathers, by the way.’
‘Miller.’
‘You care for her.’
He nodded.
‘She saved my life once.’
Miller looked at Weathers for a moment, who stayed where she was. Taking a last look at Bailey, he swung his rifle back into his hands and walked out of the room, leaving Bailey in Weathers’ care just as the final notes of Clair De Lune played out and followed him down the corridor.
The woman stayed where she was and turned to watch him go.
EIGHT
Miller headed back upstairs to 2 and found Olson still in the main control room, standing over the station comms equipment and looking out of the windows.
Miller seemed to startle him and he swung round as he entered. Miller nodded a greeting to him then moved across the room and took a seat on the same stool he’d used earlier, checking the safety on his rifle and resting his forearm on the top sights.
He reached into his pocket and pulled Keller’s letter from his fatigues, unfolding the piece of paper. It was in bad shape,
stained with blood and dirt, not something he’d want to receive. He glanced around the room and saw a clipboard with paper and pen beside it resting on a piece of equipment.
He rose and walked over, picking them up. The sheet on the top looked like a checklist for some half-completed survey.
Miller lifted it up, took a spare sheet and walked back to the table with the pen.
He placed the letter on the desk beside the clean sheet. Even though it wouldn’t be in Keller’s handwriting, he thought it would be far kinder for his family to receive something that wasn’t blood-stained.
He checked the pen worked, then began to transcribe.
Dear Mom and Dad.
‘What’s that?’ Olson asked, taking a seat across from him.
‘It’s a letter. From Keller to his family.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Things you would want to say in person if you knew you were never coming back.’
‘Have you written one?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not doing to die out here.’
Silence.
‘Were you close? You and Keller?’
‘Yes. We were.’
Miller continued to transcribe, trying to focus on the words and not their meaning out of a respect for privacy. He hadn’t lied to Olson; he’d never written one of these. He’d tried a number of times but could never do it.
To him, it was like tempting fate; he’d write the letter, then get killed the next day.
He continued to copy.
If you’re reading this, then I guess my time was up. It’s not been what I expected out here, but I’ve been to extraordinary places.
I’ve seen things you could only dream of.
‘May I say something?’ Olson said.
Pause.
‘Sure,’ Miller said, out of politeness, wishing Olson would shut the hell up so he could concentrate. He didn’t want to have to start over; then again, Olson and Weathers had helped him out.
‘You don’t seem sad.’
‘Sad about what?’
‘That your whole team is dead.’