by Amy Cross
The most amazing part is, the whole system is automated. Sutter and I barely even need to be here at all.
"Nervous?" he asks as we make our way across the rocky surface.
"About what?"
"I don't know," he replies, even though he seems to be hinting at something, "just anything in general. This is your first time at the rig, only your second time on the surface... It wouldn't be that unusual if you were still getting used to things, especially after your little wobble a while back. Just promise you'll tell me if you have any problems, okay? I can only help you if you let me."
"There's nothing to be nervous about," I point out as I spot the cargo ship on the main landing port, its cargo bay doors already open so that an automated feed delivery system can begin to load the gas tanks onboard. "I'm fine, and I'm sure as hell not going to go crazy again. We're just doing a job and -"
Before I can finish, I spot a figure emerging from the rig's control base, and I realize that maybe I am a little nervous. After all, it's rare to see a new face these days.
"You'll like Tom," Sutter continues with a smile. "He's a good guy. One of the best."
"You know him?"
"I know everyone. It's a curse I hoped to cure by coming out to the edge of known space, but people still keep showing up..."
As the cargo ship's captain wanders over to us, I can't help but notice that he's younger than I expected, closer to my age than to Sutter's. There's also something about him that instantly strikes me as being a little familiar; there's no way I could have met him before, so I guess he just has one of those faces that makes an immediate impression. Nevertheless, I'm feeling irrationally awkward, and I'm pretty sure that Sutter can sense my difficulty and finds it funny.
"Crizz Arnold," Sutter says as the captain reaches us, "I want you to meet Tom Jefferson, commander of this old pile of junk. Tom, meet Crizz, owner of one of the universe's most stupid names."
I turn and scowl at him.
"It's true," he adds with a smile. "Mind you, there's a lot of competition. I'm sure someone'll come up with something dumber soon. It's a race to the bottom these days."
"I quite like it," Tom says, smiling as he shakes my hand. "Ignore Sutter. He's old-fashioned. If he had his way, everyone would be named Edward or Herbert, and nothing would have changed for the best part of a thousand years. He's a sucker for tradition."
"It's not about tradition," Sutter replies, clearly a little annoyed. "It's about the pointlessness of home-base trying to get everyone to adopt these snazzy new names when humanity has so many good old classics to choose from. It's newness for the sake of newness, and it makes people sound like goddamn astronauts from a science-fiction comic." He glances at me. "I mean, seriously, do you even like the name Crizz? Come on, if you're honest, don't you wish you had a nicer name?"
"It's fine," I reply.
"So how are you finding life in deep space?" Tom asks me as he leads us back toward the rig. "It must be pretty hard being stuck out here with an asshole like Nick Sutter, listening to his bullshit day in and day out." He glances back at Sutter. "Unless you've mellowed. Have you?"
"Not a chance," he says firmly.
"I'm getting used to it," I reply.
"I once spent an evening with him in a bar on Mars," Tom continues. "Just me and him, the whole time. All he talked about was ion drives and some garbage about the flux inhibitor units. He was trying to persuade me that the new units were defective and that we should go back to the kind of tech we'd been using forty or fifty years earlier. Trust me, that's not an easy proposition to sell when you're dealing with Supreme Command's vehicle division."
"I'm still right," Sutter says, sounding distinctly annoyed. "You'll see. You'll all see."
"Almost drove me out of my mind," Tom continues. "It was without doubt the most boring evening of my life, so I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to be stuck on that station with him. You've got ear-plugs, right? Tell me you've got ear-plugs."
I can't help but smile, especially since Sutter is so plainly irritated.
"Deep space is kind of unusual," I reply, figuring I should be a little diplomatic. After all, Tom's leaving in an hour or two, but I'm stuck here with Sutter for a few more years. "There's a lot to get used to, and -"
"She went nuts a while back," Sutter says, interrupting me. "Stark-raving cuckoo. Bad case of Hidden Eye Syndrome. She damn near tore the station apart."
"Don't worry," Tom says as we step into the rig's control room. "Happens to the best of us."
"I never got it," Sutter points out.
"That's because you lack imagination," Tom replies. "No offense, Sutter, but you only care about things you can see right in front of you. You're not creative enough to lose your mind."
The control room isn't much more than a long, narrow room lined with a few banks of computer systems. It's amazing to see how little equipment is needed to keep a planetary mining system running smoothly, and I can't help but feel a little inadequate. Sutter and I spend our days spinning around in the station, orbiting the planet just in case we're needed for anything down here, but things would mostly run just fine without us. In many ways, we're obsolete, and I can't help wondering how long it'll be before home-base decides it's not worth the hassle of having people manning these places on the fringes of known space.
"I guess we should go through the checklist," Tom says with a sigh as he logs onto one of the terminals. "Wouldn't want some idiot with a stick up his ass to cause a scene." He glances over at Sutter. "You had any problems since the last delivery window?"
"I picked up some strange readings out at outpost 21b a while back," Sutter replies. "The surface feed pipe was returning unusual values, so I sent Crizz down to check it out. She didn't find anything, but I figured I might as well go and look at the intake valve while we're here today. We're still getting off readings from 21b now and again, even though it doesn't seem to be impacting the delivery rate. It's not a problem, but the lack of an explanation has been driving me crazy."
"There were scratches," I add.
Tom raises an eyebrow.
"It was nothing," Sutter continues, clearly annoyed with me for raising the subject. "Crizz noticed a few scratches on the control unit when she went to take a look. It's probably just dust particles from a storm."
"With all due respect," I add, "I don't think it was dust particles. The scratches were too deep and too regular."
"Good point," Sutter says with a sigh. "I guess it must be a magic space lion after all."
"I think I'm starting to see how you two pass the time," Tom says.
"You know what?" Sutter replies, heading over to the door. "I'm going down to check the intake valve for outpost 21b. I figure at least one of us should do something useful. Who knows? Maybe I'll make first contact while I'm down there."
"Let's hope not," Tom replies. "If you were the first human they met, they'd probably run a mile."
"Crizz can fill you in on all the other readings," Sutter continues. "There's nothing spectacular anyway." He pauses. "I can leave you two alone up here, can't I?"
"What's wrong?" Tom asks. "Worried we'll take off in the cargo ship, destroy the lander, and leave you marooned down here? The thought had never crossed my mind."
"Something like that," Sutter says as he heads through the door.
"Jesus Christ," Tom sighs, "he's worse than ever. Seriously, how do you put up with him?"
"He's not usually this bad," I reply, turning to the console and bringing up the schematic relay readings. "I think he's putting on a performance for you."
"I'm honored," he mutters.
"All the values are within normal parameters," I continue, swiping the screen to cycle through the various displays. "Even the figures from outpost 21b are within the margins for operational error. To be honest, this entire rig has been running like clockwork. We haven't had to change so much as a coil head in all the time I've been here". I check another screen, but I'm becoming inc
reasingly aware that Tom seems to be staring at me rather than at the screens. Finally, I turn to him. "Is something wrong?"
"No," he replies, "it's just... You remind me of someone I used to know."
"Sorry."
"It's just to look at," he continues. "You're not like her to talk to. Not at all. Your personalities are so..."
I wait for him to finish.
"It's like looking at someone I used to know," he explains after a moment, "but hearing a completely different voice come out of their mouth."
"It must be weird," I say eventually, with a nervous smile. "You travel hundreds of light years, hardly ever meeting anyone at all, and eventually you bump into someone who looks like someone you know."
"Yeah," he says, with a wistful edge to his voice. "It's pretty damn freaky, actually."
Realizing that he seems lost in thought, I turn back to the monitor and try to refocus our attention on the task at hand. The truth is, we could just as easily go over the data remotely from the station, but there are various protocols in place for this kind of situation and I hardly think I'm in a position to go ripping up the rulebook. Back at the academy, we were constantly warned that we need to work slowly and methodically, and that innovation should be left to other people.
"The phase transmittance variables are all looking good," I continue, trying to ignore the fact that he still seems to be staring at me, "and I see no reason to change the intake valve heads until there's wear of at least seven millimeters, which as you can see doesn't seem to be coming any time soon..." Pausing, I turn to him again. "If you'd rather wait and let Sutter walk you through all this," I say after a moment, "I don't mind. Maybe my resemblance to your friend is putting you off."
"No," he replies, turning to the monitor. "Let's just get on with it. Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out. Why don't you show me the valve readings overlaid on a scatter matrix? We might as well plow on through this crap while we wait for the gas transfer to finish."
I smile politely, even though I'm feeling more awkward than ever. I like Tom, but something about him has already started to get under my skin. The strangest part is that I can't shake the feeling that I've met him before.
Chapter Four
Sutter
Running my hand over the valve terminal that regulates gas flow for section 21b, I realize that the scratches are almost a quarter of an inch deep.
I'm down in the intake maintenance room, where the meter-wide pipes from section 21b emerge from the rock below and feed into the main part of the rig. Within these pipes, methane-hydrozone is being pumped as fast as it can be extracted from the depths, and so far there doesn't seem to be anything impeding the flow. The only problem is the scratch marks that have been dug into the metal; they're very similar to the marks we found on the surface feed pipe a while back, but this time there's a crucial difference.
This part of the rig is usually sealed. There's no way any kind of natural phenomenon could be responsible.
Glancing over my shoulder, I stare into the depths for a moment. The main pipes run past the platform before curving down and heading into the depths. They run for many miles underground, passing through solid rock before joining up with temporary relay channels dug by the automated mining system. About fifty meters beneath where I'm standing, there's a reserve hatch that's used to check for deep-flow issues, but apart from that there's nothing else down here. There sure as hell isn't any way a dust storm could cause damage.
Still, something managed to scratch the pipe.
Figuring that I should keep this to myself for now, I head along the platform until I reach the top of the ladder that leads down to the reserve hatch. The last thing I want to do is waste time going down there, but I can't ignore the scratches. If I went up and told Crizz and Tom what I've found, they'd undoubtedly start rambling on about some kind of intelligence being responsible, so I figure the best approach is to make sure that I've come up with an explanation before I mention anything in the log. Io-5 is just another dead planet, and there has to be a perfectly reasonable reason for the scratches.
One thing I know for sure is that there's no such thing as aliens. We're all alone out here.
Making my way down the ladder, I can't help but feel a little stupid. If I was here alone, I'd probably just ignore the scratches altogether, at least until they actually cause some kind of problem. The problem is, Crizz is very efficient and I'm sure she'd eventually find them for herself, at which point she'd start spouting her usual nonsense. Since her new personality was created, she's become much more gullible, and she genuinely seems to believe that there might be aliens hiding in the shadows, watching humanity's every move. Back in the old days, she'd have given short shrift to such nonsense, and I can't wait for this Crizz personality to fade away so that the real Amanda can return.
"You okay?" Tom asks suddenly, his voice crackling through my radio.
"Fine," I mutter. "Mind your own business."
"What's taking so long?"
"I'm just checking the reserve hatch," I tell him.
"Why the hell are you doing that?"
"Because I like to be thorough," I reply. "No-one ever checks these damn things, so I figure it's about time. I'm not expecting to find anything, but I still want to see it with my own eyes. A problem down here could really creep up on us and the last thing I want is to be back down here in a few months."
"You found anything interesting yet?"
"What the hell do you think?" I mutter. "It's just rocks, pipes and more rocks."
"So why are you spending so much time down there?" he asks. "Come on, Sutter, there's clearly not a problem. Are you just trying to be anti-social again?"
"Did you find more scratches?" Crizz asks.
"No," I say firmly, even though it's a lie. "I'm just going to look at the reserve hatch for a moment. If you want the truth, I'm just a little freaked out by the fact that everything seems to be running so smoothly. It doesn't sit right with me, so I want to be absolutely certain that there aren't any problems tucked away. I'll be back up in five minutes, okay?"
I wait for a reply.
"Whatever," Tom says eventually. "Have fun down there in the dark, asshole."
Once I get to the reserve hatch, I have to use my torch to see properly. This isn't exactly a part of the rig that anyone is really supposed to visit, since the hatch is only for emergencies. So far, everything looks to be normal, which is pretty much what I expected. Getting down onto my hands and knees, I start checking the very bottom of the pipe. This is real dogsbody work, the kind of thing that most people skip since they know the odds of finding a problem are about a million to one. Nevertheless, I want to be thorough, and there's no goddamn way I'm willing to just sit around while -
And that's when I see it.
The main valve is covered in scratches. In fact, not only are there scratches, but something appears to have been ripping at the metal, as if to pull it loose. Whereas the scratches were merely cosmetic damage, the lower part of the casing has been wrenched from the side of the rock and twisted, which would certainly explain the strange readings I've noticed lately. Running my hand over the metal, I try to work out what could possibly have exerted so much pressure, but my mind is blank. There's usually at least some kind of possible explanation for something like this, but right now all I can think about is the fact that this looks to be a deliberate act, as if someone or something came down here and tried to sabotage the system.
Looking past the pipe, I stare into the darkness that stretches deep into the heart of the planet. I know for certain that nothing came down to the rig, which leaves only one possibility. Something must have come up.
Chapter Five
Crizz
"It'll take me about two weeks to get to the next refueling spot," Tom says as he points at a position on the map. "Oberon-9. It's another rocky little lump, but it's second only to Io-5 in terms of its methane-hydrozone content. By the time I filled my ship's tanks up, I'll have
enough of the damn stuff to power an entire fleet for a year."
"Two weeks?" I reply, staring at the screen. "What do you do out there alone for two weeks?"
"Watch the stars sail past," he says with a smile. "Seriously, you get used to it after a while. I've always been the kind of guy who doesn't mind his own company. Hell, I usually feel lonelier when I'm with someone than when I'm out there, minding my own business. Mankind was born to be among the stars, Crizz. Don't let anyone ever tell you anything different."
"Sometimes - " I start to say, before realizing I should probably keep my mouth shut.
"Sometimes what?" he asks.
"It's nothing."
"Go on," he says, glancing over his shoulder for a moment. "I don't know what old Sutter's doing down there, but he's taking his sweet time. He won't overhear."
"It's just that I feel like I can't handle five years on the station," I continue. "I know it's a basic service duty for every cadet when they come out of the academy, but I really don't think I can deal with it. I already came down with Hidden Eye Syndrome, and now I feel like I'm ready to crack again."
"How bad was it?" he asks.
"I hallucinated," I tell him. "I thought I saw a dead person on the station, and then I saw all these ships rising up from the planet, as if we were making first contact."
"That definitely sounds like a bad case," he replies. "Still, very few people relapse. Now you've had it, you just need to deal with the mind-crushing boredom of being out here. I guess it doesn't help that you've only got Sutter for company." He pauses for a moment, and from the way he's staring at me, it's almost as if he's trying to read my mind. "How far out have you been?" he asks eventually. "Ever been past the Nebulan cluster?"
I shake my head.