The Icarus Void

by CK Burch

  Yippee-kay-yay.

  ***

  CHAPTER VI.

  As Markov watched the scientists leave the bridge, Captain Udeh leaned over and whispered, ″Is this a smart move?″

  Markov turned to his friend, and wished he had a good response for that. Instead, all he could focus on was the way Udeh's hand kept finding his left pocket, the one that Markov knew Udeh kept his medication in. Doctor Fleur had been right, but Markov had a little more faith in his friend than the psychologist did. Udeh was a strong man. But even strong men needed to take precautions. Markov glanced over at Laguardia, to be sure she wasn't listening too close, and then said to Udeh, ″If you need to, you can go. I can find an excuse and you can take your meds.″

  Udeh blinked. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled, and smiled weakly. ″Is it that obvious?″

  ″Only to me,″ Markov lied. ″It's been years, hasn't it?″

  ″Five. And this is the perfectly wrong time for it.″

  ″How long has it been building?″

  ″Since I arrived.″ Udeh's brow glistened in the halogen of the overhead lights. He looked like he was fighting it. Good. That disproved Doctor Fleur enough for Markov's satisfaction. Udeh quickly looked around, and leaned in closer and said, ″Gordon, if you need me, I can ride this. It's not that bad. Not yet.″

  Markov put his hand on his friend's shoulder and said, ″You've been on enough dives to know the hell of these maneuvers. I won't add the stress to your condition. Go take care of yourself. You made sure that I did, and I needed it. Thank you. Now it's your turn to do the same. You've fought the good fight. Go rest.″

  There was a flicker of resistance in Udeh's brown eyes, and for a moment Gordon Markov almost wished the man would argue some more. Bring it on, Okwu, make me escort you from my bridge. Then Udeh nodded his acquiescence. The Prometheus captain saluted, and when the salute was returned made his way off the bridge.

  Laguardia stepped forward. ″Sir,″ she said. ″Glad to see you're back on deck.″

  ″Thank you, Sergeant. All is well?″

  ″As well as it can be. The crew are under considerable strain this time around. I think I shall return to my patrol on the lookout for – ″

  Markov raised his hand. ″I'd like you to stay on the bridge this time, if you will, Sergeant.″

  Laguardia raised an eyebrow. ″Sir?″

  ″In the past I've approved of your somewhat aggressive tactics, but on this instance I'm going to ask your presence to be limited to the bridge. I'm more interested in getting through this dive with as little added tension as possible. Understood?″

  Laguardia did not react. Good. The sergeant had a tendency to take those aggressive steps when confronted with a situation or a set of orders that she didn't particularly care for, and that was exactly what Markov was trying to fucking avoid. Hell, Doctor Tybalt had completely lost sight of her team's original purpose in favor of recovering the artifact, Mac was probably tearing his hair out trying to figure out why the comm systems were still unresponsive, and Udeh was close to a panic attack from his claustrophobia. Markov had to admit to himself that the situation was far too volatile to proceed as the ship had always done. Laguardia needed to stay put.

  She nodded her head once and said, ″Aye, sir.″

  ″Thank you, Sergeant.″ He turned to the bridge crew, whose attention was already on him. ″Everyone, as you know things have escalated to a fragile tension. We're all stressed, we're all tired, and this dive might be one for the books, but it certainly isn't going by the book. I'm going to be in constant communication with the chief engineer for updates. What I need from my bridge team is this: we're abandoning our original directives to collect data from the chromosphere and instead concentrate on picking up the artifact and getting the hell out of the Sun. I want all data on the bridge screen at all times, I want each station monitoring internal and exterior temperatures, radiation levels, bulkhead stress, the works. Engineering will have enough going on monitoring the internal workings and keeping us flying. Let's get through this and have a few beers when we're done. As you were.″

  The crew turned to their duties as Commander Collins rose from the captain's chair and saluted. She gestured at the chair. ″Please take this damn thing away from me,″ she said, only half-joking. ″I'm not sure I can stand the fun.″

  Markov smiled. ″The fun hasn't even started yet.″ He sat, felt the chair warp to his body and mold around it for comfort. Numbers began lining up on the theater screen, steaming feed data and information, plotting the dive arc and depth ratios. Clarity seeped into Markov's mind and he smiled wider. Thank god. One more dive, and then home at last.

  ″Let's go,″ he said. ″Engage thrusters for dive.″

  ***

  Mac entered the goddamn engineering deck with less than five fucking minutes before they hit the goddamn chromosphere with shit-all for preparation.

  The men were running around, half-cocked and searching for some sort of fucking direction. Well, of course they were; Jesus, if Captain Markov wasn't searching for direction in all of this, no one was. Mac loved the captain dearly and had put this ship through some crazy circumstances for that man, but this had to be the cherry on top of the proverbial fucking ice cream. The fact that Markov had been entertaining this thought at all made Mac shake his head in disgust. Scientists. Fucking fuck everything to get what they want scientists. He decided that he might need more than holoporn after this dryfuck was done.

  At least the men were running about in their Hazardous Environment Suits. There was that much presence of mind. The way the Icarus angled itself for the dive arc, engineering being the lowest deck would be the first deck to absorb radiation if any sort of failure with the ship's shield occurred. Mac wished that he'd had a chance to go over the shield systems personally before now, but it was too late. Markov had given the word. It was go time, baby.

  Clarke was there, saluting. ″Sir!″ he shouted. He wasn't wearing his HES helmet yet. ″Your HES is prepped and powered to go!″

  Mac fist-bumped his lieutenant and turned to the wall bay that Clarke was standing beside. It was a man-shaped alcove, and as Mac stepped backward into it, a series of whirling arms flew out, scanning his jumpsuit for the port holes and connector points. Clarke slipped his HES helmet into place: a black, faceless, opaque protective covering that locked in at the neck of Clarke's HES. Once Clarke's helmet was locked into place, the opaque face lit up with a holodisplay of Clarke's face, showing his facial expressions in real time; it helped to discern who was wearing which suit. Then the shell of the HES emerged from behind Mac and wrapped around him in a hug. He felt like one of those old medieval knights from Earth myth, like he ought to be riding a fucking dragon or something. This was far more mobile. Plating surrounded his arms, legs, torso, shoulders. A collar reached around his neck and connected at the throat. Everything slid into place and locked down. Altogether, twenty seconds. Mac instinctively checked the power gauge on his wrist: fully charged, just like the lieutenant said. He turned to the rack just to the side of the alcove, and grabbed his own helmet. One more fist bump for luck with Clarke before Mac sealed his helmet into place. The world around became muted and dark, the thrumming of the ship's engines more felt in his feet than actually heard. After a moment, the data display on the interior of the helmet came to life, showing multiple windows lining the bottom of his peripheral vision, displaying engine functions, heatshields, the works. The primary vantage view was of the word directly in front of him, in full three-dee to help him navigate. A quick glance at Clarke and the display showed Clarke's vitals as transmitted by the lieutenant's HES systems: the man's heartbeat was little erratic, but his oxygen levels and other vitals were good. Mac looked away and the vitals vanished from the display. Now Mac was in his element: ready to make sure things worked properly and stayed in one piece.

  He touched the minipad on his wrist and connected to the captain's comm.

  ″Mac here, down in engineering. Everyon
e's suited up and ready to do this, sir. Is the word given?″

  The captain responded; his voice came loud and clear in the helmet's earphones. ″The word is given, Chief. Engines are engaged and we are on course for maximum dive. Keep us together and keep your comm on and connected to my frequency. We're going to have to maintain a constant rapport.″

  ″Will do, sir! Frequencies open, systems check in place. I plan on opening some whiskey from my personal stash once we make it through this, Captain. There's a glass waiting for you if you'd like.″

  ″I'm going to take you up on that, I think, Chief. Over for now.″

  ″Aye. Over.″ Mac ignored the background babble as the captain gave orders to the bridge crew and they responded. Mac had his own men to worry over.

  ***

  Each step towards the mess hall was painful and carefully taken. Udeh felt his forehead damp, his whole body shaking, his breath coming in tight, restricted whistles. He was suffocating; no, no, that wasn't right. He wasn't suffocating. He was having a panic attack.

  The moment he'd admitted his affliction to Captain Markov on the bridge, he'd been simultaneously relieved and stricken worse. He remembered his days of fighting this, telling himself that the walls weren't closing in, that he could breathe free and easy and that he wasn't choking. As he walked, Udeh raised his arms above his head, then stretched them out to the side as far as they could go. Touching neither the ceiling nor the walls helped a little. There, you see, he told himself. You only think it's small. It's wide and tall and there's more than enough room for you to move. More than enough.

  He touched the medication in his left pocket. It was clordiazepoxide. It didn't cure the phobia, but it took the edge away from the panic. The anxiety. But there were a lot of side effects. Drowsiness, slurred speech, a lack of spatial awareness. As he thought about it, he realized that he probably should have gone to sickbay, but fuck it. Doctor Gaines would have him in a medbed covered by a scanning device, trapping him down. Udeh had gone through far too many instances of that in his time, waking up to a covering over his body after passing out only to begin the frantic panic attack process all over again in a hospital. The mess hall was just down the corridor anyhow. He raised his arms again, taking slow, deep breaths. Taking the lift from the bridge down to the crew deck had been the worst of it, stepping out of that goddamn vertical coffin a sweeter relief than any he'd felt in a long time.

  A small solar wave brushed against the hull; the ship rocked gently, smoothly, inertial dampeners and artificial gravity working to keep everything upright. He thought soothing thoughts, lavender scents and bubble baths, a luxury that he used frequently on the Prometheus. He didn't care whether or not it was considered masculine to use lavender scents, he did and he fucking enjoyed them. Another wave. Udeh imagined that this one had gone across the starboard bow, lilting outward like the fingers of Helios. In a very short time the waves would be breakers, flurries of attacks from the Sun that would pummel the hull and the heat shields. Udeh smiled as he remembered the number of dives he'd seen from the theater screen of the Icarus bridge, and wished he could be seeing this one. It was one for the record books. Thank god Gordon was looking more like his old self. He'd taken the advice to rest and get better, and now Udeh was sucking it up and doing the same thing.

  He entered the mess hall and exhaled. The high ceiling and wide space threw his phobia to the side momentarily, and he relaxed. His shoulders hurt; they always had when he would have attacks from scrunching them up, trying to pull his body as close to itself as possible, to make more room for him to navigate with. Udeh took a few laps around the mess hall, getting a feel for it, the space, the expansion, trying to see if he could convince himself that there was nothing wrong. Matter over mind. It's nice and wide, he told himself, nothing closing in, nothing to be trapped by, just me and the wide open space in here. He stretched, did a few standard calisthenics. In a way, he was glad that he wasn't on board the Prometheus, because he'd have gone to his quarters, which would have been worse. Closed in, caved space. The last thing he needed.

  There was tightness as the boundaries of his eyesight were still restricting, pulled inward uncontrollably. A shaky, nervous tickle went through his spine and Udeh had to admit that he needed to take his medication. He'd fought it for long enough. He removed the medication from his pocket, dryswallowed two, and then sat down at one of the tables. This shit was going to knock him out; it always had, and after not taking it for so long, it would probably kick in swift this time around. And hard. It was needed. He crossed his arms on the table surface and laid his head down between them.

  Once upon a time, he'd had the experience of going out onto the Pacific Ocean in a sailboat. It had been a gorgeous experience, but what he'd carried with him from that was the sensation of unsteadiness, the bobbing up and down of the waves, of the boat on the sea, and each solar dive he had been on the experience came back in pleasant recollection. The dive began, the outside world began swimming over the Icarus, and Captain Udeh smiled to himself as he began to drift off into the warm clutches of darkness. He planned to dream of wide open fields, stretches of grasslands as far as the eye could see, of desert plains, of the ocean. He wanted to dream of the ocean.

  He fell asleep with ease.

  ***

  Straub and Kerrick stood outside the entrance to the cargo bay. The ship rocked slightly despite the internal gravity systems working with full stabilizers; given the magnetic waves they were already crossing through they would be lucky if the ship wasn't bucking like a bronco by the time they hit max safe dive. Kerrick had been on a dive once, and she'd seen crewmembers running along the decks while leaning at an almost 90 degree angle, which was extreme, but still. Internal gravity would keep them on the floor; the buffeting waves of thermal radiation would rock the ship like a schooner.

  The two scientists were waiting for Doctor Tybalt outside the cargo bay. Straub had his arms crossed over his chest – he'd never looked so unapproachable. Kerrick sighed. She was worried, and she didn't like that she was. She was better than this clingy whiney girliness that was overtaking her. Jealousy? Resentment? Fah. It was pathetic. And yet it was all she could do. The name, Sarah, it was really driving her mad. And yet she felt as though she couldn't talk about it. Shouldn't. After all, what was she going to do? Demand he list off every Sarah he knew or had ever known based on the slip of a tongue? Especially now, when they had much bigger fish to fry?

  No pun intended. Christ, she was flighty. What the hell?

  ″Where do you think she is?″ Straub asked. He looked up and down the length of the deck.

  ″I don't know,″ Kerrick said. She realized that she was crossing her arms as well. She uncrossed them and put them at her sides. Then she crossed them again. She didn't know which way to have them. Goddammit.

  Straub raised an eyebrow. ″Are you okay?″

  She sighed again. He sounded annoyed. ″I'm fine.″

  ″Are you sure?″ Now he sounded doubly annoyed.

  She was fighting the temptation to ask, to get it off her chest, to wait, no, to think about it another time, when suddenly she blurted out, ″Who's Sarah?″

  Straub went slack jawed. He looked like she'd punched him in the belly, and she instantly wanted to take it back. Was he pale? It was hard to tell with his dark skin, but oh god, he'd paled. This was worse than she thought. Not just an old flame, this Sarah, an old flame with lots of baggage and probably a very, very long story attached about how she'd probably broken his heart by cheating on him with his best friend or something. ″We don't have to talk about it,″ she said, but she did want to talk, she wanted to talk about any single little part of it that she could, and now, while they were alone and before Doctor Tybalt arrived. Kerrick had started to ask Tybalt for her advice back in the mess hall, but Kerrick wondered if Tybalt would have anything useful on the subject. Catherine Tybalt seemed like the kind of woman who knew less about men and more about her job. That, and, well, she was twenty
-two. Terrifyingly young. What the hell would Tybalt say to Kerrick about men that Kerrick hadn't already experienced in life?

  Straub was still staring at her, mouth agape.

  ″I'm sorry,″ she said, and tried to turn away, but couldn't. He was staring and she was embarrassed. ″What?″

  ″Well,″ he finally said, ″I just. I'm shocked. Not that you brought it up, but just that you did it now of all times.″

  ″Look, I said we don't have to talk about it.″

  ″It's not that I don't want to, I'm sorry, it was a slip of the tongue, you know, an in-the-moment thing. It was stupid, I – ″

  She whirled on him. She just wanted to know. ″Who is she? Was she? Why is she on your mind?″

  He put his hands out, cautiously, and said, ″Sydney. We're under a lot of stress right now. I don't know if you'd noticed on the bridge, but we're all feeling this in a lot of different ways.″

  She thought back to the bridge. Aside from Captain Markov being a stubborn old ass and that creepy butch Sergeant What's-Her-Cunt looking at them all like they were subservient genomes, nothing had seemed out of place. The importance was on the artifact. They'd come here to do a job and now the significance of the find had become mission priority one. Doctor Tybalt had said so herself. What she may have lacked in life experienced she certainly more than made up for in brains, something that Kerrick appreciated about her superior. The doctor was brilliant; there was no doubt about that. But Straub was saying everyone was under stress. Probably from the mission. Wait –