by R. Lee Smith
“We’re going to have all those problems no matter where we are.”
“Yes, eventually. But here at the ship, we can postpone them. Amber, if we don’t give those people some kind of familiar routine, something safe to cling to, we’re going to lose them. People this lost, this desperate…don’t need a lot of help to die.”
“Okay,” interrupted Scott as Amber gazed out at the sea of survivors, “I think these are all valid points, but you’ve brought us right back to the issue of who’s in charge. You can’t develop a routine without someone giving orders.”
Amber shook her head and looked back at Jonah. “I admit it’s been a while since my last babysitting gig, but I’m pretty sure that making sure the babies don’t catch fire is higher up on the priority list than making sure they don’t have nightmares. Jonah, staying here is a bad idea!”
“I know it looks bad, but each compartment of the ship is designed to seal itself specifically so that fires don’t spread.”
“Yeah, and the ship is designed to turn itself around and go back to Earth if it gets hit by an asteroid. And who knows what else has been damaged? Things can be leaking and melting and overheating as we speak! We can’t afford blind faith, Jonah! We can only trust what we can see and I can see the smoke!”
“Can you see the people?” he asked quietly. “Can you see their faces? Can you see yourself marching them away when the wind is blowing this hard and this cold and no one knows what night will bring? And what about the people we can’t see? What about the people who may still be trapped behind those sealed doors, just praying that someone up here at least tries to find them? Amber—” He took her hand between both of his; she looked down at her small wrist being swallowed by his giant grip and thought of him patting Nicci as he guided her to the ground. He was awfully good at the comforting stuff. “Amber, if we don’t give these people some time to come to grips with what has happened to them, some of them never will. You may be thinking of them as two thousand survivors and I know Crewman Scott sees them as two thousand colonists, but they are neither. Right now, as of this moment, they are two thousand victims and they need to be taken care of. Please.”
Scott paced a few meters away and came back, looking profoundly annoyed with both of them.
“I want to take them in out of the wind for just two or three weeks. Let them dig for that beacon and fix a few broken doors. God willing, let them save a life, just one, to remind them that life is precious and hope can be rewarded. Put them back in control and then talk to them about survival. What can it hurt to give them just two or three weeks to learn how to cope? I want your support on this,” said Jonah. “Please.”
Amber looked at the ship. She tried not to see the smoke. She tried to look through the emergency doors at the hold and imagine two thousand people sleeping there tonight. She threw in a snowstorm to help weigh down the vision and a couple generic howling-monster sounds. She pictured Jonah with his jacket off the next day, arranging teams to work in shifts clearing the halls, repairing machinery, sorting supplies, and later, building gardens and houses and latrines. She saw him taking charge and it was an easy thing to see. She saw the ship turning into a colony after all, and maybe it would only be the shell of one at first, but as she pulled back the camera of her mind, she could see the ship in a better time, in the summer maybe, with crop-fields and canals in orbit around it, a thriving hub of life and hope and—
—or it could all blow up in an hour, she thought, in a voice so clear it might as well be someone speaking directly in her ear. And she saw that pretty damned clearly too: the wind, just like it was now, whipping the giant fireball of its belching destruction into an orange tornado for maybe two or three seconds before blowing it all away. Nothing would be left but the crater where they landed, the twisted skeleton of the hull, and a Rorschach scorch-mark burned into the stone, maybe in the shape of a butterfly.
“I can’t stay here,” Amber heard herself say.
Nicci raised her head and looked at her.
“Not tonight,” she amended. “I think…I think maybe Scott’s got a point about the perimeter thing. Maybe it would help these people start coping faster if we took some of the mystery out of where we are.”
Scott looked surprised for a second and then smiled.
“So here’s what I think. I think we should make a camp…” She looked around and pointed. “On that ridge. Call it a lookout post. We’ll organize a team and take whatever supplies we need to set up, you know, some latrines and supply tents. If nothing else, it’ll give people something to do who don’t know how to fix doors or program emergency beacons. And who knows? We might look down from that ridge and see…I don’t know, a lake or whatever they have for cows or someplace easier to live than this.”
Jonah shook his head, not in denial, but in mute helplessness. He looked out at the survivors and then down at her. “Can you give me until morning to work with them? Please. We can take a head-count, get some kind of inventory for our supplies…If nothing else, give me that time to see if anyone is trapped in there.”
That wasn’t unreasonable, she thought, and said instead, unexpectedly, “No. I’m sorry, but if anyone is trapped in there, they’re already dead. The ship is on fire. It is not a safe place. We have got to get away from it tonight.”
His gaze was troubled; his hands, warm. “They won’t be moved tonight.”
“Then move as many as you can. We…” can’t save everybody, trembled unspoken on her lips. She swallowed them, wondering where in the hell this was all coming from. She didn’t feel panicked, but maybe panicking was like being crazy or having a fever, where you couldn’t tell just by feeling at yourself. “We can’t stay,” she finished.
Jonah looked at the people again, watching them the way another man might watch the tides. His eyes went back and forth, tracking motion no one else saw.
“I think a lookout post is a great idea,” Scott announced. “I’ll start putting a team together.”
“I can’t leave them,” said Jonah quietly.
“I said I’d do it,” said Scott, frowning again. “I want to be in charge. Of the lookout team. You can be in charge of these people.”
“I wish you’d come with us,” Amber said. The words felt heavy, too much like a confession.
“Yeah, well…I wish you’d stay.” Jonah uttered an oddly thin laugh for such a big man. “When the lights go out, things are going to get a lot worse. I was really starting to hope you’d stick around because I’m going to need someone to roll around with if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.” He rubbed at his head, shook it, rubbed some more. “That was offensive. I’m sorry. I’m just…”
Scared. And fear does weird things to people.
“Jesus, man!” Scott was staring. “I can’t believe you just said that!”
Amber gave Jonah a lopsided smile and squeezed his slack hand. “I’ll help you sleep plenty at the lookout post, Lieutenant Lamarc. Just come with us.”
Scott gaped at both of them now.
“Another time, Miss Bierce.” Jonah pulled in a breath and let it out as a military man. “I can think of a few men who you might want along. I’ll talk to them.”
“I’ll come back,” said Amber. “As soon as the smoke stops, I swear.”
He nodded, started to walk away, and then stopped. When he came back, she thought for one dizzying, unreal moment that he meant to kiss her and she’d already made up her mind to allow it (total stranger old enough to be my father for god’s sake and what he’d want in a chubby little white girl like me i don’t know he probably doesn’t either but fear now fear does weird things oh yeah play it again sam fear can really fuck you up), but instead, he put out his hand.
They shook.
“Take care of things,” said Amber.
“I will,” he replied. “Come back safe.”
“I will.”
They walked away then, and as things turned out, those were the last words they said to one another an
d they both lied.
6
Crewman Scott put himself in command. This initially made for some tense moments when he was trying to recruit for what he was calling ‘reconnaissance and establishment of a forward operations base,’ particularly from the Fleetmen, who certainly seemed open to doing something but were visibly hostile to the idea of taking orders from a Manifestor in a make-believe uniform. No punches were thrown, but Scott quickly moved his efforts to the cluster of sobbing, shock-eyed civilians.
Amber left him to it without much hope and distracted her jangling nerves as much as she was able by venturing into whatever exposed areas of the ship she could reach, picking through the wreckage for anything they could use. Since the supplies had been evenly distributed among each mod throughout the ship, there was plenty to find, even if it was all mashed together in the aftermath of the crash. Unfortunately, the crates were all marked with such baffling examples of Fleet-speak that she had to bust them open to find out what the hell was inside. This was a lot of work with little reward; none of the really useful things were portable and most of the small stuff was ridiculous. Thumbtacks. Baby bottles. Yarmulkes. Replacement sponge-heads for the oscillating arm on a model Dynamo-3Z cleanerbot. Swimming goggles, for Christ’s sake, perfect for lounging around the colony pool on Plymouth.
The frustrating search ultimately turned up a stash of duffel bags (each one proudly screaming out the Manifest Destiny logo), which she started stuffing with the one useful item she had dug out of the wreckage: some Fleet-issue ration bars packed like bricks in a khaki-colored crate where the available flavors were listed as Choc, Van and Other. These were Other. Nowhere on the individual bars did it indicate what Other was, but she guessed as long as it wasn’t worm, booger or bubblegum, she was fine.
“Ma’am?”
She looked up without stopping, taking stock of the four Fleetmen coming toward her—three boys and an older man—and making up her mind right then that if they pulled some bullshit military rule out of their asses to stop her from taking this stuff, she’d kick it right back up there.
But, “Lieutenant Lamarc said you were looking for a few good men,” said one of them, putting out his hand. “Eric Lassiter. Engineer Second Class.”
“Engineer?” she said uncertainly. “Did Jonah, um, Lieutenant Lamarc tell you what I wanted was to get away from the ship?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re here to help.”
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather stay here with, you know, the other engineers?”
He was already shaking his head. “Enlisted engineer,” he said, putting the stress on the first word. “That’s construction. Well, that’s the grunt work for the construction units, but I’m pretty sure I can help you throw together your forward operations outpost or whatever that idiot out there wants. This is Crandall.”
“Brian,” said the next guy, also shaking her hand. “Electronics tech. And before you ask, I’ve already given this tin bitch my professional attention and concluded that she’s fucked. So I figured I could at least carry shit around.”
“Same,” said the third man. “Gunnarson, Dagwood D. Call me Dag.” He nodded at the duffel bag she was filling. “I was the main supply clerk in Corporate Mod G, so I know where everything was. I know it all got tossed around pretty good, but if nothing else, I can read the codes on the labels.” He gave the haphazardly-opened crates around her a meaningful glance. “Maybe focus on finding stuff we really need, like tents.”
“And medical supplies,” said the last of them. He was the older one, although it was tough to say just how much older. He was Asian and his face was creased but ageless. He had no accent, unless it was a trace of some southern state, but he bent his head to her instead of taking the hand she extended. “Yao. Lucas, I should say, circumstances being what they are, but I prefer Mr. Yao.”
“He’s a doctor,” Eric supplied, pointing at the little frills sewn onto Mr. Yao’s sleeve which apparently proved it.
“I am not a doctor of medicine.” The older man did not look around. “And I’d just as soon be Mr. Yao from now on. My service contract appears to have expired.”
There was a short, ugly silence while the five of them stood there, avoiding one another’s eyes.
“I’m Amber,” she said belatedly, just to get them talking again.
It worked.
“So you are the right girl,” said Eric, glancing once at Mr. Yao, who wandered off, righting crates and checking labels as he went. “Great. Lamarc said you were heading out with that other guy. Thought you might like a hand.”
“If we can ever get going. How’s he doing out there? Scott, I mean.”
“He’s bringing ‘em around, shockingly enough.” Dag shrugged, rolling his eyes as he did it. “He’s got all the enthusiasm of a bulldog with none of the brains—and those are some dumb dogs, lady—but give the man his credit, he can talk a great line.”
“Of bullshit,” snorted Crandall, checking the contents of the packed duffels. “Lady, you need to disperse some of this stuff. No normal person’s gonna be able to carry a hundred pounds of MREs.”
And after that, it was all unpacking and re-packing and shouting questions or advice at each other across the dark, cluttered bay. It kept Amber’s mind nicely occupied until they were done and emerged into the cold, smoky light to find that Scott was still talking, although he was at least winding down.
Amber sat down on a bundle of tents to watch as he marched himself importantly among the masses, trying to win them over with talk of setbacks and the necessity of moving forward in the footsteps of their pioneer forefathers, who had also suffered unspeakable tragedy in the fulfillment of their goals, also undertaken in the name of Manifest Destiny. And because it was manifest, because it was true, because it was a goal set in their hearts by that higher power that all men, regardless of creed, aspired to, it was still a goal worth seeking.
“At any cost!” Scott thundered in conclusion, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand. “But never think that makes us unmindful of the cost. The cost will be counted, just as we remember and honor those who perished in the crossing of the ocean, who were buried alongside the ruts carved by covered wagons, and whose wooden markers were paved under by the rising streets of San Francisco! The people we have lost today are our fallen heroes, but we are the heroes who go on!”
To Amber’s mild astonishment, that actually worked. Not on everyone, of course, but he got some applause for that flowery heap of horseshit even while Scott was still pumping it out.
“What’d I tell you?” said Eric beside her, shaking his head. “I guess it’s true what my grandma says. God gives even the biggest fool one real talent.”
“What’s yours?” asked Amber, watching people line up to shake Scott’s hand.
“Hoops.”
“You wish, whitebread,” said Dag, who was just as white as a man named Dag Gunnarson ought to be.
Scott shook hands, patted shoulders, began to put people in a group.
“I’m ambidextrous,” Crandall announced suddenly.
“Oh yeah?”
“Selectively. Eating, smoking and jerking off.” He started to mime, re-discovered Amber in their midst and stopped, looking flustered.
“I ain’t blushing,” she said dryly and wasn’t. She’d heard worse—seen worse—in the stairwell back home.
Scott finally headed their way, with Nicci walking close at his side although she was quick to do her huddling next to Amber once she got there.
“We’re ready,” he said, giving the Fleetmen a stiff, soldierly sort of nod. “I haven’t done an official head-count, but there must be a couple hundred of them.”
“Yeah…” said Eric, eyeing the crowd. He shook his head. “They might all be willing to come live in the tents once they’re up, but I bet we don’t even get half that when it comes to carrying this stuff up that hill tonight.”
“So let’s hurry and get them set up,” said Amber, slinging her duffel over o
ne arm and snatching up a bundled tent in the other.
“Just relax for a bit, Miss Bierce,” said Scott, also frowning back at the crowd now. “Let me talk to them some more and—”
“Do what you got to do, Everly,” said Amber, walking. “You can meet me there.”
She didn’t mean it any way but exactly what she’d said—do all the talking he wanted, get more people on board, meet her on the ridge—but he took it for a challenge and an ugly one at that. She heard him clapping his hands and shouting people into order and within a few minutes he was shouldering his way roughly past her to take the lead.
She thought about saying something (ah hey i didn’t mean it like that be cool you’re still the commanding space scout here so grow the fuck up and quit shoving), but in the end it was enough that they were moving. Amber reached out to catch Nicci’s hand and give it a reassuring little squeeze. They were moving and as bad as things were, that made her feel just a little bit better.
* * *
Much later, in the waning light of the alien, cloud-covered sunset, Amber finally took that head count. She couldn’t do anything else at the moment, not after that hike, except sit on the ground with her aching, rubbery legs splayed out before her, trying to gasp her lungs into working again.
She’d been the last to come into camp, except that wasn’t right, was it? ‘Coming in last’ implied there had been a line and she’d been at the end of it. Well, there had been a line, and she’d come in about three and a half hours after it, breathing so hard she could barely see and dragging her duffel by its strap. Nicci had been carrying the tent by that time, and Nicci was setting it up with the help of Mr. Yao and thank God for that, because Amber had spent the last hour of the hike thinking she was going to faint and now that she was here, if she had to stand up and move again, she damn well knew she would.
So she counted people, just in case no one had done that yet, trying to fool herself into thinking that was contributing in some way. Altogether, herself and Nicci included, there were forty-eight of them, a sad fraction of the hundreds Scott thought he’d won over with his inspiring speeches (although, to give him his due, it had seemed like a lot more than that when they were passing her, one by one, all the fucking way across the burned scar of the ship’s final landing). Of that number, only eleven were women. There were no atheists in foxholes, it was said, and she guessed when it came to lugging crates uphill in the freezing wind on an alien planet, there were no feminists either. Maybe there’d be more tomorrow. Maybe spending the night in a burning ship would make more people feel better about coming out to the ridge.