by Mac Rogers
From that point on we worked in silence.
I dropped you off six blocks away from your place. It went without saying.
* * *
OF COURSE, bad days often love to get worse. I know the feeling of a doomed mission when I encounter it. A doomed mission is rarely the result of one shitty turn of fortune. It’s a shitty chain of shitty dominoes.
As I approached my place, I saw an unfamiliar car parked out front.
Wait. No. Not unfamiliar. I’ve seen it in the Quill Marine parking lot. Jesus, have they already—?
But they wouldn’t have sent just one car.
I pulled into my driveway … and Grant got out. Fucking. Grant.
There was no need for niceties. If he was here, I could already intuit why. I rolled down my window. “What the fuck do you want, Grant?”
“I wonder if I could speak to you inside,” he said in his prim, eminently hateable way.
“Speak to me about what?” The foregone conclusions were thick in my throat.
“I think you’d prefer it if I said the rest inside.”
“No, you can tell me right here, Grant. Actually what you can do is drive straight to base and submit yourself for disciplinary—”
He leaned in toward the open window—wisely not far enough for me to trap his head if I rolled it up. “I know you and Matt Salem are currently in contravention of both Quill Marine’s and Sierra’s policies regarding personnel fraternization.”
There it was. And there Grant was. A little piece of shit who couldn’t even bring himself to say the word “fucking.”
“Perhaps now you’d like to speak inside?” he invited.
I rolled up my window, turned off my car, and got out.
Are we really doing this? The voice in my head asked.
Yes, the soldier replied.
* * *
WE SPOKE in the kitchen. The same kitchen where you’d fucked me on the counter what seemed like decades ago. I leaned against that counter, hoping it might lend me strength.
“Talk,” I said.
“Do you want to offer me a glass of water? I’m thirsty,” Grant swallowed hard for show. “I’ve been waiting all day—”
“You’ve got two hands; there’s the sink.” I imagined slamming his head into the stainless steel, running the garbage disposal on his tongue, filling the basin around his face with boiling hot water.
“You shouldn’t be treating me like this. I could ruin you.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want?”
“You haven’t turned me in yet, what do you want?”
“So you admit it.” He folded his arms in front of his chest. “That you and Matt Salem are in contravention—”
“I don’t remember admitting shit.”
“I was right about Lansing and Michaels. I was right and you wouldn’t give me five minutes.” He punctuated his last two words by tapping a finger onto the kitchen table he stood next to. I could have snapped that finger like a green bean. “So I started thinking: why does it make her so angry? What I was doing was right. I learned the regulations in detail, I follow them, and I expect my colleagues to do so as well. You should’ve been thanking me. You should’ve been praising me. Instead you were angry. Why would that be?”
“You ever heard of the concept of ‘no one likes a snitch,’ Grant?”
His face peeled into a venomous snarl. “I’ve heard that my whole life. It makes no sense! Why do we have regulations at all if it’s bad to snitch? Hmm? Those two things don’t make sense in the same world!” He was starting to get shrill. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take.
“Okay, Grant, you need to—”
“You should’ve said, ‘Thank you for snitching, Grant. I should’ve listened to you!’ Instead you snapped at me like I did something wrong, and I did nothing wrong! I double-checked, and I did nothing wrong!”
“You ‘double-checked’?”
“So I thought: there’s a reason. There’s always a reason. So I’m going to find out what. And I bet you’re thinking, ‘Nobody followed me. I could see if someone followed me.’ Right? Aren’t you thinking that?” I was thinking that. “Except we work in the same place. And we park in the same parking lot. And it only takes a minute to place a magnetized tracker under a car. And it only takes a night to follow that tracker to a hotel. And it only takes an hour to record two people entering the same hotel room—taking care, of course, to clearly capture their faces.” He stood there, breathing heavily. I was breathing slowly, evenly. “If you’re thinking of hurting me, taking my phone, you should think about what arrangements I might’ve made if something happens to me.”
I’ve been thinking of hurting you this whole time, I wanted to say, but I figured as much.
“Doesn’t following regulations mean you should’ve turned me in already?”
His mouth tightened. “Nobody likes a snitch,” he hissed. “Following regulations means everyone hates you. Following regulations means you never get anywhere because all the people who cut corners are fun and cool so they’re the ones who move up. Hard work doesn’t matter. Regulations don’t matter. Only ‘fun and cool’ matters. I wish someone had told me that. I could’ve been that instead.”
“Yeah, that’s easy to picture,” I snarled.
“You shouldn’t talk to me like that!” he roared. “Your life is in my hands! His life is in my hands! Pretty boy Matt, I could send him to prison and then a Zone. That’s forever!”
For a moment, I was right back there with Feetbreath, hearing his petulant, outraged whines to his wife. Not killing him was like deadlifting three hundred pounds. I was practically buckling under the effort. I wasn’t normally a violent person, I remembered thinking—but that Dak died a while ago.
“What do you want?” I repeated.
“Deputy. Security. Chief.”
His answer was so unexpected, so staccato, that it forced a laugh out of me.
“But that’s Patty.”
“WELL, NOW IT’S NOT!” He punched his fist into my table. It jumped slightly. “Now it’s not Patty! ‘Oh, Patty’s so fun and cool’—well, now you’re gonna find some pretext to demote her and put me in as deputy so when they move you up then I run security and it will finally, finally be run right!”
“Don’t punch my table, Grant.” I kept my calm but I spoke through gritted teeth.
“I’m—sorry—” He was rubbing his fist, red faced.
“I can’t do what you’re asking.”
“You have to.”
“Patty’s earned her position. She’s worked hard for—”
“Right,” he scoffed. “By being fun to joke with at lunch. Find something she’s doing wrong and replace her with me. Or you and Salem go to separate prisons, and then separate re-deployments, most likely at chem-zones, until your teeth and your fingernails fall out. Whichever one of those you prefer.”
We stared at each other for a moment. Then he approached me. I readied myself for violence … but he reached over and started opening cabinets.
“Now,” he was saying, seething, “where do you keep your—ah!”
He pulled out a glass. Then he turned on the sink and filled the glass with water. All the while, he kept his eyes on me, his thin lips curled in a smug sneer.
“Think you can snap at me like I’m a child,” he hissed. “I’m not a child now, am I?”
He brought the glass to his lips and drank its contents slowly, still looking at me. When he was finished, he held the glass out. “If I don’t hear from you by Friday, I go to Harrison.”
I took the glass from him and he showed himself out.
* * *
I PACED for a few minutes. I heard his car driving away and seriously considered throwing the glass I was still holding—against the wall, against the floor, against my face, it didn’t matter, I just wanted it broken—but in a supreme test of will, I placed it in the sink and began walking in and out of every room of my house.
I thought of my options.
I thought of our options.
I thought of Patty and losing her.
I thought of Grant and trying to work alongside him.
I thought of you and me, attempting some sort of prohibition, never making eye contact again, as forcibly separated as Shel and Vonn in our own private prisons.
I thought of Moss, dying quietly and persistently, the slowest kamikaze suicide dive in Earth’s history.
I thought of the reporter from 9Source and her advice. Her request.
I thought of jail cells and tortures and dead ends and darkness. Of campfire stories and tarps and funerals. Of broken collarbones and gunshots and the entire Mad-Libbed tragedy unspooling before us.
I thought of being buried alive with you. A mass grave for two.
And I thought of a fish being gutted on a pier as its babies squirmed and leapt out of her. Death leading to life. To freedom if you could squirm away fast enough.
My face felt flushed and wet and I might have been crying.
Packages. Containment. Smuggling.
“Is there any way you can bring us the, uh, the specimen? The alien?” the reporter had asked.
Holy shit.
Yes, there is.
I thought. I thought.
Are we really doing this?
PART FOUR
GESTATION
17
YOU MIGHT think flying domestic seems like some sort of step backward after spending years guarding an alien spacecraft, but you’d be wrong. The comfort, the room, the beverages, the upholstery, the very existence of toilets? It all felt positively futuristic compared to the cramped and cragged walnut I knew had crossed cold black space to get here.
I’m sitting inside an airplane, leaving the lab, the state, the job, making my way to a haunted house.
This was three days after my car wash confrontation with Monica, my kitchen conversation with Grant, my continuing confrontation with the eminent shittiness of everything.
Two days ago, I’d tied up what I could.
* * *
ONE OF the reasons I never really believed in a Hell is that even the hardest things, with some repetition, can become routine. Granted, eternity’s a long time and too much repetition can drive you crazy, but it’s all a cycle—and is it really punishment if you at least have regular intervals of not giving a shit? Once Sisyphus knows that rock’s gonna roll, it’s really gotta be more tedious than tormenting. His mind probably gets to wander—shit, he might even get to enjoy it sometimes and then where’s your punishment? I had friends on bomb squads who would tell me, after long enough, the only bombs they remembered were the bad ones … which meant you could even diffuse bombs and forget about it afterward. Knowing what you’re in for can be one hell of a calmative.
So can, if I’m being totally honest, a light sprinkling of suicidal mania.
We had just been asked to move the Harp out again, in light of our new directive, so that the Harp Team could study it under full light without having to make repeated trips into Object E. I felt no dread this time. In fact, it felt like a lucky break—it finally gave me the excuse to talk to Harrison afterward and set things in motion.
* * *
PATTY, ON the other hand, was less than thrilled. Mostly she was pissy she wouldn’t actively be involved with moving the Harp. She’d had her own suit made up by now and was stuck wearing it in Bird’s Eye away from the action. She still had her concerns about my general aptitude, too, I’m sure—although she’d never admit to that playing a role in her belligerence—but I insisted: this was to be myself and Salem one more time. It would be our third time moving the Harp together, once with incident and once without, and we needed to break the tie. We also knew we worked well as a team, and it was a good idea to eliminate as many variables as we could before the Harp Team’s refocused efforts began in full.
These were all true and valid points, but really I just had something to tell you when the moment was right.
The process went painlessly. We suited up and went through all the motions, edging into the ship carefully to protect the suits, pulling the pins at the base inside the engine room, bracing the Harp even though we knew it weighed about as much as a cardboard cutout. Once it was unpinned, we got on either side and lifted it together. It felt as ridiculous as ever, two people carrying something this weirdly light, but the Harp had sprung into action each time it had been carried a little so we knew what was coming. Especially now that we knew we could wear our insulated gloves, there was fear and focus, but a distinctly narrower kind of both.
The two of us working together. It’s going to be a long week away from him.
We’d gotten a few steps from the engine room when the Harp started to spin up. The lights were dimming as we eased our way out of the ship, the Tent, but I could still make out the whole “new and improved” Hangar Eleven. All of the Bazaar had been reconfigured to prioritize study and replication of the Harp for field deployment. All that was missing was the final, humming puzzle piece currently trying to pull its ass out of our grips.
“We’re gonna be moving in the dark soon,” I reported.
You were wearing a helmet but I could still make out the look in your eye: “We’re good at moving in the dark,” the look said.
An entire week. How am I going to—
And then a new internal voice I didn’t quite recognize: You should tell him soon. Now.
The Harp grew louder.
“Okay, assholes,” Patty’s voice came crackling over the comm. “I’m probably seconds from losing you. How do you feel?”
I felt good, no tiredness, no depression. The suits worked. The procedure felt comfortable. I reported as much to Patty, and you did the same.
All the while, the Harp was getting louder.
“See you on the other si—” Patty began. Then all the power went out.
We were back in darkest space, in deepest ocean, alone together.
We whispered through our paces out of Object E, out of the Tent, and into the Hangar proper, viscerally aware of the fragility of that blissful peace around us. When we reached the designated area:
“Aaand … down.” Like I was trying not to wake a sleeping infant.
“Down,” you confirmed, squatting along with me.
Once it was placed, while the world was still ours, I walked straight to you and leaned my helmet against yours. If I could have I would have nuzzled straight into your suit.
“I’ll be gone for a week,” I said. Yours eyes must have widened in the pitch blackness. “Just trust me. Trust me. And wait for me.”
“What are you—”
“Don’t talk. Just wait for me. Trust me and wait.”
It killed me not to tell you everything. But you had lie detectors to pass while I’d be away.
The Harp began to quiet, whirring down. I hurried back to the other side of the Harp as the lights blinked themselves back on. You kept staring at me. I knew how badly you wanted to ask me for more information, for anything—but you were also like me: bred for the rituals of need-to-know.
You should say it. Say it to him, Dak. Say it while you
“Guys? Guys?” Patty’s voice over the comm.
“Still here,” you reported, eyes locked on mine. “All good.”
“All good,” I repeated. “I think we’ve got this shit down.”
“Yeah, yeah, kid. Don’t get cocky,” Patty radioed back. “I want that thing silent for ten full minutes before you take off so much as a shoe.”
“Understood. We’ve got it on the mark, so you can bring down the cube now. And, uh, can we chat in Bird’s Eye in a couple minutes?” You and I were still staring at each other. All the lights were back on now so I could see your face, your look of restrained curiosity.
Patty wasn’t expecting my request. Her tone brightened with curiosity. “Lowering now. Am I in trouble?”
“Nah,” I said. “I am.” You gave the tiniest of tilts, an im
mensely subtle version of a dog hearing a strange noise and cocking its head.
The sound of the winch lowering the familiar transparent cube over the Harp filled the Hangar as the very last of the Harp’s whir died away, making me think momentarily of those red plastic whistles I had as a kid.
Playtime was drawing to an end, I thought, as I finally broke eye contact.
* * *
SHE WAS waiting for me, as requested, up in Bird’s Eye.
“Hey,” I greeted, stepping off the elevator.
“Everything okay?” She was harried, practically talking over me.
“Yeah, yeah, suit works like a charm.” I lowered myself into a seat. She came over immediately and stood in front of me.
“No, I mean, you said—”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”
“Talk to me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
I took a deep, long breath, then said it all with as little drama as I could muster. “You’re right. You’ve been right. I’m fried. I’ve pushed way too hard the last couple weeks. Particularly with this Harp shit. I’m going to ask Harrison for time.”
She blinked, like she’d just been spritzed with something. Her ponytail flinched with her. Then she yelled.
“THANK BABY CHRIST. Jesus, this is why you think you’re in trouble with me?” She laughed. “I’ve been praying to hear this!”
“Okay, but hold off: I mean I’m gonna ask him right after I walk out of this room,” I said. “Like starting tomorrow.”
“Even better! Come on!”
“Which, which—listen—puts you in the hot seat for establishing security protocols for the new Hangar Eleven. It’s a whole new layout. That means new rotations, new Guardshift, new everything.”
“Fine, whatever.” She shrugged.
“It’s gonna be nonstop trial and error figuring out where everybody goes. Like, just off the top of my head, we’re gonna want a rack of emergency Lloyd Suits out on the floor, which means you can expect major whining from Harp Team people whose workstations you have to move. Plus, the Moss and Object E Teams are already walking around, pissed off. You’re gonna be baby-wiping asses and doing nineteen-hour days.” None of this was inaccurate.