by Lazlo Ferran
***
An eye opened. It was mine. The blurry horizon crystallised into the edge of the pillow as I realised where I was: Io. Being a commander has its perks, one being your own private cabin, but it was small and cramped. I closed my eye, reached up for the ledge of the sill above me and hauled myself out of bed. Feeling for the sanicube-handle opposite the bed, I released the cube from its folded position against the wall, selected ‘L’ and stepped in but then had to open my eyes to use it without spilling. A tube dispensed a sterilising solution onto my hands and the stream of water became hot air to dry them. Yawning enough for tears to clear my eyes, I took one step over to the n-gen, on the white work surface above the bed. I selected ‘Fried,’ then ‘Coffee, black’ and clicked on, the com centre. I had disabled the voice but I could see the display said, “2101, Feb 4. 2 – 06.30 I. 2 messages. Download?”
I waited for the ding that would tell me my breakfast was ready. I knew I had just had another weird dream but I couldn’t quite remember it now. I tried. The n-gen dinged and I opened the white door to reveal the plate of hot, fried food and a mug of black coffee. I looked at the food dubiously and lifted the dark blue mug to my lips. The caffeine rush to my head felt good. Putting my left hand on my hip, I arched my back and then looked down at the pallid skin stretched over my late-twenties belly. ‘Bigger,’ I thought. ‘But only slightly.’ I picked up the plate of fried – bacon, eggs, potatoes, beans, fried-bread and mushrooms – all preselected as my personal preferences and lifted some mushrooms and potatoes to my mouth with the forkette. My buds tested the taste; it had that slight hint of mint or something metallic about it. “Damn,” I said out loud. For a few days now breakfast had tasted like this and I wasn’t sure if it was a fault with the n-gen or this batch of plasma. My n-gen was civvy and another one of the perks allowed to commanders; I’d had it for nearly five years and it had been everywhere with me. Normally they didn’t last longer than three years.
Balancing the plate in my left hand, I picked up the remote, pressed ‘Monitor,’ chose ‘North elevation,’ then ‘R’ for recording and ‘Dec 9, 11.00,’ morning on the day we had arrived, a date I chose out of habit. I then pointed it at the panel, shaped like a window, on the narrow wall behind the pillow of the bed and it was filled with the image of the ground to the north of the command-post. Just like a window, you could even see ‘around’ the window frame if you wished to put your head that close to it. Yellow and reddish sulphur stretched away between the rocky silicates, to a jagged horizon a few hundred yards above the level of the command-post and perhaps two miles away. In places the silicate rock was white and in others a beautiful emerald green. If it hadn’t been for the bright purplish glow of the morning aurora above, I could have believed I was in the Mojave Desert on Earth, which was in a memory I had of visiting my grandparents once. Taking bigger mouthfuls, with my nostrils closed to avoid the nasty after-taste, I downed the breakfast and alternated my gaze between the landscape on the wall and the contents of the room. I took in the half-finished bottle of vodka next to the empty glass on the narrow table across the gang-way from my bed and the open notepad next to it with a few scrawled lines at the top of a new page. Writing pulp crime-novels was my weakness, or my hobby, depending on one’s generosity.
I had finished the fried so I continued sipping black coffee and put on the Trion head-band, activating it by flicking a tiny black switch next to my left temple. “Record,” I said. Most company commanders, at least in USAC, were obliged to record their activities for viewing by paid subscribers; part of a deal USAC had made with the Amtel branch of RA. Most hated doing it but at least you could choose what to record and I never gave the leaches anything of real interest. The recording was made by a cam in the comms centre so a leach couldn’t see what was on my heads-up.
“Download,” I said. A red light flickered once on the com centre. On the heads-up display in front of my left eye scrolled the first of two messages:
Contact: Jena Ω “Hi Jake. I know you’re trying to make me jealous by not replying to my last messages but then again you could just be under attack and I’m supposed to be the rational woman so I can deal with that. I might just be too busy this week to record anything for you too. My boss wants me to prepare a legal-briefing for our merger with a company which has connections with Riccard-Amtel! Can you believe it? Oh I know we try not to bring business into our relationship but I couldn’t help myself. The consequences could be so far-reaching. Promotion, relocation. Who knows? Umm. In answer to your question last time; okay I’ve held out for quite a while haven’t I but yes, women do feel that sometimes. I suppose... Tell me more about what you do... Not during the day (with the boyz and grrls) but after. Are you still writing? Chloe misses u too. xx” End.
Contact: Mary “Hi darling Mum here. How’s the (censored) winter? I know this will probably be censored but I don’t care. There’s lots to tell you but I'll keep it short for now. I’m just off to a local council meeting and later there's an art exhibition, Raccauld, which Justine and I are going to. Actually I’m meeting her for coffee at lunchtime. I think she wants to do some shopping. You know what she’s like. You cannot stop her once hubby has been paid. The Gazette had a nice photo of you the other day which I have stuck in the photo album. You’re a hero around here. The young boys talk of nothing else but the Iron Cross, I hear them when we go for picnics by the river. Oh yes and Robert O’Flannery has been elected Mayor again and has approved redevelopment of the area by the river. Office block I believe. Such a shame. One thing I was going to mention. A peculiar thing happened the other day...”
There was a loud banging on the cabin-door which made me flinch. “Stop record,” I said and ignored the rest of the message in the heads-up. I took two steps to the door and opened it. Sergeant Stone’s chiseled face, topped with a brown flat-top and with shaving foam around its cheeks, confronted me. He was dressed only from the waist down.
“Yes Sergeant?” I tried to sound patient.
“Sir. Seismic activity detected 700 yards east of perimeter. About 100 feet down.”
“Okay. Pick four men and get packed. I’ll be with you in five.”
“Sir? We can investigate if you want. You don’t need to come.”
“No but I want to come. I need the exercise.”
“Sir.” There was no salute. I was informal with my troops most of the time in combat situations, especially the officers and Stone in particular, who had been with me a long time.