“I’m sorry about your friend. I didn’t know her, but…”
“Well, no need to blow smoke up my ass, then. I know exactly what kind of metal plated her ass. She was worth more than the whole damn lot of them. The board of directors, the investors, Madam Gash Queen Director, all of them. I’d trade the whole lot of them to have Lilah back.”
“Was you…” I stop myself. I’m picking up her speech patterns. It’s subconscious, but I don’t want her to think I’m making fun. Broatoans always have that effect on me. I dated one once when I was an undergrad. Her tongue was to die for, and not just that sexy accent. I start over. “Were you lovers?”
Becs shakes her head.
“No. I’ve got a girl back in port. Not Yloft. Back home. No idea if she’s being loyal to me. I wouldn’t be loyal to me either. Maybe she is.”
She shrugs, like it makes no nevermind… damn it. I’m even doing it in my own head now. She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter to her one way or the other. Maybe it doesn’t.
“That’s neither hin nor hair, though. Lilah was just good people. Too bad. Stuck her head in the lion’s mouth one too many times.”
“Risk-taker?”
“Nah. Not especially. Lilah was button-down, if anything. Straight-laced. It’s being out here, doing this. Surfing the ink. No matter what you’re doing, no matter how safe you think you are – you can be peeling potatoes, Ambroziak – every time you set foot on a tub, you’re sticking your head in a sleeping lion’s mouth and tugging on her tail. If she never bites down, well, that’s just luck.”
She pushes her plate away, even the tiny portion her people had made especially for her unfinished. I try to say something like, “Nice talking to you, Becs,” but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Nine
I’ve been laying in my bunk for an hour, not sleeping, just staring at the bottom of Zanib’s bunk. She’s snoring like a pig, and her arm is hanging down practically in my face, but neither of those are keeping me awake. It’s the reality of the attack eating away at me. The possibility that I just could have died. That’s never struck me before.
Becs talked about sticking her head in the lion’s mouth every time she went into the ink. This is my first time, aside from the barely-remembered, doesn’t-even-really-count trip with my parents from Horizant to Yloft when I was eight.
At eight, your choices aren’t on you. The universe isn’t out to get you. Your parents are a buffer between you and all the cosmic rays and skin-wrappers and supply problems and who knows what else. I hadn’t stuck my head in the lion’s mouth when I was eight. My parents had. If I had died then, it would’ve been on them, not me. No one would have said, “Oh, that kid should have made better choices with her life.” They would have said, “What awful, awful parents.”
I roll over, putting my back to Zanib’s dangling fingers and my nose practically to the bulkhead. I don’t have kids. Never wanted them. Never planned on having them. Being a mother means throwing yourself on the grenade of responsibility for your kid. No wonder urban myth is rife with stories of mothers saving their babies instead of themselves in a ship crash or having ultimate strength to lift a fallen mine processor off their child or shit like that. Who wants to be remembered as the mother who couldn’t take care of her kid? It’s a fate worse than dying yourself.
I don’t know why mothers and babies are on my mind. Maybe I’m just finally understanding that my neck belongs to me for pretty much the first time. There’s no more blaming Ma. My stupid choices are now my own. I stuck my head in the lion’s mouth and somehow, improbably, pulled it out. Even that was more luck than anything else. That was Helena’s victory, and Diane’s, and Prosser’s and Tampa’s. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I was a completely passive audience to my own possible death.
Sighing, I shove my second pillow between my legs. Whenever I have trouble sleeping on my side sometimes (but not always) a pillow between my legs helps. I lay there, restless, for what seems like an impossibly long time, but I must have drifted off at some point because the next thing I know Zanib is jabbing me in the back.
“A few more minutes and you’re going to be derelict.”
I groan. My exhaustion is utter and complete. If anything, the bowl of Ramen and tureen of coffee I downed with Becs has made matters worse. I shouldn’t have eaten before trying to nap. I feel bloated.
“Is there time to shower?”
“How much do you love me, virgin?”
I look into her eyes. Joy shines there, fellowship. For a second I wonder if she’s attracted to me, too. “Fast friends” perhaps we are, but I’ve heard too many stories about ink surfers to think this is more than that. It’s too soon to let my heart be broken by another spacer just looking for a warm snatch.
But I’m putting the cart before the horse, aren’t I? This is all projection.
“I love you more than anything. More than life itself.”
“Keep going,” she says with a nod, making the “stretching out pizza dough” gesture with her hands.
“More than a glass of wine on a white, sandy beach. More than Ramen noodles. More than my bonus.”
Zanib quirks her Cupid’s bow smile and shrugs.
“Okay. Well, then, I woke you with just about enough time. As long as you’re taking an ink surfer shower and not a fucking Yloft fucking station bunny fucking grad student shower. And I even saved you a little lukewarm water.”
I snatch my towel and jump to my feet. She kisses me on the cheek as I hurry into the stall, which does nothing to help me sort out my Byzantine labyrinth of annoying feelings.
I don’t really have the option of taking a horseshit station bunny shower after all, as the stall begins not-so-gently nudging me that my daily water ration is being used up, before finally starting a countdown in red blinking numbers. The “lukewarm” bit was a joke, though. The water reclamation system is an integral part of the Borgwardt’s cooling system, and in a workplace the Borgwardt’s size there’s no lack of heating coils to choose from, so hot water is never an issue. In fact, whenever we need cold water, the pipes run through space for brief periods to cool it down.
We head back to the conference room expecting (or I was expecting, at least, there’s no telling what Zanib thought based on her years of experience) a ruined hatch. Helena had either been very surgically precise with the can opener or else had been faking a lot more of the little Kabuki play than I had guessed, because a custodian is crouched over, just finishing oiling up the hatch’s hinges. It looks like it’s back to 100%.
“Sorry, ladies,” the custodian says, crabwalking out of our way, “didn’t mean to be in your way.”
“You’re not,” I laugh, glancing at the nametag sewn to her overalls which proclaimed her to be Eden, “besides, we’re nobody important.”
Zanib shoves my head playfully into the jamb. If she had me off guard I might have been knocked unconscious, but she pulls her punch immediately. I just bang my head lightly. A love tap?
“What, do you have a mouse in your pocket? Who’s ‘we?’”
“We. You and me.”
“Speak for yourself, virgin. I’m the importantest motherfucker in this place.”
Eden snorts in appreciation, then quickly covers her mouth so I won’t see her laughing at me. All the custodians I know on Yloft are either like that: respectful to a fault, as though somebody like me is a member of an entirely different and possibly better species, or else so surly and grumpy that saying “Good morning” to them is like a personal affront. I’m glad Eden is of the former category.
“See you, Eden,” Zanib says, without looking at her nametag, “Keep up the good work.”
“You, too, Ms. Zanib.”
“You know her?” I ask as we settle into the exact same two seats we had been in earlier.
She shrugs.
“I know everybody. I told you, virgin, I’m the importantest motherfucker in this place.”
That elicits a snort from the wo
man to Zanib’s right, this time not of appreciation. Zanib turns and glares.
“What are you laughing at, head-case?”
The other woman is smiling.
“How are your vampire bats doing, Zanib? You feeding them good?”
The other woman reaches out and rolls up Zanib’s sleeve halfway before she can snatch her arm away. I look over, too, to see if there are any perforations from fangs or leech-gullets or… what was the other word? Proboscis? Probosces?
Anything else about to transpire between my roommate and her opposite-side seatmate is clipped off by Diane’s appearance in the hatchway. As she enters, everyone rises out of respect. Instead of gesturing for us to sit, the director glances around the room.
“As long as I’ve got you all on your feet, how about a round of applause for Helena Marsters and our entire security section?”
Though her crutches made it difficult for the director to clap personally, she sidesteps the issue by gesturing with both hands towards Helena and her crew, who are standing, seemingly embarrassed, in one corner. I recognized Tampa and Prosser, whose faces are etched indelibly into my mind, and there is one other goon who had presumably been aiding Helena shipside or manning posts somewhere during the intrusion.
Myrna, the secretary, sneaks in and presses a piece of paper into the director’s hand.
“Oh, no,” she says, “not another memo!”
Work humor. Maybe a little in bad taste just at this moment. Nonetheless, there are chuckles, if out of nervousness than nothing else.
“Thanks, Myrna. Okay, come on up here, Helena and everybody.”
Sheepishly, Helena, Tampa, and Prosser step forward, and the goon I don’t know by name remains notably behind. The others gesture for her to join them, and finally Prosser goes back, grabs her by the shoulder, and forces her to come forward with the rest.
“Yes, everybody,” the director said with a chuckle. “Don’t be shy, Quinn.”
I watch Quinn’s face as the humiliation set in. If I had to wager, she must have been working the communications lines during the brief skirmish, or else hadn’t reported for duty at all.
“All right,” Diane says, clearing her throat theatrically, “I have here a certificate which reads: ‘To the security department of the RV Borgwardt, This Certificate of Appreciation is issued to honor your fine actions on the date of…’” the director rattles off yesterday’s date in the confusing, non-arithmetic system which only Hestle corporate seems to use while everybody else just refers to local time. She continues: “‘Your actions are a tribute to your dedication to your jobs and your fellow employees. Continue to remain Hestle Strong.’ And then it’s signed by the CEO herself.”
This elicits some impressed clucking of tongues and oohing and aahing, although even I can see from here that the electronic signature and even the language of the COA are stock. The CEO probably never saw it, and her secretary probably rubber-stamped a hundred of these a day. Still, it’s a nice, if likely horseshit gesture.
“I’ve been on the horn with corporate for four hours, and they didn’t want to do it, but I insisted. I insisted they do it right now. And you all probably thought I was just sleeping during the break.” More work humor. More unwarranted chuckles. “Care to say a few words, Helena?”
“Oh, no,” Helena says, waving off the idea as though it were supremely unpalatable. “I’m not much for words and that sort of thing. Besides, I didn’t do anything but make sure my crew was well-trained. They’re the real heroes here.”
“Well, you claim not to be much for words, but that was very well said. How about another round of applause, everyone?”
We cheer again, though unlike the first time I’m more doing it mechanically than out of real vigor. Scarce though tree pulp may be in the ink, I can’t help but think that the women who risked their lives to save the rest of us deserve a little more than lip service on a slip of paper. Still, Helena takes the certificate and quickly passes it to Quinn, the one who had been so reluctant to join the group on stage. She must be the administrator or something.
Diane struggles into her chair.
“All right, ladies, sorry to bring us back here to the scene of the crime, so to speak, but it’s time for me to issue my guidance. Can we bring up a real-time image, please?”
The vidscreen hums and the blank screen is replaced by an almost identical image of monotone black, with the exception of a single, tiny red blemish at its center.
“Magnify, please.”
Neither the director nor the computer operator plays around with zooming in 10x, backing out, zooming in 100x, or any other such nonsense. She merely zooms in until the tiny dot of a planet fills the entire screen.
Even after listening to Zanib and the xenoclimatologists opine about what, theoretically, such a planet would look like and behave like, seeing the real thing is still a revelation. The planet is red, but not with dust like Mars in the Solar System. The planet’s surface is red verging on black, a soupy pudding that bubbles in spots, great tectonic shifts that resemble the explosion of a pimple on the skin. And the atmosphere is dense with bright red clouds. Does blood really rain from the skies on a fleshworld?
Perhaps most disturbing of all, the world seems to have a visage. I know it’s probably my imagination, but I can almost see the great darkling spots which made up the eyeholes, noseholes, and grinning outline of a jaw, as though the planet itself is a grim chapless skull. The living planet has the look of a moribund one, and I can’t help but take it as an ill omen.
“Ladies, I give you the semi-legendary planet of Vilameen. As many of you have guessed or intuited, though, by regulation, I was not allowed to confirm until now, we are attempting to salvage the wreck of The Manifest Destiny.
“First of all, I don’t want anyone to get sloppy or starry-eyed. And I won’t apologize for the deception, because everything I’ve done is according to regulation. You should be treating this mission like any other. By the numbers. The fact that we all love an old movie about it shouldn’t even come into play. I don’t need anyone being distracted saying, ‘Oh, this is where the love scene happened in Pod 7’ and then bashing her head into an overhang and, bam, suddenly we have a worker’s comp case on our hands.”
“The love scene was in Pod 6!” someone cries out.
I was thinking the exact same thing.
“Yes, well. Distractions, distractions, distractions. This isn’t a Hollywood set. This is a dangerous fleshworld. The xenoclimatologists have briefed you on some of the dangers to expect just from being here. What lies inside, I don’t even want to guess. And I don’t want any of you guessing, either. This is why we have protocol. This is why we have regulations. This is why we don’t just throw caution to the wind and do whatever our hearts tell us. And this is why you are all paid to be exceptionally expert in your chosen fields.
“Here’s the good news. In spite of the delay caused by our run-in with the corsairs, we have managed to reach the planet before any other corporation. Our agents on Yloft have informed me that we have at least an eighteen-hour head start on all of our competition. Our agents are working to expand that window, but we cannot rely on that happening.”
She’s talking about espionage. Corporate shadows hacking systems, bribing docking officials, maybe even blowing up airlocks and more active sabotage. Yloft (and every deep space station like it) is a hotbed for that sort of activity and every administrator who ever ran the place had sworn to stamp it out. But espionage is far too lucrative, and inevitably the administrators became complicit or get hoodwinked by subordinates who don’t mind making a quick buck.
“Now to answer your last question. How has this gone unnoticed for so long? Paige.”
Didn’t expecting that. I fight back the urge to sit bolt upright in my chair.
“Madam director?”
“If I had asked you last week the odds that the story of The Manifest Destiny was true, what would you have said?”
I want to hes
itate but I mustn’t. Form your answer as you speak.
“Ah, around 50/50. Scholars differ. But kind of about the same as you might treat the events of The Iliad. There probably was some kind of war between Greeks and Trojans, but, you know, no gods and golden apples.”
I hold my breath. Is my answer what she was fishing for? I can’t read her at all.
“And that’s about the length and breadth of it. Up until last week, most reasonable adults to include corporate information services believed that The Manifest Destiny was a great movie about a ship that had probably really been lost in a debris field or by an instrumentation error or something. And Vilameen? About as factual as, say, Brigadoon.
“I bring up the story of Brigadoon on purpose. Every hundred years the town appeared on the map, and then it disappeared. Well, Vilameen appears to be in a similar situation. Not that it ever actually disappears. But take a look at this. Show us the simulation.”
The fleshworld disappears from the screen, replaced by an animation of a solar system. The star is a white dwarf. Four planetary bodies and an asteroid field lie nestled uncomfortably close to the sun and each other.
“Here’s a fun little gravitational anomaly. This is the Endirii System. Endirii-4 and the Endirii Debris Field are locked in orbit around each other.”
On the screen, the fourth planet and the asteroid nest begin circling around an imaginary point in between the two, essentially switching position over and over again. The asteroids, which start in the fifth position, keep taking over the fourth position and rotating back again.
“The Endirii Debris Field is probably the result of a planetary crackup of the former either Endirii-4 or Endirii-5. In either case, it’s surprisingly compact, and so close to such a huge sun that there’s not a whole lot of shift. It functions, for all intents and purposes, as a single planetary body, only smashed into pieces.
“What we didn’t know – what no one knew until last week – was that Endirii-4 also has a small satellite, internal to its own orbit.”
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