Love and Other Metals

by K. P. Redmond

  I look back. For the moment, at least I’ve lost the drone. I figure I am a good 200 meters into the tunnel. My O2 is starting to look grim. I am breathing hard and my heart is slamming like a jackhammer. My infrared is worthless; I switch it off to save power and move along by feel alone in the blackness. I figure I’d rather suffocate in the dark than be burned alive by a machine. That’s my calculation, because at this point I’m pretty sure I ain’t never making it out of here. That wouldn’t be so bad except that I would rather go out trying to save the others. And I think about Mason and Macey too, growing up without anybody caring about them. Maybe I deserve this, but they don’t. There’s got to be a way.

  I come to a place where the floor ain’t so uneven; actually, the farther in I’ve gone, the smoother the floor and the walls seem. Strange I hadn’t noticed that before. I slide down against a wall and sit on the ground, struggling to catch my breath and hopefully allow the suit’s ventilation vents to clear up the fog on the inside of my visor. I look around and, for the moment at least, I don’t see no light from the drone. I take a chance and turn on my helmet headlamps. And what I see is amazing.

  There dust here is, well…completely different. It’s a reddish color, thick and smooth. It hovers above the ground up to maybe half a meter, then stops—almost more like a liquid than a haze. And instead of jagged igneous rock surfaces, I find myself sitting in a circular tunnel that looks, crazy as it sounds, like it was drilled out. The walls, floor, and ceiling seem too smooth to be formed by nature. It’s like one of the dug-out mines back home.

  I ain’t a geologist, and the eons-long processes that create an asteroid ain’t necessarily the same as them what created Luna, or the Earth or Mars for that matter. But growing up on Luna gives you a working knowledge of rocks. Hell, rocks is what we’re all about. These are different. I run my hands over the wall next to me, amazed by its smoothness. It don’t even have tool marks like you would see in a mine, so it’s actually smoother than the spaces back home.

  The other puzzling thing is the color. There are iron and nickel bearing minerals in here, embedded in the walls, just as we found on the surface. I’ve gotten used to looking at them after two weeks on Hrothgar. Mostly the silvery taenite with its distinctive crisscross stripes of kamacite. They shine back in the white light of my headlamps in the usual way. But there is something else, something I ain’t never seen before. It’s a mineral that clings to the rocks and fills the spaces between them almost like a mortar, Earth brick red in color, but smoother than bricks. Same color as the dust. Is it the same stuff? To my gloved hand it feels different than the other minerals I’ve encountered. It ain’t as hard as the other minerals. It gives a little to pressure from my fingers.

  Then I feel a jolt in the ground. I gasp and look around—is the tunnel going to cave in? There’s another quick lurch. This one feels bigger, like an earthquake, or like when we were back on the Allgood getting pelted by space rocks. A couple of chunks of taenite dislodge from the wall and fall into the dust. I reckon that by now I’m on the side of Hrothgar that Sophia told me was unstable. Didn’t want to come here, but what choice did I have? Don’t trust that woman no more anyways.

  I look up and glare at the tons of rock perched above my head. I picture myself being buried under untold mass of asteroid, never to be found by anyone, and leaving the Allgood crew—what’s left of them—to die, not being able to start their engines because I have the key, each being murdered by rhino-man Gristle in some humiliating, perverted way. But there’s something else going on; I perk my ears up to listen. I press the side of my helmet against the wall. I hear a sound so low in pitch that it’s almost unhearable; it’s a mighty throbbing, a palpitation, coming from deeper in the cave.

  My heart pumps even faster. Oh, man, I am in deep trouble now. I listen harder and hear a long, low wail, like a moan of agony or terror, as if coming from some crazed critter, a creature of unimaginable size. There’s something alive down here. A wave of chill ripples down my back.

  I ain’t alone in this cave. I’m in here with something that wants to kill me. I am its prey. I jump back on my feet and run through the strange tunnel, searching frantically for a way out. I ain’t sure which turns to take to get back; I make a half-dozen guesses as I pick my way out. I can only hope I’m moving away from the ominous sound, but I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from.

  I see a shadow moving ahead. I stop. In a panic I snap off my headlamps and again I’m in the dark. I look up the tunnel passage and my heart sinks; there is the dreaded moving shine of the drone’s lights. It’s headed my way, back on track. The machine is methodically eliminating all the alternative paths to find me and will be here in minutes. I gotta admire the software but would kill the guy who wrote it.

  I flip infrared back on, and the virtual display inside my helmet brightens. The tunnel around me has heated up enough for me to see my way, but just barely. I don’t know why that would be; perhaps the sun is shining outside now, heating the rock. But I gotta turn back around and head even deeper into the tunnel. I have no choice. As scary as that living sound was, I know that the drone will kill me. I’ve seen what it can do to solid rock. I’m working on pure panic now. The drone lights get brighter; I pick up my pace. I feel a heavy vibration in my feet. I touch my helmet to the wall and listen again; now the sound is not so low as before, but rather in the pitch of a whale’s call or tiger’s growl. What the hell is it?

  I check my wristy. I have trouble focusing on its display. I got a nasty headache all of a sudden. My O2 is running out, and the CO2 level in my suit is high. I need to find a way out, a way back to the Allgood, and I gotta find it fast or I will surely die.

  But then…maybe not. I think about just giving up. Maybe I should just lay here and let it happen. Death from CO2 poisoning ain’t the worst way to die. And when you come down to it, what’s the point. I am mighty worthless as a person. I done nothing good my whole life. I betrayed the crew of the Allgood even though they were halfway decent to me. My own Pops didn’t think I was worth being around. And to top it off, I even pulled the plug on Sophia, who actually showed an interest in me.

  I plug the headset back in. I try to call out to Sophia, hoping maybe I can hear some last words from her, but I don’t got enough breath to speak above a whimper. I’m crying inside my helmet. Pathetic. Warm tears trace down my cheeks and down my neck; I have no way to wipe them. I fall to my knees. I place my hands on my helmet latches. All I need to do is snap them up and pull the helmet off. It will be over in seconds. I will finally be at peace. At peace.

  A beam of light flashes across the red dust covering my boot. The drone has a bead on me. I imagine the fire coming my way and again I find the energy to stumble a few more steps. I find a side tunnel and duck in there just as a bolt of laser energy shoots behind me, my infrared showing a glowing streak on the wall where the beam had grazed it with its heat.

  I stumble and fall to my knees again. I look up and in my mental fog I see that I’m in a large cavern, the outlines of it showing in infrared. The vibration from the ground is stronger now, and rhythmic, like mighty footsteps, shaking the walls. I look up. The display shows something moving in the darkness ahead of me. Something big.

  The lights of the drone are coming. There is no side tunnel here. I’m exposed. I can’t breathe. Whatever is ahead is moving, coming my way. I can’t quite make it out…

  I try to get up to run but my legs can’t pull my boot up high enough to clear the ground ground and I twist and fall flat on my face into the red fog. I struggle to pick my head up in my exhaustion. I am dizzy, my visor is scratched, not broken, but so fogged from my own breath that even the infrared display is indecipherable. No air. I can’t pant any harder. I roll over on my back and what I see—Oh God!—makes me shriek silently in terror.

  It’s a monster. No other way to describe it. Claws and teeth and mouth parts and eyes—a dozen shining, crystalline eyes on a huge, misshapen head, glaring, st
aring, popping with animal fury. The creature is bending over me, a forest of jagged fangs thrusting from its multiple mandibles, slime dripping from its obscene, scabby lips. The monster roars. I can feel its anger. But I can’t move. I breathe and breathe; it brings no relief. Alarms are going off inside my helmet but they go unanswered. I can do nothing. My oxygen is gone. I am done.

  The hideous creature rears back its head to strike. This will be the last thing I ever see. Just mouth and fangs and drool, huge and disgusting and horrible, hovering above me. I lie there, waiting, unable to move, my chest heaving uselessly, waiting for death. Pops will never know what happened to me. Wish he had said goodbye. Goodbye Sophia, whatever you are.

  Then…what? I’m not sure if I’m hallucinating—I must be, this can’t be real—but is it real? I know my brainpan is only halfway working, but I see the monster stop, then retreat and just stare. Its dozen eyes haze over. It leans back against the wall. And somehow or other, it starts…just…dissolving in the dust.

  Lights flicker. I look over at them. The drone is right above me, its lights blinding, those angry thrusters holding it up. I feel the heat of the pulses through my suit. I see the lens of the laser turret turning. I know what’s coming, soon as it rotates towards me. After all this I’m still gonna get burned.

  The last thing I see—or I think I see—is a snake, or is it a long red tentacle, shoot from the wall. In a flash the tongue wraps around the drone and slams its steel shell violently against the rocks. The drone’s thrusters pulse on and off frantically, flailing, as it beats itself against the wall, trying to break free of the tenacious, gummy grip that holds it. The red tongue thickens, then tightens. The drone splits in two. The crushed halves of the machine smoke and spark and tumble to the ground and are still. The red fog flows over to completely envelope the pieces.

  Damnedest thing I ever saw. I chuckle. Then I die.

  * * * * *

  I am shivering. I pull the thin bedclothes tightly around my neck. I wish I had my sweater but I am too weak to climb down the ladder to put it on. The sweat on my face dampens the sheet and the dingy pillowcase. I’m nine years old. I already know what hell is like.

  The dimly lit, windowless room has rock walls. I feel the wall next to me radiating cold, sapping heat from my fevered body. The other boy in the room, in the bunk beneath mine, is my cousin Ted. Not my real cousin, just as Aunt Latisha ain’t my real aunt. The Children’s Home brought me in and fed me but they don’t love me. Nobody does. Not no more.

  Ted is sick too. He coughs and sneezes and throws up and is miserable just like me. Aunt Latisha sits beside him on the bed, stroking his back. He is her favorite. She whispers loving things to him. She hums lullabies to him. When he needs to blow his nose, Aunt Latisha gets him a tissue. When he’s gotta throw up, Aunt Latisha holds the bucket for him.

  I share my upper bunk with a bowl full of puke. Last time I threw up—just a few minutes ago--I didn’t have the strength to fully lift my head. A glob of upchuck missed and lays in a puddle beside me. It stinks, and the bowl stinks, and my body stinks. My mouth tastes like acid. “May I have some water, please?” I croak. Just the effort of that sentence makes my head swim.

  Aunt Latisha stands, her hands on her hips. She’s looking cranky, and to a fevered nine-year-old, mighty scary. She takes my cup from the little shelf beside my bed. Reluctantly, she pours some yellow water from a pitcher into the cup. “This stuff ain’t free, you know,” she says, slamming the cup down on the shelf. “So drink up, little Yuuta, drink it all up, drink the life out of this place. Us poor folk just can’t do enough for you rich Earthers.”

  “Sorry,” I say, and lift my trembling hand to the cup. I manage to get the cup to my lips and swallow some down. The water is gritty and smells bad but it’s better than the taste of puke. I collapse again against my pillow, my body shivering more from the effort. The cold goes right through me. I can’t get warm no matter what.

  “We wouldn’t be in the fix if it wasn’t for your father,” she says. “You little shit. You and your family. You LITTLE SHIT!” She holds up the back of her hand, ready to strike me.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, too weak to cringe from the slap I know is coming.

  “We shouldn’t oughta never taken you in—the money they pay us ain’t nearly enough. And now here you are, drinking up our water, puking up the room, and not doing no chores. One more thing that I have to do for you, one more misery you inflict on us, you little...” Ted calls for her from below. Thankfully, she lowers her hand and goes back to tending the other boy. I am left alone to my misery. I cry as quietly as I can.

  I see a door to the outside: it’s a big metal door that swings on heavy hinges. It’s a door to vacuum. If you ain’t in a suit, it’s a door to death. Sweet and peaceful death. I’m just in my dingy underwear. I unlatch the door—alarms go off and lights flash, I laugh at them—and I swing the door open. The air rushes out in a torrent from behind, blowing my hair into my face. I laugh. It feels good.

  Finally, all is quiet. I step out into the sunlight, my bare feet sinking deep into the warm dust. I look up at the endless sky for the first and last time with unshielded eyes. It is beautiful. I exhale. My chest and lungs convulse, fighting to save me but I don’t want to be saved and there ain’t nothing to breathe anyways so best just give it up.

  I fall to the dust. I die smiling. I have won. They will find my frozen body but it will be too late. Maybe Pops will love me now.

  I am warm. I am comfortable. The air is thick and rich and I breathe it like a lamb drinks her mother’s milk. I feel life filling me; it is joyous. I’m smiling. I crack open my eyes. I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing but that’s OK—I am comfortable. Nothing hurts and I can breathe. Everything is quiet too. It’s wonderful being dead. If I had known what death was like, I would have died long ago. At least I’m here now.

  I pull my head up to see. The pillow behind me helps by pushing gently. Nice touch. Everything is shades of red; the walls before me and to each side, the ceiling. The floor is obscured by a thick carpet of moving red dust. But there is soft light and it is warm. Yes, I am comfortable. My nose itches so I scratch it. I scratch it with my right hand…no gloves. How about that. And I am not wearing a helmet.

  I have no helmet! I sit up in a panic. My helmet is on a shelf to my right, along with my gloves, neatly stacked one on the other. For a moment I’m not sure…wait, I’m dead, why do I even need a helmet? And yet my helmet is here with me. Did I take it with me into the afterlife? No, that don’t make sense. None of this makes any sense. Why is all this hardware here?

  But I can breathe. I check my wristy (guess I took my wristy into the afterlife too); my oxygen is at 42 percent and climbing. How? I twist around to look at the side of my backpack, where the oxygen connector is. There is a hose attached to it. I touch the hose and feel the subtle vibration of fluid moving inside it. The hose is filling my tanks. But looking more closely, it’s a crazy kind of hose. It comes directly from the floor below me, and looks to be made out of the same reddish material that comprises the entire room. And there ain’t no metal hose connector; the hose just overlaps the oxygen port on my backpack—as if it just reached up and swallowed the port—while pumping high pressure gas. Even the most expensive metamaterials can’t do that.

  I must be inside the Kestrel. Nifty Jim’s pirates must have found me and taken me back. The drone reported my position. I already know they got technology we don’t have. Maybe I can make a break for it while they think I’m still unconscious. But just when I think I got it all figured out, I spy something else.

  The shelf on my right has a protrusion, like a tall bump, or a thumb. Too big for a thumb, but that’s the shape. It’s that same dark red color as the room. This thumb has eyes. At least they look like eyes. Silvery, crystalline eyes—two of them. Like the eyes the monster in my dream had, if it was a dream. If there was a monster. There was a drone, of that I’m sure. I turn over on my side to face the th
umb. The eyes on it move a little to keep me in sight. They’re staring at me. It’s alive. Maybe I should be afraid, but I’m not. The little thumb ain’t threatening. In fact, it’s kind of like…kind of cute. “Hello?” I say to the thumb.

  “Ciao Straker,” comes the reply. The sound ain’t coming from the thumbish thing. It’s coming from…everywhere. From the walls.

  “Who’s there?” I ask, looking around for the voice.

  “It is me, Sophia. I see that you have awakened.”

  “Sophia? You found me here?”

  “It is you who have found me.”

  I know I ain’t hallucinating no more. I’m lounging on some kind of couch which is made of the same red stuff that covers the walls and watches me from a thumb. I touch the couch with my hands and it is smooth and yielding, just as I felt earlier on the walls in the tunnel. I can smell the rich air that surrounds me and its slightly electric aroma; I sense all the little details of existence that convince me I’m not dreaming. Or dead. But that means that this is all real, but it can’t be. In any case, I’m real glad to hear from Sophia again. So I tell her. “I’m glad to hear from you,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, with a touch of frost in her voice.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I say. “I’m sure. I was a jerk. None of this is your fault. I’m sorry.”

  She takes her sweet time but eventually replies, “I forgive you.”

  That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time, so I tell her that too. Then I ask, “Where am I?”

  “You are where I told you not to go, naughty boy,” she says. “And now you will carry the burden of unneeded knowledge.”

  “Knowledge? All I know is that I’m in a big red room…how did I get here?”