Carrier

by Timothy Johnson

  Call it an occupational hazard. Put up signs that said how many days it had been since someone lost their mind.

  Of course, the black laughed at the concept of days. It laughed at the concept of time. The black was endlessness. The black was omnipotence. The black was God.

  Edward turned to leave when Margo Tailan burst through the door at the back of the room carrying a tray of test tubes filled with blood. They jingled as she walked.

  "Hello," she said. "May I help you?" She shuffled across the room and set the tray down at a workstation between two exam tables.

  "I was just here to see Dr. Lund."

  "Oh, well, she had to make a house call," Margo said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

  Edward felt conflicted. The subservient part of him wanted to talk to this young woman, but the other, the dominant part, argued he had fulfilled his promise to himself. He had come, and the doctor wasn't in. Oh well. Case closed. Moving on. This girl was here, but she wasn't a doctor. She was just an intern and would probably do more harm than good.

  "No," Edward said. "It's okay. I'll come back later."

  "If you come back later, you'll need an appointment. I really have nothing to do but analyze these blood samples, and I've done it a thousand times already."

  The subservient part of him suggested that if he left now, he might be compelled to come back later. If he just talked to this girl, he would have better fulfilled that promise to himself and would be less likely to feel the need to return. The dominant side agreed.

  "Okay," Edward said, slipping his hands into his pockets so Margo wouldn't see them shake.

  She patted the examination table beside the workstation and sat down in a swiveling chair. "Have a seat."

  Edward sat on the examination table and dangled his feet. Even though he knew the girl in front of him was smarter than he'd ever be, she wasn't Daelen and wasn't gaining his confidence, but Edward marveled at how sitting on this table made him feel like a kid again. He wanted to swing his feet, and in some sense, that desire made him feel a bit better.

  "So, what's the trouble?"

  Edward fumbled with his hands in his lap, and miraculously, they were still, as if whatever sickness inside him had vanished. He surmised it would probably be only for the moment.

  "I haven't been feeling well lately."

  "Which is why you're here. I gathered that."

  "Well, it started with some really bad dreams. Then I started feeling run down like I couldn't sleep enough. There was a bit of nausea, and lately I've been having the shakes."

  "The shakes?"

  "Yeah," Edward said. "My hands shake, and I can't stop them."

  Margo's first thought was to look the symptoms up, but she remembered her conversation with Daelen earlier and decided she needed to learn to trust her intuition. Daelen would be impressed that Margo had learned from her lesson and was already practicing.

  "Have you been vomiting?"

  "Some," Edward said.

  "The bad dreams, I wouldn't worry about them," Margo said. "The fatigue and shakes, that sounds to me like your body isn't getting enough nutrition due to the nausea and vomiting."

  "I eat well."

  "As we get older, our bodies process food less efficiently, and it's quite possible you have inflammation in your intestinal tract. Nothing to worry about. It's most likely temporary."

  "So it's nothing serious?"

  "Well, no doctor will tell you anything for certain without running some tests to rule anything out, but I don't think there's cause to worry just yet. No reason to jump to the worst case without knowing for sure."

  Relief washed over Edward. For a moment, the halves of his mind rejoined, and he was no longer in conflict with himself.

  "Tell you what," Margo said. "As you can see, I'm the blood girl. Let's take some blood, and we'll run some tests. In the meantime, I'll give you some vitamin supplements to take every day and give you something to help you sleep. I'll request you come back in if your tests show anything troubling, and I'll consult with Dr. Lund when she returns. If you don't hear from us in the next couple of weeks and you still aren't feeling well, come back in. But make an appointment then."

  "Okay," Edward said.

  Margo opened a nearby drawer and removed a syringe and some disinfecting swabs. She wiped the area on Edward's arm clean and placed the tip of the syringe on his skin. It pulled blood from his veins automatically, making a whirring sound as it worked. Edward thought of a drill but felt no pain.

  Margo ejected the tube from the syringe, labeled it, and added it to her tray. Then she reached into a cabinet and found some vitamin supplements for him.

  As Edward left, Margo smiled. Edward was her first real patient without Dr. Lund's help. She was sure Daelen would be pleased, and it would look great on her record to be practicing unsupervised so quickly.

  Edward left the medical deck, feeling the best he'd felt in weeks, staring down at his vitamins in awe, with Margo enthusiastically waving to bid Edward farewell.

  Four

  Stellan had always found the water plant peaceful. The gentle lapping of the water against its containers reminded him of a more natural environment where his world sang a sweet song like wind blowing through trees, sunbathing, and crashing waves. It almost seemed like firmer ground, as if he might be able to take his shoes off and feel warm sand between his toes. In the water plant, the Atlas lived.

  He sometimes went there just to think. Most of the crew couldn't even gain access because of the importance of that resource. It was secluded on the back of the Atlas, and so it was quiet.

  However, even subtle sounds or sensations interrupted the peaceful meditation time. When all else was quiet, the arched ceiling amplified the occasional condensation drip in a far corner. The creak of the wobbly, grated walkway that ran between the tanks reminded him machines processed their water supply, not nature.

  If such inconsequential things could ruin the atmosphere, however, the water plant was in a state of ruin and pandemonium.

  The fire, which was now extinguished, had filled the air with smoke and the smell of burning metal as it had scorched the walkway between two tanks. It hadn't been a large blaze, but it was enough to permanently darken the path and ensure it would need to be replaced. A couple of low-level maintenance workers for the water plant inspected the damage and were already discussing how they would cut the metal and weld a new section into place.

  The Atlas' automated systems had performed admirably. The air processing system had redirected its return ventilation from the facility, so the smoke wouldn't be circulated to the rest of the ship. And since it detected a human presence, the ship did not seal it off and depressurize to starve the fire, which would have been the most effective way to deal with it.

  Of course, if personnel hadn't been able to get the blaze under control by smothering it with a fire blanket, the Atlas would have sucked all the air out of the facility.

  Stellan was thankful that the Atlas hadn't murdered his crewmates. He had enough on his mind without having to deal with the deaths of some of his crew.

  He kneeled on the walkway and drew his sidearm. Using its barrel, he lifted and inspected the smoldering remains of what appeared to be an ENV suit, which created a total, pressurized environment for personnel to wear in depressurized locations, such as the cargo bays when loading the ship.

  The fire had filled the air in the room with so much smoke that Stellan felt like he was in a furnace. It was warmer, too. Fresh beads of sweat surfaced on his brow. Hazy smoke obscured the spotlighting above the walkway. In the gloom, the lamp above him resembled a moon, and the light that reflected from the water back onto the ceiling danced like shimmering stars.

  While Stellan inspected the charred ENV suit, the smoke thickened, assaulting his lungs. He coughed into the crook of his elbow. His eyes burned, so he closed them.

  "Can someone get some ventilation going in here?" he yelled.

  He heard t
he popping sound of dancing flames and the organic applause of wind through trees. He looked up, and the walkway on which he stood had become a fractured road. The hull on either side of him became skeletons of burning and burned-out vehicles, and beyond, skyscrapers rose through billowing smoke. In the distance, the syncopated thrumming of automatic gunfire cracked the sky. Ahead of him, a column that held the statue of a man lay toppled and broken in the center of a city square.

  When he looked back down toward the ENV suit on the ground before him, he found the body of a soldier, facedown. A large exit wound from a gunshot formed a crater on the back of his head. The blood still oozed onto the pavement and trickled into the gutter of the street. The soldier's hair stuck up like a dovetail, and a flap of his skull clung to his scalp by a thread of skin.

  "Dammit," he heard a voice say, and it was familiar but distant. "We're not welcome anywhere."

  A hand pressed his shoulder.

  The dream that haunted Stellan even when he was awake receded like he was rising from deep waters. Re-entering the world where the walls were metal and the light drive sang in his ears was like coming up for air.

  "I'm sorry," Stellan said. "What did you say?"

  Before him, Carter Raines, the water plant manager, gawked at the pile of smoldering ENV suit and stirred it with his boot. In the darkness of the facility, which the lingering smoke obscured even more, Carter's dark skin made him almost invisible.

  "It seems like someone's always leaving something burning on my doorstep," Carter said. "You fly the flag of the independents at home and wake up one night to your front porch on fire. It's the same damned thing here."

  The crew of the Atlas flew to get away from New Earth, to be free between worlds. If that was living on the rim, the water plant crewmen were hermits. They were trying to escape it all, even the other crew on the ship.

  Carter had never fought in any rebellions. At least, Stellan didn't think he had. Ten years earlier, Stellan would have blown Carter away if he suspected so. But Carter had sided with the rebels, and like Stellan, he sought the freedom of space. Once enemies, the Atlas had made them allies in the pursuit of escape and solitude.

  "It's so bizarre," Carter said. "And reckless. Who'd want to endanger our water supply? If we lost that, we wouldn't live more than a week out here. We wouldn't even have enough to get home. How did they even get the damned suit to burn?"

  ENV suits were flame-resistant and designed to withstand extreme temperatures, but once you got them to burn, they'd burn for a long time. The plastic made for exceptionally thick and dark smoke.

  "An accelerant?" Stellan asked. He lifted one side of the suit and found burn patterns consistent with his suspicion.

  "Probably," Carter replied. The two men working on the walkway beside him caught his attention. "Hey! You better cover up these tanks before you get to cutting!"

  "Why don't you keep them covered all the time?" Stellan asked.

  "So it can breathe," Carter said. Stellan didn't understand, and Carter inferred so. "You gotta let the water breathe. Otherwise, it gets stale."

  "Doesn't it evaporate?"

  "Exactly."

  "Isn't that what we don't want?"

  "Most people don't realize that we put water into the air, too," Carter said. "Because space is so dry, we got to. But we capture and reuse what we can. Losses are negligible. Yes sir, waste not, want not is a commandment here."

  Stellan smiled at Carter's passion. "Did you see anyone who shouldn't be here?"

  "No," Carter said. "Me and the others were treating tanks A-14 through A-18 in the other wing."

  Stellan felt eyes watching him and knew it was because every inch of the water plant was covered by surveillance. He thought to check them but realized it probably would be a waste of time. Skinner had done this. He was sure of it. Even if the surveillance proved it, they couldn't do anything to her. She was untouchable.

  It didn't make sense to him. Why would she bother drawing his attention to the water plant when she could do nearly anything and get away with it even if he was witness to it? He decided it must have been something important.

  "If you ask me," Carter said, "someone was just trying to keep us busy."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Think about it," Carter said. "Someone started a fire where there's plenty of water but where they knew everyone would come running. They weren't looking to do any harm. Leastways not here."

  A diversion, Stellan thought, and he wondered where Adelynn Skinner was now that she had him right where she wanted him.

  Five

  Like a ghost, Adelynn Skinner appeared before Thomas Foster's cell, sitting backwards on a metal chair with her arms crossed on top of the chair's back. She whistled a sad tune. Tom woke, feeling the tide of alcohol receding from his mind and the slight pain of hangover and detox, which took its place. When he saw the Council agent, the surprise shot adrenaline through his body, erasing the grogginess and ache, and he shuffled against the back wall. At once, sobriety surged in his brain.

  "God, I hate that song," she said. "It comes out of nowhere sometimes. Like, I haven't heard it for years, but all of the sudden, it's there, playing over and over in my head. You know what I'm talking about?"

  "No," Tom said. "What song?"

  She clapped, and the sound sent a sonic wave between the bars and directly into Tom's brain. He flinched from the pain.

  "That's just it, isn't it!?" she said. "That's what's so incredibly irritating! What song, indeed!?"

  She looked up into the corner of Tom's cell, as if her sickly blue eye could see through the walls, maybe even through the hull, though she was merely straining to recall.

  "It's right there," she said. "On the tip of my tongue. I feel like I could stick it out and peel it off." She stuck her tongue out and pinched the tip. "Ike thith." She wiped the saliva off her fingers with her sleeve. Her warm, almost genuine smile struck Tom as menacing. He didn't trust her.

  "So anyway, I'm not here to shoot the shit," Adelynn said. "What's your problem with ol' rent-a-cop? He steal your woman or something?"

  Tom wasn't sure if it was a trick. He wasn't a smart man, but he had enough street sense to know these agents, which he'd only really ever read about, were nothing if not manipulative. If they ever were honest, it was transient, so Tom cautiously leaned forward, eyeing the pistol that looked comically large for her thin waist, expecting her to draw and blow him away.

  Tom lifted his left pant leg.

  "See this?" His knuckles rapped against the metal rod where the lower half of his leg should have been. "It's his fault."

  "Did he shoot you? How inconsiderate."

  "Nah," Tom said. "I lost it because he wasn't doing his job."

  "Do tell," the agent said enthusiastically. She leaned forward like she actually was interested.

  "People lose it out here sometimes. I mean really lose it. They call it the 'black madness', like it's some excuse for guys who just can't handle their shit, but that ain't it. It's like the light drive, it spreads your brain thin like butter. Or, you know how humans can't comprehend infinity? It's like they finally get it, as if they looked out there and saw just more black going on and on and couldn't take it."

  "Fascinating."

  "Well, we had this one guy, Danny, who worked on the loading crews with us, and he started showing the signs, you know? The shakes, nervousness, paranoia. Sometimes we'd find him just standing in places, not knowing how he got there. So we tell Stellan about it, and he says he'll take care of it. One day, he takes Danny away. He's supposed to lock people like that up, like he's got me in here, but Danny's back a few hours later. He seemed all right for a while after that, but the next thing I know, he's aiming a gravity crane at me. He locks on and fires and boom," Tom clapped, "I'm flying across the room. I hit the deck and look back, and my goddamn foot on up to my knee is still standing there."

  "Sounds to me like this Danny is to blame."

  "Danny's innocent.
The guy wouldn't harm a fly. People who get the madness don't act rationally. Sometimes they just stand there like a statue. Sometimes they do violent things even if they don't mean to. The black madness twists their whole world, so you can't blame them."

  "I see. I lost a piece of myself once, too," Adelynn said, affectionately running her index finger across her temple over the deep scar that looked like a seam between her ghost eye and ear. "Why didn't you get a new one?"

  "Too expensive."

  "Oh, come on," Adelynn said. "The Council'd fix you right up if you asked. Might have to twist their arm and make a case about it affecting your productivity, might have to buy into some debt, but every man's an investment, they say."

  "I guess."

  "No, I think you don't want it replaced. I think you want the reminder," Adelynn said. "When you lost it, how did it make you feel?"

  "Well, at first, I didn't even feel any pain. That came after."

  "That's not what I meant." She waved a hand. "When I lost my eye, you know what I did? Well, first I spent six weeks in a Council-run hospital."

  "Aren't they all Council-run?"

  "Indeed," Adelynn said, laughing. "Anyway, once they had me fixed up, I found the motherfucker who left me for dead and blew his dick off. You know why? There was something inside of me that just screamed that I had to do it, to make things right, to put things back into balance in the universe. So when I ask how it made you feel, I mean inside, how did you feel?"

  Tom thought for a moment. He looked inward with a kind of introspection he hadn't used in what felt like years, and it had been so long because he'd been so focused on everyone else, how everyone else was so full of shit the very smell of them sent him reeling. He realized he didn't like the person he'd become. The anger now defined him, and he realized everyone probably saw him as a child prone to temper tantrums because the reality was he never focused those feelings on anything but booze.

  "Angry," Tom said.