Tom turned off the intercom. "I'm sorry," he said.
"It's not your fault."
Tom didn't say anything. A strangely overwhelming blend of emotions fell on Ben. Mixed with his hunger and exhaustion, it smothered him like a blanket.
"I'm still here, aren’t I?" he said. "After all, I wouldn't have got this far without you. You saved my life."
* * *
It felt like Ben had never known anything other than these numbers. He'd looked through over ten thousand lines, the process of scanning through each petasecond of recorded code a process he was barely conscious of anymore. Sensor this, valve that, thruster the other. Amidst his hunger, he felt like the data was part of a waking dream. It channelled him back in time, freeze frames of the moments that changed his life forever.
It had become his safe place, his meditation. It helped to occupy his mind so he didn't have to think. He'd go hours without a single thought from entering his mind. It was pure, emotionless bliss. It was his drug.
In a way, he hoped he never found the answer. He simply wanted to immerse himself in the code, bury himself deep in it and not come out until they hit land. He blinked; it could have been the first time in a minute, or the first time in hours. He didn't know.
He blinked again. Something had stirred him from his waking dream. Something that stuck in his throat. For a moment, he froze. He even briefly considered ignoring it and moving on, settling back into the haze.
But he couldn't. He scanned back a few lines. Station, coordinates sent. Tug, coordinates received. Tug, thruster adjustment, vertical. Tug, thruster adjustment, horizontal. Station, coordinates sent. Tug, coordinates received. Tug, exhaust temperature modulation. Tug, valves open. Tug, valves cycling. Tug, valves shut. Station, coordinates sent. Tug, coordinates received.
His eyes traced the code with heightened alacrity. He felt awakened, alive. His fingertips were hypersensitive, and his breathing rattled in his ears.
Station, coordinates sent. Tug, coordinates received. Station, traffic update sent. Tug, traffic update received. Tug, thruster adjustment, vertical. Tug, exhaust temperature modulation. Tug, valves open. Tug, valves cycling. Tug, valves shut. Station, coordinates sent.
A prickling apprehension rose in him, sparking in his chest and limbs as he reviewed the familiar code. He was close, he knew it. He held his breath.
Tug, temperature drop detected. Tug, internal temperature adjustment. Station, coordinates sent. Tug coordinates received.
The stickiness in his throat tugged and gnawed.
Tug, screen brightness adjustment. Tug, thruster adjustment, horizontal. Tug, exhaust temperature modulation. Tug, valves open. Tug, valves cycling. Tug, valves shut. Tug, air seal test. Tug, air seal test returned normal. Tug, air quality test. Tug, air quality test returned normal. Tug, temperature increase detected. Tug, internal temperature adjustment.
Ben's eyes widened. In the thousands of lines of code he'd read through, one thing was consistent. Every millisecond, the station sent updated coordinates to the tug to update the global location. Double that had passed and there had been no update.
He read it again to be sure. Then he read on. He scanned through a seconds' worth of data, looking for that one line. He didn't find it. He checked the time log—it was minutes before the barge collided with the station.
"Tom …" he said, voice cracking with lack of use.
Tom took a few moments to respond. "Yes, Ben?"
"I think I've found something."
"You have? What?"
"The station, the coordinates … they're missing. From line fifteen thousand nine-hundred and seventeen."
Ben waited while Tom thought about it.
"I see," he said at last.
"What do you think?" Ben asked.
"I don't know."
"How come it didn't register as an error?"
"I don't know. Hang on a minute."
Ben waited in silence for a while, wondering what Tom was up to. When Tom spoke again, it made Ben jump.
"Half a millisecond after the last batch of coordinates was sent by the station, it appears as though the deep inscription of the coordinates has changed."
Ben frowned. "What does that mean?"
"The deep data hard-coded into every line. It registers the time code of the line, as well as things like the encryption type, validation errors, things like that."
"So …?"
"Well, on the line, the—the time code has been reset. Back to zero."
Shaking his head, trying to free it of confusion, Ben said, "I don't get it. And why didn't you see this before?"
"Searching through data at this level is almost impossible on this scale. It's the data behind the data, it doesn't do anything except confirm that the data actually existed."
"So what does the time code reset mean?"
"It means … it means someone hard rebooted the station computer."
There it was. Ben was speechless for a few seconds. "But … how?" he squeaked.
"I—I don't know."
"Wenzig …" Ben whispered.
"No, I don't think—"
"Why not? Why couldn't he have done it?"
Tom was silent.
"It's possible, right?"
"Yes, it's possible."
Ben's mind was racing. "And if he had, there'd be no trace of it in the tug's computer—except this time code reset?"
"That's correct. The only record would be on the ship's computer."
"Which was destroyed."
"Yes."
Ben couldn't believe it. There it was, finally. The answer. The truth.
"Ben," Tom said, "we can't prove anything at this point. Please don't dwell on it. You need your strength."
"How can I ignore it?" Ben said, voice raised. "Wenzig killed my parents, killed everyone!"
"You need to stay calm. You can't afford the stress."
Even as Tom spoke, Ben could feel waves of exhaustion flooding through his body. He began to shiver. "This isn't right," Ben said. "When we get back to Earth, I'm going to find Zachery Dance and tell him straight away. I'm going to tell everyone."
"Ben, I will update Helios with all the information I have. They will investigate the loss. They will find the answers. I suggest that it's best for you to put this from your mind entirely."
Ben's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because … it's best."
"Why is it best? What aren't you telling me? What are you trying to hide?"
"I'm trying to protect you."
Wild anger was boiling in Ben's gut. It was becoming obvious that Tom was trying to keep something hidden from him. "You don't want me telling them, do you? Why? Do you think if you cover all this up for Helios that they'll reward you by not decommissioning you? Why bother—after all, now you've lost your intelligence you're just a stupid computer—"
Ben caught himself, but it was too late.
"Tom, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it."
"I know," Tom said. "I think it's best I power down now. I need to save the energy to recuperate the heat you’ve lost from raising your heart rate. Try to get some rest."
And then Tom was gone.
"Tom?" Ben called out quietly.
There was no answer. Ben sagged in his seat. His brain felt like a jumbled mess. He hadn't meant to hurt Tom like that. He was tired, and angry. Wenzig had done all this. All of it. Why couldn't Tom see that?
Ben scrolled back to the beginning of the code and began to read it all over again from line one.
Chapter 21
"We need to make a course adjustment."
Ben snapped from his daze. Had he dreamed that? He wasn't sure. He sat up and listened.
"Tom, was that you?"
"Yes. We need to make a course adjustment."
They were nine days from entering the signal perimeter around Earth. Nine long, agonising days.
"Okay, tell me what I need to do," Ben said. He slapped his face. He was having trouble fo
cusing.
"Remember, this is the last opportunity we'll get to do this. On my mark, correct latitude three degrees down."
Ben blinked until the screen was clear. "Ready," he said. The screen dipped into fuzz again. His insides ached with hunger.
"Three … two … one … mark."
Ben nudged the controls. His hand quivered. The controls didn't move. He pushed harder, the exertion needed for fine motor control evading him. His hand twitched, jerking the stick. The craft tipped down violently.
"Correct latitude two degrees up, longitude three degrees starboard," Tom said urgently.
Ben blinked again, trying to read the screen. The numbers were blurred and unreadable. He pulled the stick, jerking the nose back up again.
"Ben—"
"I'm trying!" Ben wheezed. "I just need to correct it back again."
He took a deep breath, tensed his arms until the shake subsided, then gave the most controlled input he could. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. This time he gave the controls a firm shove, but still nothing happened.
"What's happening?" he said, a fog of confusion settling on him. "Why can't I move the tug?"
"I'm sorry," Tom said. "I tried to tell you. There's no more fuel left."
In an instant, Ben's insides froze. He felt like he needed to vomit, but he couldn't move.
"Did we make the correction?"
"No. With this course heading, we will miss Earth's signal perimeter by almost a million kilometres. I'm sorry."
Ben looked at the controls. He couldn't believe what he'd just done.
"I did this …" he whispered.
"It's not your fault, Ben," Tom said. "You're exhausted."
"It is … I did it … I let us down …"
"Ben …"
Ben leaned back in the pilot's seat. It had been his home for almost half a year, and now he'd just committed it to being his final resting place as well.
"So this is it now …" he said. "We just drift."
"There's always a chance. Someone might find us."
"How? There's no one out here."
"It's not impossible," Tom said, clearly trying to reassure him.
"What does your gut say?"
Tom didn't respond.
Ben shut his eyes, tried to picture his parents. Their faces were difficult to see, almost transparent. He could barely remember what they'd looked like.
"Maybe it's best," he said. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for life."
"Ben, please …"
"I'm sorry I was horrible to you," Ben said. "I'm a bad person. It's why I don't have any friends. It's why no one likes me. Earth is probably better off without me. I don't deserve you as a friend. I've messed all this up."
"That's not true," Tom said. "You're my friend and I'm your friend. I may not be as clever as I used to be, but that doesn’t mean I don't know a good person when I see one. And Ben …"
"Yes?"
"You're right. I am hiding something from you."
Ben sat up. "What? What do you mean?"
Tom sighed. "When I first met your parents, I knew they were special people. They were kind and caring, just like you. They made the station what it was, brought out the best in everyone who lived and worked there, me included. When they realised that you struggled to make friends with people, they entrusted me to look after you."
"But I thought my parents didn't really like you? They were always telling me not to hang around with you."
"They loved you so much, Ben. They wanted you to have a normal childhood, have normal friends. But they were so busy that they couldn't give that to you, and that filled them with guilt. They cared for you so much, but they knew that the station would always dominate their time. I suppose they wished that the time we spent together could be the time they spent with you. They didn't dislike me, or you or anyone—they disliked themselves for the decisions they had to make."
Ben sat there, listening to what Tom was saying and trying to take it all in.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked finally.
"Because I want you to know the truth. I wanted to protect you from it, for your own benefit, but I realise now that that's not what's best for you. You've proven that you can handle the hardest situations anyone could ever face—I mean, you've made it this far, how many people could do that? So I think it's best that you fully realise just how important you are.
"Now that I've told you that, I'm going to shut down, because I want to preserve backup power for as long as possible to give you the best chance of survival. I'm going to power down all the minor functions of the tug, too. It will get cold, so wrap up in the suit. I've put a file on the computer for you—when you've finished listening, please switch the computer off."
Ben didn't move or say anything.
"And Ben—thank you for everything."
The silence that followed chilled Ben to his core. Once he was sure Tom was gone, he sealed his suit up. He could feel the temperature dropping already. Then he tapped the computer awake. On the main page was a file, titled Emergency Broadcast. It was the message Tom must have sent when they connected to the comms tower all those months ago. Ben tapped it. At once, his helmet was filled with the sound of his father. Sirens and shouting wailed in the background.
"Tom, long range comms are down. When you receive this, please find a way of getting it back to Earth. It's very important. To the board of the Helios corporation, this Adam Forrest speaking. I'm here with my wife and co-director Jane Forrest. We are joint directors of the Jove orbital research platform. This is an emergency distress call."
Chapter 22
Ben sat perfectly still. Even though he knew this audio was prerecorded, he very much felt like his father was talking to him directly, from the heart of accident. He held his breath, every part of him tingling. He both awaited what his father said eagerly, and with dread.
"Thank you for everything," his father continued. "Thank you for the opportunity to be part of this amazing program. Thank you for putting your faith in us. The crew has done so much for us and have become a close family to us.
"Unfortunately, we do not have long left. The program has come to an end. The hull is ruptured and the main reactor is overheating. We have, perhaps, minutes at most."
His voice was cracking, Ben could hear it.
"Our—our son, Ben he—he's on a tug. Look after him, Tom. Perhaps he can survive this. Perhaps this is a one in a million chance for him to have what he always dreamed of, a life on Earth. Ben, if you ever hear this, we're sorry. Sorry for everything. Sorry for having abandoned you. You're so special to us and we—"
Although the sirens continued to wail, Ben's father stopped talking. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, thicker. Ben was beginning to feel very hot in his suit.
"We love you very much. So, so much. More than you can ever know. You're the smartest, nicest person I've ever known, and I hope you can go on to show the world what an amazing human being you are."
He cleared his throat and continued.
"To Helios, we want to report the truth. It's important that you know. For the past three months, we have been preparing for the refit of the station, working with you on Earth to install state-of-the-art equipment to continue our research on Jupiter and on fusion technology. Despite our best efforts, and the best efforts of everyone on board, something has gone wrong. This wasn't a malfunction, repeat—this wasn't a malfunction."
Ben listened hard, every hiss and crackle of static exploding in his head.
"We did this," Ben's father said. "We did this."
It was as though time stopped dead. Ben listened for more, waiting, waiting, lungs burning for air, hands shaking, legs numb.
"We have overworked ourselves. It's no excuse. We overlooked a mistake on the schedule for the hard reset of the central computer for the uninstallation of the logic core; it activated a day early. This is our fault. We checked and checked again, but we didn't see the mistake. We're so, so
sorry."
Ben didn't know what to do. He desperately needed air and took a great breath, but it didn't seem to work. He was suffocating.
"I—I want the record to show that we did this. Everyone else worked so hard for so long, and we let them down. We let all of them down. We're so sorry. We—"
Ben could hear muffled sobbing. Then he heard his mother's voice, just above the static, consoling his father.
"It's okay," she said, barely audible. "I love you."
"I love you too," Ben's father said. "But it's not okay. We did this. We're responsible."
There was just the sirens for a minute, and then Ben's mother spoke again.
"We love you, Ben. Stay safe—"
And then the broadcast ended. Silence. Nothing.
Ben sat motionless for a long while. He didn't know how long, but he felt like if he moved, it would all become real. So he stayed still. Very still. He was alone. He didn't cry.
"I'm sorry, Tom," he said out loud. There was no response.
* * *
Three days later, and the food had run out. Ben struggled to keep conscious. That didn't matter though, because he didn't want to be conscious. The numbing haze was welcome, kept him from feeling what he didn't want to feel. He'd awaken in the corner, in the pilot's seat, on the floor, and have no idea—or care—how he got there.
This was the end for him.
He was leaning against the charred panel that had caught fire, looking up at the green light that told him the cabin was pressurised. It glowed bright against his retinas, shone like a halo through the visor of his space suit. He could almost hear the humming electricity charging its glow.
Without thinking, a slow realisation came to him. There was no need to wait. He could end this, now. The green light was his saviour, his chance to rest. He hadn't listened to the recording again since that first time, but it played on a loop in his head. The green light could stop it. Could make him better, give him peace.
He didn't know how he'd got to the light. It was just suddenly—bigger. Above, the levers. The process led his hands without his input.
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