The Symbionts of Murkor

by Tarulli, Gary

  Ellis had been informed, and now believed it to be more than the usual bureaucratic distortion of fact, that the Unión base had been hastily constructed, piece by piece. Very little intel was available concerning the interior or its occupants. Given outward appearances, assuredly it was ill-equipped.

  But, no matter what its shortcomings, Ellis thought, Nadir was here first. By a full year. Unión had discovered Murkor and had the wherewithal and foresight to conduct ultrasonic mapping of its subsurface—thereby locating, and rapidly securing, a precious supply of subterranean water. A remarkable achievement.

  An achievement that Coalition politicos and military brass were now forced to lament.

  “They must be a tenacious lot,” Ellis said, intending it as a compliment given the structure’s poor appearance.

  “Would you expect otherwise?” Pilot responded, a trace of annoyance entering his voice.

  “Let’s move on,” she said. “How far to base Zenith?”

  “Exactly one-hundred kilometers.”

  As Nadir disappeared in the gloom behind them, Ellis reflected on Pilot’s statement regarding the illogic of establishing permanent bases on Murkor. There certainly were obstacles besides the obvious fact the planet was inhospitable. The enormous distance to Varian, the nearest inhabited planet, rendered commerce impractical, the valuable mineral, anecrecium, being the one exception. What had compelled humans to come here initially was easy to explain. Curiosity. It was a proclivity that had heretofore served the human race well, Ellis thought. If we weren’t unrelenting snoops we would be as extinct as the dinosaur.

  “There it is. Coming into view now,” Pilot said, scowling. “Your Coalition assignment. For what it’s worth.”

  It was hard to miss the cynicism. Ellis was starting to wonder the cause when two geodesic bubbles loomed up like giant blisters upon the barren landscape.

  The fifth generation of organo-tech had been utilized in the base’s creation or, more accurately, its growth. The base’s two hemispheres—the greater was a third the size of an enclosed football stadium—had been grown in place (geneticists preferred to say grown in situ) from a genetically and molecularly modified organic material that had repeatedly bifurcated and differentiated to create an impervious exterior shell and a significant portion of interior structural elements.

  Components such as the rigid frames of couches, desks, and tables had been 3-D’d in place. Numerous runs by supply ships like the Trillion supplied the bulk of interior appointments. At great expense, the enclosed space had been rendered both utilitarian and exceedingly comfortable for a sizable contingent of adults. With a full working chef’s kitchen and separate areas designated for exercise and entertainment, Zenith was as opulent inside as it was impressive outside.

  Approaching off-angle, a multitude of cerulean hexagonal facets, like so many jewels, took their turn refracting the dim light of the sun. At regular intervals a crimson glint revealed an identically shaped observation port.

  “Nadir’s wealthy neighbor,” Ellis commented.

  “Shall we set down?” Pilot said abruptly, sporting a second scowl.

  “Soon,” Ellis responded. “Plot in a mapping course. I want an overview of the area that comprises Zenith’s exclusion zone.”

  The two opposing base’s one-hundred kilometer Exclusion Zones (EZs), specifically the amount of resources lying beneath them, were the source of contention. Nadir had water; Zenith, anecrecium. Anecrecium requires water for processing. The rest was easy to figure out.

  The Interplanetary Mining Corporation (IMC), operating under the auspices of the Coalition of Canadian and American Nations (or Coalition, for short), had every intention of making a profit on Murkor. They had evaluated the cost of locating and harvesting ore in a hostile environment. Minimizing the warnings of geologists as to the uncertain supply of water critical for processing, they had convinced themselves that the venture tilted heavily toward financial advantage.

  The corporation and their political backers didn’t like being wrong.

  Which was why Coalition expected her to play a vital, and disruptive, role here.

  The potential for conflict on Murkor can be better appreciated by understanding its Earth-based underpinnings. During the course of two centuries, as the speed of communication and travel increased exponentially, the human race organized into progressively larger geo-political social groups—a process culminating with the emergence of five superpowers. One of them, Coalition, was the result of the unification of what had formerly been Canada, much of the former United States, Iceland, Greenland, and half of the Caribbean islands. A decade later, as counterbalance, Unión was formed from the uneasy merger of Mexico, Cuba, and the separate countries of Central and South America.

  A period of peaceful coexistence ensued between the two powers. Its unraveling was brought about by the social and the economic disruptions caused by several decades of environmental calamity. Competing for a shrinking supply of resources, economic competition deteriorated into economic warfare. Within the last decade, what had been a mutually beneficial relationship characterized by cultural exchange, trade, and a benign rivalry degenerated into a state of cold war and escalating tensions.

  Inevitably, when such a beast is born, it is nurtured by those who could profit from others’ losses: Multinational weapons manufacturers and unscrupulous politicians who foster disputes for wealth or power. If this sounds like an intellectual exercise, it is not—for it entailed a considerable amount of hardship and human suffering on Earth and the potential for wider conflict beyond.

  When Unión had the cojones to establish a small base on Murkor, it became incumbent upon Coalition, taken by surprise, to follow suit. Although late to the party, they managed to arrive in the grandest of fashion. Given the huge expense involved, however, the public began to view the venture as a flagrant misuse of public resources. With the loss of the Trillion and her crew, the word “boondoggle” came back into vogue. Soon after, the word began adhering to certain politicians who, finding no easy inoculation against the vocal criticism, tried to publically disassociate themselves from Zenith while privately supporting IMC’s mining operation there. Why? Because Coalition, through its military branch, was responsible for base security. In return, they expected fifty percent of any profits—profits that could be used to defray the base’s enormous cost, thereby lending a measure of justification to the whole sorry affair.

  Only it wasn’t going as planned at Zenith. The viability of the mining operation was placed in serious jeopardy due to the lack of an essential compound for mineral processing. It was the one compound, water, that Nadir had in sufficient supply.

  And so, Ellis was forced to accept as she studied the harsh landscape rushing below, somewhere in the convoluted back corridors of power a calculated and cynical decision had been made: Send a bitch to handle a bitch of a problem. Get rid of one problem (right, her again) and, with any luck, solve another problem at the same time. Hurl her angry sorry ass out to the furthest reaches, to the last inhabited planet. Her orders: Relieve Zenith’s ineffectual commander, then take possession of Nadir’s precious subterranean water by instigating a dispute in any manner she deemed appropriate. The beauty of it? This far out, Coalition culpability would be obscured. Other than the date of her reassignment, no specifics were logged in the record. If it all turned to shit, she would be hung out to dry.

  “That pretty much covers it, Commander.”

  “Say again?” For a moment, Ellis imagined that Pilot had read her thoughts.

  “We’ve seen everything there is to see.”

  “They’ll be expecting me.” Then, almost to herself, “They’ll be expecting a lot from me.”

  “To do Coalition’s bidding.”

  “Is that what you’ve heard?”

  “That, and more.”

  “And this information you’re privy to—of course you believe every word of it.”

  “When it has the ring of truth to it.”
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  “And what is this ‘truth’ telling you?”

  “You’re here to stir up trouble. It won’t be difficult. A base full of IMC employees, mostly miners, mostly men, non-military. Disgruntled because things aren’t working out quite as they planned.”

  “And this affects you—how?” Ellis asked. If Pilot had something pertinent to say, she wanted to hear it. Having spent years traversing a sizable chunk of the spiral arm, he would have acquired a unique perspective. “When’s the next time you’ll be within twenty light-years of this quadrant?”

  “You’re a fool if you believe what happens here won’t spread, won’t hurt people elsewhere,” Pilot said. “All except the politicians that sent you. To them, it’s just some sort of game. The pieces fall, the players remain untouched.”

  “You have the situation, you have me figured out,” Ellis said.

  “Do you know what the Latinos call us now?” Pilot persisted. “Chancros. It means ‘canker’ in Spanish.”

  Ellis knew the derivation. Canadians were Canucks, Americans, Yanks. When the two countries merged, so had the two words, morphing into “Canks” and then “Cankers.” Admittedly, it was more creative than “Tinos,” a shortening of Latinos, a lame attempt to deride a popular name for Latino males. Two more slurs to help populate the human lexicon. Hell, you almost felt left out if you weren’t part of an ethnic or social group that had “earned’ one.

  “And what is your solution to Zenith’s problems?” Ellis asked.

  “Do nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I’ve been to colonies on eighteen planets. Four moons. Five floating space habitats. I’ve managed to see just about every culture you can imagine. Do you know what people universally have in common? What they want?”

  Ellis shook her head and waited.

  “They want to be left alone. They want to go about living their lives. Earn a good living. Start a family. Enjoy a good meal. Breathe fresh air—”

  “—consume fresh water,” Ellis inserted, calling attention to Zenith’s lack of.

  “Has Zenith run out of drinking water?” Pilot asked, seizing on the remark. “Last I heard, the shortage there pertains to that used for their ill-conceived mining operation.”

  “Zenith has twenty-four IMC miners, disgruntled miners if I correctly remember your word, who would probably suggest using force to obtain that water.”

  “A suggestion you’re here to facilitate,” Pilot said. “And why a sensible person should be worried.”

  “We have, I see, come full circle,” Ellis said, peering out the port side to once again view her final destination.

  Neither spoke as Pilot deftly navigated the shuttle to a soft touchdown in proximity to the larger of Zenith’s two hemispheres. From there it was a short taxi into the portal that opened in the structure’s sleek facade.

  Ellis left her seat to retrieve the few personal articles she brought with her. Looking back into the body of the ship, she noticed that Pilot, believing he was alone, had donned the same headset he had worn while navigating through the debris field.

  She’d have to think long and hard to conjure up an image one-tenth as heartwarming as the one he was now contentedly viewing.

  Floating in space was the delightful image of Pilot, an attractive middle-aged woman, and two smiling children, one of them holding a small poodle.

  She felt a sudden deep pang of regret. Years ago, she had forever stolen the pleasure of a similar image from someone else. If Pilot (who had otherwise shown a keen sense of judgment) had noticed her sad expression at that precise moment he would have known just how badly he had misjudged her. Erasing the pain of that memory, not the memory itself, was the one thing that motivated her.

  A whoosh of pressurized air, and the shuttle portal opened.

  “Commander Ellis, I presume?” came the booming voice. “Of course, of course. I’m Commander Frank Trenchon. Welcome to Zenith.”

  2. Base Nadir

  “UNSAFE” WOULD NOT BE the first thing that would come to mind if the six inhabitants of Nadir were asked to describe their substandard accommodations, this despite having to endure frequent breakdowns to electronic components and mechanical equipment. Once past the expletives, “uncomfortable” or “confining” or “outdated” were words more apt to be used when they referred to Nadir’s structure.

  A pyramid, if one factors in the area lost to its radically sloping sides, is not the ideal shape for a domicile. The interior was sliced into three progressively smaller levels. Contributing to the feeling of confinement, most of the walls were partitioned off by meter high knee walls, the uninhabitable space functioning primarily as a chase for power, communication, and ventilation conduits.

  Level1 was oddly chopped into several compartments, principally the crew’s six individual sleeping quarters, a communications hub, a cramped galley-type kitchen (used for food storage and assembly—preparation being at a minimum), and an equipment closet serving as the nerve center for the entire structure. An adjoining compartment housed the mechanical workings of the base’s Environmental Support System, referred to as ESS, a complicated and equally temperamental scrubber/oxygen recharge system. Crammed into the same area was the unit’s brain, the Nexus.

  The entirety of Level2 was intended as a “community” space—a euphemism for the overcrowding of several competing functions including research, conference, entertainment, and dining. Ceiling-mounted retractable curtains afforded a small measure of patient privacy in the cubical set aside for medical purposes. In deference to the psychological benefits of allowing an animal to peer outside its cage, planners had incorporated expansive viewports into two opposing walls. Panoramic views of Murkor could only have a sobering effect. One viewport “opened” to a bleak lava field, the other a slightly more animated (but no less depressing) view of fumaroles belching gases high into the sky. Already diminished by a prevalent atmospheric haze, the gloomy quality of light that struggled its way past the dirty glass imparted the interior with the ambience of a gothic crypt.

  Notwithstanding efforts by the crew, the few decorations available persisted in looking insufferably drab. Other than the sporadic intrusion of blue flashes from magnetic storms, the predominate color was the iridescent orange of “caution” signs so gloriously plastered on the gray, fiberform walls.

  None of this was particularly inspirational, but if there were any lingering doubts in the minds of Nadir’s occupants that their habitat was no more than an excuse for Unión to stake first claim on the planet, they were dispelled upon entry to the L3’s makeshift exercise room, the pyramid’s pinnacle. Here the obnoxious, incredibly bizarre sounds of erupting fumaroles were more pronounced, an annoyance that could have been prevented had the structure’s acoustics been given half the attention they deserved. Basic geometry dictates that the top level of a four-sided pyramid is comprised of a floor and four external sides, the sides converging at an apex, a configuration that presents a large exposure to exterior noise. A pertinent consideration, along with many others, that was ignored when designing the structure.

  The room’s present occupants were Comandante Andrés Garcia and Sargento Carlos Alvarez. L3 was Carlos’s favorite part of the base, trumping the galley kitchen. Twenty-four years of age, he was the youngest and the most affected by the sedentary nature of base life. To entertain himself he had waged, and won, a personal war against physical inactivity by augmenting what he jokingly referred to as the room’s two useless aerobic and resistance-type exercise machines with a sturdy bench and a few hundred kilograms of what he proudly called free weights. Realizing that there was no way this type of item would be transported to Nadir, he had made his own, filling six strong fibermesh storage bags with varying amounts of the heaviest objects he could find, mainly chunks of lava and various metal objects he felt were unessential to the base’s safe operation. Using a counterbalance scale, also of his own design, he stuffed each bag with exactly enough material to offset the weight of
a known object. In this manner, sets of forty-, fifty-, and sixty-kilogram bags were created. When attached in varying combination to each end of a metal rod they created seven specific increments ranging between eighty to three hundred kilograms.

  The product of all this, although somewhat unwieldy at times, produced the desired effect. Carlos had maintained the physique and muscle strength of an amateur weightlifter. Close-cropped hair, good-looking square facial features, and cocky mannerisms gave him the appearance of a jock, except that stereotype was merely the visible half of the young man. The other half was a quick-witted, well-educated engineer whose talents had (by his own frequent admission) kept Nadir running.

  “Barely winded,” he bragged with a satisfied grunt, addressing Garcia, who was working up a sweat on the treadmill located across the floor. “Six reps. Two-hundred kilos. Pretty damned impressive.”

  “As usual, you need a reality check,” Garcia responded, making a quick mental adjustment for Murkor’s gravity, which was .81 of Earth’s. “You’re really lifting one hundred sixty-two.”

  “Correct me if I’ve got this wrong,” Carlos fired back, using a small rag to wipe the perspiration from the bar he had been holding. “Not naming names, but as a person gets advanced in years the tendency is to gravitate away from honest exertion—weightlifting, for example—to a more leisurely form of aerobic exercise, which is just one step up from walking, which is one step up from breathing.”

  “Amusing,” Garcia said. “Especially when you consider that this misinformation comes from a muscle-bound fool hefting a bag of rocks like he’s some kind of Neanderthal. I guess no one ever accused you of cogitating. You know, that’s a flight of steps up from opening your mouth and letting whatever words come pouring out. And by the way, is there anything about yourself you don’t wildly exaggerate?”

  “Shit, yeah.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Given my obvious and considerable attributes,” he said, resuming his bench presses, “just how incredibly modest I am.”