Anti Life

by Allen Kuzara

  Startled, Alvarez turned around. “I didn’t see you there,” he said. Sitting in the corner of the tiny room was Sargent Robert Fields, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, cut short and a cavalier mustache that was still black.

  “I thought ship’s captains were supposed to be brave and fearless.”

  “If you saw an old mangy dog first thing in the morning, you be startled too,” Alvarez said. “Sarge, how have you been? It’s been…how long?”

  “Same as always, I guess. Still working for the same certs these young punks get. You’d think I’d learn my lesson.”

  “You and me both,” Alvarez said pretending to be in the same boat. There was a huge gap between grunt-pay and a mission colonel’s salary. “Just when I thought I was out of Novos, they reactivated my contract.”

  “Son, I know you’re good at your job—so don’t take offense—but I’m surprised that cheapskate McKinley would cough up the certs to reactivate an officer. Did you check your hold-comp?”

  “Yeah, the certs are in escrow already. I guess they figure it’s worth it somehow.”

  “Either that or…” Sarge trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just forget I said anything. I’m sure they’re making certs hand over fist on this mission.”

  “Doubtful. Didn’t you read the dossier?”

  “As many missions as I’ve been on, you learn how to ignore unimportant details. I just deal with things as they come. Besides, when was the last time that Novos’s stated objective was what was really at stake? They always have an ulterior motive. Their published minutes read like an alter boy’s diary. They have to maintain a positive spin with stockholders. You remember that time we dropped burn-out cores on one of Trinity’s newly terra-formed worlds? The mission record said we were traveling in a totally different vector transporting a shipment of algae protein concentrates.” Sarge roared with laughter.

  “We had to clean up behind Novos on that one,” Alvarez said. “They forgot to remove corporate logos embossed on those reactors. If I didn’t have certs at stake, I would have just let Trinity find it with Novos’s name written all over it.”

  “Should have,” Sarge said in a more somber tone.

  “Well, this is a rescue mission at best, damage control at worst.”

  “Oh,” the Sarge said softly. “I see.” The lines in his face seemed to grow more pronounced as he tried to cover up a scowl.

  “What is it? Don’t make me pull rank on you, old man.”

  Sarge chuckled. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but there’s always the chance Novos doesn’t expect you to collect.”

  Alvarez took a second to compute Sarge’s meaning. “Novos doesn’t think I’m coming back?”

  Sarge shrugged.

  “You old codger. How’d you get so pessimistic?”

  “Surviving will do that to you, John. That’s how you get as old as me. In this line of work, you’ve got to see the transport backin’ up before it runs you over. You’ll be like this too one day…” he added, “if you’re lucky.”

  The coffee maker beeped at Alvarez. He grabbed his cup, gave Sarge a nod, and headed toward the helm.

  He wondered if Sarge was on to something. Is that what Novos did with people who were leaving? Throw them onto the frontlines and hope they don’t have to pay out? Regardless, he was here now. If he was walking into a fight, then he would fight. He knew how to do that, and worrying would change nothing.

  One of the grunts bumped into Alvarez. “Excuse me, sir,” said the grunt. Alvarez looked down at his uniform and his new coffee stain. That’s what I get for not being in the moment, Alvarez thought. Before he could respond, the grunt disappeared down the corridor.

  Crew were coming out the woodwork. It was time for the shift-change. The loudest noises came from the cargo bay at the posterior end of the corridor. He hoped this was temporary. If not, he’d have to seal the helm door just to keep his sanity.

  Alvarez entered the helm and came to the command post. Unlike how people in previous centuries envisioned a captain’s chair at the helm, Novos and most other corporate settlements allowed for no such luxuries. Instead, there was an array of screens, consoles, and communication devices allowing the mission colonel to control the ship.

  For Alvarez, commanding the first few shifts was like putting on a favorite, worn-out sweater. Everything was as he remembered, and he was good at it. It felt right.

  But it wasn’t easy. For the last couple of shifts, he had experienced the painful side of the job. His leg was already throbbing despite just starting his shift. Mission colonels were required to stand at their post, and the rubber-like floor only helped a little. There wasn’t a chair to tempt them. The idea was that their work demanded the highest level of diligent focus. The risk of zoning out and missing something was too great to allow for a comfortable chair.

  The notion was noble albeit idealistic. Many saw it to be counterproductive because it caused unnecessary fatigue. But traditions die hard, and Alvarez had come to expect the pain. Pain was his personal yardstick. A prolonged absence of pain was unsettling. He felt guilty, because progress required suffering. It wasn’t really about whether he deserved to feel pleasure or not. He liked to have fun like everyone else. But he knew there was a difference between fun and happiness. The road to genuine satisfaction was always a painful one.

  On missions with a larger crew, at least one of the officers would have medical training and could dispense injections to strengthen his veins. But not on this mission. He had forgotten his ointment. That desk job made me soft and forgetful, he thought.

  Alvarez spoke to Parker. “What’s your status?”

  “All of the posts have checked in for the new shift except for the systems operator,” Parker said.

  “Jitters?”

  “Yeah. We called his quarters, but he didn’t answer.”

  “Stay at the helm. I’ll be back to relieve you in two minutes.” Alvarez had seen this situation before, but he wasn’t sure how to handle it. Apparently Jitters hadn’t changed. He was up to his old tricks again.

  Alvarez reentered the main corridor. The noise from the cargo bay welcomed him. He passed the officer’s quarters and arrived at the grunts’ barracks. Posted on the door was the official title: “Enlisted Service Persons’ Living Quarters.” But no one used this term in common speech. “Grunts” was more descriptive, and it saved time.

  Only two interior doors were commonly closed: those for the officers’ quarters and the grunts’ barracks. Alvarez disengaged the lock with a wave of his hand and manually slugged the massive door open. Once inside he slammed the door. A boom reverberated throughout the compartment.

  The grunts’ quarters consisted of one skinny hallway. On each side were tiny cells stacked two high. A short ladder was attached to the wall for the upper cells. He found Jitters’ room, one of the lower cells recessed down into the floor like a garden apartment. A piece of plastic was taped above his door over where his legal name should have been. Scribbled in red marker, it read “Jitters.”

  Alvarez opened the door without knocking. Jitters was shirtless and barefoot, passed out on his bunk. Alvarez looked at the ceiling, trying to locate the source of a high-pitched squeal. It came from a filtering system, a standard issued item in all living quarters. Novos and other corporate settlements had learned long ago not to mess with people’s vices. The extended, isolated experiences tempted even the most stanch abstainers.

  Alvarez figured Jitters left the filter on all night, burning out some component. They weren’t meant for continuous usage. Alvarez flipped it off.

  On Jitters’ chest was a ceramic inhaler, undoubtedly used to ingest whatever had knocked him out.

  Alvarez was conflicted. He was perturbed with Jitters’ behavior, but they went way back. They owed each other their lives. He was embarrassed because Jitters was one of his men, and here he was acting like a junky. And he was angry because whatever he did in the past to help Jitters
had failed.

  Empty bottles lie scattered on the floor, and several inches of melted ice remained in a bucket beside the cot. Alvarez picked up the bucket and poured it on Jitters. Jitters sat up gasping. The sight would have been funny if Alvarez wasn’t angry.

  “You’ve got work to do,” Alvarez said. Jitters stared shamefaced. “You’re part of a team now,” Alvarez said. “You can’t pull this junky act on my ship. If you can’t keep it together, I’ll confine you to quarters for the rest of the mission.”

  Jitters tried to stand up, but he winced as his right foot touched the floor. He collapsed back onto his cot. Alvarez saw a nail file and a pile of skin on the floor.

  “What did you do to yourself?” Alvarez asked.

  “I-I-I wanted new skin. I wanted to feel like a b-b-baby. I t-t-took the callouses off my right foot. Then it started to hurt, so I stopped. It was dumb, I know. Too much…” He picked up his inhaler.

  Jitters was no criminal. Drug prohibition had expired in most corporate settlements a century ago. What was protected were the rights of others. If someone got intoxicated and crashed a ship or got into a brawl, the private courts exacted judgment. But if someone destroyed themselves, there wasn’t a legal thing you could do to stop them. The non-aggression principle forbade it.

  Addictions were usually career hurdles, causing people to be looked over for promotions because they seemed unreliable. The incentives rewarded persons to stay clean, but substance abuse was rampant. Especially by grunts in space.

  Jitters finally spoke, “I-I-I’m sorry, Colonel. I-I-I was just itching so bad last night. I needed a break.”

  “You get twelve hours between shifts. Can’t you make it work?”

  “No. I get stir crazy. I just needed a way out. I didn’t plan it this way. It just got away from me. It won’t happen again,” said Jitters.

  “No one gets out of problems,” Alvarez said. “There’s no getting out of it. You can’t go around them, ignore them, hide from them. You can only go through it. Nothing changes until you do that.”

  Jitters didn’t look convinced. “S-s-sir, you don’t know what I’ve been going through.”

  “Maybe so. But whatever it is, you’re not going through it. You’re doing everything you can to get out of it, to go around it. Every attempt to avoid a problem only makes it worse. What are you dodging anyway?”

  “You know some of the stuff we saw back in the Fight. I still hear those guys’ voices from back then.”

  Alvarez stood there for a moment. He said, “That’s not it.”

  “What do you mean?” Jitters said self-righteously.

  “You’re not running from the Fight. I have those dreams and hear those voices too. We all have to bear that curse. But Jitters, you were running from something the day I met you.”

  “B-b-back then, it was just recreational.”

  “Nobody uses like you did just for fun. Listen to me. No one’s coming to save you. I’ve certainly tried as have others. You use up people’s sympathy after a while. No one’s coming, Jitters. No matter how bad-off you get, there’s no point at which life will take pity on you. It has to be you. Nothing’s going to get better until you stare it down, whatever it is you’re running from.”

  Jitters listened but was still unresponsive. Alvarez said, “Clean up, get some coffee, and meet me on the helm on the double.” He walked to the door. He turned, looking back. “And Jitters, wrap up your foot.”

  Jitters grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  Terra York, the only woman aboard the Constance, outranked most of the crew. But chief mechanic was still considered an enlisted position, meaning she slept in a tiny cell just like all the grunts. She wasn’t fazed. Compared to growing up as a marauder, she had an indulgent life: hot chow, hot showers, and a warm bed. She even earned vacation time, but never took them. Where would she go?

  She was pretty enough, even though she down-played it by buzzing her hair short. Beneath her oversized mechanic’s overalls, she had a desirable figure. On these missions, it didn’t matter how she looked. Unsolicited advances from bored, barely post-adolescent crew were incessant. She needed a stick to beat back the dogs.

  But being the only female crew member did have its perks. Novos built a small set of women’s quarters—they were still cells—and lavatories separate from the men’s. They shared the same compartment as the aquaponics station.

  York enjoyed her shower in solitude. The gurgling sounds from the aquaponics tanks were barely audible over the hissing spray. But she was getting antsy. She had been in too long. She, like most of the crew, took short showers, even though she wasn’t required to do so. There was no need to conserve water; the ship recycled all of the waste fluids back into H20 with perfect efficiency. And heat wasn’t a problem either. The reactor core produced enormous amounts of it. Most heat was vented into space. For other crew, the thought of showering in someone else’s filtered excrement tended to hasten bathing. But for York, it was something else. She couldn’t get use to the excesses, the indulgences, of corporate life.

  She turned off the water and was met by hot, dry air that beaded moisture away from her skin as she stepped out. With her buzz cut, even her hair was dry. She looked for her clothes. Her dirty coveralls lay on the ground along with socks and underwear. She had forgotten to bring clean clothes, but it wasn’t a problem. She was alone, and her cell was close by.

  She grabbed the towel from the dispenser and wrapped it around herself. It was too small. She headed towards her quarters on the other side of the aquaponics station. As she passed the fish tanks, she admired every space traveler’s favorite color; life affirming green lettuces grew on grow-beds above the tanks.

  Except for the occasional machinist work in the cargo bay, aquaponics was the loudest source of sound on the ship. She heard it at night as she tried to sleep.

  York rounded the station and the gurgling diminished. She kept her head down, watching her step on the slick, tiled floor. The room was always humid, shower or not. Only a few feet away, she darted for her door. In her haste, she nearly knocked down David Parker.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Parker. “I wasn’t watching you—I mean—I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  “It’s completely my fault,” she said. York dropped her dirty clothes and used both hands to keep her towel secure. “I should make a request to Novos for longer towels,” she said.

  Parker tried to laugh, but little came out. Ears red, he kept his eyes on the floor.

  “I left my clean clothes in my quarters,” she said, “and I didn’t realize it until I’d finished.”

  “Oh, I see. I mean, I understand. I would probably do something like that, except the officer’s quarters have their own showers.”

  “Don’t brag,” she teased.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that like. I just…”

  “It’s okay. I’m kidding.” She tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact. “What are you doing here anyway? Feeding the fish?”

  “No.” Parker belted. “I was looking at—I mean for… I came to talk to you.” Parker swallowed hard. He appeared less comfortable fully clothed than York did half naked. “I was wondering if you finished the performance report on the warp-field generator,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s still on my console down on the cargo bay. I would have sent it to you directly, but I wanted to go over it with you.”

  Parker looked up. Work-talk distracted him from the awkward situation. “Were there problems?”

  “Not really. Everything’s running smoothly right now. I guess it’s more of a hunch than anything else.”

  “Something with the data?”

  “Small temperature spikes,” she said.

  “During the Davidson particle cycle.”

  “Right. Most of the heat gets ejected into the fabric of space-time. But there’s residual that’s tacitly stored in the warp-field itself.”

  “And released once we come out of IST,” Parker added. “That�
��s to be expected. It’s usually an insignificant amount of heat. And the ship’s hull should protect us from a much greater release of energy than from what accumulates during Davidson cycles.”

  “I’m not worried about it endangering us directly; I’m worried about the cooling system getting over taxed.”

  “The heat should dissipate almost instantly,” Parker said. “Even if the cooling system was temporarily turned off, we wouldn’t be in danger from heat.”

  “I know, but the system doesn’t have the intelligence to know that this huge spike we’re going to experience is temporary. The system is going to react as if the core is melting and will kick into high gear. All kinds of interdependent parts could fail, and we haven’t tested them at the ramped-up level they will be performing at when we come out of IST.”

  “Can we short-circuit the cooling system, so that it doesn’t overreact?”

  “I thought of that, but it’s an active system as long as we’re in IST.”

  “So in other words, we can’t turn it off while we’re in a warp-field without it overheating, and the longer we’re in a warp-field the more likely the cooling system will fail when we come out of IST. I designed the ship, but I still didn’t catch this problem.”

  “It’s not your fault. Novos should’ve tested longer before commissioning her,” York said. “Any chance Alvarez would let us drop out of IST early?”

  “To dispense the residual heat from the Davidson cycle before it gets critical?”

  York nodded.

  “I doubt it,” Parker said. “We’re running on razor thin margins as it is, and Novos wants no delays. Besides we’re within twenty-fours of reaching the probe. If we’re going to have problems with the cooling system, we might as well reach our destination first.”

  “I guess we’ve got a tiger by the tail then,” she said.

  “And we’re about to release it.” Parker looked away, but this time he didn’t look embarrassed. His mind was elsewhere.

  “Well, I better get dressed,” she said. “I’ll see you at the next shift-change.”