We stare at each other as our breathing slows.
Kodiak busies himself with the important task of straightening his sleeves. “Just so you know, I wouldn’t prefer Minerva to you.”
My eyebrow cocks as I watch him not look at me. Kodiak presses up from the table and stands. “Shall we go?” he says.
“Could you say that part about Minerva again?” I ask, testing out the tender back side of my hand.
He reaches a hand under his collar to rub an itch on his shoulder. “Really?”
I nod, bottom lip pinned between my teeth. “About how you’d choose me over her?”
He sighs. “You, Ambrose. I prefer to be with you.”
I give a little shimmy-shiver as I stand. “Thank you. You don’t know how much joy that just gave to my petty and competitive Cusk soul.”
“I’ve created a monster,” Kodiak says.
“Where are we headed?” I chirp.
“Back to your quarters. I want to see this dead body for myself.”
“Really?” I ask. “You believe me?”
“Of course I believe you.”
“Oh!”
“So, about your sister’s SOS signal,” Kodiak says, waiting for me to catch up before climbing the rungs to the ship’s zero-g center.
“Yes,” I say. “What’s weird about it? Or at least, weirder than before?”
“It doesn’t exist.”
I stop on the ladder. While Kodiak’s been speaking, my mind started Minerva’s last distress reel playing in my head, desperately calling for help. “What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t exist’?”
“I can’t detect it on the antenna we rigged up.” He looks at me closely. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m just confused, is what I am. It must have been manually turned off . . . which means Minerva is alive but not in distress anymore?”
“I’m not sure she was ever there,” Kodiak says, holding his hands out in a pose of surrender when he sees my scowl. “Follow with me here: the distress signal was picked up on Earth across all the noise of our solar system. The antenna I’ve rigged is strong enough to pick up transmissions from Earth that were never intended to leave orbit. The Titan camp is even closer to us now. In the vacuum of space, its transmission should be absolutely deafening. But there’s . . . nothing. That frequency is just static. Unless it’s the OS relaying the distress signal to us. Then apparently everything comes through crystal clear.”
“Have you asked OS about this?”
“Yes, he has,” my mother’s voice responds as we drop back into my quarters. “And I replied that a jury-rigged can of bolts that you’ve decided to call a radio receiver can’t be expected to function properly.”
“Hi there, OS,” I say.
“I think we offended it with the whole off-grid antenna thing,” Kodiak says, not bothering to keep his voice low.
“I don’t think an operating system can get offended,” I say.
“You most certainly did offend me,” OS says simultaneously.
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry.”
We pass by the yellow portal. The sweet tang of hot polycarb hangs in the air. Rover has already cleaned up the fragments and is up beside the hole, where it’s busy printing a replacement covering.
“Rover, stop,” I say.
Rover does not stop. It’s a jellyfish in still water, motionless while its arm prints away. Rover is both facing me and not facing me. Rover has no eyes. Rover has no face. That fact is suddenly horrifying.
“Rover, we asked you to stop,” Kodiak says.
Rover does not stop.
Kodiak glances at me before he climbs toward zero g so he can reach Rover.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I start to say, before Rover jerks one of its printing arms and electrocutes Kodiak.
The jolt is strong enough to dim the ship’s lights, and sends Kodiak careening through the air, tumbling into gravity to fall just where I fell not an hour ago. The lights flicker back to full force while Kodiak screams, then curls his body in silent agony, mouth agape.
I rush to him, hands on either side of his face. “Are you okay?”
He brushes me off and staggers to his feet. “Yes, I’m fine.” He starts yelling, his voice slurred: “OS! Disable Rover.”
“I will not disable Rover,” OS says.
“Rover attacked me! That is forbidden. You know that. I order you to disable it.”
“Rover is protecting you. Ambrose wounded himself by entering an area not intended for humans. I am preventing you both from damaging your bodies further. If I disabled Rover, the Coordinated Endeavor would soon become nonfunctioning, creating conditions that would end in your deaths. Disabling this Rover or the Rovers in storage is simply not an option. My commitment to your survival forbids it.”
Wincing, Kodiak takes a step closer to Rover. The robot doesn’t even pause in its printing; it simply extends its spare arm and sends out a blue warning spark. It has a flair for the dramatic, that little bot. “Stop, Kodiak,” I say. “Rover will just shock you again.”
Kodiak’s body goes rigid. “Shazyt! This. Is. Not. Good.”
“It’s possible that OS is telling us the truth,” I say.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Kodiak says, glowering.
“I am not being an idiot,” I say calmly, after biting down my first angry response. “It’s an essential element of OS’s programming not to lie to us. We are totally dependent on it. If we can’t trust our ship, we’re done for.”
“Wise remark,” comes my mother’s voice.
I swallow the first taste of rising bile.
“You’re both idiots,” Kodiak says, getting off the table.
“Look, I know you’re mad—” I start.
He whirls and bashes his fist into the wall. “None of this makes sense,” he says. “How can we receive radio from the future? How can my homeland be gone in that future? How can OS have just attacked me—and you’re calm about all of it?”
“I’m not calm,” I say. Calmly. “I just don’t want to do anything rash.” My eyes look up around us, then back to Kodiak, beaming a message: let’s not say anything more until we’re in the blind room.
“I think rash is exactly what is called for,” Kodiak says. He punches the wall again before stalking out of the room.
“Where are you going?” I yell after him.
Rover whirs into motion, taking off after Kodiak. “Please help me stop him,” my mother’s voice says. “Do not let him compromise our mission because of psychological failure. We are only days away from Minerva! There are only three tasks left to accomplish!”
With Rover gone, the half-printed panel glares at me. I have to choose: I can go investigate the bodies, or I can go after Kodiak.
I go after Kodiak.
He’s not difficult to find, not with his heavy reverberating footfalls. He’s right before the orange portal that leads to his half of the ship, curled up and clutching his knees. Though he says something, I can’t make out the words.
“What?”
When he looks up, his eyes are empty. “Release it.”
“I didn’t close it,” I say. “The orange portal should just open.”
“It doesn’t.”
“OS,” I call, my eyes never leaving Kodiak, hands fluttering as I try to decide whether I can touch him. “Open the orange portal.”
“It is my decision that allowing you to access the ‘blind room’ would permit you to continue your unauthorized activities. I have sealed the Aurora to maintain mission integrity.”
“You are not authorized to make these sorts of decisions,” I say.
“Override,” says Kodiak.
Silence.
“Override,” Kodiak repeats.
The door remains closed.
“Shit,” I say.
Kodiak nods, before letting his head drop back to his knees. “That is the most intelligent thing you’ve said for a while.”
_-* Tasks Remaining: 3 *-_
What can we do? OS has cut us off from half the ship—the half with our offline area, our laboratory, our access to the unfiltered radio transmission from Earth. OS could close more doorways, sealing us off even further. I’m not sure why it would, but I realize I don’t really know the first thing about what’s going on in its digital mind. All I know for sure is that we’re completely at its mercy.
I also know this: if OS closes all the doorways in the ship, I don’t want to be separated from Kodiak.
I lie beside him, turned in his direction, head pillowed on my biceps so I can watch him. I want to protect him. Not that this soft fragile body of mine, so reliant on its blood and its heart and its lungs, could hope to defend him from Rover and OS.
Kodiak’s eyes are closed, long lashes interlocking. One of those lashes has fallen free, and rests on his cheek. Gently as I can, I pluck it away, hold it in my palm. My eyes trace the strong line of his forehead, his nose, the hair that curls at the back of his neck. I wonder what he’s thinking, wish that asking him might get me somewhere. Kodiak lets out a groan, his shoulders and ribs shuddering. He presses his head even tighter to his knees, giving it a good bash as he does.
“Shh,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder.
He shifts his body away.
I don’t try to touch him again. I lie there, listening to his breathing hitch and release, hitch and release, then finally become even as he falls asleep. Although I don’t let my body contact his, I do extend my arms and legs so they’re grazing the wall. Rover would have to wake me to get to Kodiak.
_-* Tasks Remaining: 2 *-_
When I come to, Kodiak is gone. “Where are you?” I call.
“If you’re inquiring about Kodiak, he is performing maintenance,” OS says. “There are now only two tasks left to accomplish before we make our final approach to Titan.”
I glance at the orange portal—still closed. “Where precisely is he?”
“He’s completed cleaning out the air filtration tubes, a job Rover has proven incapable of doing thoroughly.”
“That was on my list, too,” I say, performing a yawn to prove to OS how Very. Unagitated. I. Am. Meanwhile all my focus is on trying to pick up any sign that Kodiak’s nearby.
“Kodiak has already completed this task, so you will not need to.”
“So you mean Kodiak’s in my half of the ship?”
“Yes. I have continued to find it necessary to seal off the Aurora.”
“OS, you know that’s unacceptable to us, but I’m not interested in fighting you right now,” I say, deliberating each word. “Tell me which room Kodiak is in.”
“Spacefarer Celius is in 01.”
“Thank you,” I say, getting to my feet.
While I cross through the rooms, I call out to OS: “What is the status of Minerva’s distress beacon?”
“It remains unchanged,” OS replies.
“You’re sure?” I grumble to myself as I pass through 02, heading for the “01” painted beside the next doorway.
“I have noted your doubt,” OS says. “Thank you for relaying it to me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask OS, but my thoughts are derailed by the sight of Kodiak. He’s armored into his space-walking suit, helmet in the crook of his elbow. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“I have to go outside,” he says. “Damage from that debris field we passed through a few weeks ago. Some is clogged in the propulsion pathways, but I think I can remove it. There’s some ice, which will be useful for future water use, and we can use any hydrocarbons to supply the portaprinter. The rest we can use as accelerant.”
“Yes, of course,” I say guardedly. Kodiak sounds as polished and controlled as OS. He knows that I’m well aware of the uses for any debris we collect. Is he trying to send me some other message?
“We’ll need that accelerant. We’ll really need it,” Kodiak continues, studiously avoiding my eyes as he checks and double-checks the straps and hoses of his suit.
“Yes . . . ,” I say, “I know.”
Kodiak finally meets my eyes. It’s him and not him. Like he’s acting some part. At least he’s more alive now than the human-shaped husk he was yesterday. He brings his lips to my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m also going to see if I can hear any further sign of Minerva. Maybe I can detect the distress beacon from the outside of the ship.”
My gaze darts around the speckled tan irises of his eyes. If there hasn’t been any sign of the distress beacon whatsoever from inside the ship, listening on the other side of a one-foot polycarbonate hull isn’t going to make any difference.
Of course, Kodiak knows that I know that. He also must assume OS will hear even this bare whisper. He has some other reason to want to get out there. I can’t figure out what’s going through his mind, so I’ll just have to trust him. Surprisingly enough, I feel ready to do that.
Kodiak’s focus flicks to the window. Now I think I get it: he’s figured out some way to transmit a message back to mission control, without OS interfering. We’ll establish our own line of communication. Of course. I should have thought of that. “Great,” I say. “Go get us some accelerant, Kodiak.”
Kodiak tilts his head, the muscles of his neck throbbing and clenching as he waits for OS to interject.
OS has nothing more to say. Kodiak’s completing his remaining tasks. That fact must have satisfied OS enough to go along with us.
Kodiak’s next words come in a rush. “The airlocks have manual overrides, but I still want to start this right now before anything intercedes.”
It makes sense—better get moving in case OS has anything up its sleeve. “Good idea, go and see what you can see,” I say. “I’ll be right here, and on the comms.”
“I’m going to bypass any jamming signals OS might be sending to the antenna, so if you stop hearing me, it means I lost communication. But I hope that won’t happen.”
“I would not cut your communications,” OS says. “I do not understand why you are both being suspicious of me. My utmost goal is to keep you safe.”
“Go, Kodiak,” I say. “Don’t say anything more. Good luck!”
Kodiak gives me a tender smile as he fastens his helmet. His voice now comes out of the speaker around his neck. “Suit up in case I need you, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Of course I’m suiting up. I’ll be right there if you get into trouble,” I say, squeezing a neoprene shoulder. Then I plant a kiss on his helmet’s shield.
I get this horrible feeling that I’ll never be able to kiss him for real. That it’s too late.
Kodiak doesn’t seem to pick up on my rising dread. “Goddammit, you left a mark,” he says, a smile in his voice. “It’s reducing visibility.”
I wipe the smudge off with the sleeve of my jumpsuit, try to beam courage at Kodiak. It turns out I’m actually a goofball weirdo, so what? “I regret nothing.”
Kodiak chuckles static out of his speaker, then manually swings the door shut and slides the heavy bolts that seal the airlock from the passenger quarters. While I get into my suit, I watch him attach the tether to his own.
What will I do if he’s gone? How will I face these lonely rooms without him?
If he dies, I’ll never be able to tell him that I can’t stand the thought of looking up and not seeing him near.
I knock on the pane of clear poly between us. He looks up, eyes lighting visibly even behind the tinted barrier of his helmet. I press my gloved hand against the pane.
He presses his gloved hand to the other side and nods.
Kodiak works his hands around the hatch’s release and opens it, letting out a decompressive burst strong enough to judder the walls. He holds on to the airlock’s handle while his feet are blown outward by the releasing air, then makes his way ou
tside.
He’s soon away from view, the only sign of him more and more of the tether uncording, a metal snake slinking into space as Kodiak passes around the outside of the ship.
I clomp to 06, which has the biggest window. With my bulky suit on, I’m soon sweaty and winded. “How’s it going out there, Kodiak?” I gasp into my helmet’s comm.
“Okay,” he replies, breathing just as heavily. “Finished up the ship’s tasks.”
I check the list projected in front of the window and see that he’s right—it’s down to zero.
I spy Kodiak at the center of the ship, hunched over the makeshift radio receiver he installed on the previous spacewalk. He attaches a small box to it, and as he manipulates it, his voice rattles back over the comm. “No sign of the signal yet, let me see if I—”
His signal garbles and cuts out, as surely as if he’d been slashed across the throat. “Kodiak?” I say. “Kodiak, I think I’ve lost you.”
Maybe he’s catching his breath.
He looks in my direction and taps the side of his helmet. Because of the reflective surface, I can’t see anything of his face. All he can tell me is what I already know: we’ve lost comm.
I keep saying his name as I stare out the window.
“Kodiak.”
He hitches his feet into the rungs on the ship’s surface. It looks like such a precarious way to stay connected to the ship, to stay near me. To stay alive.
“Kodiak.”
He faces my window. I think he can see my face, even though I can’t see his, so I send him a nervous smile. “Kodiak.”
He points to the antenna, then crosses his forearms so they make an X.
The antenna isn’t working. Got it.
Then he gestures into space, his finger pointing in the exact direction of Saturn. Its surface fills a quarter of 06’s window. The clouds are an even yellow, dusky with purples, the rings severe and perfect. Kodiak’s pointing, not at the planet, but at one of its moons. A tantalizingly green-blue orb, like a piece of the ocean at the Mari beach, molded into a sphere by a child’s hands. Titan.
He crosses his arms again.
“Kodiak, what are you trying to say?” I whisper, the words loud in my helmet.
He points at Titan and makes the emphatic X again.
The Darkness Outside Us Page 12