Colony

by Rob Grant

  'But I... Everybody needs some form of sustenance.'

  'That's what the gloop's for. It contains all the nutrients you need. Oxygen, nitrogen, vitamin compounds, minerals.'

  'But they must get used up.'

  'Sure. The suit filters out unwanted chemical by-products, carbon dioxide and so on, and sends them to a waste canister in your leg. And every so often, we have to empty the waste, and pop in a fresh boost of nutrients.'

  'Every so often?'

  'A couple of times a year. Less, maybe. You can go for months on end without needing refreshing. It's an incredibly efficient system.'

  This is meant to sound like cheery news. Eddie will never eat or drink again. He looks down at his leg forlornly, and tries not to imagine the waste canister lurking inside it, brimming over with putrid effluence.

  Oslo glances over and catches his sullen expression. She mistakes it for a look of suspicious disbelief. 'Honestly. When you think about it, there's not an awful lot of you that needs sustaining.'

  True again. All that's left of him is a flobby old brain and a few fiddly little nerve endings. Still, Eddie is deeply dismayed to discover his brain needs less tending than a fairground goldfish in a plastic bag. 'What about sleep? I need sleep, surely.'

  'You can sleep standing up. Your body doesn't need rest.'

  'And what about privacy? Everyone needs a little of that.'

  'Fine.' Oslo's exasperated again. 'I'll find you a storage locker or something.'

  'Oh, hey.' Eddie can be exasperated, too. 'Don't put yourself out, lady. Just find a big, filthy rock I can crawl under once in a while. Or the drawer of a filing cabinet no one's using. Maybe we could dig up a spare coat hook in someone's wardrobe to dangle me from. We could paint a little sign: "Chez Eddie".'

  Oslo's face crimps up. 'Eddie? Who the hell is Eddie?'

  Moving swiftly on. 'I want my own apartment. OK? Is that such a bizarre request? It's not like there's a major apartment shortage, is there?'

  'Were you actually present at that meeting? I mean, you were there, weren't you? The ship is falling apart, Morton. It's coming to pieces under our feet and over our heads. And your major priority is booking yourself a pleasant room? Certainly, sir. Would you prefer a view of the lava ocean we're about to crash into, or one of our more popular about-to-snap-away-from-the-hull-and-explode-into-a-million-fragments-in-the-vacuum-of-space suites? Take your time. We may have up to fifteen minutes left to live.'

  'I asked for a room, Bernadette. I didn't ask you to donate any limbs. I didn't ask for your eternal and undying affection. I asked if you could tell somebody somewhere to press a little stinking button and allocate me a room nobody else is using.'

  There's another reason Eddie would like a private room.

  He needs to interrogate the computer without anyone listening.

  Oslo grinds an unnecessarily bad unnecessary gear change and inclines her head ever so slightly in a tight, grudging nod of acquiescence. 'Fine. I'll get you a room.' And because she can't let it go at that, because she can't let Eddie think his request is in any way sane or reasonable, she tags it with: 'Then I'll send down a crack team of our top interior designers with some fabric swatches and colour charts, so you don't have to look at the wrong shade of green while we're being blasted into oblivion.'

  Eddie lets it go. He thinks Oslo's face is interesting; she might actually be quite stunning if she could let go of the permanently irritated expression that distorts it so. In fact, if you took away the ship nose and cheekbones, it could be the face of someone he once knew. But who? The name is not in his mental contact book.

  'Why do you despise the kid... the Captain so much?'

  'Gwent? Why not? Don't you despise him?'

  'Well... no. I think he's irresponsible and utterly unsuitable to be heading this mission, and unpleasant and immature...'

  'Trust me, you're listing his good points.'

  'But you hate him.'

  'I don't hate him. I just wish he would die suddenly yet painfully and very, very soon.'

  'Right. Only, to me, that sounds like...'

  'Subject closed.'

  'Subject closed?'

  'In fact, all subjects not relating to the impending destruction of this vessel and everyone in it are henceforth closed, until such time as the danger is averted or we're all dead.'

  25

  Planning Room Seven turns out to be a stunningly well-equipped navigation centre. So stunningly well-equipped that Eddie doesn't have a clue how to use any of the stunning equipment, or even what any of it does.

  Fortunately, Oslo takes him over to a bank of hard-copy files. A large bank, with lots of files. But that's all right. Files are good for Eddie. They're currency, to him. He'd be rubbing his hands together, if only he could be sure they wouldn't generate sparks.

  'All the surviving writings are here. We believe some of them might even date back to the era of the Originals.'

  Eddie's noticed that before: the verbal capitalization of 'Originals' -- almost a reverence for the ancestors who started the mission. Of whom, of course, Eddie is one. Don't they know that? Presumably not. Didn't they say their system of allocating dates had broken down? This is good. This might be a trump card he can play later on.

  Eddie is busy directing a mental movie of the entire ship's complement on its knees, cowed in supplication, worshipping him as a kind of flower-garlanded God, when he realizes Oslo is looking at him with impatient expectation.

  Her eyebrows signal a slightly sarcastic 'Well?' Then she raises them just a notch further to add: 'No rush. Just preferably before the girders holding up the ceiling collapse and we're crushed like poorly constructed origami birds by the roof, which gives some idea of quite how articulate Oslo's eyebrows can be.

  'I'll get to it, then.' Eddie smiles, chastised, and starts removing file boxes and stacking them on a desk. Then he stops. This is stupid. He has to ask. 'What exactly am I looking for, exactly?'

  Predictably, the question exasperates Oslo. 'I don't know. How could I possibly know? We have no idea what the hieroglyphic system is for. We need something that might help, Morton. Something that might just possibly contribute to saving the ship from hideous destruction. What do you think you're looking for? Video listings for the month of August? Detailed instructions for an emergency elephant vasectomy?'

  Eddie's getting to know her well enough not to take the ranting personally. It isn't him causing her exasperation, it's her inability to control the situation. 'It's a big brief, Oslo.'

  'It's a big problem, Morton. In case it hasn't filtered through your gloop yet, we're desperate here. We are so deeply submerged in the old human waste materials, we should all technically be issued with scuba gear and shit flippers.'

  'I know that. I'm aware of that. In case it hasn't filtered through your own gloop, I'm actually on the same ship. But it would take months to wade through all this.' He means to sweep his hand to indicate the ranks of files, but involuntarily kicks out his right leg instead, and has to fight to remain upright.

  'You don't have to read it all. Just find something. Some engineering layouts; contingency plans for engine failure; blueprints to help us construct some manoeuvring jets. Anything. The ship's charter, so we can get rid of that idiot and replace him with someone from the planet Sane. Anything you can find. Anything at all.'

  There is another shipquake. There is the frightening creak of thick metal offering vain resistance, a sound Eddie is learning very quickly to dread, accompanied by a violent, sustained judder and a flickering of lights. It doesn't seem as violent as the others Eddie's encountered, perhaps because he's not as close to its epicentre; but it does go on for longer. For much, much longer.

  Oslo waits for a second after the juddering finally subsides.

  'Just find it soon, OK?'

  26

  Eddie is waiting until he's absolutely certain Oslo won't return with a final insulting afterthought before he tries to communicate with the computer.
>
  In the meantime, he's sorting through the files as best his clumsy hand substitutes will allow.

  As far as he can tell, most of it is devoted to the mapping of the space through which the Willflower has passed. And deadly dull it is, too.

  He moves further along the file bank and picks something else. More astronomical data. More of the useless information that maps the passage of the blind voyage of scientific investigation.

  He looks towards the door. He's alone now.

  'Ship System. Logon Dr Morton.'

  Nothing. OK.

  'Logon C. P. Gordon.'

  Silence. Fine. Perhaps it's his electronic voice box preventing recognition.

  'Logon guest.'

  Oh, come on. What's going on here? The computer must be working. Something's running the ship's systems.

  He waddles over to a manual input console and tries logging in by striking the keys with the claw of his pincer. Painfully slow, and even more painfully frustrating.

  The system is not responding. In desperation, Eddie adopts the time-honoured technique of kicking the machine and swearing at it. 'Come on, you useless bastard! Speak to me!'

  Suddenly, the screen flickers and a message appears on it, briefly. So briefly, in fact, Eddie can't be sure he read it correctly.

  He can't have read it correctly, truth be told. Because what he thought it said was: CALM DOWN, EDDIE, THIS IS NOT THE TIME. Which it can't have said, on so many levels.

  The more he thinks about it, the more Eddie's convinced he mis-read the message. In his mind, it becomes SHUT DOWN EDI (or some such code) THREE-THIRTY A.M. SHIP TIME. Which is fine. It's a response, and an acknowledgement of some temporary system error, boding well for future efforts some time later.

  But the truth is, he got it right first time.

  27

  'How's it going, eh, Doctor?'

  Even though Eddie's the only one Father Lewis could possibly be addressing, the room being otherwise deserted, it takes a few moments for the epithet 'Doctor' to register.

  Eddie looks up from his pile of papers. 'Not good, Padre. None of this is making much sense.'

  'I imagined as much. There's a lot to get through, here.'

  'I haven't even scratched the surface.'

  'That's why I thought you might like some assistance. Trinity?'

  Peck skulks in behind him, wearing an expression blacker than her robes.

  Eddie can't help himself. 'Her?!'

  'Well, she is our Science Officer, when all's said and done. Trained to the job since birth.'

  'I didn't mean to... I'm sure she's very good. I'm surprised, that's all, she's willing to work with me.'

  'Well,' Lewis smiles at Peck without humour, 'she's aware we all need to pull together if we're going to get through this little... hiccup in the mission. Aren't you, Trinity, eh?'

  Peck nods slowly and grimly. 'I have made it, I think, perfectly clear I find it unthinkable that I'm compelled to collaborate with a soulless speaking pickle. But I'm prepared to make that sacrifice if it be the will of the Lord.' She shoots the Padre a vaguely accusatory look.

  'Well,' Eddie smiles generously, 'I, myself, am not overly enamoured of the prospect of spending my time with a woman who could frost martini glasses between the cheeks of her buttocks, but I'm sure I'll learn to deal with it.'

  Lewis is flicking through the papers Eddie has laid out on the desk. 'So what are these?'

  'Flight data. I've managed to track it back to the point of the accident.'

  'And what part of it is not making sense?'

  'None of it makes sense. Certainly there was a vast, shipwide trauma, but there's no corroborating evidence of any external phenomena that might have caused it. No meteor strikes, no anything within any kind of realistic range. Not only that, but even taking into account the massive extent of the damage, why didn't the auto repair systems kick in?'

  'Just a wild, off-the-wall guess,' Peck offers, 'but possibly the auto repair system was ripped away by the asteroid that struck the ship?' And in case her sarcasm might have somehow dragged its way over Eddie's head, she adds a schoolyard 'Durhh?'

  Eddie sighs. A small green bubble floats lazily up his visor and pops in front of his eye. 'That's not possible. The auto repair system is organic: it's in the material of the ship, in every component. True, it was never tested to last this many generations, but, technically, this vessel should be capable of rebuilding itself from a few hull panels, given time. And the engines being torn away by an asteroid strike -- how could that have been allowed to happen? Why didn't the radar spot anything incoming? Or any of the other warning systems? And why is there no record of a strike? I mean, you're supposedly the Science Officer, you must have considered some alternatives.'

  'You don't think I've thought about it? There is only one sane, scientific explanation: clearly, it's the divine vengeance of the sweet and merciful Lord being rained down upon the wicked, the sinful and the unrighteous.'

  She delivers this opinion with such a sweet tone, like a parent explaining to a toddler how it just hurt itself, it takes Eddie quite by surprise. 'Well, when you put it with such relentless logic, the conclusion seems almost inevitable.'

  'Doesn't it, though?'

  'Of course. The ship was, in fact, smitten by the vengeful hand of God.'

  'In all His terrible glory.'

  'So, just one question: if that's the sane, scientific explanation, what exactly is the lunatic fringe religious nutball explanation?'

  'Oh, you can mock, Zomboid. But you're the one who's going to be writhing in the flesh-rendering flames of Hell's hottest furnace for all eternity.'

  'Listen, Ms Peck. I don't know if you noticed, but this vessel and everyone in it is screaming at an incredible speed towards oblivion. Unless we can find some way to set aside our personal feelings for the moment and hunker down to save the ship, we'll all be enjoying a big chuck of eternity.'

  'Feelings don't enter into it. We have a fundamental professional disagreement. You adhere to the childish, demonstrably inadequate concept of cause and effect, and reject even the possibility of divine intervention. How am I supposed to deal with such closed-minded bigotry?'

  This flummoxes Eddie. He is officially flummoxed. Closed-minded bigotry? This witch-burning zealot is actually claiming the sanity high ground. Eddie turns to Lewis, praying he doesn't get outnumbered on this one.

  Unfortunately, Lewis hasn't been listening: he's been trying to divine some meaning from the writing on the papers, as if he believes that if Eddie can do it, it must surely be a childishly simple accomplishment. He looks up. 'Well, then. I'll leave you two lovebirds to it, eh?'

  Lewis stops at the door, calls back, 'Play nice, now,' and leaves. Eddie looks at the papers, then at the cruel, thin, defiant lips he's beginning to find almost irresistible. 'Do you suppose,' he pleads as pleasantly as he can, 'that we might co-operate for the next hour or two? Or at least not get in each other's way?'

  'I have no problem with that.'

  'Then could you possibly fetch the next batch of files over for me?' He sees her hesitation. 'I'd do it myself, only where other people have hands, I have nutcrackers.'

  Peck shoots him one of her lineage's patent castration smiles. 'Coming right up, O sperm of the Serpent's scrotum.'

  28

  It's not exactly a marriage made in Heaven. And not merely because of Peck's unveiled and unbridled loathing for him in person and his kind in general principle. They are so fundamentally different: from different times, different epochs, with different backgrounds, beliefs and skills. Eddie has never met anyone with whom he has such a zero connection. There is nothing alike about them, nothing they can do together, nothing they can agree on. And she's surly, rude and intolerant to boot. Eddie is in serious danger of falling helplessly head over whatever he now has for heels.

  He's about to give up on examining the navigation records, because he's getting nowhere, he never liked them in the first place, and they're giving
him a headache. And since his head is the only bit of him left -- besides his spine, which is, of course, hurting anyway -- the prospect of a headache takes on more of a threat than it otherwise might.

  But as he reaches out to gather up the papers, he notices something. Something wrong. Eddie may be a novice at astronavigation, but he can spot figures that don't add up from thirty paces. 'Peck?'

  Grudgingly: 'Yes?'

  'Can you call up that 3-D display of the local system?'

  She doesn't even bother insulting him. She simply sweeps aside some errant files, sighs like she's trying to explain quantum mechanics to a particularly dull gorilla and passes her hand over the desktop.

  The planets rise above the table into their places.

  'Can you speed it up? Say, a hundredfold?'

  Peck makes some movement with her hand, and the display accelerates. How does she do that?

  Eddie peers at the madly twirling globes. He checks the printout. He looks at the planets again. 'This isn't right.'

  'What isn't right?' Do all the women on this mission take exasperation lessons before they learn to toddle?

  'The orbital paths of these planets. There's an anomaly.'

  'How would you know?'

  'I got a phone call from Beelzebub. How do you think I know?'

  'I think maybe you got a phone call from Beelzebub.'

  'Look' Eddie points out the Earth-like blue planet. 'Thrrrppp, is it?'

  Peck nods.

  'We have got to change the names of these planets. Thrrrppp's orbit should form a perfect ellipse around the sun, but it doesn't. There's a sort of bump in it here.' Eddie points his pincer as accurately as he can at the anomaly. 'You follow?'

  'My advanced scientific training leaves me capable of interpreting complex abstractions such as: "There's a sort of bump in it here", yes.'

  'And the same with...' gingerly, he points a pincer at the planet Penis, '... the same with this one.'

  'Right. So?'

  'So the display's incomplete.'