by B. V. Larson
Scarn looked around and saw his audience, four or five people at a table, staring his way.
“You warned him,” a man said. “He got handsy.”
“He asked for it,” said another. “You can’t pull that shit with a below-deck man. Everyone knows that.”
Several other people nodded and agreed. He realized they must have recognized him from the reality show he’d starred in. They were crew, and this was a crew bar, but they weren’t officers. They were rougher types that ran the equipment in the guts of Tarassis. The kind of machinery that kept the ship functioning. Realists, in other words.
Scarn said thanks and got out. His clothes were damp inside, and he was feeling vomity. Part of him had wanted to stomp Dallen to death—but he kept that thought at bay. In the moment, he’d had to restrain himself... with difficulty.
Knowing how close he’d come to killing someone again troubled him. He was a below-decks man, sure. But he wasn’t an animal.
Scarn wondered at his own actions lately. He had been acting on sheer emotion, especially with Neva. Was he coming apart? Losing self-control, just like Dallen said he was?
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
On his way back to his quarters, Scarn sorted through the ugly possibilities. Was there something about Neva that was screwing his life sideways and making him unpredictable even to himself? Maybe he was already “successfully” possessed by some alien. Or was this savage behavior just part of the inner human that was released in a man who grew up below-decks?
Once inside his quarters, he punched in the code for ten milligrams of Aggress-arrest, waited for the last drop to fall from the spigot, and swallowed it in a gulp.
At that point it registered that his bot’s message tone was subtly alerting him to an incoming call—Neva was trying to reach him.
“Yes?” he said to the machine.
Colors flickered in midair, and she appeared. She was speaking to him from a public place. “I’m sorry I missed our meeting. I’m not far from you. I can be at your quarters in five minutes.”
Regardless of all that had just happened, he only paused for two seconds. “Do that.”
So much for self-preservation.
He picked up clutter for a minute and then answered the door.
As tall as he, her pale eyes fixed on his. “I’m sorry. Just as I was leaving to see you, a call came in wanting me to verify some data I had processed last week. It was a mis-call, something Dallen had arranged, but it took me twenty minutes to figure that out. And by then...”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.”
His face brushed against her face as he held her, as her arms went around him. He was enveloped by the sound of her skin sliding across the fabric of his clothes, by the smell of her hair, and was now consumed by the hot taste of her mouth behind the softness of her lips.
Then, “I don’t understand this,” she said through her breath. “I’m not supposed—”
She pulled back enough to pull her neckline down to show him a perfect pair of breasts. They might have been real, or fake. He didn’t care which it was.
Beside his bed, in the dimmest light, her eyes glittered as her clothes fell to her feet. Scarn met her skin-to-skin and in those next minutes he was only nerves and muscle and blood, as aware of her as he was of himself. There was nothing to understand—he could only be and feel and erupt.
She clung to him as though saving her life.
“What,” he whispered as he breathed through her hair, “have you done to me?”
“You were free of being a human for a few minutes. I know what that’s like.”
“Maybe we’re possessed,” he said. “When I see you, a lot of circuits get turned off.”
From his clothes on the floor, a low tone signaled an incoming call.
Scarn had no intention of answering it till it did a triple chirp, meaning that the message was urgent, and that he was being paged in public places.
“You have to take that,” she said.
“Sorry,” he said to her. Then he spoke to the bot. “Block my image. Answer.”
A blob of light ran through the spectrum and then informed him that it was an official communication.
An officer’s image coalesced, a lieutenant that Scarn didn’t recognize. His nose was hooked, and his nostrils flared when he talked.
“Psychonaut Scarn, greetings. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important, but this is news I’m sure you’ll welcome. As of this moment, you’re back on duty—alternate duty. Your assignment: Go to Deck 14 and take the alien corpse that was found there down to Deck 21.”
“We have an alien aboard?” Scarn asked. “I thought—”
“That’s what it says on the work order. Maybe ‘alien’ is a code word… Anyway, someone was needed to do the job, and your name came up. You want to get back to work?”
“Of course, yes.”
“You’re acting as crew now, Scarn,” We want to limit any potential exposure of our guests to this thing, so we want the body transported outside the ship’s hull. You’ll have a shuttle waiting for you at airlock 14C. Deliver the package to 21, ASAP. Simple as that.”
“Why not transport it using the lifts?”
A flat-lipped stare greeted his words. “Why don’t you ask them yourself? Why not write a memo? Why not just refuse the job so we can get rid of your ass?”
“I’m not refusing, Lieutenant,” Scarn said, knowing they could kick him out for that.
Maybe this was Dallen’s bullshit plan. Give him revolting duties until he balked, then the system would take care of him itself. Scarn would be buried again, with no trace leading back to one Commander Dallen.
“Good,” the lieutenant said. “By the way, these orders come directly from the captain’s office.”
They locked eyes. After a moment, the lieutenant’s tight-lipped smile came back.
“Excellent. You be sure to have a nice day.” The lieutenant’s image evaporated.
From his side Neva finally spoke up. “Dallen is tricky. Whatever he tells you, there’s twice as much he’s holding back.” She moved herself against him. “What are you going to do?”
Scarn put one arm around her. “I guess I’m going to transport an alien.”
He pushed her hair aside and kissed her cheek in front of her ear. Then he breathed in her smell. Once more, a rolling turbulence rose in his brain, an electrical storm that blacked out thought, and they took each other again.
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
Scarn hurried down the passage toward airlock 14C. Everyone who glanced at him knew he’d just gotten out of bed. He’d taken an ultra-quick shower but was still sweating and felt like his clothes were askew.
After he passed through an airlock, one of the technicians came alongside and walked him into the loading zone. He was a petty officer. A short man, probably heavier than crew regulations permitted. One eye was somewhat wider than the other, giving him a congenital leer.
“Mr. Scarn? You’re late, but this shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” the tech said pleasantly, “one way or the other.”
Scarn wanted to ask what the crewman was implying, but he knew he’d only get a smart-assed answer. Instead, he followed him to the shuttle. It was a white angular bulb sitting on six complex legs. The hatch made a wet sucking noise as he opened it for Scarn.
“You know how to fly this thing in the case of an emergency, right?” the tech asked.
“They trained me when I was nine.”
The man smirked. “So I guess you weren’t always a breather, huh? You like the upper decks?”
“I’m loving it up here,” Scarn said.
The petty officer laughed smugly. “Anyway, don’t be late the next time. We were about to put out an alert on you. I guess this must be some kind of rush job.”
“I’m not surprised. You don’t have a dead alien onboard Tarassis every day.”
The tech looked startled. “What? What’s this shit about a dead alien?”
“I was told that was the job. To transport a dead alien to 21.”
The man looked horrified. His eyes flicked to the transport. “Was the container sterilized? I loaded that thing myself….” He stared into the shuttle and subtly recoiled. “I hate even the idea of an alien,” he mumbled. “I don’t even like synths that much.”
“Are we ready?”
The tech’s training kicked in, and he snapped to. “It’s all set to go to 21. Everything’s automatic. Just hang on for the ride. They’ll unload it when you get there, so you won’t even have to get out. Then the module will bring you back here. Step right in.”
Scarn climbed in. He looked around—everything looked cleaned up and normal. Maybe it would be a routine assignment.
The seat snugged against him as the technician closed the hatch. Again, it made a sucking noise as it sealed. The safety bolts snapped out around its edge.
Scarn scanned the console. All the lights were green. The destination was set: AIRLOCK 21A. Everything looked normal enough, but he stayed alert. It didn’t seem likely that Dallen would be so elaborate as to try to kill him in space. Why not just pay a goon to finish him?
In the module, there was nothing to do now but sit and wait. He would only be needed if something went wrong that the shuttle itself couldn’t fix.
It jerked once as the hydraulics pushed it into the decompression area. A large hatch lowered and sealed Scarn and the shuttle off from the control area. Two seconds after it bumped shut, the air evacuated and the exterior hatch slid aside.
He checked the panel again—all green. Excellent.
The shuttle was then nudged out and away, free of Tarassis. Mini-jets kicked in and eased it into a slow drift toward Level 21.
Where, Scarn wondered, did this alien come from? He hadn’t heard of any aliens ever being on Tarassis. Behind him lay the sealed carton—a meter and a half long, about forty five centimeters broad and thirty deep. No labels.
He punched in the code for Airlock 21A to see what they could tell him.
There was no answer.
Someone was supposed to be there, to meet him in a few minutes. He repeated the call—same result.
He called 21B... Nothing. 21C? Zip.
It didn’t make any sense.
To make sure the communication modes were operating as they should, he turned on the shuttle’s bot.
“One moment... One moment... One moment...” And then, “Diagnostics are temporarily inoperative. Consult the latest Zipser-Gomax diagnostics bulletin for this type of equipment.”
But all the lights were green... A little chill ran over his skin.
Was he sealed in a defective shuttle that said everything was just fine?
In the front view, the thick wings of the solar panels flared from the sides of the ship . His orientation allowed him to see into several of the observation pods on the surface of Tarassis. The lounge areas inside were dark and empty, which meant that they had to be in sealed-off areas.
He checked the controls again, and he was able to maneuver the shuttle a dozen meters closer, to see what, if anything, was visible in there.
“Tilt right,” he told the shuttle’s bot, seeking a better view.
It tilted.
“Move left.”
It moved closer to the nearest pod.
“Hold.”
It continued to move closer.
“Hold. Hold! Tilt up! Up!”
It drifted closer to the rocky hull of the great ship.
His mouth went dry as ashes. He lunged forward and pressed the emergency ALL STOP.
Nothing changed. He drifted closer.
The control screen lit up and became active then, and for a second he hoped he might see the congenital leer of the 14C technician—but he didn’t.
The shuttle’s voice politely announced: “Docking approach initiated. Secure all loose objects.” The screen read DOCKING APPROACH INITIATED.
But there was no change in the shuttle’s attitude and Scarn was less than halfway to Level 21. Sweat broke out along his hairline.
He hit the ALL STOP again and turned on the emergency communications. “Malfunction emergency. This is Shuttle 14C, over Level 18. Docking sequence has initiated. Emer—”
The screen blinked and read DOCKING COMPLETED.
“Docking com...” The shuttle’s voice was scratchy. It broke up and then cut off.
As he feared and knew it would be, the next screen read INITIATING DECOMPRESSION PROCEDURE.
In less than a minute, after the software thought it had performed all its preliminary functions, the safety bolts on the hatch would retract and the interior air pressure would blow out the hatch, along with Scarn’s eardrums and the capillaries in his eyeballs. He’d heard the ugly rumor that his organs would rupture and his brains would squirt out the holes in his skull but was told that these things occurred only some minutes after one was dead and that it was far from dramatic.
Scarn lunged from the formchair to the utility locker—there was a pressure suit, but it would take at least two minutes to get into it. Below it was a tool chest, an extinguisher, and a telescoping pry bar.
He heard a pattern of clicks and snaps inside the hatch that told him he had about thirty seconds left.
The pry bar—
He grabbed it and pressed it into the central recessed area of the hatch, wedging the ends against opposing safety bolts—in the hope it would keep those two from fully retracting and still hold the hatch in place.
His sweaty hands slid along the bar as he extended its length.
Twenty seconds.
A servo whined inside the bulkhead as something was repositioned.
Fifteen seconds.
The pry bar slipped around, refusing to stay in one place, and it looked as flimsy as a twig next to the square heaviness of the hatch bolts. It was never meant to take any kind of force that pressed from one end to the other....
Ten seconds.
Scarn purposely began hyperventilating—in case the bar failed, he’d have an extra thirty seconds before dying. He thought of Neva, her hair and eyes, the way she looked at him, the way he wanted her, and he braced himself with the bar in both hands.
He kept breathing deeply as he clenched his eyes, hoping to keep his eyeballs from blowing out of his head and if this didn’t work, he hoped he could manage the pain long enough to, maybe, get to the air suit. He tightened his abdominal muscles and everything below that.
After the eardrums, the guts would give way next.
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
He put everything into holding the bar straight, all his power.
So many things he wished he’d done...
Five... four... three...
It dawned on him faster than words: the shuttle also needed power—
He dropped the pry bar—
Two...
—spun to the console, flipped up the panel, saw a lacework of wire and circuit breakers—
One...
Scarn slammed down the red handle labeled MAIN.
The console winked out, the air circulation hushed, and nothing happened.
He was alone, in silence and darkness. The only sound was of his blood rushing inside his ears.
Ten seconds later, he let out his breath. It came out with a choking sound. He breathed, and he stood up straight but his muscles were still jittering from the overload of panic.
Dallen had sent him out to get killed by a fake docking program—and now his “alien” cargo was also suspect. What actually was in there?
There were no labels on the visible sides of the carton, but when he turned it over it was a virgin, unopened carton with United Tarassis tags identifying it as general plumbing supplies. When he jostled it, it rattled.
It was junk. A decoy. Once more, he tried to call for help but his call unit didn’t work and neither did the dead unit on the shuttle. He was on his own, cut off. He strongly suspected there would be no rescue ship coming anytime soon.
Thinking of all those things he wished he had done, Scarn pulled out the pressure suit and climbed into it. When the helmet sealed, with his gloved hand he pressed the suit-scan stud near the neck. A green light on his face place indicated the suit was functioning properly. Dallen must not have thought he would live this long, or he would have sabotaged the suit too.
Scarn lifted the cover of the breaker panel and hit RESET.
The hatch instantly blew open, making a hollow-sounding, hissing whoosh. The escaping air gave him a little shove toward the opening.
He caught the edge of the hatch and pushed himself out to float over the vast rocky surface of Tarassis. He’d never been outside before, never walked the surface. Despite his stressed state, he was able to appreciate the beauty of it.
In the starlight, there were no colors other than shades of white and gray. Like inorganic growths, clusters of sensors grew across the ship’s seemingly endless hull of scarred rock.
He passed over Deck 20 and came upon the lounge windows. Once there, he saw three curious faces turned toward him. They were looking upward through the transparent panels, their eyes and mouths looking like dark rips in wadded fabric.
With the guiding jets in the suit, he moved closer to the windows. The faces stared back, their expressions slowly changing from curiosity to fear. They turned all at once and ran from the area when he got near them.
Scarn couldn’t guess how the technicians at Airlock 21A might have been told to receive him—if he ever got there—so he decided to enter Deck 20, since here they had probably not received orders to kill or confine him.
He drifted past the now-empty lounge toward the decompression hatch, thirty or so meters farther along the rim.
Once he found it, he pulled open a panel and manually disengaged the lock. Through his hands he felt the clunk of the mechanism when it retracted. He then extended the handles and muscled the hatch aside.
Once inside with the hatch resealed, he backed up to the suit hanger. He fixed himself into it and waited a minute and a half for the signal light to tell him the air pressure was normalized. He clapped his gloved hands together in front of his face to listen for the sound—a sign that there was air—and heard the muffled slap.