Salvaged

by Madeleine Roux

  “You removed her suit?” Rosalyn asked.

  “I wanted to check for marks.” Misato deflated a little, sagging against the deep drawer. “After that, I couldn’t get her back into the suit myself. Too heavy. It didn’t seem right to ask the men to help.”

  Rosalyn nodded, gesturing for her to pull the drawer out farther. Already gloved, she leaned forward toward Tuva and carefully pulled back her eyelid. Normal. From what Rosalyn could see, there were no outward signs that the Foxfire had tried to take over her body.

  “Did you consider an autopsy?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Misato said. “But the others disagreed. They wanted to leave it to HQ when our assignment was done. Then the Foxfire happened and, I hate to say it, but I think we all forgot about her in here.” She sighed and let go of the drawer, taking a tiny step back.

  Something down by Tuva’s waist caught Rosalyn’s attention. She picked up the woman’s wrist, holding it up closer to the light on her visor. There was a small tattoo, black ink, in a language Rosalyn didn’t speak. Right away her AR display highlighted the words with a shimmery box, translating.

  “Fight back,” Rosalyn whispered, then looked at Tuva’s closed eyes. “Is that what you were trying to do? Fight back. Maybe I’ll get one of these if I ever make it out of here alive.”

  “You would’ve liked her,” Misato said. “She was a survivor, just like you, always spoke her mind. A bit uptight, maybe, but I prefer the word ‘precise.’” Chuckling, she did an impression of a stilted Norwegian accent. “Whenever the drinks came out, she would say, ‘This is a science vessel, Iwasa, not a party barge.’ She had a strong gut, listened to her intuition. Hated Piero. They didn’t get along from the jump, and now I realize she had some . . . some suspicions, deep ones, and we were fools to dismiss her.”

  Flinching, Rosalyn put the woman’s arm back down and leaned in to get closer to Tuva’s face again. It was partially to keep Misato from seeing her expression, or her reddening cheeks. She had always shied away from that word. Survivor. Running away from her entire life didn’t feel like surviving, it felt like hiding.

  “I’m no survivor,” Rosalyn murmured.

  Misato dropped it. “Did I miss anything?”

  Rosalyn was about to pull her head away from the corpse when she glanced downward from that angle, noticing a slight distension in Tuva’s midsection. As if lightly pushing on a balloon, Rosalyn palpated the stomach, a thin stream of air releasing from the mouth. A small indicator in the bottom-right corner of her AR display flashed, then became brighter, then enlarged itself so that it could not possibly be missed.

  A warning.

  “Cyanide gas.” Rosalyn said it almost as a question.

  “All bodies produce that,” Misato began saying, but Rosalyn shook her head hard, running her eyes over the AR warning again and again.

  “Not in this quantity, no way,” Rosalyn told her. “That wouldn’t make sense. Look at the body. I mean, I know she’s Scandinavian and all that, but she shouldn’t be this pale. Even in death, that color is unnatural.”

  “You think she was poisoned.” Misato drew back from the body, putting both hands on her head before turning in a circle. “Where would Piero find a form of cyanide on the Brigantine?” She began arguing with herself, rapidly, pacing. “Tuva was bright. She would have smelled it, she would have . . .”

  Rosalyn let her talk through the possibilities, only catching snippets of her rapid theorizing. Rosalyn retreated to what they absolutely knew, which wasn’t much, but evidence always trumped conjecture. She interrupted Misato, who spun to face her, eyes glowing only faintly blue, as if the Foxfire had somewhat retreated.

  “Brain tumor,” Rosalyn blurted out. “You said everyone thought it was a brain tumor. Why?”

  “Tuva suffered from debilitating headaches, shakes . . .” Misato explained, giving the dead woman a forlorn frown. “They worsened just before she died.”

  “Which would mean she probably took a lot of headache medicine. A lot of pills, a lot of capsules . . .” Rosalyn rolled along, feeling she was close to something, feeling as if the answer were lurking somewhere on the edge of her tongue. She shut her eyes tight and sighed. “The aquarium. When you tried to look in Piero’s thoughts, you saw the aquarium. Why would you see that?”

  Before Misato could answer, Rosalyn shoved the drawer shut, locking Tuva back inside. She reached for the older woman’s wrist and hauled her toward the ladder and hatch that led out of what most MSC employees just called the dead drop. Every ship came equipped with a space to store anyone that happened to pass away on a mission. The temperature-controlled slots would preserve a corpse until the ship reached HQ and an investigation could be conducted. The hatch led up into the suit storage room, one that shared a wall with Edison’s makeshift hideaway.

  “The aquarium,” Rosalyn said again, pulling Misato along once they were out of the hatch and plunging into the blue-tinged corridor.

  “What about it?”

  The story spinning into sense in her head had made her careless. Rosalyn pulled up short, but still ran headlong into Captain Aries. Edison blinked down at her, curious and oddly calm. Probably doesn’t want to spook me, Rosalyn thought.

  “You should get back to the decontamination lab,” he said, his brows pulled down in concern. “Piero is up to no good.”

  “I know,” Rosalyn replied, then gestured to Misato. “We know. Come on, you may as well come along.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer, pushing ahead to the corridor split, then taking a right. Her display helpfully brought up the ship schematic again, but she was learning her way around. They passed her lab space, then another fork, which she took a soft left on and brought them into the crew lounge area where Misato had woken her up not long ago. Everything was exactly as it had been, including the cups lined up on the counter. Rosalyn paused, taking in the room and then marching over to the aquarium.

  There were often blanks in her memory, things that had washed themselves away out of desperation or protection. Her memories of the past had once been a solid, colorful painting, but now it was far more like a watercolor, parts faded or gone altogether. There were gaps, redactions, all over recent events. The drinking didn’t help, she knew, but more than that, she could tell her mind was doing it to shield her. But now and then, small memories returned with crisp clarity.

  She had cleaned Stanley’s tank one last time, saying goodbye, hoping Saruti would do a good job with him. He would go live on her desk at work, occupying a space there while Rosalyn forfeited hers. That last time and every time she cleaned his tank, a familiar warning would pop up as she emptied the cleaning pellets into the water.

  “Stanley,” she breathed, staring up at the watery light of the aquarium.

  “Who?” Misato asked. She and Edison joined Rosalyn, standing just a few inches behind.

  “My pet,” she said, confidence building. Striding over to the counter, she followed its edge until she reached the end, and the logical place for a trash bin. Kneeling, she reached in and plucked out a pill bottle. Shaking it, a few capsules rattled around inside.

  “Tuva didn’t have an AR implant,” she continued, popping open the bottle and dumping out the remaining capsules. “If she had, it would have flashed up on mine when I examined her. Those things emit a weak signal for months, usually for memorial stuff. Which means . . .”

  “She wouldn’t have had any warning,” Misato finished.

  As soon as the capsule was in spitting distance of Rosalyn’s visor, her display flashed another warning, this time detecting concentrated levels of cyanide.

  “Stanley,” she said, standing. “My pet fish. There’s a form of cyanide in aquarium cleaner. It comes in powder or capsules.”

  Misato and Edison regarded each other for a long moment, silent.

  “Son of a bitch,
” he finally muttered. “Misato, I should have listened to you.”

  “I knew it. I knew he did it.” Misato turned away from them both, going to stand in front of the aquarium, her hands spreading across the ripples of light on the surface. “What did you find, Tuva? What did you know?”

  “She must have had a bunk,” Rosalyn said. “Personal items. Maybe there’s something there that you missed. Just knowing that Piero poisoned her doesn’t mean anything unless we know why. The Foxfire already has him; it’s not like he’s going to get a trial, right? We should take another look.”

  Edison’s head jerked to the side suddenly and he put up his hand. “Yes, yes we should.” Then, more softly to Misato, “He’s coming.”

  “I sense him, too. He’s angry.”

  Rosalyn tensed, dropping the pills back into the bin as Edison advanced toward her fast, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her toward the rear of the crew lounge before she could protest. There was a hatch past the freezer and food storage, one similar to the ladder that led down to the dead drop in the cold room. Edison pushed her toward it when she wouldn’t move, and Rosalyn stumbled into the ladder’s rungs, then took hold.

  “Just climb, the rear bunks are up there. Tuva’s things. Just climb, damn it.”

  Scrambling up the ladder, she heard the first signs of footsteps from outside in the corridor.

  “Faster,” Edison hissed. “She’s coming.”

  22

  “She?”

  Edison stomped the hatch closed behind him, swiveling the manual lock into place with the toe of his boot. As he did so, a light flashed in front of his eyes. Mother. She—it—was learning him. Now whenever he felt her ghostly touch on his shoulder, he would turn to find his own mom staring back at him. She always wore the thin smile of a disappointed parent, her lips pursed, one hand on her hip, ready to ground him for not cleaning his room or taking out the trash.

  “Mother,” he said, lowering his voice. Piero and Misato would be just below them; they would have to keep quiet. Even if Piero sensed Edison there, and he would, he might not be able to make out their entire conversation. “The Foxfire appears to us as our mothers. It’s a trick. A really, really fucked-up trick. But it . . . can work. That’s how this thing gets to us.”

  “Sure,” Rosalyn murmured, drifting farther into the bunk galley. To Edison, she appeared lost in her thoughts, moving down the line of bunks in her bulky suit on almost tiptoes. “You’re all out in the middle of space, suddenly you start hearing things, things that sound like your own mother . . . It’s the stuff of nightmares. Were you close with your mother?” Gazing around the room, she reached out to touch the surface of each bunk.

  “Yeah, we were close,” he said. “I was afraid of her, too. Military woman, and boy did she expect the best. When you made her happy she was sweet as pie, but let her down?” He whistled.

  “I know it. My father was—is—the same way. Perfection or nothing. It’s exhausting.” She stopped suddenly, about halfway down the row, and spun to face him. Her dark eyes squinted at him, and she frowned. With her hair shaved off, it was impossible not to notice her immense, startling eyes. “Are you . . . all right? Are you going to attack me again?”

  He saw her eyes dart around, probably for a weapon.

  “You’re safer with me than you are with Piero, and besides, I’d like to help you if I can.” Edison stayed near the hatch, preparing to defend the way in if Piero decided to smash his way through again.

  “Why?” she asked. “I imagine it would be easier to give in. Misato is fighting it hard. She wants to help me, too, but why you?”

  “Because I’d like to stay human,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d like to get rid of this. Be myself again. I don’t know if it’s possible, but we have to try.”

  “God. And that thing inside you is probably doing everything it can to sabotage that attempt.” She sighed and pointed to the bunks. “I suppose this one is Tuva’s? Why are the others empty?”

  “There are a few bunk areas on the ship, but a small crew. Tuva liked the solitude.”

  “Good girl,” he heard her mutter. “Misato was right. I would like her.”

  Edison watched her crouch in front of the one made-up bunk. The blankets and sheets were cleanly in place, pulled taut and precise. A military habit. Edison recognized it right away. Her trunk of personal items was pushed against the foot of the bunk, which seemed to levitate, though it was fixed at the head area to the wall, a neat little illusion of engineering. It provided more space underneath, but Tuva hadn’t used it, apparently.

  “It’s unlocked,” Rosalyn noticed, pulling open the trunk. “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Tuva had this thing about lying and secrets. She thought being an open book was the most important thing in the world. I . . . didn’t really get it.”

  “Enjoy lying, do you?” She glanced up, and her half smile told him she was teasing.

  Muffled voices came through the floor below them, and he put a finger to his lips.

  “Keep it down,” he said.

  The room was almost completely dark except for the blue glow of the Foxfire along the walls and the automatic light on Rosalyn’s suit visor. She swayed a little, grabbing the trunk for support.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  “Just tired,” she said. “And hungry. Is there another way out of here? We’ll be trapped if . . .” And there she trailed off, busying herself with the trunk.

  “He won’t hurt Misato. At least . . . I don’t think he will. Shit, I don’t know, he does seem to be changing.” Edison took a few steps deeper into the bunking area, but didn’t want to get too close. He could only imagine what she thought of him after he had chased her through the ship. It felt like another person altogether had done that, but the flicker of fear in her eyes told him otherwise.

  He didn’t want to frighten her again, and he hardly trusted himself.

  What are you waiting for, baby? You can help us all. Help your mother and rip open that silly suit. Rip it open. She can join us. You can give her bliss.

  It never learned. Edison hummed to himself, as quietly as he could, pushing back the voice in his head. He imagined it like a boulder, halfway up a hill, his whole body braced against it, each note he sang forcing it back up bit by bit. The concerts he had gone to on the station always seemed to turn the tide. He wondered if that would change, if the thing inside him would get smarter and more dangerous. It seemed almost a guarantee that it would.

  “I know that one,” Rosalyn said idly, picking through Tuva’s things. A small ball of string, a necklace, an old and cracked VIT chip. “The Late Nodes, right? My old salvaging partner was obsessed with them. The covers especially.”

  “Didn’t mean to bother you. It just helps.”

  “I don’t mind,” she laughed, wry. “Just as long as it isn’t the Unpronounceable Sound.”

  “Never. I would never, never do that to you,” Edison said solemnly. That made her smirk and glance his way. Again, he was caught for an instant by her consuming eyes. “You’re a music person?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Like what?” he asked, watching her study the broken VIT chip.

  “Oh, mostly women screaming into the microphone. And Beethoven. I like Beethoven.”

  The voices below them grew louder and they both fell silent, listening. The floor was too thick to make out any distinct words, but Edison’s head pounded, full of terrible noise. His face grew hot, and he shivered, feeling, seeing and hearing only flashes of the argument.

  He wouldn’t do that. You’re lying. No, no, no! Listen to me, listen to me . . .

  Then, just as quickly as it had come, the noise lessened and his head felt unusually empty. Stillness. Footsteps. The lounge below resonated with nothingness, and for a moment it was quiet except for the buzz of the engines and the FTL
core. He yearned to hear a bird chirping or a siren, something, anything that would remind him of personal stillness on Earth. Now it was only that dull hum, a sound that he imagined might come from the center of the world.

  “It wasn’t Piero,” he said finally. “It was Rayan. They’re gone now. They were arguing; he doesn’t want to believe what Piero did to Tuva.”

  “Why did you believe me?”

  The question came quickly, but it cut through to him somehow. Edison stared at her, confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. You barely know me. You didn’t believe Misato about Piero, about her suspicions that he was up to something and attacked Tuva,” she pointed out. Reasonably, in his eyes.

  “I should have believed her,” Edison said. “That was a mistake.”

  “So why did you believe me, then?”

  Edison sat on one of the bunks a few down from Tuva’s. Leaning forward, he rested his wrists on his knees, still watching her. “Misato is fighting this, like you said. Staying connected to her seems to help me keep Mother at bay. The music helps. And . . . you help. Your humanity. Your youness. Foxfire still doesn’t know what to do with you. I can’t get this feeling out of my head that I know you somehow.”

  She laughed a little, then snorted. It was endearing, but Edison tried not to notice.

  “What if I’m the last human you ever meet? God, that’s a depressing thought,” she muttered.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think you’re—”

  She coughed.

  “Just fine,” he finished.

  Rosalyn’s hands went still, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she would be like out of the bulky suit. Tall, of course, that was obvious, and slender. But it was impossible to get the real make of a person when they were three inches deep in coated plastic. She cleared her throat, shifting, no longer keen to glance his way after that last comment. From where he sat, he could swear her cheeks had turned pink.

  “Wait.” Her entire body went rigid, her hands stopping along the bottom of the trunk. She picked at something there, then gasped. “A false bottom. I suppose Tuva wasn’t totally against secrets, mm?”