I stiffen. He must know of my recent past. Does he smell anything? A spot I failed to wipe? I have to believe Geen would’ve said something. “If the job’s anything like the training simulations, I’ll have no problems.”
“And I’ll have no problems with the equipment you’ve asked me to train on,” Geen says. “It’s all equipment I’ve used before. I’m familiar with their assembly and functions.”
The human’s gaze shifts back to Geen. “And you’ve tried your hand with the flight simulations? You’re the backup pilot for this job. Anything happens to your friend here, it’s your job to get us safely home.”
How much does the human know? He must know something–he’s aware that I’m a pilot out of work for a medical reason. And that Geen’s work license is limited for a similar medical condition. He still trusts either of us to be able to pilot the unusual sled he designed, apparently for use on the job ahead.
Left unsaid are the dangers and risks. The sled is not equipped for a journey of any duration. It seems to have enough atmosphere and fuel for a day’s flight at best. But it has some of the most responsive maneuvering thrusters I’ve seen on a vessel that small. More than capable of handling the situations I faced on the simulations.
At this point, though, neither Geen nor I know where we’ll be departing from or flying to.
“Pilot is fully able and capable to get us where we’re going and back,” Geen says. “I’m prepared to sit in the pilot’s chair if necessary, and Pilot is ready to complete my tasks were injury to befall me.”
The human leans back in his chair. “Glad to hear it. My man there will escort you to your rooms. Free meal service is in two hours. You’ll find dataplates in your room to help get you oriented to the station, a few credits so you can amuse yourselves or eat sooner, then the time and place where we all meet tomorrow morning. Get a good night’s rest, gentlemen. There will be very little sleep in the days ahead.” He nods.
I understand that action is a dismissal. So does Geen. We leave. Escort leads us to another part of the building, to a spartan room with a closet, desk, and two hammocks appropriate for our species. A dataplate rests on each hammock.
“Do what you kavax do to relax yourselves,” Escort says. “Times and directions to places you might want to go are on the plates. So’s tomorrow’s schedule. Don’t be late.” He departs.
Geen sets his duffel on the far hammock. He activates his dataplate as he sits. The hammock’s support frame squeaks. “Hungry?” He speaks in our native tongue, a series of clicks and pops usually too quick for humans or byveri to understand, though a few have made the effort. Like Mr. Tremp–we talk a lot in my native tongue.
I set my duffel on my hammock. “I should eat. Maybe a hot soak as well. Then sleep.” I stretch my arms above my head. My shoulders pop. “I guarantee I will be sore tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe we can find a medical kiosk. See if they have anything to ease your discomfort.”
“I haven’t seen many kavax around. I doubt any kiosk will have anything of use. I’ll just endure.”
Geen chuffs. “We should still look. Like the human said, there will be very little sleep in the days ahead. Make it as easy on yourself as possible, if only for my comfort.”
“How much time do we have until the meeting tomorrow?”
Geen checks his plate. “Twelve standard hours. Give or take.”
“Let’s find nourishment. Then maybe a hot soak. Then rest.” I click my tongue. “And let’s hope that hammock frame of yours doesn’t squeak all night.”
* * *
Before we sleep, we light candles in the tradition of Sinna. As I stare into the tiny flame I honor the memory of my original tiy-ke, Kel Lubrous, the invaluable help given freely by Mr. Tremp, and my three pilot-friends lost during the separatist attack. I let my candle burn long after Geen snuffs his out and settles in his hammock. I doubt we’ll have the chance to honor and remember in the coming days.
Dreams rouse me twice during the dark quiet. In one I recall words between Mr. Tremp and myself. We’re in a room shrouded with fog. I barely see him. I can’t tell if we’re sitting or standing. My muscles ache, as though I’ve just had a seizure. He’s urging me to accept and move on. I ask him to be my tiy-ke. He says he cannot, as he is human–though being kavax is not a requirement. Only willingness from both parties. I hear temptation in his voice... Or that just might be my dream hearing.
In another, kavax everywhere are on the ground, writhing, bleeding from their mouths and nares. Their deaths happen in utter silence. Chall in fine powder form, the way the byveri separatists weaponized it, swirls in the air. Byveri, unaffected, rush by at the periphery, none stopping to help. As the last kavax stills, pressure builds between my knuckles and toes. Then my hands tremble and go numb. The deathly cold spreads up my arms and legs. My breathing pips spasm shut. I collapse, writhing, coughing blood–
I remind myself to record these dreams in my dataplate. Like my seizures, the therapists want to keep track of their frequency, duration, and content. They’ve been hitting with lesser frequency, but affect me for longer hours. Just like my sense of falling.
As expected, I awake the next morning stiff and sore. I sit on the edge of my hammock to catch my breath, inhal pips opening wide to draw air deep into my lung, then go through my morning exercises. Knowing I won’t have the opportunity to stretch for a while, I hold each pose for an extra beat. Geen watches from his hammock. My groans must have woken him.
He checks his plate. “We have one hour.”
“Enough time for a rubdown, and a quick bite?”
“Instructions say not to eat until the job begins. They must intend to put us on a particular schedule.”
“Really? What kind?”
“Energy paste, most likely.” He grunts. “At least we ate well last night.”
The restaurant we found had a decent kavax menu. Lots of meaty vegetables, noodles, and grains. We also found a soak room and spent an hour relaxing our scales in the heat and steam. Never located a kiosk that sold anything for my expected pain. I think Geen was more disappointed than me.
We leave our duffels in the room. Our instructions say not to bring anything except our dataplates. I take a chance and ditch the diaper.
Wearing loose tunics, turrels (which humans call skirts), and boots, we follow directions in our plates. The lighting remains dim, the rock walls and metal framework deep in shadows. The smells of food cooking, the brewing of the dark liquid humans fancy, and murmured chatter float from the few open establishments. Two-man Security teams in yellow vests walk about, some twirling their sting-batons. We board a tram which takes us a good distance across the station. The smells in the air change from consumables to ozone and the tang of oils and metal being worked.
Escort meets us at the hatch we’re guided to by our plates. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
“No,” Geen says. “The plates told us not to.”
“Good.” He jiks his head, a move I’ve learned means follow me, and leads us through the hatch. The halls are empty. From elsewhere, chatter echoes. Boots clump on deck plating, chains rattle, and cranes groan as they handle heavy loads. We are near some sort of facility that either constructs large pieces of machinery or repairs them–Geen’s type of place.
Escort leads us into a room. There are dozens of closed lockers in rows, along with refresher facilities. He brings us to a back corner where the lighting is especially dim. Maybe to obscure our identities.
“You know how to hop into zero-g worksuits?” He pressed a card to the lockpads on the last two lockers. They open with clunks. Inside each is a large, heavy-duty, kavax zero-g suit. “This one’s yours. This one’s for the pilot.”
“We do,” Geen says, knowing full well I do not. Not entirely. He pulls a lever near the top of the locker. The suit, hanging from hooks, slides out on a pair of bars. I do the same at the second locker. “We’ll need about thirty minutes.”
“Make sure
you use the refreshers before you put these on.” Escort checks his chrono, then points at a hatch. “When you’re done just go through there. The rest of the team should be ready by then.” He departs.
We use the refreshers as advised, remove our clothes and put them in the locker, then scratch what itches–we won’t be able to soon enough. I follow Geen’s instructions and don my suit, piece by piece. It’s bulky and heavy, but warm. Servos at the shoulders and hips, waist, elbows, and knees assist with movement. Attachments fit themselves to my waste pips. Geen shows me how to use a control plate on my forearm to raise and lower my suit’s internal temperature. The cool air blowing across my scales helps soothe my aches.
“You may like it now,” Geen says, “but before this job is over you’re going to hate the suit.”
In this instance, I trust my tiy-ke. All his adult life he’s been an engineer. Putting things together, taking things apart, sometimes in giant hangars and repair shops, but often in the vacuum of space. He knows these suits.
I’ve mostly worn cloth uniforms.
He says, “Leave your gloves and helmets off. It’s standard not to put them on until right before we hit vacuum.” He has me raise my arms and spin around, grabs and pulls at parts all over–he inspects everything, including the bottoms of my boots. Then he raises his arms and talks me through similar checks of his suit. The metal is scraped and scratched, some of the flexible piping wears patches, and his boots are scuffed, the soles chipped. He says mine are too, and that’s normal for suits this old.
I notice my helmet has a wider faceplate than his.
“You’ll have more to look at,” he says, “with all your pilot duties.”
Afterward, we leave the locker room through the indicated hatch. We clump down a dim corridor and through another hatch, into an equally dim room. The sounds and smells from before return.
Inside the room are four humans and four kavax, all in similar zero-g suits. Lamps on their shoulders cast soft red beams. Their gloves are clipped to one side of the thick belts at their suits’ waists, their helmets to the other side. Just like ours.
I give the kavax a quick study. None look familiar. That’s no surprise, though. And I won’t learn any of their names.
The humans are tall and broad in the shoulders–exemplary examples of the males of their species. I’d hesitate to invade their personal space. They move about as though used to the suits. The kavax look to be of average height and build. But they, too, seem unperturbed by the suits. Or the task to come, whatever it may be.
A human approaches us. His face is shaved smooth, as is his head. I notice then all humans are equally hairless–what they call bald. “Welcome! So, we’re all here now.” He checks a plate on his right forearm. “Ahead of schedule. Fantastic.” He turns, looks at each of us. “Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me, we’ll get underway.” He smiles, claps. “The next three days will be long and hard, but I assure you, well worth the effort. Well worth the effort.” He raises an arm above his head, makes a gesture.
A hatch along the far wall opens–someone must be observing. A red light shines from the room beyond. I understand now. The red light allows us to maintain our night vision. Where we’re going must be pretty dark. An asteroid, maybe, or a derelict vessel.
I’m supposed to get us there, piloting the sled I’ve been training on for the past six weeks. But that doesn’t make sense. This station seems to have enough vessels flying about, with pilots cleared to work. Why me?
Unless we’re going somewhere we aren’t meant to go. My eyeridges bunch together. I glance at Geen. He simply raises his eyeridges and joins the line passing through the hatch. The first feelings of reservation tingle in my guttards as I follow.
Wait, I don’t know...
Then the truth of my situation hits hard.
What else do you have?
And I decide.
Sanctioned or not, legal or not, this is all I have...
The hangar past the hatch is vast but well illuminated by red lamps. It’s full of large, rectangular cargo containers with rounded edges, twice as long as they are tall and wide, stacked two and three high. Lights on their access plates glow in the dimness. Forklifts run down the aisles. Cranes shift back and forth overhead. Now and then one plucks a container from the stacks and carries it away. There’s lots of noise, lots of movement, lots of echoes.
Steam swirls from Geen’s exhal pips, and the pips of the kavax ahead of him. From the humans’ mouths as well, and the tops of their bald heads. I find the sight amusing, but suppress a chuckle–to a human it might sound like a threatening hiss.
The human in charge, who I identify as Leader, brings us to a container and opens the hatch. “Start at the back. Climb up, take a seat and plug yourselves in.” He directs the kavax in first, two to one side, two to the other, then the humans. Then Geen. He turns to me. “Your place is here at the front, pilot. I hope you remember how to clip yourself in.”
I peer into the container’s gloom. Sure enough, a few paces in sits a sled. It looks like the small vessel I’ve been training on. It’s on braces that rise from the bottom of the container. Cables hang from equipment mounted to the container’s ceiling. Small pods occupy the wide, flat cargo bed. Each of the humans and kavax sit on small seats mounted to the sled’s sides, their heads above the sled, their boots below. They face forward. Face me, though I’ll have my back to them.
Ten seats, plus my pilot’s chair. The empty seat is behind Geen.
My chair in front is more involved. It has armrests that swing out from the front of the sled, and pedals for my feet that will drop down once I’m on the chair. As with the others, collapsible stairs allow me to climb to my seat, as high off the container floor as I am tall. I settle in. It takes me a couple of tries but I manage to plug the input port-pack on the back of my suit into the waiting receptacle on my chair–something I was unable to practice. Brackets curl from the chair’s edges to hold my thighs in place. There’s a chime, then the control arms swing out and the pedals descend from beneath the chair. I adjust each, so my hands and feet are situated where it will be comfortable for me to work the controls.
“Good.” It’s Leader. He sits behind me, on my right. I turn my head, see him in the dim red light.
He’s studying a small plate that’s flipped out from the side of the sled. “All data links are active. Suit functions optimal. Excellent. All right, everyone. Gloves and helmets.”
I swing my armrests back to give myself room. It takes some effort, moving around in the tight space, to unclip my helmet. I settle it on the collar around my neck, twist it into place. Tiny blue and red lights appear along the periphery of the faceplate. I slide each glove on with slow, deliberate movements to avoid dropping it, then twist the lock-rings until they latch. When the second lock-ring snaps into place, my suit powers up. More lights appear around my faceplate, and the hum of circulating air fills my ears, then fades.
As I do all this, the container’s front hatch closes. A readout at the top brightens. More readouts and data streams appear along the container’s sides. Tiny red lights ring the hatch opening.
A warning chime sounds in my suit speakers. Then a pleasant human voice announces in Sphere Standard, “Warning. Prepare for decompression.”
The sled vibrates to life. Readouts appear on the interior of my faceplate, filling the available space. White and green mix with the red–colors best suited for kavax vision. I give each reading a glance. Right now they are a collection of system status registers, showing me the sled’s health. The readings are in the arrangement I created during the simulations. I turn my gaze on a pentagon in the faceplate’s upper right corner. Monitors track my eye movements. After two beats, the pentagon rotates a fifth of the way. The readouts change to show everything I need to pilot the sled: glide path, proximity readouts, direction and velocity, etc. Again, all as I arranged during the simulations. Right now everything sits at zero except for the proximity readouts–the fit insi
de the container is not as tight as I first thought.
A readout appears in the bottom left of my faceplate–a message in tiny red letters: Decompression complete. A second message appears beneath it: Prepare for crane transport maneuver. The messages disappear. Then the container shakes as from above, a crane latches on. The jolt goes all the way down to my boots. There’s a slight motion as the crane lifts and carries the container, destination unknown.
A new message appears in the faceplate’s bottom left: We are committed.
A timer in the upper left begins counting down. It starts at just over fifteen minutes.
A new window appears in the center of my faceplate. Leader’s face is centered within, surrounded by black. He starts with a smile–a gesture meant to offer assurance, but one often mis-interpreted by my people as aggression.
“By now I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here. Had you train for so long on equipment with all their odd modifications. Let me assure you, as I said earlier it will be well worth the effort.”
The head slides to the window’s right border. My face appears to the left.
“The remainder of this message has been tailored for you, Pilot. Your job is to drive the sled from this cargo container into the ruins of an abandoned research outpost on a nearby asteroid, and back to the freighter once our tasks there are complete. You will also assist Engineer in his duties, and be ready to assume responsibility for those should something happen to him. I don’t anticipate any harm to come to any members of this operation, but experience has taught me that in this line of work, accidents happen. People are injured. A few die.”
A sense of relief floods through me. If everything’s like the simulations, I should have no trouble driving the sled from the container into the abandoned outpost’s hangar bay. And Geen is the engineer Leader keeps mentioning. He’ll be watching me for the duration. I’m surprised at how much this alleviates my anxiety–an anxiety I wasn’t aware of. My neck scales are probably flushed a deep green.
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