“Do you want to know something I haven’t told a single soul?” I lift my gaze. If I’m to be a better jey-ke, why not start now?
He leans close, one set of eyeridges raised. “Only if you’re comfortable telling.”
I look back down. A flush warms my neck. “I don’t know why I’ve kept this to myself for so long. No doubt one of the human therapists would have been able to use this information to speed my recovery.” I meet Geen’s gaze. “I... I have no recollection of the day before the chall attack. Or the morning of.”
Geen digests my words like another mouthful of energy paste. “Nothing?”
“Not a single memory. I know I was in Krashut, the capital, with three of my pilot friends. I know we had meals together, and went to see a show–I found receipts and ticket stubs in one of my pockets a few weeks after the attack. When the clothing I wore that day was returned to me, cleaned of chall.” I shake my head. “But I have no recollection of anything that happened that day. Or that next morning. Nothing. Not even wearing that shirt or turrel. The entire day’s just... gone. Sometimes that frightens me more than looking ahead to my bleak future.”
“And your pilot friends, they all perished, didn’t they?” He speaks in a much lower tone of voice. Much softer.
“I’m told in the first moments of the attack. They’d never had chall before. Having eaten it all my life, I guess I built up something of a tolerance. That’s the only reason I think I alone survived.” Maybe that’s where some of my nightmares come from–my three friends dying like that, probably right in front of me. While I remember nothing...
We sit together in silence, the only sound snores from the sleeping human. Eventually, Geen nods.
“I can see why you kept this to yourself. Losing an entire day... That would frighten me too.”
“I remember everything up to the day before the attack. And I don’t think I’ve forgotten a single moment since the attack.” Even when I wish I could. And in those moments it’s always that dreadful, almost eternal falling... “Sometimes I don’t want to sleep. But listening to your snores helps. Helps a lot. I figure if you can fall asleep...”
After a moment Geen bursts into laughter. Unable to help myself, I join in.
And in this moment, I begin to believe things will be all right. With the job. Between us. My future.
* * *
After a six-hour, re-energizing nap, I return to the hangar bay. Between the delicious meal, chilled drink, and scratching my forehead, my mood’s much improved. I’ve put my mistake behind me. My talk with my tiy-ke has given me more to look forward to than just the credits I’ll earn.
Opening up about my memory loss has shown it’s all right. There’s no need to keep secrets. Geen has had his own problems, and he’s never hesitated to talk about them. Maybe his age has given him wisdom I lack. But it’s time now that I follow his example.
It’s time I become the jey-ke he deserves.
I disassemble and stow the trencher back in its pod, then find and assemble a similar device called a trenkin. The contents of this one fills two pods. It’s a little more complex, but as easy as the trencher to operate. It has a support platform that allows me and its cutting jaws to reach high enough to trim away the obstructions hanging from the ceiling. Each obstacle will take more time to handle, but I’m confident if I’m careful I’ll have no problem.
The ceiling obstacles are mostly twisted metal, crumpled piping, thick struts, and melted wiring, fused together in the brunt of the plasma clusters.
I start near the back wall, identify the eight obstacles I need to remove, and get to work.
I’m about to start on my fifth obstacle when an alarm sounds in my helmet. The next Unity Fleet patrol is due. I lower the trenkin’s platform, power down the device, then do the same with the sled. The hangar bay goes dark.
As with the previous Unity Fleet patrol, Leader doesn’t call out a warning. Perhaps he doesn’t want his communication overheard by any eavesdropping vessel. Or he trusts everyone now to be on the same schedule and prepared. This time around, I certainly am.
I crouch behind another stump of slag as the first spotlight plays over the Faraday curtain. Fingers of light poke through the gaps and shadows shift along the back wall. A second spotlight kicks on. Ten minutes later both are off and the hangar bay is dark again. Five minutes pass before Leader gives us the all clear.
As I power up the sled, I wonder how he’s certain the Unity Fleet vessel has moved on. It’s probably as simple as having video cameras positioned on the asteroid. Nothing that would give off any sort of signal, just an eye observing local space.
The people who put this operation together thought of everything. And rightfully so–the payoff will be enormous if–no, when we succeed.
As I continue my work, my thoughts turn to Geen and how he’s not had a tiy-ke for the majority of his life. That would be a challenge I don’t know if I could weather. I’ve always preferred the comfort of having someone older and wiser there for me. First the elders in my home commune. Followed by my sergeant in the militia. Then Kel Lubrous took me under his wing the week I entered my pilot’s training. He helped me get my first assignment, prepared me for the ins and outs of my career.
“My tiy-ke played a huge role at the start of my career, so long ago,” he told me once. “I feel obligated to pass on everything I’ve learned. You’ll do the same when that’s the right time for you in your life.”
Geen never received that help. He essentially fumbled his way through his career–at least during the first decade. That must’ve been so difficult. I wonder if he ever resented those of us who’ve enjoyed a tiy-ke–jey-ke relationship. It’s an important part of life. Unlike humans, who know their progenitors, and byveri, who are raised with their pelts, we kavax mature along an entirely different path. Born into communes, we’re attended to by caretakers, in what humans might consider a village-style upbringing. No kavax adult ever claims a child as theirs. No kavax young knows who his or her progenitors are. There is a certain instability in all this, especially if it’s difficult for one to make friends. But it works.
To transition from the closeness and comradery of village life among people one’s grown up with to the singularity and solitude of an engineer’s job like Geen’s must’ve been difficult. At least he’s had friends over the decades, like Leader. Based on the tone of his voice when Geen speaks of him, they sound like solid mates. I imagine they might consider themselves more than friends.
Humans and kavax have formed strong relationships in the past. Especially when the Sha-Ho first made contact with my people nearly two centuries ago. Humans accompanied the vastly superior alien race and served as friendly, patient buffers. Were it not for them, I doubt we would’ve been invited into the Unity Sphere. Memoirs from the kavax who dealt with the Sha-Ho at the time hinted they considered us stubborn children. We worked better with humans. Always have.
But even with their relationship Geen and Leader share nothing of the deep bond that forms between tiy-ke and jey-ke.
A bond that’s devastating when it’s broken.
My tiy-ke for the short time of my pilot’s career, Lubrous, died about two months after the chall attack. He was in another city, tending to business. He ended up suffering seizures practically every other day. They eventually wore him down, depleted his reserves. While it was hard to watch, in the end I felt relief when he finally succumbed and the pain ended.
While Geen isn’t a pilot, I believe now he can help me in ways I’ve never considered. He has a vast network of connections he can rely on. This current operation is just one example. I’m hopeful it will be the first of many. I have to face the reality I might not ever return to the pilot’s deck. While I don’t know where I’ll fit again, I believe Geen will do his best to keep me going. He really wants both of us to succeed.
I intend to be open and honest with him now so he can help me. And, just maybe, I can help him.
I finish the remaini
ng obstacles, then disassemble and stow the trenkin. Standing before the sled I check the timer in my helmet, then turn and admire my work. It’s taken thirty-three hours for me to complete my primary tasks, not counting my nap. I’m warmed by the satisfaction of a job well done. All that’s asked of me now is to get the sled back into the cargo container, a task I know I’m ready to accomplish.
My helmet speaker crackles. “Pilot.” It’s Leader. His voice is oddly subdued. “Please come to the pocket.”
A sudden, wicked churning roils my guttards. I recognize that tone. I heard it when my old tiy-ke fell with his final seizure. The human medical personnel and therapists involved all used it. I’ll never forget it.
“This is Pilot. Acknowledged.” My voice is somehow steady.
I drop the sled into stand-by and give the hangar bay a final check before I start down the right-side corridor. My mind has gone blank. I can’t think of any reason Leader would speak to me in such a tone. Unless... Well, I don’t want to think of the reason he would speak to me that way.
But I know.
A chall seizure can kill the first time, or the thousandth.
Geen’s seizures have been less frequent as of late. I think he only had one during our six-week training regimen. And it wasn’t really bad. His seizures target his hearts. Usually one or the other would fall into a flutter–something not uncommon in far older kavax. He’d lose the use of half his body until the seizure passed. At first they were painful, but as they lessened in frequency, they also lessened in severity. His therapists had been hopeful they might drop to be so infrequent, they wouldn’t be a problem anymore.
Like my seizures, he has no medicines, no equipment to get him through. They came, did their thing, and passed. An unstoppable force. But always, always, it is one heart or the other. Never both. We talked about it once, and we shuddered at what might happen if both seized.
I’m about to find out. How I know this, I’m uncertain. Maybe because I’ve been thinking of our relationship and how I resolved to be a better jey-ke. I’ve learned that’s how things tend to work in my life. And Leader’s tone... My premonition just feels right.
Six people crowd the corridor outside the pocket airlock. They step aside as I shove my way through. The outer airlock hatch is open in anticipation of my arrival. Someone pulls it shut behind me. I fidget during the long minute it takes for the air to cycle. Finally the inner airlock hatch light blinks white.
I push my way into the pocket.
Two figures with their helmets off are crouched over a third lying on the padded floor. One is Leader. The other is one of the kavax workers. The person on the floor, helmet and gloves removed, is my tiy-ke.
As I toss my gloves and my helmet onto a recliner, the crouched kavax moves back. I take his place at my tiy-ke’s side.
Geen’s glazed eyes are half open, as is his mouth. His jaw is kinda crooked to one side, as though he’d been clenching his teeth and suddenly relaxed. In the pocket’s lamplight, the pale green of his neck scales is unmistakable. It is the shade of death.
“He just– He was working, and just clutched his chest. I heard him struggling to breathe,” Leader says. “He fell, wouldn’t respond.”
“He had a seizure.” I place a hand on my friend’s forehead. His scales are already turning cold. Or it could be the pocket’s chill. The deathly chill of this entire outpost. “That was his medical condition. Heart seizures. Usually only one at a time. It passes and he’s fine. I guess...”
“He mentioned something about that. How the two of you...” He glances up at the standing kavax. After a moment the kavax puts on his helmet and gloves, then steps into the airlock. Leader looks back down at Geen. “Something to do with an attack on your birth world?”
“We were poisoned by byveri separatists. Tens of thousands of us.” I clench my teeth, swallow hard. My thoughts are muddy. It’s difficult to think. The crushing realization is that I’m alone again. “We’re still dying even this long after the attack.”
“Cruks.” His voice is even more subdued. “He said it was bad. But he seemed confident. Said that since he made it this far...”
I press on his eyelids, push them all the way closed, then straighten his jaw. His hands are tight fists. I wonder how they got the gloves off.
Leader sees me staring. “There’s an auto release function,” he says. “It straightened the fingers, let us remove the gloves. He made fists again the moment we got them off.” He touches the ring where the helmet sits. “By the time we got his helmet off he wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t making a sound. We activated the suit’s resuscitation protocol, but...”
“It wouldn’t have helped.” I want to lean away, kneel beside my friend, but the suit makes it impossible. I stand instead. “What happens now?”
“Do you want to be alone with your friend? Maybe say your farewells?” He rises. “I can give you a few minutes.”
“I... will grieve later. It is our way. When I have the chance I will light a candle. I will honor his memory. Until then...” I’m unable to lift my gaze from my unmoving friend. “He would want us to finish. To succeed.”
“We’ll do that then,” Leader says. “We’ll do that.”
“What will we do with him?”
“Take him with us, of course.” He crouches again. “We’ll leave nothing and no one behind. I can’t stress how important it is we cover our tracks. We’ll put his helmet and gloves back on, find a place for him on the sled. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
He’s cargo now. The thought is a mental slap. Just not worth anything. Well, maybe his suit. Certainly Leader and his people will want to recover that. Unless he decides to jettison the body on the way back to the cargo container. All in all, that not might be a bad idea. Far easier to take care of a body that way than have to explain anything to the authorities back on the station.
Assuming Leader even has to worry about the authorities. He probably controls everything that happens within his business’s interests. He and his people.
I say, “I would like to help with that.”
It takes surprisingly little time. A couple of clicks with each glove, a twist and a click with the helmet, and Geen is back in his suit. Leader presses buttons on the suit’s forearm plate. Geen’s body contracts into a fetal position, wobbles for a moment, then rolls onto its side.
I wince, eyeridges lowering, noseridges rising. But I understand the necessity. We might even fit him inside a cargo pod now, if we had any to spare.
“How’re you doing in the hangar bay?” Leader asks. He grabs his helmet and gloves.
“I finished, and just stowed the trenkin when you called. The sled is ready for launch. All we need is the cargo.”
He grunts. “The cargo. Yes.” He sounds... uncertain.
“What remains to be done?” I wave at the suit rolled onto its side. “With his duties. What’s left to do?”
“He was working on the fourth cradle. What we’re going to use to transport our... um, salvage to the sled. Off the outpost.”
“We’re here for micro-core components. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
He eyeballs me for a moment, then shrugs. “All right, yeah. We’re here for the micro-core components. Do you... uh... You’re pretty sure you can finish his work? Take over where he left off?”
A twinge of anxiety pinches my guttards. But then I remember something Geen told me during our training.
“I’ve made a habit of taking notes while I work. If anything were to happen to me, check my plate for those notes. Between them and your training here, you should be able to do everything that needs to be done. That I don’t get done for some reason.”
He took to doing this due to a previous incident. He was always mentioning how zero-g work could be dangerous, that one engineer had to take over for another from time to time.
I point at Geen’s forearm. “He said he would leave me notes. Is there a way to search his plate for those, get them over to me?”
Leader pokes at the plate. He then pokes at his own. Something flashes on the inside of his helmet’s faceplate. He lifts his helmet, looks inside, then, “Oh, yes. Here we are.” He gestures. “Let me see your plate.”
I extend my forearm. He taps a few buttons. My helmet beeps. I pluck it from the recliner, remove the gloves inside. A message on my faceplate informs me I’ve received a packet transfer.
“Use your plate,” he says. “It’s a simple data file, unprotected. It should open right up.”
“Let me put on my helmet. Probably be easier.” I latch it into place, then work my plate. A moment later the contents of the packet appear. It’s a media file, with text and audio. “It’s here.”
I press play.
Geen’s voice croons from my speakers. “...the fourth strut. I’ve locked it in place. If the micro-core components are inserted as per protocol, everything should hold.” He’s speaking in our native tongue, sounds tired but pleased. There’s a slight hiss as the recording pauses. “Won’t be completely certain until we load the components. I’m confident my calculations are correct though. Pretty standard stuff. We’ll load the first cradle soon. The team there... The team... Is–” He makes a sound, like someone punching the breath from his lung. A pretty strong blow. He chuffs, then groans. “I– I think I’m–” He groans again, louder this time, through clenched teeth.
His voice weighs with his pain. My own lung loses breath. The last thing I expect are the final sounds of my tiy-ke, loud and wet and visceral.
But I can’t stop the recording.
“Bray– I can’t–” He wheezes, groans, grunts. “Oh.” Another sound–I think he’s trying to say more. Then a strange kind of hiss as the last breath leaves his lung. It’s loud and steady at first, then dwindles away as his exhal pips close for the last time. Alarms inside his suit warble.
“Pilot!” Leader’s voice is loud in the pocket’s quiet, even through my helmet. He’s shaking my arm. I find my hand on my suit’s chestplate.
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