My inhal pips open wide as I suck in one lungful of air after another.
He shakes me again. “Pilot! What the hell!”
“I– I just heard... I just heard my friend die.”
“Oh.” He releases my arm. “Oh, goddamn. I never thought... But, yeah. If he was recording, it would’ve picked up everything.” He retreats a step. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to subject you to that. I should’ve realized...”
My breathing returns to normal. I suck on the water nipple in my helmet. My racing hearts settle. “It’s okay. I’m fine. It was... Just a shock.” I lock my gloves into place. “I’ll scroll back, find where he begins work on the fourth cradle. I’ll take it from there.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure. But you know, if you want to take a break, it’ll be a couple hours before we attempt to remove any of the components. You got time. Maybe...” He indicates a recliner. “Maybe you should lie down, eat something, get some sleep. I know at this point we’re all getting pretty beat down.”
The thought of sleep churns my guttards. Who knows what visions might play across my closed eyelids.
“I’d– I’d rather go see what he’s been doing. Get familiar with the cradles. Well, more familiar than I got during the simulations. I’m all right. A little shook, but all right.”
“Okay, Pilot. But I insist you take a break. That’s non-negotiable. So follow me, I’ll show you around the reactor room, let you see what we’ve been doing. Then I want you back here to eat, drink, and rest. We’re entering the most critical phase of our operation. Can’t afford a screw-up now.”
I look down. “What about Geen?”
“I’ll have a team bring him to the sled. We’ll keep him in the hangar bay until we have the four cradles loaded.”
“Have you considered jettisoning his body?”
Leader stares at me. “You’d be all right with that?”
“I’ve considered it. Figured that’d be what you’d want to do. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have minded. Just don’t know about the suit.”
“Don’t worry about that. Won’t be able to use it again anyway. Nobody wants to wear a suit that someone else died in.” He shrugs. “That’s just the way of things around here.” He drops his helmet on, then locks his gloves into place. “Well, if this is how you want to proceed, let’s head to the reactor room. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
* * *
The reactor room is on the same level as the pocket, just deeper into the outpost. From the pocket, we take a turn away from the hangar bay, walk down to a corridor leading left, and use that to cross to the corridor leading to the reactor room. We pass more damage, jammed-open hatches, and half-opened interlocks. Debris has been cleared away. The scorching from the plasma clusters is considerably less, but there’s been fighting–blasts from what look like Arc-3 rifle fire pock the metal. Again, this is based on what I’ve seen in longshows, but they’ve been accurate about plasma clusters. I’ve no reason to doubt them here, especially considering who the last owners of the outpost might’ve been.
“The control deck is right above us,” Leader says. “It took the brunt of the plasma clusters. They blasted right through the structure. Decompressed the entire deck.”
His words come to me from a distance.
During our walk, I’ve retreated into myself. I’m still highly functional, just... split. I look around the large reactor room, illuminated by several spotlights on floor and ceiling, and recognize a lot of the equipment I encountered during my training. I also understand what the teams here have been doing. And it’s not that I don’t care. I just don’t feel it.
A human therapist like Mr. Tremp might say I’ve become detached. That I’m operating now on instinct. Like a machine. An automaton. They would be more or less correct. It’s just how we deal with traumatic emotional blows like this. We distance ourselves, push it aside, and focus on whatever task is at hand. Until there comes such time as we can grieve.
Sometimes that period lasts for minutes or hours. Sometimes months. It all depends. Right now, I won’t consider grieving until I’m back at Chalico Station. This follows the practices of Sinna, our last true spiritual leader. He died several centuries ago, when the purification of the kavax race was complete. He taught us to keep in our memories those who have been important to us. To use the flame of a single candle to guide our focus. Whenever I memorialate, my thoughts flood with the dozens, if not hundreds of people who have played a prominent role in my young life.
I will place Geen at the top of my list.
Kavax grieve over trauma all the time–our lives can be hard, often for reasons beyond our control. Outsiders tend to see us as an emotionless group because of this. But that’s as we grieve. Otherwise, we can be as emotional and spirited as humans and byveri. It’s just that others notice it more when we’re not.
At least the four kavax here will understand.
Geen’s workspace is against the room’s wide back wall. Stacks of empty cargo pods line the metal and rock. The workspace consists of a large table, legs bolted to the deck, with an open area in the center surrounded by tools mounted to the table’s edges. Support arms dangle from the ceiling. They are meant to hold the pieces of the cradle in place during its assembly.
Three complete cradles sit on the plating near the pods. The fourth, on the table, is over halfway assembled. The remaining pieces are lined up in order of assembly, knowing Geen.
I scroll back through the recording for the moment he started assembling the fourth cradle. He’s left bookmarks, which will help me jump around when I need to find certain information.
Lamp light flickers across walls as six others join us in the room. They congregate in groups of three in the two forward corners where more pods and heavy equipment await.
The thick metal in the back two corners has been cut away, exposing cladding, insulation, dense piping, and circuitry. Parts of those have been cut away as well. Tiny lights rim the smaller holes. Components of shiny white metal glow within. Not with their own power, of course–they’re just reflecting the light cast upon them.
Leader approaches. “It’ll take about five or six more hours to cut our way through the reactor walls for the last two micro-cores. Once that’s done, we’ll all take a break. It should only take a quarter of the time to recover the components, secure them in the cradles, and get them to the sled.”
I count the hours. If things go smooth, then yes, we’ll be into our third day here before we depart. “I’ll have this fourth cradle assembled by then,” I say. “It looks fairly straightforward, and Geen left detailed notes.”
“Good, good.” He studies the table, then nods. “I’ll leave you to it, then. When you’re done here, return to the pocket. I’ll call for you when were ready to transfer the components.”
“Acknowledged.”
He walks to the nearest group of three. They are gathered around a plasma torch half as large as one of our suits. Cables lead from its back to power pods on the plating. As Leader approaches, the operator at the control plate flips a few switches. Aimed at a jagged line already burned into the thick metal, the torch spits a bright fiery spear. The metal wall glows red. Sparks spray from the wound.
In the corner opposite, a similar operation plays out. Their progress looks nearly complete–that part of the operation, anyway. I presume they still have to cut their way to the precious white metal buried inside.
I focus on the half-assembled cradle. Before I even power on any of the equipment mounted to the table, I familiarize myself with each of their functions, with the control plates for the overhead support arms, and the pieces of the cradle themselves. I treat this like I would a flight from one point to another, whether intra-system on Columbus thrusters or via a jump through darkspace. Meticulous planning makes up perhaps ninety percent of the work.
The detailed training simulations prove their worth.
Once I’m confident, I begin.
The micro-core
s held by the components we’re here to recover were basically small balls of plasma the size of a helmet. I don’t understand the physics behind it all–this technology remains in the realm of the Sha-Ho. When this outpost was originally built, the large reactor cores we’re cutting into were likely built elsewhere and flown in for final assembly. When this outpost was destroyed, no doubt a Sha-Ho engineer took charge of removing the cores. It’s likely the reactor walls were opened in some fashion to allow for this, then sealed. The Unity Fleet then assumed responsibility for quarantining the outpost.
According to Geen, the components are made of an alloy designed by the Sha-Ho. It’s this alloy that distributes power through the outpost. Again, I haven’t the faintest idea how it works. I do know it’s like a circulatory system, where good plasma goes out, and some sort of residual plasma returns, to be re-energized by the micro-core. The material that makes up this circulatory system is an alloy similar to the components. The circulatory system was also part of the pseudo-gravity system, though how, I have no clue.
Sometimes micro-cores are strung together over the distances of a large station or a large vessel. Other times the cores are arranged to form a net in the outer layers of a spherical body, with a larger central core taking in depleted plasma and returning renewed plasma.
In any case, it’s the alloy that make these components so valuable. It can be adapted to other tasks, or used as replacement parts for damaged micro-cores–damage that certain parties would prefer the authorities not know about. Any facility with the ability to handle these kind of repairs can make a lot of credits.
I resume the fourth cradle’s assembly. The forefront of my mind moves on automatic, as though I’d done this type of work for decades. The back half spins with agonizing thoughts.
It’ll all be without purpose. Geen’s death has taken my hopes.
Sure, I’ll get a pretty decent sum of credits. And there’s always a possibility I’ll find a new aptitude that suits me, despite the extensive testing I’ve endured. And just maybe those Sha-Ho and human scientist will finish their work on the filter and flush my system of chall. That would put me back in the pilot seat.
But... that’s wishful thinking. If any of that were to happen, it would’ve happened by now. That’s the realization settling upon me. The realization that hit when I accepted this job. That I’d have to do something else. Now I’ll have to do something else, with someone else.
Leader won’t keep me around. I just don’t have any additional skills he might find useful. I’m pretty sure if he’s caught with an unlicensed pilot flying one of his vessels, the penalties will be more than whatever profit he might make employing me. So when this operation’s done, so am I.
I’ll never get another tiy-ke. I can explain how Geen died–a seizure took him out. It’s more a matter of when and where this happened that’ll trip me. I don’t think any of my human therapists except Mr. Tremp would understand if I said it’s better they not know. And even he might be hesitant to continue treating me.
At this point, where the future’s so... bleak, I can’t do it without a tiy-ke. Simply no way. I just don’t have it in me. Some kavax can work independently–Geen for instance. Not me. Even on long piloting stints, loneliness would creep at the edge of my awareness, but knowing I had someone waiting for me that I could talk to or visit gave me the strength to complete my mission. When our work here is finished, so am I.
I’m enveloped by sense of gloom. A few more hours of hard work, one last stint in the pilot’s chair, and it’s over. Even worse, it’ll all be without purpose. The sadness from that alone is enough to finish me off.
The fourth cradle comes together far quicker than I anticipate. The device is primarily a round base about as wide across as the length of my forearm, with four multi-jointed arms reaching up as though to cradle something precious. Electronics in the base keep the joints locked, the arms in place. Each arm has a series of padded brackets and clamps–no doubt specifically designed for this operation.
The arms are going to hold the components we pull from the walls. They have to be strong enough to resist the residual pseudo-gravity within the alloy. There are smaller pieces that fit into the components that will have to be accounted for as well. But if the cradles are assembled correctly, there shouldn’t be an issue.
My only concern at this point is how these components will affect the piloting of the sled. They’re certainly going to make things difficult. I won’t know how much until we’re on our way back to the freighter.
It might be worthwhile to depart a bit ahead of schedule, so I can get a feel for how the sled will handle when loaded. Of course that opens us up to the possibility of being seen if anyone’s peeking in our direction. But if it means the difference between us reaching the transport or getting left behind, I’d consider it worth the risk.
Unless the remaining supply of propellant becomes a problem.
I scroll ahead on the schedule. Our departure takes place between two estimated patrol times. We shouldn’t have prying eyes up close. I make a note to ask Leader about the testing the sled.
I double-check the cradle integrity using a verification assesor I plug into the base. All four cradles arms are positioned correctly and locked in place. The brackets set to receive the components are firmly attached. When the time comes, we’ll transfer each component from the reactor onto the cradle using a machine with a long, multi-jointed arm and heavy clamps. It will probably be the last major step of our operation. I am confident my portion of work will not cause any problems.
I just have to hope I can keep the gloom enveloping me at bay long enough to get us back into our cargo container. Once we reach that point, my job is done. I can resign myself to my bleak future.
A hand drops onto my shoulder. “Pilot, are you well?”
Leader sounds concerned. I blink. “Yes, I– uh... I’m fine.”
“You’ve been admiring your work for the past five minutes. Everything all right?”
Five minutes? “Just... uh, trying to think of anything I might’ve missed.”
“Okay, yeah. Well, this looks assembled correctly. And I see you’ve been testing the link integrities. Mind if I take a look?”
I step aside. “Please.”
As he verifies my work, I look at the teams operating the plasma torches. The nearest is close to finishing. Sparks sputter from the reactor wall wound. Those across the room are moving aside the pieces they’ve cut free, exposing a dense wall of piping and circuitry. White alloy glints within. One of them is replacing the heavier torch tip with a smaller version.
“Everything checks, Pilot. Good, good.” Leader unplugs the monitor and uses the cradle base’s control plate to put it in stand-by. “I’ll put this one on the floor by the others. You head to the pocket. Get something to eat, something to drink, maybe take a nap. When we get to moving the components out, we’re not to stop until we have all four secure.”
“I’ll be ready.”
I head to the pocket.
* * *
A buzz in my helmet rouses me from my nap. A crackle rises from my speakers. “Pilot?”
“This is Pilot. Go ahead, Leader.”
As he replies, I sit up on the edge of the recliner. There are two humans in the pocket with me, both asleep. I did not hear them come in. They’ve replaced the two kavax who were here when I arrived. I checked the timer on my faceplate. Five hours have passed.
“We’re ready to begin the transfer of components to the cradles. Please come to the reactor room.”
“Acknowledged.”
I twist my gloves into place. A moment of dizziness whirls in me when I stand. Though my suit interior is cool, with air playing across my body, I feel too warm. Not feverish, just... worn out. My latest tube of paste weighs in my guttards. I’ve put my suit’s waste reclamation system to use. That knowledge makes me feel... grimy. This suit’s gonna stink when it comes off.
In the hangar bay I pause to look around. N
othing seems out of place. The stalagmites and stalactites I’ve trimmed look as they did when I left; nothing’s grown back. I cross to the left side corridor and start down to the reactor room.
A quartet of lamps bobs in the hallway ahead of me. I stop, unsure of what I’m seeing. It’s not someone in a suit–the gait is all wrong. I resist the urge to retreat, more curious than afraid.
It emerges from the gloom, into the light from my suit’s lamps–a drone. Geen mentioned they’d be walking around. I just hadn’t seen one until this moment. I’m glad he warned me.
The device is a simple series of rods and joints. It ambulates on six legs with wide rectangular feet. There’s a sensor package on the rod in front; a squat rectangular head bearing the two uppermost lamps. The next two shine from a crossbar where shoulders might be. There’s a flat rectangle atop the central bar running down its length–a cargo bed. Slender, folded-up arms sit at each corner, and brackets poke from the bed. It’s carrying a pair of medium-sized cargo pods.
I retreat through a nearby open hatch. The drone steps past. There’s another set of lamps on a crossbar at the rear, where hips might sit. Below the crossbar hang a data pod and power core. I return to the corridor and watch the drone enter the hangar bay. Its gait is smooth; the cargo bed hardly rises or falls or sways.
There’s room on it for at least two cradles. So there must be another drone wandering around.
I walk to the reactor room.
The plasma torches have been disassembled. Debris from cutting into the reactor walls has been cleared away. Overhead spotlights are now focused on the four smaller holes and the glowing alloy within. A cradle has been positioned near each of the reactors.
“Ah, Pilot. Good, good.” Leader sounds excited. This is probably the most important moment of the operation for him. “We’re all set to begin the final phase. I know this work will be something new for you, but I’d like you standing by. Keeping an eye on things. It never hurts to have another set of eyes.”
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