Providence

by Max Barry

  “Got it,” Gilly said.

  The ring glowed green. Cylinders whined, retracting. The dragging became a scraping, or a scrambling, maybe, was a better way to put it, something huge and hungry moving toward him in the dark, and he pulled the release and still the fucking thing did nothing, until at last the locks fully retracted and the door popped open and inside was everything he wanted, pistols, needlers lined up as neatly as you please, and, best of all, a stock VX-10 rifle, better known in the popular press as a lightning gun. He snapped it free and thumbed for power. He slotted the butt against his shoulder. He trained the barrel into the heart of the darkness.

  Three green lights glowed on in a line along the barrel, one after the other. A high whine tickled the back of his eardrums. Some people couldn’t hear that sound. They didn’t know what they were missing, in Anders’s opinion. He held position, measuring his breathing, keeping the weapon pointed into the darkness. Just silence, now.

  Hey, Pauly.

  Sweat dripped into his eye. He stayed where he was. He could wait. He knew how to do that.

  “Anders?”

  It was only Gilly in his ear, but he squeezed the trigger and the gun barked and kicked against his shoulder and spat lightning down the corridor. The corridor bleached and splintered into brilliance. Fat licks of electricity scoured the walls and ceiling. But there was nothing there, only empty corridor. He released the trigger and darkness fell, then silence, except for the tingling whine of the gun and his own breathing. Ozone crawled up his nostrils.

  “Anders, you need to get back to Beanfield so I can drop this door. They’re converging on you.”

  He knew this deck. The corridor ran ahead for two hundred yards and had only one branch. Whatever had been making that dragging sound had to be down there. “Drop the door.”

  “You’d be trapped in there with one of them.”

  He rose and began to move down the corridor. He could move more quietly than a salamander, he was pretty sure. “That’s fine.”

  Gilly continued to protest, so Anders put him on mute. He needed his ears. He crept forward. There was a soft thump. Some scraping. He couldn’t see and was sorely tempted to light up the corridor again but there was no way one of those big fucks had crawled out in front of him without making more noise than that. He had a sense of it now.

  He reached the junction and set his back to it. No sound at all. He leaned out and tossed the glowstick into the darkness. It looped through the air, spreading blue light along the walls and floor, and touched a hulking alien shape that filled the corridor, thick, muscular legs, resin scales, its neck contracting, its jaws cracking open. Anders dropped. There was a sound: huk. It all happened faster than he expected and a force seized him and tossed him against the ceiling. He rebounded and hit the floor. But he hadn’t lost his sense of direction and he aimed the lightning gun along his feet and squeezed the trigger. The world flashed and danced. The gun leaped in his hands like a gleeful spirit. He hosed the corridor until the weapon stuttered and fell silent.

  He crawled behind the safety of the corner and breathed there a minute. There was a crackling sound. A yellow flickering. When he peered out, he saw small fires. The shape that had filled the corridor was slumped, rivulets of fire running from burning fissures.

  He approached it carefully. The walls were charred and scoured. The smell was terrible. Like poison. As he neared the shape, it coughed fire. A piece broke off and fell to the deck. Something bubbled, red and wet. Broiled salamander.

  “Hey,” he said to it. His film was lighting up with muted chatter from Gilly and Jackson but Anders was on a different plane right now. The salamander popped and fizzed and he crouched beside it. “Not so tough,” he said. “Not so tough.” It abruptly struck him as funny and he had to sit for a minute. Look at him, here, with a lightning gun and a dead salamander. Of all the bullshit Service had invented about him, this part was true: He had loved his brothers in a way he never felt about anyone else, despite the box, because of the box—whichever it was, they had been in it together against a father more monstrous than any alien creature, and he’d come out here because the only thing he could think to do after they died at Fornina Sirius was kill salamanders. And here he was. He kicked the corpse with his foot. “Hey,” he said again. “You know what I call you?”

  The salamander didn’t answer.

  “A good start,” he said.

  9

  [Beanfield]

  THE JET

  Something needed to come out of her and she retched. It was a sad retch. It had no enthusiasm. It was the most perfunctory retch of her life. A thin line of drool issued from her mouth and when she went to wipe at it, she couldn’t move her arms.

  She couldn’t see, either, actually.

  Her head dropped. She wrestled it up. She didn’t know when her head had gotten so heavy. Or when her body had started hurting. And it wasn’t like it was just one part of her body. It was the whole thing. Actually, it was her side. And her left foot. But also everything. She felt squeezed. She tried to call out and emitted a low, wheezy croak, like a disappointed frog.

  She appeared to be in a corridor. Alone. Alone in a corridor. Also she couldn’t move. Something was wrapped around her body. She felt entombed. It was very dark and her eyes wouldn’t focus but she was definitely entombed, alone, in a corridor.

  “Ark,” she said. She didn’t want to be alone. Could it not be that, please? She was a people person. Whatever was happening here, she could deal, so long as there were people.

  She couldn’t free her arms but managed to lift her legs. She pushed with her feet and slid her body a short distance. She wasn’t completely sure this was a good thing. There was a fog in her brain she couldn’t penetrate. Her left foot told her it had been a bad idea to put pressure on it, a very bad idea, and she tried to remember when she had done that. A few seconds ago. That was when.

  Something creaked. The ship, she assumed. She couldn’t recall hearing the ship creak before, but maybe it was something you only noticed when you lay down in the dark, entombed, and listened.

  There were salamanders. She remembered that. Jackson had shut down the ship and salamanders were coming.

  From far away a fairy light danced toward her. It was faint and blue and she tried to resolve it into something sensible. It grew as it approached and she became fearful, because of the salamanders. Then, all at once, she saw Gilly’s face. The light was a glowstick, which he was holding.

  “I’ve got you,” he said.

  “Get her up,” said Jackson. She didn’t seem to have a fairy light. “We have to move.”

  I’m okay, she tried to say, and it came out as, “Hnhh,” with plenty of saliva.

  “Don’t try to move,” Gilly said. “You’re in a medbag.”

  Really? That would explain a lot. A medbag would have sedated her. Now that there was a fairy light, she forced her chin down so she could look at her body. He was right: There was a shiny inflatable encasing her like a fat suit. At Camp Zero, they’d practiced fitting each other into these and waddling around. They weren’t supposed to, since anyone in a medbag would be in no shape to do anything other than lie still and try not to die. You didn’t need to practice walking in one. But it looked so hilarious.

  “Pick her up,” said Jackson.

  She couldn’t remember what had happened to put her in a medbag but she had the feeling she was pissed at Jackson for some reason. It might have been something recent or might have been the whole You’re a good soldier thing in her cabin, which Talia still hadn’t quite forgiven her for. She didn’t know if Jackson was the reason she was waking up alone and entombed, but until she learned otherwise, she was going to blame Jackson anyway.

  “Beanfield, there are salamanders on the ship,” Gilly said. “We’ve picked up more incoming and I can’t get the ship back. We’re going to a jettison pod.”
>
  He scooped her up while she processed this insanity. She was medicated so maybe she had missed something, but it sounded like he had said there were salamanders on the ship and they were planning to use a jetpod. This was a pretty fantastic joke if so, because the jetpods weren’t actually real. They were designed for psychological reassurance. Yes, they worked, but it was absurd that anyone would ever, under any circumstances, improve their situation by departing the 500,000-ton killing machine to squeeze into a thirty-foot cylinder made from plastic and tissue paper, and Service had told her this, because part of her job was convincing the crew otherwise: that, no, actually, jetpods were a realistic escape option, and therefore no one need feel like they were trapped in a flying can of death trillions of miles from home. And she had done this. She had freaking done it, in ways people would never notice, just like they didn’t notice how she defused Anders or engaged Gilly or prevented Jackson from murdering everyone on board. She had done what Service asked and now there were salamanders on the ship and they were taking her to a jetpod? They were in VZ. She tried to articulate her concerns and made a gargling noise.

  “Relax,” said Gilly. “Let the medbag work.”

  You are unable to speak coherently and your crew are under the mistaken impression that jetpods are a real thing. Go.

  “Anders,” Jackson said. “Whatever you’re doing, I need you to stop it.”

  “Gil,” Talia said. “Gilly.” They couldn’t abandon ship. They couldn’t abandon the ship, either. They’d had their differences, it and she, but she didn’t want to leave it. Not really. Not like this. What she’d said earlier, Please get me off this ship, those were just words.

  He peered at her. “Beanfield’s trying to talk.”

  “She can talk once she’s strapped in.”

  Gilly bent and put his ear close to her mouth.

  She whispered, “No jetpod.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s just a precaution. We won’t detach unless we have to.”

  “What did she say?” said Jackson.

  “‘No jetpod.’”

  “There are a thousand incoming hostiles,” Jackson called over her shoulder. “If the ship doesn’t restore function before they arrive, it’s toast.”

  They reached a hatch, which Jackson spun open. Gilly set Talia down and climbed into the shaft. Jackson shoved her toward him. Jackson was wearing a very un-Jacksonlike expression, Talia noticed, now that she saw it up close. She searched for a label and landed on concerned. Yes. That was it. Jackson was exhibiting concern for her. That was alarming.

  She felt herself toppling. Gilly caught her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not leaving you.” This last part, she guessed, was because her face was registering some concern of her own. She was glad for his words but she did feel very anxious. Even if it was a precaution, they should not board the jet. Nothing good could happen there.

  They began to make their way aft, Jackson periodically barking at Anders. At first, Talia assumed Anders was ignoring her, because she couldn’t hear his replies, then she realized she wasn’t wearing her film. From half the conversation, though, she could infer the rest: Anders was off somewhere doing his own thing. She actually didn’t need to hear anything for that. That was what she would have assumed in the absence of contrary evidence. It sounded as though he’d managed to get his hands on a weapon. That was alarming, too.

  They stopped. Jackson cranked a manual release. A door jerked apart, and what was behind it lit up. And there it was. The jetpod. Two harnesses up front, facing actual manual controls. Two at the rear. Lots of padding. A whole bunch of lockers, with reliable heavy-weight fonts designating which piece of impractical equipment they contained: beacons, medkits, material converters. Everywhere were handles. She could trace the inspiration of this design back to bright, plastic toys for babies, with levers and keys that made clicking sounds.

  “Begin prep,” said Jackson.

  Gilly ducked into the jetpod and lowered Talia into a harness at the rear, looping straps over her bulging medbag. She kicked and shook her head. He bent and peered into her eyes.

  “No,” she said.

  “Beanfield’s agitated,” Gilly said.

  “It’s the medbag,” Jackson said, breaking off an argument with Anders, wherever he was. “She’s under sedation. Ignore her.”

  He looked back at Talia. “What’s wrong with the jet?”

  She rolled her eyes. Look at it, Gilly. Just look at it.

  “Gilly,” Jackson barked.

  “Here.” He moved to the front of the jet and began dialing up systems. “Where’s Anders?”

  “Deck F. He’s killed one.”

  “One what?” Gilly said, and then: “A salamander?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  She saw him hesitate. His eyes roved around the jet. He wasn’t stupid. He was seeing the bright handles. The padding, which would prevent injury only if they encountered improbably small forces. His expertise was in software but he could surely realize what he was seeing. He was good at puzzles.

  Gilly said, “Maybe . . .”

  Jackson glanced at him. “What?”

  He pointed to a screen. “There’s a path from here to Eng-1. I could use its board to manage systems until the AI is able to take over. Then we could try to repel the boarders with small arms.”

  Jackson eyed him. “Now you think you can run Weapons and Armor manually?”

  “Not well. But maybe well enough to buy us some time.”

  Jackson was silent. Then she shook her head. “No. This is wishful thinking.”

  “Look at this thing,” Gilly said, gesturing to the novelty handles. “We can’t escape a thousand hostiles in this. We’ll never make it.”

  Jackson’s eyebrows rose. She glanced about and her eyes landed on Talia. Talia did her best to nod. Jackson’s face hardened. She hadn’t suspected before, Talia saw. But it was making a lot of sense to Jackson in this moment. She’d dealt with Service long enough to know how they worked.

  “Goddamn it,” Jackson said.

  “Anders isn’t even here yet,” Gilly said. “Let me try until then.”

  “All right. But when I call abort, you abort, understand? You leave that second and hightail it back here.”

  “Understood.” He rose. He threw Talia a last glance and slipped into the darkness.

  Jackson strapped into the front harness and positioned her board. Without turning, she said, “You and Service have a lot to answer for.”

  That was a little unfair, Talia felt. She hadn’t designed the jetpods. She had only been doing her job, like Jackson did hers. But she felt elated because now they weren’t going to shoot into space in a toy coffin. Gilly would run the ship and then they would repel the boarders and they would be okay.

  “Anders, status.” Jackson continued the one-sided conversation for a minute more. Eventually Anders appeared in the jetpod doorway. He was carrying a bulky rifle, a lightning gun, as naturally as if it were a third-born child. Anders plus a gun had been a waking nightmare for her for a while, but now she thrilled to see him with it. He looked like he’d never been complete before.

  He stopped dead. “Where’s Gilly?”

  “En route to Eng-1. For now, we hold here.”

  He raised the rifle and took a step backward, into the corridor. That was an issue, too, now that Talia thought about it: Anders likely couldn’t be convinced to enter the jetpod. “I’ll provide escort. I just need to get a new cell. This thing’s almost out of charge.”

  “Negative. You’re not roaming around the ship looking for lockers. Stay here.”

  Anders stared at Jackson. Talia wished he would check behind him once in a while. He was standing with his back to a corridor that was drowned in darkness, and how fast could salamanders move? She felt like they were fast. On flat ground, unde
r 1G, she felt like one could scramble out of the darkness and be inside the jet before anyone could react. She attempted to raise this but her body had become even less interested in responding to her wishes. The medbag was sinking chemicals into her, she realized. It would steal away her consciousness altogether before long. She managed to cough.

  Anders glanced at her. “You still with us, Beanfield?”

  “I’m in,” said Gilly, his voice coming out of the jet’s front. “I have a board.”

  Jackson raised a proximity view on a screen: the ship a blue dot, an orange planet radiating gravity lines, and a thin red arc of salamanders edging closer. “You have ninety seconds. If what you’re doing isn’t working by then, you leave.”

  “Understood.”

  Anders tossed a glance over his shoulder, which eased her concern, but only for a moment, until he turned back again. Just step into the jet, Anders. Come inside and face the right way. “Can you track the salamanders from here?”

  “We only have thermals, so it’s an approximation. But they’re close.”

  “How close?”

  “Aft port quarter. Two of them.”

  “On this deck?”

  “Yes.”

  Anders ducked into the jet. He set himself inside the door and pointed the rifle into the darkness.

  Thank you, she thought.

  “I thought you were out of charge,” Jackson said.

  “Almost,” Anders said. “Almost out of charge. I should get Gilly.”

  “There are no hostiles near Gilly. There are two near us. Stay. Intel, how are you looking?”

  “Good. The AI cold restart is almost complete. It should be fully functional within three or four minutes. I haven’t looked at Weapons yet, but I think I can run Armor.”

  On the proximity screen, the red arc continued to tighten. “We enter huk range in sixty seconds. You need to be back here before they start landing.”

  “I understand.”