by Robin Triggs
Textbook case…. Has trouble forming relationships…. Low self esteem…. I bit back memories of old Psychs. That wasn’t me anymore.
At the bottom of my holdall was my book. The one truly precious object I owned. A real, paper-and-ink hardback in its tatty, torn dust-jacket. I pulled it out, ran my fingers over the sleeve. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Second edition. 1893. I knew all the words intimately, knew every stain, every faded comma.
Why would the Company send me here? There must be a reason. Maybe it was to balance of the rest of the crew with a loner, an invisible one.
I withdrew my hand from the holdall, realized I’d taken the memcard with it. I turned it through my fingers and welcomed the cold, the isolation – I swam in it. After all, I’d chosen this; I’d applied for the job, wanted the promotion, wanted to see another side to the world. And then it’d been too late for second thoughts.
I surged to my feet, a flash of impatient anger (…subject to mood swings, but capable of keeping control…) burning away my insecurity. I strode to the compscreen and slid the memcard into its slot before scanning my fingerprints on the reader. The Company logo flared on the screen and faded, and I had access to the base files.
I clenched my teeth. Sod de Villiers. Sod him and his condescension. I was here to do a job, and I was going to do it properly. I set myself to reading about evacuation procedures once more.
* * *
I stood in the doorway of the rec room and waited awkwardly as the occupants looked me over. There were four people in there, four people who had been working together for nearly six months, who knew each other, and to all of them I was a stranger.
The room was at least twice as big as my quarters and felt almost comfortable; two large settees seemed to demarcate one area, and beyond them a large wooden table filled another. On the wall, a large viewscreen hung next to a map of the continent. The screen pulsed with random patterns that vaguely kept time with some orchestral work, the volume quiet enough for conversation.
“It’s Anders, right?” A woman stood, crow’s feet deepening as she smiled. “Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Come and sit down.” She had auburn hair that was running to gray. It clashed with her shapeless burgundy jacket.
“I—” I started to move towards her but, off-balance, brushed some papers from the pinboard that was stuck on the wall by the door. A handful of loose sheets fell, and I stumbled in my haste to gather them together.
“Here, let me give you a hand,” the woman said, and I heard her advancing across the carpet.
My face burning, I caught a glimpse of poker and chess league information before she was with me, and the damage, such as it was, was quickly repaired.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Stupid, old-fashioned thing,” she said with a wave of a hand. “Anton likes it, but really it just gets in the way. Here, come on. I’m Julia Fischer. And you’re Anders.” She eased me into the seating area. “This is Mikhail, and Fergie. That’s Weng over there.”
I tried my best to recover my poise, to make myself smile and look attentive. The blond one, Mikhail, wore a T-shirt bearing the logo of the West Coast Warriors, whoever they were. At least he was smiling like he meant it. The other, Fergie, just scowled at me.
The fourth person, an Asian girl with fierce eyes, was seated at the table, chessboard in front of her. She’d given me the briefest of glances as I entered, and was now staring back at her game. I had hoped to try and work out who was who from the personnel files I’d been reading, but now I found I’d forgotten every single word.
“So good to see new blood here,” Fischer went on. “McCarthy was such a bore. Tell us about yourself, Anders.” She leaned towards me, just on the edge of my personal space. She had sat herself beside me, and from the corner of my eye she seemed somehow angular, predatory.
I shrugged away the feeling and groped for the words I could never stop practicing in my head. “Well, I’m from Sweden originally, from a small town you’ve probably never heard of,” I said with false brightness. “But I’ve lived most of my life in England—”
Fischer cut me off. “Not that. We know all that.”
“You might,” the man she’d called Fergie grumbled from his seat. He had a distinct Scottish accent, low and rumbling. “Not all of us have access to the medical files, you know.”
Fischer ignored his input. “Tell us about you, Anders. What makes you tick?”
“Give the man a break, Julia,” the other man, Mikhail, said. He had sharp, high cheekbones, blue eyes. His accent was American. He gave me a quick smile before turning back to Fischer. “The man’s only just met us. Let him catch his breath.” And then to me: “You’re lookin’ at my shirt? Are you a Warriors man? Best team in the world, no doubt.” He grinned.
This was not going as I’d planned. I glanced around for help, then shrugged awkwardly. “I’m not really up on sports, I’m sorry.”
His smile flickered. “I play for my local team,” he mumbled. “Or I will do, when the shift’s done.”
“Your name – I thought you’d be—”
“Russian? Yeah, I get that all the time. My parents are Finnish, but I was born and brought up in California.”
“Doesn’t stop us from calling him a commie, though,” Fergie said.
“Hey, I’m not the one dissing the Company all the time—”
“So what are you into, Anders?” Fischer cut into what was, to judge by Fergie’s rolling eyes, an old argument. “What’s your passion? Music? Poetry? Sex?” She smiled lasciviously, showing me her teeth.
She was too close; I could feel her breath on my neck. I edged away along the seat. “I don’t know what to say,” I faltered. “Books – old books, I mean.… Old films, too.” I shook my head.
“If you like old things, the doctor’s gonna love you,” Mikhail said.
“Do please shut up, Mikhail,” Fischer said without looking away from me.
I shifted, uncomfortable in this conversation. “Really, I’m just here to do my job.”
Fergie laughed. “Yeah, and what a job you’ve got. Got to keep us from attacking each other, from sabotaging the plant, from, from – I don’t know, from eatin’ the yellow snow. What made you want to come here anyway? Middle o’ bloody nothing.”
“Well, you know,” I said with an apologetic shrug, “it was a promotion, right? I mean, they’re offering good money to come here…” I trailed off as I didn’t get the understanding nods I’d expected.
“Do you have a partner? Are you gay?” Fischer asked from nothing.
I blinked. “No. No.”
Then her smile really did reach her eyes, but before she could say anything else, de Villiers burst into the room.
The man was beaming, his presence as large as a Norse god. It seemed as if I saw him for the first time; he was big, yes, but no bigger than Mikhail, no broader than Fergie. But he radiated energy and dominated the space.
“Well met, my friends,” he boomed. “Making yourself at home, Anders? You have no drink. Micky, get him a – what will it be, Anders? Coffee, tea, water? – get him a coffee, and one for me whilst you’re at it.”
Mikhail got up in silence. His face was a mask. Just a few moments ago he had been open, fully engaged. Now he was sealed, no emotions showing. Fergie was the same. The Scotsman may not have been particularly friendly before, but better that than this blankness. And Fischer—
The doctor had stiffened too, making no attempt to conceal her distaste for the commander. She glared at him, hatred in her eyes. The look was gone in a second, but it had been there.
It was as if everyone had thrown on their masks. A game I’d become very good at playing over the years.
Fischer was already on her feet and made a point of looking at the clock. “I must get on,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Anders, we’ll catch up later.”
“As will we, my little chickadee,” de Villiers said with a grin as she swept past him towards the exit. “What shall we say? After dinner, in my room?”
Fischer paused momentarily in her stride, her face frozen. For a moment I thought she was going to slap him, or maybe just ignore his fake flirtation, but then she gave an almost infinitesimal nod, and left.
I frowned. I had no idea what I had just witnessed. I just had a sense of – of wrongness about the situation. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What could I say?
The smell of coffee had been slowly percolating around me, and I looked at Mikhail. He was standing in front of a combi-maker, waiting. In the silence, disturbed only by the background noises of water heating and the music from the viewscreen, he glanced at me, saw my expression. He shook his head briefly. Say nothing. Make nothing of it. Then he turned back to the maker and started to pour the drinks.
The commander couldn’t have been unaware of the response to his arrival. But he gave no sign, no indication that he saw any problem. He kept smiling as he sauntered further into the room. “Hey, Weng,” he said to the Asian woman. “Is this today’s chess challenge? Let’s have a look.” De Villiers stepped up to the table, first to her shoulder and then to the other side of the board. “God, do we have to listen to this rubbish?”
It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to the music. To me it had become an inaudible part of the background.
“Put something decent on, Fergie, there’s a good chap,” he said.
“Anders?” Mikhail said softly, and I turned so he could pass me a cup of hot coffee. I smiled my thanks, and he nodded back, bending to my ear. “Don’t worry about…about the doctor and the commander,” he said. “They’re always like this – they have a…fractious relationship.” He straightened before I could reply and took another mug over to the commander.
I turned back to watch Weng and de Villiers as Mikhail returned to his seat, and angry guitars kicked from the speakers. I hated this new sound instantly, but I didn’t let that show on my face.
De Villiers sipped at his drink and sighed theatrically. “Okay, Weng, I can force mate in three. You do any better?”
The girl looked up at him, but her hair covered her face and I couldn’t see her expression.
“This is a toughie. Want a hint?” De Villiers idly moved a piece – then another, and a third. “There you go. Easy when you know how, ain’t it? You should give Anders a game. Maybe you’ll have a chance against him.” The commander took another sip of coffee and turned back to us on the settees. Weng stared at his back, and this time I did see the anger, the rage, in her face.
“We’ll have to get you in the leagues, Anders,” de Villiers said. “You play, I take it?”
“I’m not very good.”
“Now that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
“I think I should go back to my room.” I stood. I no longer wanted to be here, in this atmosphere.
“Don’t go, Anders!” the commander cried heartily, as if all this were a joke to him. “Stay here, get to know us – let us get to know you.”
“Later, maybe. It’s been a long day.”
“Well, dinner’ll be in an hour or so, when the rest of the crew get back. Join us then and meet everyone.”
I nodded and left.
Chapter Two
De Villiers, A. Commander of Operations, Australis mineral exploitation base
Married, three children
In Company employ 34 years
…
I scanned the data carefully, but without access to his personal logs I had no explanation for the way the other members of the crew had reacted to him. There were no personal reports, no hints of how former crewmates had found him to work with.
Seven years’ command of mining operations in Ghana
Four years’ command of mining operations in Turkey
One year deputy command of mining operations in South Africa
…
His work history was impressive; his suitability for Australis command undeniable. But these were all professional records. I had no access to his Psych reports, and the only mention of his life beyond work was that he was married with children. I could have dug deeper – as chief of security, I had some access to personal files. But de Villiers outranked me and it would have been a gross intrusion. Besides, what was I looking for? All I had was the barest of first impressions, and the responses of people I didn’t know. Not nearly enough.
Company Overseer, Debringas Mine, South Africa
Assistant Overseer, Debringas Mine, South Africa
…
Maybe that was just how he was – infuriating, condescending, far too large for his surroundings. Maybe he was putting it on for my benefit to make sure I knew he was the boss. Maybe. I drummed my fingers on the table, frowning both at the screen and at myself.
I logged out of the base computer system and switched off the machine. It was time to go and show myself to the rest of the crew.
* * *
I got to the refectory early. The table was set for the forthcoming meal so I knew I was in the right place, but there was no one else present. I hesitated at the doorway, unsure whether to sit or stand or leave. Then I heard singing from the kitchen – a man’s soft tenor. The door between the two rooms looked at me invitingly, and after a moment’s hesitation I went through.
The kitchen was larger than any I’d been in before, though that wasn’t saying much. I guess that for a group catering situation it was tiny: a bank of hobs and an oven and a grill, with work surfaces and cupboards all around the walls. A double door at the rear was swinging, allowing that voice to reach me in waves.
Something was roasting in the oven, and two huge pans were simmering on the hob. The smells were rich and earthy, with hints of garlic and spices. It immediately put me in mind of the Middle East, of hot open places far away from the frozen poles.
The singing suddenly grew louder as the doors at the far end of the room swung open and a man stepped through. He was tall, with neatly cropped black hair and a tidy beard, his skin a deep tan. Dressed in chef’s whites, he started as he saw me, the melody caught in his throat. He was carrying a packet in his right hand – more spices, I thought. Or salt, or sugar.
A smile acted as an apology. “Hi,” I said. “Am I allowed to be here?” I cursed myself for the stupidity of the question as soon as the words were out.
“Y-yes,” the man stuttered. “Yes, of course.” He recovered himself a little and crossed to the hob, setting the packet down before giving the pans a stir. As he lifted the lids, smells erupted: a mix of vegetables steaming together in one of the vats, and something I couldn’t place in the other. Some sort of cereal, perhaps: rice, or pasta. I began to feel hungry. Real, properly cooked food was a luxury. I’d had my share, for sure, but I was not a rich man. It was all insects and soy protein, save for the occasional holiday treat.
“You must be Mr. Nordvelt,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Excuse me for not shaking hands. I’m a little busy here.” His voice had an Arabic lilt and his smile contained an apology.
I nodded to his back. “And you’re Mr. Ben Ali?” Surely he must be the man listed as the chef.
“Abidene. Or Abi. I’ll be another ten minutes, I think. Would you prefer to wait in the other room? We can talk better there – when I’m not so distracted.”
I returned to the dining room and walked straight into a conversation that stopped as soon as I was seen. It was Fergie, talking to a Chinese woman – not Weng, as I’d thought momentarily, but an older lady. She was tiny, the top of her head barely reaching the Scotsman’s chin.
“Anders,” Fergie said a little louder than necessary. “What were you doin’ in the kitchen? This is Maggie, by the way, from hydroponics. Maggie, this is Anders—”
She’d recovered quicker than Fergie. I wasn’t supposed to see the look that passed from him to her, but I did. Secrets. Secrets and lies, I thought as I shook Maggie’s hand. Her skin was dry and smooth in the way that fine sandpaper feels smooth.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” I said, and couldn’t resist asking what they’d been talking about.
“Oh, nothin’, nothin’, just the state of our work,” Fergie said, again blinking first. “That sort of thing….”
“I do a lot of experimental work, you see,” Maggie said smoothly. “As well as trying to keep us fed, I’m playing with modified crop strains to see what grows out here. Not outside, obviously – although that’s always the dream – but under glass.”
Beside me I felt Fergie relax. I must have been successfully distracted.
“Maggie’s our gardener,” he said. “We’re not self-sufficient here yet – not by some way – but that’s the aim.”
I decided not to fight it. I let myself be diverted as Maggie told me more of her work. And despite my reserve, I found myself being charmed. She showed me McCarthy’s old seat – my seat – and, head propped on my hand, I listened as she told me of her ambition to make the Antarctic green. To feed the world by erecting glasshouses across the continent, with soil replaced by water and powered by the long summer sun.
“So will you be dormant in winter? No winter harvest?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Well, that’s where being sited near all that oil comes in handy. That fuels us for the winter,” she said with a grin.
The door to the corridor opened and Fischer walked in, accompanied by a beautiful black woman. She couldn’t hide her looks, although it seemed as if she’d tried. She was wearing oil-smeared overalls, black hair cropped close. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, solid boots on her feet. But she was perfect nonetheless.
