by Robin Triggs
Eventually we got him into the vestibule, the four of us bumping and tripping and wrestling together. I felt a sudden rush of warmth as the outer door swung shut behind us, before my suit noticed the sudden change in temperature and adjusted its program. De Villiers remained cold in my hands.
“Straight to the treatment room,” Fischer demanded.
I wasn’t going to argue.
It was still early. There was no one moving but us, the motion-detecting lights flicking on as we approached, then shutting down as we passed.
In the tiny infirmary I helped get de Villiers onto a bed, then stood back. Weng and I removed our masks; she looked at me and I realized she knew as well as I did that de Villiers was dead. And that Fischer had to find out for herself.
It didn’t take long. As soon as the doctor removed the dead man’s mask and saw his eyes, still open, she broke down.
“No…no, no,” she cried as she stroked his cheek. His skin was gray and frozen. A teardrop snapped off under her fingers.
I picked up the face mask she’d discarded and set it aside. “Dr. Fischer…Julia…come on,” I said softly. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
She turned to me, her mask incongruously blank against her trembling, uncoordinated movements. “Nothing? Nothing…. Who did this? What…? It was you – was it you? Did you k-kill him…?” Tears overtook her and she slumped to her knees.
I took off my gloves and knelt by her. As gently as I could, I unfastened her mask and pulled it off. She didn’t resist. Her long, graying hair came loose and mixed with her tears.
“Julia,” I said, “I’m sorry, but he’s gone now. I need your help.”
She made no response.
“We need – we need to look to the living now. I need to know what he was doing out there, how you knew where—”
Her head jerked round at that, her mouth set in a snarl of such ferocity that I swayed back, nearly lost my balance. “Get the hell off me, killer! You think that matters?” she snapped. “You think – you think I give a shit about that right now? He’s dead, God, he’s – he can’t be…” She trailed off into sobs.
“I – I thought you hated him,” I said, inappropriately, nonsensically.
She didn’t reply, just shook her head and wept.
I took her arm, tried to urge her to her feet, but she just hissed and raked her nails across my cheek. I stepped back in shock, touched where she’d scratched and dumbly stared at the blood on my fingertips. I barely felt anything, just glistening heat.
Weng stood behind me, unmoving.
I tried again; I had to get her away from there, needed her sensible and rational. Part of me was screaming that this wasn’t the way to deal, but I was struggling to hold myself together; de Villiers’s death put me in charge – me and Fischer. I couldn’t do it on my own. So I whispered nonsense words to her, as if she were a cat, an animal, cooing her name over and over. I took her arm, dragging her as we’d dragged de Villiers. Now she was the deadweight; I lifted her almost off the ground before she slipped out of my grasp back to the floor.
“For God’s sake, Weng, you going to stand there doing nothing? Help me.”
“Leave me,” Fischer cried. “Leave me here, leave me!”
Weng came to my side, reached an elegant hand to the doctor and touched a shoulder. Fischer pulled back. I ground my teeth in frustration and stepped behind her. I reached under her armpits, hauling her up against my chest, turning her to the open door. She dangled from my grip, boots scraping on the floor. I wrestled her to the doorway – and then she pushed up and, as I jerked my head away, kicked back. My knee became a sudden nova of pain. I swore and angrily shoved her forward, using my whole body – chest, stomach, arms – to propel her out into the corridor.
Too hard. Too damn hard.
She stumbled, fell forward. Hit her head on the far wall and slumped to the floor.
And she didn’t move.
* * *
Cold heat ran through me. Sweat on my brow. I couldn’t move, not at first. I was waiting: waiting for the others to come, to rush to the body, to lock me away….
Silence. The echoes of Fischer’s fall faded quickly.
I swallowed, took an unsteady pace forward.
There was a smear of blood on the wall, where her head had hit.
Weng, so slow to help before, was already at her side, stripping off the doctor’s gloves and checking her pulse, a delicate hand running over Fischer’s neck.
I crouched by them, trying to stop myself from shaking. I swallowed, twitched away the doctor’s hair—
“Don’t touch,” Weng snapped.
Fischer was breathing. I backed away until I found the door frame behind my shoulder. I stared at her unmoving form, face down on the bare linoleum. I shivered, hot and cold together, suddenly conscious that we were all still suited.
With practiced hands, Weng rolled the doctor onto her back and inspected the wound, a camouflaged smear just into the hairline. “Very well. Get her into a bed.”
“We can move her?”
She glared at me. “You lift.”
Awkwardly I shuffled to Fischer’s side and knelt, knee stiff from where she’d kicked me. She was starting to stir now, her breath coming with half-formed syllables, broken words.
“One hand there,” Weng said, “the other – good. I’ll support her head. Be careful through the doorway. Straight to a spare bed. Be smooth and set her down gently – don’t drop her.”
Fischer barely seemed to weigh anything. She’d seemed so heavy, so solid, just a moment ago, and now she seemed more ghost than human. We passed the silent form of the commander. When Fischer was set down on one of the free gurneys I stepped back, and Weng moved round to lift Fischer’s eyelids to check the pupils.
“Did you kill him?” she asked, back to me.
“What?”
“Did you kill de Villiers?”
“No! No, no, I didn’t.”
“A pity,” the woman said simply, and carried on with her work.
I shifted uncertainly.
“There’s nothing more you can do here. Leave.”
“I need—”
“What?” She didn’t look round.
I swallowed. “How did de Villiers get out there? How did the doctor know where he was? Why did she call you?”
Weng straightened and went to a bench, selected a wound-pack and switched on a piece of equipment I didn’t recognize. “The doctor was outside when she called me. She’d already found the body. I don’t know how. I contacted you immediately. Is that enough?”
“Well—”
“Well, it will have to do. Questions can wait until…until later. Now you leave.”
“Weng—”
“Go!”
I went.
* * *
The silence was oppressive. I walked the corridors alone, the shock I’d been suppressing slowly overtaking me. My knee ached, my head ached. It wasn’t my first dead body – I still saw my father’s aide in my dreams, saw the bloody rents in his chest from the penetrating bullets that had raked through the hall. I shivered at the memory, the spray of blood on the walls like some abstract masterpiece.
But de Villiers’s death seemed… I don’t know, it seemed somehow more real, more terrifying. Maybe it’s because I was older now, and I couldn’t just let other people tell me what to do.
Murder. Funny how I was already assuming de Villiers had been murdered. I had no evidence – it could have been an accident, a suit malfunction, could have been… All the ‘could-have-beens’. I knew nothing.
But my mind went straight for murder. And I knew the crew would suspect me. I’d suspect myself in their position. I had, after all, just knocked out their doctor. I stood still for a moment, horror taking needle-fingered hold of me. Of course they�
��d suspect me – an avalanche, a death, a…an accident – all within a week of my arrival.
What I wanted most of all was to go back to bed and pretend this wasn’t happening. But I had work to do. With de Villiers dead and Fischer incapacitated, I was in charge. I had to tell the rest of the crew what had happened, but I had no idea how. All I knew was that the commander was dead. I knew nothing of the circumstances. The questions piled up, heavy on my shoulders.
I needed to put my investigation out of my mind – just for the moment. My first responsibility must be to ensure that the base ran properly, that the rest of the crew were okay and that Australis survived. That came first. But still I couldn’t stop my mind from throwing up the sharpest questions.
God, I needed Fischer.
I needed time to think.
The doctor’s reaction had been so extreme. I hadn’t thought she even liked de Villiers, hadn’t thought she cared that much about anything.
I shook my head, trying to focus. Focus on the living. I checked the time: just past seven.
I was prevaricating. I had to act. I took a deep breath and went to the canteen. As I’d hoped, Abidene was in the kitchen, preparing breakfasts. The smells of food took me by surprise; it was so ridiculously mundane to see soya-sausages frying, to hear the simmering of pans. I was overtaken by a hunger I hadn’t even known I was feeling.
“Anders,” Abi said in his soft, lilting accent. “You’re here early, my friend. What happened to your cheek? Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring something through to you – what would you like?”
“Abidene, I need to talk to you. Can you leave the food for a moment?”
“Can you not talk whilst I work?” His hands moved delicately, like an artist, as he checked pans and flipped eggs.
“It’s important. Urgent.” I tried to keep my tone calm, but my voice cracked on the last word.
He looked round, surprise and alarm writ large on his face. “Two minutes. Is that okay?”
I took a chair in the canteen, leaned back and closed my eyes. I felt like crying. When Abi came though, wiping his hands on his apron, I stood again and gave him a wan smile.
“What’s on your mind, Anders?” he asked.
“Has anyone else been in for breakfast yet?”
“Not yet. The miners will be in shortly, then the rest. Weng eats in her rooms. What’s this about? If you don’t mind me saying, you look exhausted. Have you been sleeping? I know a few recipes to help you get off – I researched it for McCarthy. I’d be happy to—”
“So I’m here first?” This was perfect, what I’d hoped. But the words wouldn’t come.
“Anders, what is going on? I have to—”
“The commander is dead, Abi.” Brutal. The voice didn’t sound like mine. I couldn’t look at him.
“You – you are joking?”
I stared at the table.
“De Villiers? He… What happened?”
“I’m working on that.”
“So – so what do we do? Does Dr. Fischer know?”
I touched my cheek. “The doctor – she – she had an accident. She’s okay,” I added, “Weng’s looking after her. Myself, you and Weng – we’re the only ones who know. I have to tell the crew.”
“My God.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the doctor?”
“She…she fell,” I said awkwardly. “Bumped her head.”
“I will make sure to visit her,” he said, his voice shaking barely at all. “Take her some food, if she can eat. She’ll need something, even if it is just a friendly face.”
I stared at the table. I couldn’t stop my mind working – couldn’t stop thinking. I remembered Abi’s face when de Villiers had been giving his speech during my first meal in Australis. I thought of Abi trying to hide his annoyance at de Villiers’s attempts to take over the cooking of the barbecue. Of the conversation I’d overheard him having with Maggie.
“What do you think of the Company, Abi?” I asked from nowhere.
“What?”
I finally looked up at him. It took an effort, as if my eyes suddenly weighed double. “Do you think the Company’s a good thing? For us? For humanity?”
“What?” He shook his head, nonplussed. “I think – why do you ask? I work for the Company, I – I know it has done many good things. I – I am a loyal—”
“It doesn’t matter, not right now. Sorry. Just…my mind is all over the place.”
He swallowed. “Was there anything else? I should get on before the miners arrive.”
I shook my head, not looking at him and barely hearing his words. The door to the kitchen swung shut again, and I was alone.
A few minutes later Abidene brought a plate of food and silently placed it in front of me. I controlled my paranoia, nodded my appreciation and started to eat. I was halfway through my meal when Dmitri and Fergie arrived, chatting noisily.
“Anders,” Dmitri said when he saw me. “You’ve beaten us to breakfast.”
“I have news,” I said, swallowing hastily.
“Oh?”
“Well, what is it, then?” Fergie said. He sat and leaned back as Abidene returned to place a laden plate in front of him. The chef slid another plate before Dmitri, gave me a concerned look and then withdrew to his kitchen.
“De Villiers is dead,” I said, anxiety making me cold.
There was silence. Fergie had frozen with fork half-raised. Dmitri was staring at me open-mouthed.
“What?” the Scotsman asked eventually.
“De Villiers. He’s dead. We found him outside this morning.”
Another silence.
“And here you are, sitting in his chair, halfway through a nice tasty meal,” Fergie said at last. His mouth worked silently for a moment as he tried to find the right words. “Puts that avalanche in a whole different light, don’t it?” He gave a bitter, furious smile.
I hadn’t realized I was in the commander’s old seat – a bad mistake. “I forgot about the chair. I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep from shaking.
“How did he die?” he asked.
“That’s still to be…to be ascertained.”
People are hard to predict. Fischer had broken down, Abidene was practical, Fergie angry and sarcastic. Dmitri looked genuinely upset. He set down his cutlery and stared blankly at his plate.
“Well, if you think you can just take over,” Fergie said, “then you’re very, very wrong. You’re the new boy here; we’d been getting on perfectly well before you arrived.” He opened his mouth as if to say something else but settled for shooting me a hate-filled glance.
“I think I am not so hungry,” Dmitri whispered. He pushed his plate aside. “I will head to the mine. There is work to be done.” He stood, his movements smooth, and strode out, excusing himself to the incoming Theo as he went.
Maybe I should have stopped him, but I had enough on my plate – metaphorically speaking – already. At that moment I was busy shifting to another seat, taking at least that error out of play. Maybe I should have stood, but I doubted my legs could hold me.
Theo raised an eyebrow at Dmitri’s back, then came fully into the canteen. “Hey, guys, what’s got into the big man? How’d you get them scratches, Anders? What’s up?” he asked as he took his place at the table.
“Oh, not much,” Fergie said sarcastically. “Our good friend here’s just told us that the commander’s dead, and he was just sittin’ in his chair….”
It was not a pleasant morning. One by one, two by two, the crew came in to eat. And I answered the same questions over and over again: Yes, he really is dead. No, we don’t know how – not yet. Yes, I have seniority whilst Fischer is indisposed. Yes, she tripped, hurt her head, Weng’s seeing to her – but we’ll sort that sort of thing out later. No, I didn’t injure her on purpose. Ye
s, I am having my fucking breakfast, thank you, because I’m starving and, just like you, I’ve had a very bad start to my morning. I’ll be running the investigation, yes. Because it’s my job, that’s why. No, I don’t think I’m too inexperienced. We’ll all get on with our jobs, and this evening we’ll have a proper meeting and sort things out.
By the time Keegan came in – the last of the crew to eat – I could barely raise my head. But by that time I didn’t have to. Fergie, who’d hung around all morning, was more than happy to relay the news, adding his particular slant to the tale.
“…and so he sat there, in yon commander’s seat, as if he’s automatically in charge here!”
“Technically he is in charge,” Max said quietly. She’d received the news with shocked silence. It hadn’t put her off her food, though; her empty plate lay before her. “Well, him and Julia.”
“If I were Julia I’d be watchin’ my back,” Fergie muttered.
“You see how things are going wrong since he arrived?” Greigor growled over his food.
“Where is the doc? Does she know?” Keegan asked. And so we had to go through all that again.
Eventually I’d had enough. I found the strength to stand; everyone turned to look at me. “Look,” I began sharply, before starting again more gently. “Look, you’ve all got your suspicions, I understand that. But there’s nothing we can do right now except get on with the work. Regardless of who takes charge, the best thing we can do is carry on as normal. We’ll meet again at the end of the day and decide how we’re running this place without the commander. So finish eating and get to your stations. I’ve got to go and talk to Weng.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no. No. We need that meeting now,” Fergie said.
“We need time—”
“For what? To let you concoct some fairy tale that neatly explains all our problems? Gremlins, was it? Aliens?”
“Look, the commander’s barely cold—”
Fergie interrupted me with a bitter laugh.
“This – this is a shock to us all,” Max said. “Shouldn’t we take a moment to—”
“Aye, we’ll need to grieve, to get over the shock. But the living come first. We need to know what we’re doing. We need to sort out the running o’ the base or we’re all gonna pay. Work first. Personal comes later.”
