“Uh, I think the saying is ‘fly the coop,’” offers one of the consultants.
“What’s a coop?” Rogers mumbles to no one in particular.
Grogan coughs and when I glance at him, his eyes are smoldering as if screaming for my silence.
My eyes roll sharply to the ceiling. “Whatever,” I growl, both at the unwanted—and unverified—correction of phrase, and at Grogan’s wordless, nonsensical threat. “Seems like she ought to have known better, that’s all I’m saying.”
Following a long pause, one of the PRMC guys tosses in his two credits—and to my ear, it’s the best advice I’ve heard in a while. “If we’re gonna keep the blood plants in check, we need to get a greenhouse erected immediately. Maybe structured with acrylic or carbon fiber—something with little or no mineral content. At the very least, we should layer it with something they can’t eat through. Probably ought to do likewise with the rest of the buildings as well.”
If my death warrant hadn’t already been signed, I might feel relieved that someone is finally pushing a proactive agenda. It sounds like a practical solution to me, one that any engineer ought to approve of—or at least weigh in on—yet ours provides no assessment whatsoever. For all intents and purposes, Grogan has left the building; he stares into space as if half-asleep.
Cutterly gives him a gentle elbow. “Okay there, Grog?”
Grogan blinks and quickly recovers. “Sorry about that. Great idea. I’ll look into it ASAP.”
For the first time since I learned of his duplicity, I begin to wonder about his motivations. He’s been here for half a decade, after all. Currency has no value among us, so what’s the appeal?
Not long ago, Cutterly revealed that our original crew—Fiona, Rogers, Cutterly, Winkley, Montague, and even Emmers—was staffed primarily of exiles, each of whom was running from something. Just like me. Grogan is the definitive exception. Now that I think about it, this place seems to drive him crazy. So why has he stuck around for all these years? And for him to have turned on me so suddenly, something must’ve changed.
Pondering this, I scrutinize the engineer, trying to glean something from his expression that might reveal the truth. To my surprise, I do see something there, and though I’m no student of psychology, the panic welling up in his eyes sheds a glimmer of light on things.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m still screwed, but I think I might understand a little of why.
When Grogan announces that we’re headed out soon, it becomes very clear that I was right to wonder about the new PRMC crew. Two are visibly nonplussed at the poor timing as well as the flimsy explanation that came with our unplanned departure. The third, though—a mousy little guy I’ve hardly noticed until now—smiles serenely. I’m not surprised when Willace—no, it’s Wallace—conjures an excuse to accompany us, nor am I immediately concerned. A moment later, though, he engages Grogan in a stony glance, punctuated by a snide wink. In that instant, despite my initial impression of him, I know I’m in the presence of something evil—a killer like Skelly, only worse; you see a troll like Skelly coming, but a guy like this slips right under your guard and slits your throat before you even realize he’s a threat. Stealing a glance at Grogan, I see that he’s equally unnerved.
We leave just after lunch. Though I’ve scarcely gotten to know them, Rogers and Cutterly are as close to friends as I’ve got, and this is the last time I’ll see either of them. At the mercy of my fragile emotional state, I give them each a handshake—heartier than usual, and embarrassingly tearful—and wish them the best of luck. They look at me as if I’ve gone a little daft. Neither has bothered to question the nature of my trip. They’ve been fed a lie—that we’re off to fetch supplies for the new greenhouse, and that I’m tagging along for my own amusement—one that apparently doesn’t quite jive with the finality of my farewell. Cutterly walks away in a chuckle, but it’s a nervous sound—the kind you make when you only half get a joke and you’re trying feverishly to figure out if it’s actually funny. Rogers hesitates, lingering as if he senses something amiss. I wish I could confide in him—to warn him, really—because I doubt he’s immune to the craziness that somehow managed to follow me here.
But I can’t say a word.
Wallace is sentinelled nearby, lancing Rogers with a glare that eventually sends the much larger man away in a scamper. How I ever misread Wallace so grossly, I’ll never know; I can’t even begin to reconcile him with the harmless creature I perceived him to be only a short while ago.
The ramp leading into Grogan’s ship creaks under our combined weight as we crowd the airlock. Wallace stands at my back, literally breathing down my neck. I feel hyperaware of his presence, that he could kill me quite effortlessly if he chose to; just a quick, well-placed blade—or maybe a little pinprick of cyanide—to the back, and I’d be gone before I knew what happened. I’m probably being irrational, but I can’t help but feel that I’m willingly marching into the maw of certain death with nowhere to run.
Without speaking, we shed our atmospheric suits; a few seeds shake loose onto the floor, sending a universal shiver through our ranks. As much as the little things freak me out, I willingly help Grogan gather and dispose of them. Left unchecked, something tells me they’d have no problems taking over this ship. Minutes later, we’re punching through the thin atmosphere and into frictionless space. I walk around with trembling hands in my pockets, waiting helplessly for what I know is coming.
Grogan tries to persuade me to take a pill; I decline out of sheer spite. I have no intention of making this easy for him; I won’t let that crank forget what he’s doing to me, not even for a second. I know I’m getting to him, too. He’s pacing the flight deck—not nervously, exactly, but with considerable agitation. Beneath the skin of my wrist, my NanoPrint tingles a hello, so I know Grogan has Arthur’s implant nearby, probably in his pocket. Wallace is always around, but just as he did on Mars, he hangs just outside our periphery where it’s easy to forget he’s there.
Eventually, boredom sets in. I follow Grogan around the deck like a hungry dog, poised just outside kicking range. When this fails to goad him sufficiently, I start in with the questions. I’d like to say I’m interested in some real answers, but the truth is that I’m much more interested in pestering Grogan than entertaining more of his lies.
“You must be the greediest crank I know; riding around in a ship the size of a freaking apartment building, and you’re ready to sell out your friends for a few lousy credits?” I’m posturing, of course, yet I’m a little taken aback by the sincerity of my own bitterness.
Grogan snorts and scratches at his scraggly chin. “Oh, Wilson. I can see those little gears trying so hard to get in motion, but they’re just too slow to build any momentum.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s almost endearing.”
“Thanks for caring, scrapbag.”
His expression darkens. “Yeah, I guess you’re just lowQ enough to think I’m enjoying this—like I have even the tiniest choice in any of this.”
“Everyone has a choice.” I say this with conviction, but on some level, I suppose I know better. The most damning choices aren’t usually choices at all.
“Sorry, Wil. I like you. Always have, despite what you must think.” His face falls, and I don’t doubt his sincerity. “If there was any other way out of this,” he says, “I can promise you I’d have taken it.”
“Forgive me if I’m ungrateful. So, what’s the payoff, then? You serve me up on a platter, and you get what?”
“I can’t talk about this with you, Wilson.”
“Why not? I’ll be dead in a few days anyway, right?”
Grogan looks at me with unusual ferocity. I can tell he wants to come clean, but something’s holding him back. His eyes flicker to Wallace, who’s leaning against a portal, watching the shrinking silhouette of Mars.
“You don’t mind, do you, Wallace?” I ask.
Wallace sighs and glances slowly at Grogan. If there’s a message buried in thei
r glance, I can’t read it. But Grogan swallows audibly and nods.
“Fine, you wanna know? I’ll tell you.”
I hold out my hands, palms up. “By all means, please.”
“If I bring you in, Gunn’ll release them.”
“Release who?”
“My brother and sister.”
My bitterness loses some toxicity at these words, because I realize that—yet again—my perpetual demise has contaminated the well-being of another. I’d much rather blame Grogan, but it’s clear that I’m to blame for this predicament. “I didn’t even know you had a sister.”
“Yeah, well. Like I said: you’re a little lowQ.”
“What’s her name?”
Grogan looks at me like I’m truly miswired and chuckles. And then he turns my world upside down. “Her name’s Fiona, idiot.”
I’m speechless. I scarcely manage a choked, “What? But ... what?”
“She didn’t want anyone to know because she was afraid it would complicate things.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I declare.
“Not really. You know she’s the only woman at PRMC with a research grant to herself? You can’t imagine how prestigious her reputation will be one day, given what she’s accomplished on Mars.”
I did not, but he’s left an opening, and I can’t resist taking a jab. “You mean, genetically engineering an invasive plant that could destroy a planet, and then abandoning her post before it’s safely contained?” Even as I speak the words, tasting their truth as they pass my tongue, I feel guilty for thinking such things about Fiona. The beautiful Fiona, who still visits my dreams with disturbing regularity.
Grogan ignores me, completely unruffled. “And I’m guessing you probably didn’t know that I’m the youngest engineer alive with his own twelve-tier spacecraft?”
Again, news to me. I’m not even sure what a twelve-tier spacecraft is; this one only has two levels. I guess it explains the inflated state of his ego, however.
“Think about it: it doesn’t matter which angle you take, most people would assume there’s some nepotism at play here; and once the accusation is out there, the facts become irrelevant. Truth is, we’re both just equally ambitious. I didn’t influence her placement on Mars, and she sure didn’t influence my fleet status. When she was awarded this opportunity, I just wanted to be close by to protect her. So I put in a requisition for the route through the USS; they never asked why. Eventually, I switched my domicile from Earth to Mars so I could stay there more regularly. She’d never admit it, but I’ve saved her life on Mars more than once.”
I look at him, mouth agape. He laughs.
“Funny part is, everybody else had us pegged in a matter of days. I think Fiona always resented my being there, like I was trying to keep her on a leash or something. And I guess sibling rivalry is hard to mask.”
All I can think to say is “Oh.” I want to point out that I’m an only child and wouldn’t recognize sibling rivalry if it slapped me in the face—but what’s the point, really?
“Don’t feel too bad; seems like she tried a little harder to keep up appearances around you. Truth is, I think she might’ve had a little crush on you.”
Even now, given everything I’ve learned, I still feel my blood pressure rise at the thought. “Now you tell me.” Despite my hormones at work, something keeps floating to the top of my mind, bobbing to and fro amidst all this new information. “What about Arthur’s implant? How’d you end up with it?” I ask.
“On that last supply run before Fiona left, Gunn and a few of his guys were waiting for me on the USS. They’d already roughed up a few of the staffers there. A guy named Hollister—you remember him, don’t you?—they broke every finger on his right hand for trying to hail me with a warning.”
“Oh my God.”
“Anyway, I guess you didn’t cover your tracks very well before I took you on. They knew everything there was to know before I even docked the ship. They made me watch a MentalNote recorded by my brother. They were holding him in an old warehouse; I couldn’t actually see him, but I got the sense that he was in pain.”
I’m so ashamed for what I’ve brought on Grogan that I could cry. But first, I have to clear something up. “You said you brought Arthur’s implant back with you, right?”
“Yup.”
“So what’s with the other one?”
“Another coworker of yours—didn’t catch the name. Once Gunn and his guys got beyond Earth’s atmosphere, I don’t think they could tell the implants apart anymore, so they just sent them both on.” I guess it escaped their notice that the USS has an implant reader on board.
“What about Fiona? How’d they get her?”
Grogan blushes, eyes glassing over. “Pure stupidity on my part; I tried to smuggle her to safety.”
“Safety? What’s safer than Mars?”
“Once that first seedpod appeared, I knew the company would send out a few reps; it’s a very big deal to them. I had a hunch Gunn wouldn’t pass up the chance to get his clutches in a little deeper, so I convinced Fiona to vacate and return to Earth.”
“She didn’t want to go?”
“No. She didn’t think we had a firm enough grip on the BPs yet. She was right, of course; I didn’t care. I just wanted her somewhere safe from Gunn. I was going to pull some strings to hide her until things blew over.”
“And they got her anyway?”
“On my return trip, I got word that she was captured back on Earth. Some men grabbed her the moment her shuttle landed.”
My heart lurches; if I wasn’t already dead, I’d be as committed as Grogan to save her.
“So that’s it,” I say. “You hand me over, and Gunn sets Fiona and your brother free.”
“Yeah.”
“And what makes you think he’s gonna let them go? From what I’ve seen, Gunn doesn’t much care for loose ends.”
“I’m not an idiot, Wilson. I can’t be sure what’ll happen when this is over; but there’s no question what’ll happen if I don’t cooperate.”
I can’t argue that point. I glance over at Wallace. He’s watching us with idle amusement, one hand unconsciously splayed against the portal window. “How about you, Wallace?” I ask with a smirk. “What would you guess our friend’s odds are?”
Wallace chuckles and scratches a dimpled chin. “Better than yours, kid.”
I feel for Grogan; really, I do. And even more for Fiona. But I’ve grown pretty weary of playing the victim lately. So when Wallace needles me in the back with a stiff knuckle and says, “Why don’t you rustle us up some dinner?” I invite him to kiss something unsanitary. I’m not sure if I’m trying to provoke him, or if I literally don’t care what happens to me anymore. Regardless, he only smiles and retorts, “Well, somebody better do something before I get too hungry; you don’t want me getting irritable.”
Grogan stands and disappears into the kitchen in my stead. A few minutes later, he serves up our dinner—grilled chicken breast, steamed vegetables, and buttered dinner rolls—and we all eat in silence. I do the best I can to enjoy my food—it should be easy, considering it’s the first taste of meat I’ve had in months—but there’s a pit in my stomach that isn’t at all interested in food. Every second that we travel through space, I’m that much closer to death.
After we eat, I borrow a book from Grogan and retire to an empty dorm to read. It takes every ounce of wit I have to concentrate, because Wallace has followed me into my room and commandeered a nearby bed, from which he can keep an eye on me. I wonder if he’ll be the trigger Palmer eventually pulls to take me out. He certainly seems up to the task—and chomping at the bit to carry it out.
“Wow,” I say. “My own personal watchdog.”
“Don’t worry, kid. My bite is much worse than my bark.” I need no further convincing.
Two hours later, I’m mercifully engrossed in the story—thank goodness for the escape of fiction—and it nearly escapes my attention that Wallace’s breathing has deepened
to a gentle rumble. Eventually, I notice and permit my gaze to slide from the pages and across Wallace’s sleeping form. He’s positioned on his side, facing me. Even asleep, this guy manages to terrify me. I have no doubt that he’ll awaken if I get up, so I stay put. Better to let sleeping dogs lie and all that. I don’t have the energy to read anymore, so I lie back on my pillow, book resting on my chest. Closing my eyes, I do the only thing I can do right now. I wait.
I don’t know what time it is, but Wallace has abandoned his post and is in the bathroom adjoining our dorm. He’s been in there for a while now, grunting occasionally.
We’re eating breakfast. Well, Grogan and I are eating breakfast—Wallace is staring at a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon as if it just flagellated. “You see that?” Wallace whispers.
I glance at Grogan with a question mark in my eyebrows.
“Okay there, Wallace?” asks Grogan nervously.
“It’s telling us the way, but we’re not listening.”
I have something witty and nasty to add, but I swallow it with my eggs. Wild animals are at their most dangerous when they’re wounded, after all. Wallace glances at Grogan, and then at me. His skin has taken on somewhat of a translucent quality, and despite the cool in here, his upper lip is brimming with droplets of sweat.
This guy does not look good.
“What did you two do to me?” he hisses. Grogan stops in mid-chew; he looks truly frightened and scoots back in his chair until he’s in danger of toppling backward. I’m feeling particularly dark—and for once, I’m not at all afraid. Again, though, until this guy’s down, he’s still too dangerous to unleash.
Grogan turns to me and asks, “What should we do?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He probably just needs one of those motion sickness pills.”
Grogan nods hopefully, remarking, “Yeah, good idea.”
The Pedestal Page 24
