by Anna Gaffey
It helps to have proven tools when one begins fresh.
Inside the satchel was a basic child’s chemistry set in old-time glass, late twenty-second or very early twenty-third cent. Glass vials, syringes, plates, dishes, even a tray of rudimentary chemical samples for simple, childish experiments, all firmly sealed and packed against the cold of space. Angelica Padula Jeong’s initials had been burned into the handle.
He’d placed it on the bare shelf above his desk, and promptly immersed himself so deeply into Selas that he managed to push her, his father, and Earth out of his mind. Not Rebecca, never Rebecca, but he had no choice in that. His father? His mother? He didn’t have to think of them now, or ever. He could use his free brain space for whatever he wanted: hoarding memory, nonsense trivia, porn.
There was a hand on his sleeve. Jake looked at it unthinkingly.
“I believe you, Jake,” Con said. His fingers tightened, and the press of them dragged Jake back into his present skin.
“Right,” Jake answered automatically. “You’d think they’d remember, considering. Icebreaker’s dead and buried, and no one in Science would dare try to resurrect Restore.”
“Say they didn’t believe it. Say they overrode Angelica’s authority, opened Icebreaker’s sealed files, the family vault.”
Jake waved his hand. “Then I’d say they want to be disappointed.”
“That message was clear enough. They think you have it here.”
“You know, for a simple eavesdropping pilot, Con, you seem to know an awful lot about Science’s current political warfare.” A bead of nausea formed small and cold in Jake’s belly. On his dinner tray, the bowl of chili was rapidly congealing into an unappetizing lump. “Anyway, they can think what they like. They can frisk the whole damn station with a supersonic vacuum, and they still won’t find anything.” A thought occurred to him. “What does this have to do with Marathon, anyway?”
“Dunno.” Con scratched his head, abruptly the very picture of innocence. “A coincidence?”
“Right. If Science colonized something habitable all the way out there like Marathon? All the conditions of Earth and none of the pesky monitoring. They could kill a thousand land-greedy colonists doing tests and write it off as a failed air filter or an undiscovered microscopic space bug. Simple. No thanks.”
“You could go back anyway. Start again on the serum.”
“I could?” Jake snapped. Why was Con pressing? “Really. Is that an official offer? Science is interested in letting a felon kill more scientists?”
Again, Con looked away.
“The answer’s no, in case you’re wondering. If you need to report that to anyone. I’m not going to be responsible for any more—”
“You wouldn’t be,” Con shot back. “It’s their call. Science’s. Don’t you want to go home?”
The notion of returning to Earth did not excite any particular longing in Jake. “Sorry, I don’t feel like learning pathology from the ground up again. Is that why you’re here?”
Con shook his head. “Don’t be like that.”
“Don’t be like what? Inquisitive? Skeptical regarding the veracity of a bunch of hypocritical hand wringers whose sudden about-face smacks suspiciously, no, obviously of self-promotion and rewriting of their own moronic history—”
“Like a dick, actually,” Con muttered.
“A dick?” Jake gawked at him. “A dick, you say? Listen, when you work intimately with Science, then you can discuss the varying degrees of dickishness. Unless you already know their style. Do you, Con? Did Science buy you a ticket? I guess that would give you dick-talking privileges.”
Con had settled into blandness again, although Jake could’ve sworn his lips were twitching. “I’m on a personnel exchange mission to Selas Station, standard return cruise to Earth as part of my corporate contract. And I’m visiting a friend.”
God damn it anyway. Jake would not feel bad. He would not.
“I don’t do Science’s dirty work, Jake.”
“Not officially. You’re just the pitchman, aren’t you? Just say it, they sent you here.”
“Jake.”
“Come on. Say ‘yes, Jake, they sent me to bring you back to illustrious fanfare and piles of gold doubloons—”
“Doubloons?”
“—as long as you don’t mind living under house arrest with your mother for the rest of your life. Oh, and this time, can you do human testing without killing a bunch of important viables? Thanks. Good monkey boy.”
Con sighed. “I saw the messages. They were encrypted. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Does Carmichael know all our new path docs are being snatched out from under us?” Jake asked.
“Yep. I spoke to him about it when we boarded.”
“What? That asshole, why didn’t he—”
“I asked him,” Con shouted over him, “to let me tell you in person. As a favor. And I didn’t tell him about the messages.”
Jake swigged the dregs of his mead-wine-beer.
Was he being too paranoid now? No. No. He had the penitence implant chip and the deactivated tracking chip to remind him how, if he forgot. He had several years’ worth of commtexts from his parents logged but otherwise untouched in a comm tablet, and more in memory gems. He had the transcript of the final decision dropping him in the Bends, exiling him out here, the stress of living on the station, and the occasional, not-so-cute prank. He had Rebecca’s face.
He had Con’s friendship. Jake could choose to believe that, no matter what Carmichael or the little bastard inside his own head suggested. Con, who was standing in front of Jake with his shoulders so tense with stress or anger or fear that they were practically up around his ears, the tips of which had gone angry red. Con, his friend, who wrote him and visited him and yelled back at him. Jake could choose to believe it.
And he would. At least until the wine-mead-beer buzz faded.
Abruptly, all the adrenaline ran out of him in a hot, shaky rush. Could he consider this? Was it worth anything to go back? What did Earth have to offer him now?
“A return to fame and fortune isn’t going to make me forget about my pathologists,” Jake said weakly. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t abandon Selas. Not when they were so close to—to—to something. It was unthinkable.
“Right. Right. Hail the conquering martyr,” Con said, but he was smiling down at the floor. The tension sagged from his shoulders, and Jake loosened up in response. “Sorry. Too many drinks, not enough food. You know.”
“Sure,” Jake croaked.
Con grinned at him and ate another cracker. He got crumbs down the front of his shirt. Jake stuck his empty bottle under one arm and, newly ravenous, attacked his plate. The dried apricots were tart and tender, and contrary to appearances, the cooling chili still warm and delicious.
Vaguely he wondered if it was possible to hack into Science’s mainframe computers from this far out. Jake could do the Harmon or one of the covert ship’s databases, no problem, but the information might be too parceled out over too long to catch it all. He probably didn’t have enough time. He also wasn’t a good enough hacker to do it. But still, all five pathologists…it was a threat he could leverage Kai with, and Kai was a decent hacker when he wasn’t too busy bitching his way up and down the labs.
Why would Science have an ex-Defense pilot bring him a message? They might as well send Jake an engraved invitation to Earth. If Con truly was a mere pilot, a mere messenger. But who else would he be working for? Defense? It was as plausible as Science, wasn’t it? Was he chipped with something? Jake stretched and stole a glimpse of the back of Con’s neck, but there was no scar or glint of metal, just clipped dark hair and sallow, space-faded skin.
“What?” Con asked.
“Nothing.”
“Want anything?” He offered his plate. Jake eyed it.
“You went through decon, right?”
“Yes, Dr. Jeong.” Con smiled. “If I had anything, the whole Harmon would be i
nfected by now.”
Jake pilfered most of Con’s olives and was starting in on the buttery slices of cornbread when Santos materialized beside them. She looked gorgeous and enviably at ease in a shimmery blue caftan, her brown hair loose around her shoulders, a dark bottle in each hand. Con gave her an appreciative once-over. Jake dropped an olive.
“Welcome, welcome.” She clinked the bottles together. “And now you’re coming with me.”
Jake groaned. “Can’t you tell her I’m still not interested in spiritualism? Or a bunch of dead cosmo-astro-whatevernauts?”
“I’m under strict orders, genius.”
Jake flushed. Con didn’t seem to notice anything, though; he merely elbowed Jake and smirked. “Have fun.”
“Oh, you’re coming too, hotshot,” Santos said. “No excuses. Madame Natalia’s got herself a private room, and you two are part of the inner circle.”
CHAPTER SIX
“I feel exceptionally close to all my coworkers, especially the ones I work with on a more regular psychiatric basis. The first thing I learned about living aboard a space station? Well, I’d have to say it was quite an old chestnut! Practice trumps theory! I’ve lived aboard Selas Station for almost two years now – my first interstellar posting, you know – and almost every hard and fast rule I was taught on Earth about the psychological effects of space on Man’s resilient, irrepressible psyche?”
[She snaps her fingers] “Rubbish! Useless! Just like that. I rarely cross-reference treatments or prescribe by the book anymore. You also may know that I made the first presentation to the UW Governance Board regarding the problems with illegal stimulants and relaxants in space. Because of that, we now have a responsible system of checks and balances, and people can relax without looking over their shoulders or worse, feeling infantilized. But overall, I just try to keep my finger on the pulse of my posting, and sometimes that pulse tells me, ‘Doctor, these people need a party.’”
[She smiles] “And that’s my favorite part of life here. Come to Selas and see for yourself. We have fun!”
Excerpt: remote personal interview, Life (Revival Ed.) magazine
14 February 2242
Dr. Natalia Ticonti, Ph.D., M.D.
Doctor of Psychiatric Evaluation
United Worlds DS 2075-5 [Selas Station]
Satellite 1H-24HM, 24HM System [updated: Eos]
[Archived: World Historical Society, deep space exploration, personnel profiles, Earth]
31 October 2242 AEC
23:01
The defunct walk-in kitchen cooler was transfigured. Candles guttered in mess hall glasses in every corner of the cramped silvery room, and their golden light cast flickering, disorienting shadows and reflections over the walls.
Nat sat behind a round anchored table in the center of the room. She’d covered it in dark purple cloth, and for some mysterious reason she’d tossed gold-colored shipping tags all over that. She wore drapes of gauzy black fabric around her shoulders, and her eyelids were painted gold. She leered at them. “Welcome, darlings, to the house of the spirits.”
“Is that a psychiatric designation?” Jake asked. “Why’re you all dressed up?”
She fluttered her golden lids. “I’ve been telling fortunes for all the new crewmembers. Hello, Connor. Would you like your palm read?”
Con did not move. “Didn’t know you were talented in that direction.”
“Oh, I’m not, of course.” Nat reached under the table and displayed a dimly glowing tablet. “But the crew manifest has been helpful, as were the archives on palmistry and divination.”
The door opened behind them, and Santos ushered in Carmichael. Jake stepped back around Nat to make room and picked up one of the glasses for closer examination. “I’m writing you up for fire code violation, Nat. And that reminds me, either you or one of your lackeys left trash in the fourth level corridor.”
Nat’s grin fell away. “Would you turn off your work implant? It’s perfectly safe—and there’s more room if you’d all just sit down, please? Chairs, right, more chairs behind those boxes of nori. And some bottles, too, I think. Mei, come out of the corner.”
Mei stood up behind Con, and he started. “Sorry,” she said.
He smiled at her. “No, I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
“No worries.” Mei raised her brown bottle in salute. “I’m teeny when I want to be.”
“Should you be drinking, after those…emissions?” Jake asked.
Mei grinned. “Sit close and find out.”
The six of them crammed in around the tiny table elbow to elbow. Jake felt a surge of déjà vu and shoved away his misgivings. Cards, in a group, Nat jabbering, this was a new, neutral setting. He buddied up next to Mei. She made a face at his exaggerated camaraderie and looked beyond him to Con. Her gaze took on a speculative cast. “Have we met before, um, Connor?”
“I don’t think so.” Con bumped Jake’s shoulders companionably. “It’s just Con. I piloted the Harmon?”
“Oh! Hm. You must just have a familiar face. Or maybe it’s just Jake talking about you all the time.”
“I do what?” Christs. Jake couldn’t tell whether she was out to sabotage him or get him laid. Either way, she was enjoying herself. “Did Lindy inject you with bullshit serum?”
“I’m not the one looking to get injected…” Laughing, she dodged Jake’s smack and clinked her bottle against a stray shipping tag. Maybe she had had too much to drink. Although Mei regularly drank him under the table. Jake settled for a comradely I Will Murder You Later, My Friend squeeze to her shoulder and desperately tuned in to Nat instead.
“…and so I supplemented my reading about séances with additional texts in the time I had before the party, and according to lore we’re supposed to have something that the spirits can communicate through to us. Alphabet boards. Or we could try channeling or automatic writing. That might be better since I certainly couldn’t put in a justifiable req for a Ouija board.” Nat laughed. “This isn’t something they teach you in psych school.”
“Shocking,” Santos said. “I think I read somewhere you can lose your qualifications if you practice universally decried techniques.”
“Universally decried? Don’t make up nonsense just because we’ve an audience now, Rachel.”
“I just don’t want you to risk your job.” Santos threw her hands up over her face as Nat flicked a shipping tag at her. “Fine. Fine, okay! You’re the expert. Get us going.”
“That’s right.” Nat coughed noisily. “Now then. We first join hands, to form the circle.”
“Why?” Mei asked. Jake snickered.
“Just hold hands. It’s for connection, solidarity of purpose, to harness and combine our individual energies—oh, damn, wait, we’re supposed to listen to soothing music for a few minutes, to center ourselves.” She tapped at her tablet, and a soft musical track began to filter through the room’s comm speaker.
“Candles sure got me centered,” Carmichael commented, his face glowing in the yellow light. He was the only one of them without a bottle. Jake ran over the on-call roster in his mind again, but he didn’t remember seeing Carmichael’s name there. Just Boxhill and Dr. Lindy. But did it matter? Toby could be the Big Serious Stationmaster nonstop if he wanted. In Jake’s recollection, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
In the close gloom of the cooler, the noise from the party was dulled and far away. Mei’s palm was sweaty, while Con’s hand felt warm and callused. Jake swallowed. He didn’t remember taking it, but he was glad he had. He wished he’d grabbed another bottle. He glanced across the table at Santos, and she gave him a lewd wink as she laced and unlaced her fingers with Carmichael’s.
He sent her a mental death ray. What did she know, anyway? What did any of them know? He didn’t even know what they thought they knew. He wanted to hightail it back to the labs, into space, to Selas, anywhere but here trapped between Santos’s knowing grin and Con’s warm grip. He breathed deeply, and listened to the m
usic cycling softly in the background.
It was pretty old-time, a low, somnolent Constant Age Revival mix of woodwinds and wind chimes jangling lightly out of sync over what sounded like a brook of trickling water. It made the room feel warmer after a few moments of it. His shoulders relaxed, and Jake hardly noticed when Nat began to speak in a low, dreamy voice that wove in and out of the music.
“We are here to ask,” Nat intoned, “if there are any spirits present.”
Someone snorted.
“Rachel,” Nat snapped. “Stow the skepticism, or I won’t ask for your grandmother.”
Jake raised his eyebrows at Santos, who flushed. “I thought we were contacting the original crew.”
“We are. But once the channels are, so to speak, open, it’s presumed that we can contact others—now, look.” Nat huffed, and shook her hair. “Can we please all concentrate on being quiet and positive and open?”
They sat.
After a long space of more soft music and even breathing, Nat tried again, and this time Carmichael made a sly remark about the relative width of openings, and Con guffawed like a little kid. Nat was furious.
“I’m not afraid of you, Toby! We’re off-duty. And if you’re not going to participate like adults, gentlemen, the door is open.”
“Oh, we know,” Con snickered. Jake kicked him. “Ow.”
He seemed about to say more, but then his cheeks darkened in the flickering light, and he merely squeezed Jake’s hand hard in retaliation. Jake crossed his ankles under his chair. He felt sweaty and breathless and obvious and old-maidish. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to pitch the table over and run screaming into a fountain of beer. He was glad, after a moment, that his facial expressions were apparently so complex that no one, not even Santos with her painfully accurate and filthy mind, could interpret them successfully. He tried again to relax. Maybe if he imagined Con’s hand didn’t exist, his sweat glands would forget about it, too.
Meanwhile, Carmichael was showing the rest of the table how to vanish one of the smaller shipping tags in his big fists. Nat glowered at him. He pretended not to notice her various finger-tappings and throat-clearings, and finally, she exploded.
