by Amy Cross
"I just wanted to get a small head-start," I tell him.
"Great," he replies distractedly, clearly focused on his hand. He's not one of the human race's most wonderful conversationalists, usually preferring one-word answers unless there's a particular need for two.
"So what are you doing?" I ask.
"Nothing much."
I wait for him to elaborate.
"Something from the schedule," I continue, "or something you came up with?"
"I had this idea that I could boost the comm-link signal by a couple of per cent," he replies with a sigh, clearly realizing that I'm not going to give up until he explains. "Just a theory, really, but I figured it was worth a try. I figured I could improve the tensile strength of the coil's mountings and maybe reduce signal degradation, so I've been fiddling with the main mounting section." He pauses. "I've been up there for two hours without a break, flat on my back just staring at the main coil. I think I'm losing my mind." He stares ahead for a moment and blinks a couple of times. "I can kind of still see the damn coil," he adds.
"A mind's a valuable thing to lose," I point out.
He turns to me.
"Sorry," I add. "Just something my old psych teacher used to tell us in class."
"Fair point," he replies as he uses a grafter to seal the cut on his hand. "I should probably take a break for today, but I'd just end up thinking about that damn coil all the time."
"Going back up?" I ask as he starts climbing the ladder.
"If I'm not down in a couple of hours," he grumbles, "come up and check I'm not dead, huh? There's a distinct chance that I'll have died of severe boredom. Either that, or I'll have shoved the damn coil down my throat and you'll have to order a new colleague." He pauses. "Don't worry. That was probably just a joke."
I watch as he reaches the hatch.
"So you weren't in here a few minutes ago?" I ask, suddenly remembering the footsteps I heard when I was in the bay section.
"Nope," he replies as he climbs out of sight. "Flat on my back up here all the time."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," he calls out, followed by the sound of more metal against metal. He's getting back to work, which I guess means that our scintillating conversation is over. The way things have been going, I probably won't hear another word from him until tomorrow.
"Huh," I mutter, turning and looking around the control room. I'm sure it's nothing, but I swear I heard clear, distinct footsteps making their way across the floor in here, just five or six minutes ago. If Sutter was up in the comm-link hub, though, I guess I can't have heard footsteps. It must have been something else, perhaps one of the systems banging briefly in its casing. After all, Sutter and I are the only people in the station; hell, we're the only people in this part of the galaxy, and for hundreds of light years in every direction there's nothing but empty space and a few rocky, uninhabited planets.
Still, I swear I heard footsteps, and it sounded exactly like someone was walking around up here.
Chapter Two
Sutter
At least part of my story is true: I've definitely been stuck up here for hours, trying to improve the mounting on the comm-link's main coil, but I'm sure as hell not doing it out of some plaintive desire to improve signal strength.
I'm waiting for a very important, very private message.
It's been a week since the last update was due to arrive from my allies out by the Nebulan Cluster, and so far there's been nothing but silence. I'm not the kind of person who usually starts worrying over little things, and I'm fully aware that when signals have to be transported across such vast distances there can be delays or even losses. Still, given that our plans are now reaching such a delicate stage, I can't help but feel a little jumpy. If our base in the Nebulan Cluster has been discovered, there's a real danger that the past ten years' work will have been wasted.
"Let's be having you," I mutter as I plug a de-formatter into the side of the coil.
It's a long-shot, but I figure there's a chance that the signal from my allies might have been diverted into the power chamber. They have a tendency to send their messages on extremely narrow frequencies, in order to avoid detection, so it's possible that when the signal arrived it was interpreted by the coil not as a signal at all but as background noise, in which case it would be recorded in the supplementary coil system and marked for deletion after a couple of weeks. As I start flicking through every sub-directory in the unit, however, I start to realize that this is like looking for a needle in a haystack. There's no way -
And then suddenly I spot it.
It's just a small file, hidden among many in the noise databanks, but I can immediately see from its visual trace that it's more than just more random noise. I pull it up to the core unit, lower the volume so that there's no way Crizz might hear from down in the control room, and route the audio signal through a speaker.
"They just moved on," says a crackly voice, apparently already partway through the message. "As you can imagine, we were pretty worried at first, but after running the numbers we're pretty sure they were just checking out some naturally-occurring quantum fluctuations at the edge of the cluster. Anyway, it's been two weeks now and there's no sign of anyone coming back, so it looks like they didn't notice anything unusual."
I can't help but smile. I've known Josh for many years and even when he's trying to give a serious report, there's always that hint of anarchy in his voice. He's one of the people I miss the most out here; back in the old days, he and Deborah Martinez were my best friends, and it's strange to contemplate the way fate has shaped our lives.
"The final thing to report," he continues, "is that we're all waiting for you to get in touch. If the timings have worked out, you should have received your guest about a week ago, and obviously..." He pauses. "I'm sure you can imagine that there's some real excitement here," he continues. "We all want to jump into a ship and head on over to you, but don't worry, we wouldn't do anything that dumb. We're gonna wait until you bring her to us, but we're hoping it won't be too long now. It's hard to believe it's been ten years, but we've got faith in you. We know you're the best man for this job, so just take your time, work on her head, and bring her out here when you're ready."
"I'll try," I whisper.
"I guess that's it," he adds. "Try to get a message to us soon, okay? Even if it's just an update on your sad, boring existence, we'd like to know that you haven't lost your mind. There should be a mining pick-up unit heading your way fairly soon, so I guess that'll give you someone to talk to, right? Can't beat a spot of face-time. It's always good to talk to someone and not have to wait weeks for every reply. You've got the hardest job, but I hope you know that we're all there with you in spirit." He pauses. "Sorry about Deborah. I mean that. It must have been hard to lose her, especially the way it happened. Sorry, I just wanted to let you know that no-one underestimates the sacrifices you're having to make." He pauses again, as if he's struggling to find the right words. "I hope you're doing well," he adds finally.
With that, the signal ends and I quickly delete the file from the coil's memory structure.
It's strange to think of all those people waiting in the Nebulan Cluster, holding out for word that our plans are starting to come together. I have so many friends back there, people I've fought alongside, and I can only hope that while I'm working on things over here, they're getting on with the part of the plan that fell to them. There are so many individuals involved in this movement, and if even one of them makes a mistake, everything could come crashing down. I sent them a message last week, and it should have arrived by now. I'd send another, but there's not really anything to report and, anyway, there's always a small risk that a message could be intercepted.
Switching the coil structure back to its normal operating routine, I take a deep breath and decide that I've had enough of this work for now. If I keep staring at the same equipment for much longer, I'm liable to lose my mind, so I close the panel and s
tart putting my equipment away. Finally, I take a moment to close my eyes and gather my thoughts. Sometimes, I marvel at the fact that I'm able to keep sane out here on the fringes of the known universe, but other times I find myself wondering if I might have unknowingly lost my mind. Either way, I have to stick to the original plan, and there's no room or self-doubt.
We either do this, or we all die.
Chapter Three
Crizz
I can't sleep.
Back on Mars, we had sunlight to tell us when to rise and when to sleep, but out here on the station we have nothing but clocks. Sure, I can remind myself than when the timer reaches 15:00 I should come to bed and stay here until 00:00, but my body's internal rhythms are stubbornly refusing to fall into line. As has happened every day since I arrived, I'm just staring up at the panels above my bunk, waiting in vain for tiredness to come.
Rolling onto my side, on the basis that a change of position might be all that I need, I stare at the ventilation duct next to my head. Cool air is supposed to be blowing through the narrow grille, but since I arrived I've never managed to get the damn thing to work. Having previously given up on the attempt, I now find myself starting to think that the grille's failure might be the cause of all my problems. Reaching out, I try to remove the covering, hoping that maybe I can somehow fix the fault.
"Gotcha," I mutter as the covering comes away, but to my surprise I spot several small pieces of paper tucked inside. Pulling them out, I find that they've been clogging the airway, and now the duct seems to be working properly. I put the covering back on, before grabbing the first piece of paper and unfolding it to find some kind of handwritten note. There's a date at the top, and a name, and I'm shocked to realize that I'm holding what appears to be a page from the diary of Deborah Martinez, the woman whose death precipitated my arrival at the station. After glancing at the door to make sure that there's no sign of Sutter, I start to read the first page:
He's been very quiet again today. I used to think I knew what he was thinking, but lately a kind of change has come over him. I think he's starting to turn inward, and I know it's crazy, but I've begun counting the number of words he says to me each day. Last week, he averaged 510 words per day, but this week it's down to 220. Today, he's said just 80, and it's as if he's slowly, perhaps unconsciously, shutting down the channels of communication between us and trying to prepare himself for the inevitable.
I don't blame him. It's one thing to make a plan, but it's quite another to carry it through to its inevitable conclusion. We both know what's coming, but we also both know why.
I worry about him, but I also know that I can't devote all my time to the matter. If Sutter cracks, he cracks. It will be painful, but I'm not scared of him. I've begun to make preparations, and I guess it wouldn't be the end of the world if our positions had to be reversed. As long as one of us is gone eventually, that's all that matters.
Turning the piece of paper over, I find the diary entry for the next day. The handwriting is kinda difficult to read, but eventually I manage to make sense of the spidery text:
Another day of work, mostly in silence. Sutter's struggling to be polite, and it's a pathetic thing to experience. I'm worried about his mental state, and in normal circumstances I'd have already sent a message back to base-command and requested an evaluation. Then again, these aren't normal circumstances, and it's not as if I can properly explain my fears.
At least we spent some time together last night. I had to initiate things several times, but eventually we made love. It was a strange experience, and neither of us really wanted to do it, but I felt it was important. These little things are fleeting. Perhaps tomorrow he'll have realized that we need to work together, instead of trying to isolate himself.
As I put the first piece of paper down and pick up the second, I can't help but feel a little surprised. I know that romantic relationships on deep space stations aren't exactly against the rules, but it's still a surprise to find that Sutter and Martinez were sleeping together. He's barely said two words about her, but now I'm starting to realize that her death must have affected more deeply that he's let on. Unable to sate my curiosity, I read the third page:
It was a mistake to sleep with him again. I undid all the good work of the past few weeks and made things much more difficult. Worst of all, now I find myself worrying about things that are beyond my control. We should both be focusing on the mission, but instead I end up thinking about Sutter. Sometimes I wonder if he's writing down notes about me, but then I realize that he's far too insular. He'd hate it if he read this, but the truth is, I think he's beyond the point where I can help him. It's just a matter of managing his decline now, and trying to work out what to do next. I have to be calm and rational, and it's important that I make decisions based on logic rather than emotion.
Turning the piece of paper over, I find that the next day's entry is much shorter:
He's losing his mind. That much is clear now. It's just a question of whether he can hold on for long enough to see things through. I guess maybe we've put him in an impossible situation. I wept for him tonight. I hope he didn't hear.
Pausing, I can't help but feel that I'm getting a window into the past. Sutter and Martinez clearly had a fraught and difficult personal relationship, and when I double-check the dates on these notes, I realize that they were written just a few days before her death. Picking up the final piece of paper, I find that it's from the day before she was killed in a bay-door blowout:
I don't know what to do about Sutter. He's beyond help now. He talks to himself, and he mostly avoids me. I've stopped trying to initiate conversation, and I haven't even seen him today at all. He's hiding from me, pretending to be working when really he's just shutting his mind down. I tried listening to the words he was muttering, but they were too indistinct. I was warned about this, but I didn't think it'd actually happen. I thought Sutter was stronger. He passed every test. When we came out here, I was the one who was seen as the weak link, and yet I've adapted to this existence far more readily. Sutter is crumbling. I can't imagine what he's going through, and it's only going to get worse.
Turning to the last page, I check the date and see that it was written on the day that she died. A shiver passed through my body as I read the text:
Every day is worse. Sutter's hiding from me now, but sometimes I get the feeling that I'm being watched. I'll be working on something and then, when I look over my shoulder, there'll be just the faintest hint of movement in the corner of my eye. He's still talking to himself, rather than to me, and he ignores my attempts to initiate conversation. We have so much to talk about, and I've spent the morning alternating between quiet shock and tearful rage. Is this really how it's supposed to end? I honestly didn't think life could be so cruel. I'm going to make one final attempt to talk to him. Even if he tries not to listen, I'm going to force him. We have to speak.
Putting the piece of paper down, I try to stay calm. The notes clearly don't provide a full picture of exactly what was happening, but one thing's clear: four months ago, Nick Sutter had some kind of emotional breakdown on this station, and whatever happened next, Deborah Martinez ended up being ejected into space while she was working without a suit on one of the bay doors. With a growing sense of unease, I think back to the bay door safety system, and I realize that there's no way an accident like that should ever have happened.
Someone would have had to disable two separate systems and then run a manual override on the safety release unit while Deborah Martinez was working.
Chapter Four
Sutter
It's been months since I hid the box, but now I realize it's time to get the job done.
Reaching under the counter in the engine room, I pull out a small wooden box. It's not much, and I can't help pitying anyone whose entire life could be stowed away so easily. Then again, deep space work doesn't really allow much time for sentimentality, so both Deborah and I left most of our possessions in storage back on Mars. Thi
s box contains the only things she brought with her, which I guess means they're the only things that she felt were really important. I asked her about them once, but she didn't really say much. It was as if they were private items that encouraged private thoughts, and she wanted to keep that part of her life to herself.
Opening the lock, I glance inside.
There's really not much: an old hairpin; some jewelry that she was never going to wear while she was here; an old-fashioned printed photograph of a woman, probably her mother. Deborah had a sentimental streak, and she always went on about the fact that there were some memories that can't be stored in a digital file. I know she was right, and as I pick up the hairpin and hold it in my hands for a moment, I can't help but think of all the previous generations of women in her family who looked after such a small and insignificant item. Deborah had a big family, which is something I can barely even comprehend.
Then again, at least Deborah had some personal items. I came to the station with nothing more than my uniform. At the time, I thought I was being strong, but now I regret not bringing at least something from my old life. Looking down at the hairpin, I find myself trying to imagine how it would feel if it had belong to my mother. Unfortunately, I've never really had the privilege of knowing a family, so I can't summon up those feelings. Deborah and I were very different, and we came at life from opposite directions. Still, for a while, we managed to make one another happy. It's just a shame that things had to end so suddenly and so tragically.
Finally, I put the hairpin back into the box; as I'm about to close the lid, however, I spot a small piece of wood that I immediately recognize. Holding the piece up to the light, I marvel at the skill of the person who carved it: barely an inch long and half as wide, it's an intricately detailed image of a human figure standing with a sword at its feet. I remember Deborah telling me about this particular item, which she claimed was a gift from her dearest friend. They spent many years in prison together, and for Deborah this little piece of wood served as a reminder of their friendship.
