Subcutis

by Harper J. Cole

  “On the face of it. But however different the people here were, they still had to express the same concepts we do. They’ll have nouns, verbs, adjectives, probably in much the same proportions as us. Look, I’m no expert, but I think it may be possible to make some sort of progress, if we can harness the calculating power of our computer to work on the problem. That’s where you come in: your programming expertise makes you the perfect choice. The only choice, really.”

  Flora smiled at the compliment, but was doubtful. “Thanks, but I’ve never attempted a puzzle like this. I’m not sure if …” Inspiration struck her suddenly. “Gypsy! She might help.”

  Hunter blinked. “Really? Language seems a little outside her comfort zone. No offence meant, but she’s not much of a communicator.”

  “No, but she likes puzzles, and I think she finds most of them too easy. Now that she’s not plotting KSD leaps, there’s not much of an outlet for her brain.”

  A sharp nod. “I like your thinking. She’ll still need support though; you’ll work with her. Start as soon as you can, I’ll see to it that scans of everything we find are sent to you.” She headed for the door. “Good luck.”

  “Captain!” Flora protested. “Please understand. Even with Gypsy, this could be a lot of work for no reward. There are plenty of people back home better qualified. If we waited -”

  “No.” Hunter paused in the doorway but did not turn. “We don’t need help. We don’t need someone better to come in and do the hard bits. This is your job, Cartwright. I expect results.”

  * * *

  “A puzzle?”

  “Yes. Think of it as being like one of those giant sudoku you whip through in five minutes. But much more giant, and with far fewer spaces filled in for us.”

  Gypsy wiped her nose thoughtfully, leaving a pale streak against her orange sleeve. It was Thursday again in her bedroom, Flora noted, meaning that it was raining just like in the real world outside. However, it was evening instead of morning here, the result of sticking to a 24-hour day while the rest of the crew had adapted to the Matan 25-hour cycle. Gypsy’s bedside lamp was already on, warding off the gloom.

  It’s so easy to believe I’m back on Earth, thought Flora with a pang of homesickness. Gypsy needs her illusion. But am I so different? Maybe happiness is simply giving the brain what it desires: a home, a lover. It doesn’t matter whether it’s real, just so long as you can convince yourself that it is. But what happens when something breaks the spell, and you can’t lie to yourself any more? Back to the real world, a cruel and alien place.

  I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  “Could I, erm, can I see some of the writing?”

  “Sure, hang on.” She brought up one of the clearer and less eroded pages on Gypsy’s screen. “I realize that this is going to seem impossible at first glance -”

  “Yes, that’s interesting.” It was unlike the mathematician to interrupt, but her focus had switched entirely to the screen, her eyes drinking in the alien characters. “There’s patterns here. Alternation.”

  “Really?” Flora saw nothing but random rows of strange letters.

  “Don’t you see it? Every other letter is one of these nine …” she pointed. “And they each have a pair of diagonal lines appearing in them somewhere.”

  “God, you’re right. Nine of them. Could they be the vowels?”

  “Erm, I thought there were five vowels?”

  “Five vowel letters, if we’re talking about English. But in terms of the actual sounds, it’s much more than that. For example … think of how different the ‘a’ sound is in ‘cat’ from what it is in ‘pass.’ We cram about twenty different sounds into five symbols. Perhaps the Matans do the same with nine?”

  “Oh, okay. Truthfully, I’ve never been great with all that, erm, that grammar malarkey.”

  “That’s where I come in. I know a thing or two about how languages are constructed, and I can program the computer to help us. It provides the brute force calculating power, you provide the inspiration. How does that sound?”

  Gypsy smiled, and uncharacteristically looked Flora right in the eyes. “This is going to be fun.”

  III

  The greater the difficulty, the more the glory in surmounting it.

  – Epicurus

  Helped by further finds, Flora and Gypsy made progress, albeit of a slow and erratic kind. They had no way of knowing how the Matan letters were pronounced, of course, but proceeded from the assumption that they were correct in their identification of the vowels. Gypsy believed in the necessity of making assumptions and sticking with them until they were proven wrong, given the uncertainties which riddled the task at hand.

  Still, they needed at least a small foundation of certainty to build upon. In this, they were fortunate, as one of the items in their little library was a children’s book showing a series of pictures, with single words beside them. It was the nearest they were going to get to a Rosetta Stone - a reliable list of five hundred and twelve basic nouns that they could search for in other books, and use as a basis for speculations about the meanings of words most frequently accompanying them.

  They found the alphabet to contain 48 letters, which would often appear with vertical lines on their right sides; they guessed these to be punctuation. Eight other characters would often appear together in various combinations; these they guessed to be numbers. There was a lot of this guessing, and Flora often wondered whether they were making any real progress at all, though they slaved away from dawn till dusk with few breaks.

  She’d been living by the slightly longer Matan day, but soon adjusted herself to ‘Gypsy time.’ They’d work from 9am to 11pm every day, with hour long breaks for lunch and dinner, prepared by Alice. Flora noticed that, while at first they might start a little early or finish a little late, her companion soon became quite obsessive about stopping on the hour, often abandoning a half constructed sentence the moment the second hand was pointing to 12.

  “Yes, another of my silly compulsions,” she said when Flora mentioned it. “But I’m better than I used to be. My routines would take up half my waking hours back in the dark days of my early 20s. Elaborate rituals to cancel out bad thoughts, repeated again and again until I got them right; praying more than the Pope most days. Come a long way, but there’s far to go …”

  “Sure. Well, I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist, but I’ve spent plenty of time with people who are over the years. Any time you want to talk about it, I’m right here.”

  “You’re a bit like me, aren’t you? Not so extreme, maybe. But that’s why we get along – you’re more on my planet than anyone else here, except my mother. And she’s had twelve thousand and twenty four days to study me in my habitat; you got me straight away.”

  “There might be something in that. I certainly don’t have your gifts, though.”

  “Do I have gifts? There’s so much that I can’t do, and I don’t know what’s stopping me.” Gypsy grimaced, a familiar scrunching of the right side of her face. “I shouldn’t complain, though – it could be worse. Got to appreciate what I’ve got … yes, I’m lucky … mustn’t complain …”

  Gypsy’s eyes took on an unfocussed cast. Flora recognized that her friend was slipping away into unproductive ruminations. She spoke softly to bring her back.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hmm?” Gypsy smiled. “Oh, no need to apologize. You’ve already helped me. I’ve been studying poetry like you suggested; it’s fun, I like it.”

  “Oh, terrific! Have you written any more?”

  For answer, Gypsy proffered a crumpled page for Flora to read.

  Oh OCD that lives in me,

  You hide inside, I wonder why.

  Please come out here where I can see,

  Oh OCD that lives in me,

  We met when I was only three,

  We’ll fight until the day I die.

  Oh OCD that lives in me,

  You hide inside, I wonder why?

 
“I’m no expert, but this looks pretty good to me,” said Flora, with a touch of surprise. “It’s got a nice rhythm to it.”

  “Thanks,” Gypsy couldn’t keep a hint of pride out of her voice. “I’ve been looking at different forms of poetry. That one’s called triolet. I used the repetition to suggest the way my thoughts go round in circles, going nowhere. I think it worked okay?”

  “It certainly did. For a beginner, this is great quality.”

  In fact, you’re probably better than me already, she thought, with just the faintest tinge of envy.

  “I’ll keep doing it then. Self-expression. I’m going to need it, if I want to get my dearest wish …”

  Flora was curious to know what that might be, but her friend didn’t elaborate.

  * * *

  A few days later, Hunter stopped by to tell them that they were leaving. Not leaving the planet, of course: they’d merely be making one orbit and coming back.

  “It’s Kiaya’s idea,” she said. “She wants us to do a Parcak scan.”

  “I don’t think I know that one.”

  “Neither did I, but it’s evidently a popular archaeology technique, pioneered by Egyptologists; it’s how they found the 2nd tomb of Ramesses XI. Based on infra-red imaging, we should be able to find where there are other ruins beneath the surface. A few modifications to our scanning equipment and we’ll be ready to go. Two hours.”

  Flora had a last walk around the broad clearing which had been their home for nearly half a Matan year. It was chilly, getting towards winter now. There didn’t seem to be many evergreens in the forest – orange leaves carpeted the floor where she paused to look in the direction of the excavation.

  It was early morning out here, the inner Pankhurst moon still large in the sky, distant Greer moon already invisible. She found that the sense of foreboding that the planet had been giving her was gone: evidently the change of routine had snapped her out of it. Good.

  She exchanged hellos with Daniella Winters as she headed to the ship. The journalist would be staying at this site, together with half the crew. Flora’s eyes scanned the sprawling camp from the doors of the airlock before heading in. The box-like temporary labs and living quarters, the miscellaneous equipment, the little garden where Barbara Young had planted Earth seeds and made them grow.

  As she looked, Flora had the strangest feeling that she would never see this place again.

  * * *

  Hunter had decided that two technicians were enough for this short flight, so Flora and Annie were the only members of their team aboard. There wasn’t much to do, other than check that the engines hadn’t gotten too dusty during the long layoff.

  But Flora liked being back in Engineering, having barely spent five minutes a week in there since they landed; the machinery needed only the briefest of daily checks while idle. She’d missed the old smells of metal and rubber and plain old-fashioned sweat. And she’d rather missed Annie, who’d been her near-constant companion back when the ship was up in space and they’d comprised the Alpha shift. Her irreverent chatter could be irritating at times, but today it made the hours fly by, and they’d completed an orbit before she knew it.

  But they didn’t land back where they’d started. The Parcak scan had found something strange barely a hundred miles east of their camp site. There was evidence of a city at the base of a small mountain, but that wasn’t the oddity – a few of those had shown up. Here alone among all the territory they’d scanned was a thick blob of heat beneath the surface. The captain ordered them down for a closer look.

  They landed on a nearly flat shelf of stone, with the mountain at their backs. It must have commanded a spectacular view of the city at one time. Now, there was only thin grass and mostly naked trees. There was no sign of anything that might account for the infra-red reading.

  “We’ll have to fetch the excavation equipment over here,” said Hunter. “I’ll have the crew ready themselves for a move to this site. While they’re doing that, I believe we’ll take a look around …”

  Flora and Annie joined Hunter and Rivers as they descended from the smooth shelf and crossed a little stream, the running waters gurgling away merrily. Fanning outwards, they went on into the trees. They weren’t sure what they were looking for: more ruins seemed likely, but anything out of the ordinary might be a clue as to what was happening beneath the surface.

  Flora headed for a pocket of evergreens, tall and with long pointy leaves which jabbed her as she passed through them. The closest Earth equivalent would be firs or pines, she thought. As she advanced, she kept her eyes on the ground for signs of humanoid habitation.

  For that reason, she was looking right at the earth when it collapsed beneath her.

  There was very little warning. One step there was an almost imperceptible give beneath her foot, the next the dirt seemed to dissolve into dark powder, and she had vanished into a yawning mouth, ribbed with gnarled roots, before she had even finished screaming. She fell vertically for several yards, then found herself sliding and bouncing down a steeply sloping crevasse. She caught a brief glimpse of the the open air as she tumbled, already terrifyingly far away and out of reach. Then it was stolen from view.

  The slope gradually became more gentle. Finally, she slid to a halt, loose soil continuing to hiss past her ears. No nightmare this time. She was lost, deep beneath the earth.

  IV

  I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

  – Nelson Mandela

  Flora didn’t move for some time. Then she tentatively felt her arms and legs – no breaks, plenty of bruises. Not much point in waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Pitch black it was, and pitch black it would stay.

  She tried her other senses. The smell of earth was pervasive. Beneath her was flat stone; standing up and reaching above her head yielded nothing but air, which felt heavy but breathable. Calling for help gave her the sense that she was in a large cavern. Her cries yielded no response, soon fading into silence.

  She felt sick, heartbeat out of control. Was this what had happened to the Matans and their dwellings, swallowed by the planet? There was no escape; her frantic attempts to clamber back the way she’d come were foiled by the dirt, loose and treacherous.

  They’ll come looking for me, she reassured herself. Even if they didn’t hear me fall, they’ll investigate and find the hole, and … yes! Of course!

  She had forgotten about her wristband, which would have no trouble communicating even at this distance. It could also put out a 10 candela light. Cursing herself for letting panic cloud her thinking, Flora felt for the light control.

  Nothing.

  She tried communicating with her crewmates: again nothing. The device felt intact, but must have been damaged by the fall.

  The brief wave of relief she’d felt collapsed at once into nothing. Sinking to her knees, head in hands, she fought for calm. She needed to assess her situation rationally, not emotionally. What should she do? Just stay put, she decided. She couldn’t explore without light, and it would be easier for them to find her here.

  Flora drew in deep breaths, settling down for a long wait. At least she was free to move her limbs; things were better than they had been in her dream. And she would escape.

  Have faith, Flora …

  After a moment’s thought, she felt around in her pockets. She had a screwdriver and two spanners. The screwdriver was probably too big for mending her wristband, but why not give it a go?

  Pushing all negativity from her mind, she got to work.

  * * *

  “God, look how far down it goes! And her life signs show ‘no data.’ Do you think she’s … ?”

  “No way of knowing. But ‘no data’ simply means that her wristband’s broken or out of range. I suggest you read up on the basics of our hardware, Grace.”

  Hunter peered down the shaft. Her light wasn’t strong enoug
h for her to see the bottom. “Well, there’s nothing for it but to go down after her. Bala’s the best qualified; get her out here with some hiking gear. Call the doctor as well.” While Annie contacted the ship, Hunter and the others tested the nearest tree trunk to make sure that it could bear the weight of a human.

  Hang in there, Cartwright. No deaths on my conscience, please …

  * * *

  As Flora worked on her wristband – she had managed to open up a slender panel – she gradually became aware that the cavern was not completely silent. There were sounds all about her, almost imperceptible at first, but seeming to become louder and louder once she noticed them, until they saturated the whole chamber. They were hard to define at first – a hint of a murmur, a hint of a hiss – and she wondered whether there could be wind blowing down here, but she felt none on her skin. She paused in her work and focused all her mind on listening. Presently, she was able to recognize the sounds, and that recognition horrified her.

  Breathing.

  Soft, slow inhalations and exhalations were coming from all sides; close behind and distant ahead. Flora was surrounded. The sound stayed at a steady volume but infiltrated her ears more and more as she listened, until it seemed to be rasping inside her brain, and she would have run in spite of the dark if only there’d been a path that could offer any hope of escape. But they were everywhere.

  Her imagination, unbidden, conjured up a thousand hideous forms the creatures might take; all predatory, all hostile. Whatever they truly were, they must be cruel – sadistic, even, as they surely knew perfectly well where she was but made no move towards her.

  “What are you waiting for?” she demanded, but her voice was little more than a faltering whisper, which did nothing to interrupt the flow of the breathing; in … out … in … out … the perfect rhythm continued, and it hit her suddenly that though the sounds emanated from a mass of points all around her, they were all in synch with each other. A million creatures, all inhaling together, all exhaling together.