Portals (Into The Galaxy Book 1)

by Ann Christy

  I’m not taking the cart onto the ship, but it will ease my burden until I get to the ladder. Once I reach the top, I’ll have to heave the bag up all that distance. I’m not sure I can do that, or that I’ll have time, but I have no idea if there’s food for humans on the ship. Then again, I can survive a good while without food, so if I have to drop it, I will. I’ve got enough proof inside my suit.

  Yeah, and the spaceship. That’s proof too.

  When I seal the helmet, I wait for the pink light and feel the whispering stream of human-safe atmosphere against my neck. The tiny module that serves up the atmosphere from the gases outside weighs so little that I thought it was part of the helmet. My power readout tells me I’m at max, so I’m good.

  I’m ready. I can do this.

  The distance to the airlock is just enough that the sound of my too-rapid breathing starts to ratchet up my nerves. Without someone to talk to through the speakers in my helmet, my sounds are louder. The tightness in my chest makes my breaths almost raspy sounding. Before I dare turn on my implant to cycle the doors, I have to calm down. There’s too much risk that some of my emotions will bleed through, and my mind is screaming about everything that might go wrong.

  Taking a few deep breaths, I try to focus on something—anything—that will calm me down. Jack’s face comes to mind, and then him as he is now. Grabbing that like a life raft, I imagine floating in the water, free of worry or fear. The warmth, the lift and fall of motion in water, the light making it all beautiful. It works, at least enough so that the heartbeat pounding in my ears dials down a notch.

  Before I lose that fleeting and hard-won sense of peace, I open my implant to cycle the door and step inside. The wind inside buffets me about and I focus on warm water, floating with my face to the sun and nothing but endless, salty sea below me. When I step through, I shut off the implant for the last time.

  Goodbye.

  Glancing around the work floor, I don’t see anything amiss. The space is huge, possibly a half-mile long in total and a quarter-mile wide. Size is so much different in space without any gravity outside to press down on construction. Looking around, I realize how beautiful it all is. I hadn’t really noticed that before, but it is. The curve of the ceiling sloping up to a point so high I can no longer make out details, the way the ship beyond the glass reflects gray and blue into the room. It’s a marvel.

  The Kassa are at the far end, working around their beloved machines, as usual. No one is in my immediate area, but it won’t take long for them to notice me. Pulling my cart as casually as possible, I start in the opposite direction, toward the ship.

  While I’m in this area, no one should think anything is the matter. Once I cross into the area near the ladder and gangway to the ship, I’ll have no excuses. Then it will be a matter of speed. Without my implant on, I can’t hear if anyone pings me, but I hope that won’t be considered out of character.

  I’ve been careful to cultivate an impression that I feel uneasy with my implant, so even the Kassa know I leave it off at times. Waving two arms above them is the way they draw attention with each other, and they’ve learned that it works to get my attention too. So long as I face away, no one should think much of my not answering.

  Plus, I let Hub and the Kassa know I wanted to come and paint this area in real life rather than from memory. I’ve conveyed images of what it looks like to paint to the Kassa, complete with easel and stool, so my cart shouldn’t be cause for alarm.

  At least, I hope so. That’s the plan anyway.

  My heart is back to pounding so hard that it hurts my ears by the time I get even with the end of the workspaces. The space is defined by a stripe of some kind on the floor. It looks like a non-color to me, noticeable only by the slight shimmer, but Jack told me it’s very visible to the Kassa. It’s their version of the bright yellow line striped by black we use to denote such areas on Earth.

  Earth. I’m coming.

  Looking back before I cross the line, I see three Kassa hurrying my way. One of them raises two arms. Unlike before, this posture doesn’t look relaxed like a simple wave. The movement has purpose. I know they want me to stop.

  I know I can’t outrun them, but I run anyway. The ladder is at least two hundred yards away. That doesn’t sound like much, but in a suit stuffed with gear and dragging a cart, it’s a very long way indeed. My breath is bellowing when the first of the Kassa catches up with me.

  I’m no good at recognizing them as individuals, particularly not when in a blind panic, but I stop and flip through my cards. I hold up the ones I need in order.

  Please don’t tell Hub. Let me go. I must go. I must do like Krissa food machine for my people.

  The Kassa looks from my cards to me and I see something new. The way the antennae furl and unfurl is the same when they show confusion. I flip another card and hope that this one will break through. Free will.

  The Kassa almost starts when he sees it, then surprises me by rotating quickly to face all the other Kassa, making a rapid clicking and hissing. The noise is so loud and sharp I can hear it through my suit. It resonates through the space like it does through my body. It’s urgent. I can tell that much. All the Kassa except the one talking immediately drop face down on the deck and almost retreat into their armored bodies. I choke back a near cry because I know what this is from looking at the Kassa cultural databanks. This is the posture of silence, of hiding, of not making a noise. They will keep my secret.

  They understand.

  He turns back to me, his neck and head lowering, two manipulators reaching for my little stack of cards and flipping them till he holds the card he wants. He taps the glyph that means Go.

  I run like my life depends on it. Not because of the Kassa, but because it’s entirely possible that one of them might have accidentally communicated the irregularity on the work floor before getting the signal to be quiet. And if the Hub knows, then the Hub could stop me.

  There are Kassa on the ladder above me, but I don’t have time to worry about them. Unlike me, they can go up and down the ladder from both sides. Right now, they appear to be hurrying down the ladder from the back, probably so that they can get into the quiet position. I don’t delay, parking my cart and unlatching the lid so that my bag with its many coils of line are visible. Making sure the end of that line is attached to me, I start climbing.

  The ladder is far more frightening in real life than from a distance. It’s not even really a ladder. It’s more like a shallow stairway with treads only wide enough for a baby’s foot. Each tread is heavily textured. The treads are so rough they would tear apart a human’s soft, bare foot, but the boots on my environment suit are tough. Let’s hope they’re tough enough. This entire ladder is perfect for Kassa, but absolutely awful for humans. The only thing that makes this possible are the rungs on the side, which are wide enough for my hands and small enough for the clips.

  The measurements on the drawing gave me enough data to work with, but if I don’t place that first clip correctly, I’ll run out of safety line. I wait as long as I can before that first clip goes on. Looking down, I find that the Kassa who followed me is no more than ten feet below, its neck extended and its antennae tightly furled around its head. The two that were on the ladder are now crouched at the foot of it, their heads tucked in and entirely still. Meeting the gaze of the one below me, I read uneasiness, even a bit of fear. I don’t need an implant to know that.

  The other two that initially ran after me are still on the work floor, but both are looking up at me. I have no doubt they’re wondering what I’m doing, but it wouldn’t be like them to think I was up to something bad. That’s not their way. I think they might be lookouts. The way they survey me, then the giant glass windows separating the hangar bay from the station screams lookout. No, they don’t think I’m up to any nefarious.

  Are they confused about my purpose? Yes, probably. Suspicious about my purpose? No, definitely not.

  Once the cl
ip is on I feel less like I’m in mortal danger from the fall. I’m probably no more than forty feet up, but forty feet looks like a long distance from my perspective. The trembling in my arms and legs feels huge and obvious, but my gloved hands look steady to me. The shaking is making my fear worse. What if I lose my grip?

  By the time the first safety line tugs at my middle and I reach for the second clip, I’m already breathing too hard and my thigh muscles are screaming for me to stop. Unclipping the spent line relieves me of a tiny bit of weight. Carefully, I clip that free end to a rung so it won’t fall down and hit the Kassa below me. So far, so good. Then I make the mistake of looking up. There so much more to go. I’ve barely started on this long ladder.

  Head down, I focus on each hand hold, each toe hold. Then I do it again. Over and over, and during each step, I think to myself, You can do this. You can do this.

  I almost lose my grip somewhere along the course of my fifth safety line when the Kassa that was below me scrambles up the back of the ladder. It stops and turns around, following me up while waving downward at me. I know it can see how fatigued I’m getting, and probably doesn’t want me to fall. I shake my head and look upward to let it know I won’t stop. At last, it disappears to get below me again. I pause long enough to catch a little of my breath back.

  Hooking my arm around the side rung is awkward, but it gives my cramping hands a tiny break and lets me stand on the narrow stair tread enough to relieve the burning agony in my thigh muscles. The pain is so great that my eyes tear up, but the last thing I need is blurry vision. I blink them away, whispering harsh things to myself about being tough, not being a baby…about not giving up.

  The safety lines decrease in number, the weight of them falling away and giving that little extra I need right when I need it. As I near the top, my trembling limbs are so fatigued that I’m no longer entirely certain my hands are gripping the rungs until I see it with my eyes. I reach for another clip to find none.

  All that’s left is the second end to the one now tugging at my waist. Looking up, I see at least forty feet of ladder left. I don’t want to look down, but I do. I almost fall at the sight of so much distance. The two Kassa at the bottom of the ladder appear tiny now, nothing more than brown dots.

  What do I do? I can try to go down and unhook my clip, taking the time to hook and unhook with each step. Or I can go on without it. My arms are shaking visibly now. I know I’m hanging on with nothing but grit. I’ve got almost nothing left inside me. The temptation to let go and let the safety line catch me so I can rest is incredibly intense. It takes an almost physical effort to push it away.

  I reverse course and take one shaky step back down. I’m not sure I can do it. My leg won’t straighten again, no matter how hard I push. The squeal that escapes me echoes in the helmet, reverberating back to me in tones of pain and frustration. The Kassa below me pauses, looks from me to my line and then scrambles quickly downward. I can hardly believe my eyes, but it unhooks my line and darts back up to me with such ease that I almost hate it for its endurance. Scrambling past me on the back of the ladder, I meet its eyes for one brief second.

  It’s Drives Too Hard. I know it. I know it wasn’t him when I started on this ladder, but I know it’s him now. During these long minutes of intense concentration, I somehow missed the swap. I don’t know whether it’s the way he wears his tool belt or that strange little V of space in the brushy, moth-like antennae around his head, but I know this is him. If I could spend time looking at his face, I might recognize that extra fold below his eyes, but I don’t need it.

  There’s a momentary tug, then the pull eases as he clips my safety line well above me. The line is enough to get me to the top. Just barely, but enough. I shake my head to try and push back the tears, but I want more than anything to be able to tell him how much this means to me. He looks down at me and slips fully around to the back of the ladder, leaving me room to climb.

  The break has helped. My fingers feel more secure and my legs lighter, the song of pain in my thigh muscles lowering in volume. Maybe it’s just that I can see the top and know how close I am. Rather than hurry, I place each foot with care, gripping each rung with cautious fingers.

  And then I’m at the top.

  Drives Too Hard follows me up and scurries a little away from me. He has to know what I’m doing, but either he doesn’t fully understand that I mean to steal the ship or he’s okay with it. Either way, I’m grateful, but time is pressing on me. The fact that the Kassa exercised their free will and solved the Krissa problem is probably my greatest ally.

  After bending over and gasping like an oxygen-starved fish out of water, I look over the edge toward my almost invisible bag at the bottom of the long ladder. There’s no way I can haul my bag up. What was I thinking to believe I could? I unclip the line and, rather than let it fall where it might hurt someone far below, I hook it to the last rung of the ladder and turn away. If I starve, I starve.

  Maybe I’ll just take the ship through a drive through. A very big drive through. Fish sandwiches for all my friends. Perhaps I’m getting delirious, or the stress is taking a toll, but I laugh. It sounds more like a choke, but it was a laugh.

  My legs feel like jelly and that first step on the gangway puts me on my knees. My leg muscles just won’t work. Screaming in frustration, I hit at my legs with my fists until I start to feel the blows, then rise awkwardly, holding onto my knees to brace myself. The little tunnel that leads to the hatch is a few hundred feet away at least. I’ll never make it.

  Drives Too Hard doesn’t approach me, but he follows me through each lurching step, his two top arms reaching out and pulling back every time I stumble. It’s like he wants to help me, but can’t bring himself to because he understands the rules. Free will, but no interference. I wonder if he’ll help me if I simply can’t do it. Would he break Hub’s rule? Does that rule even apply to them?

  Dizziness hits me so suddenly and intensely that I have no time to prepare for it, no time to sit or crouch. When my head clears, I find myself back on my knees with my arm hooked over the railing to the gangway. The floor far below me is a mere step away. Standing up is harder—much harder—this time. The scream of frustration in my helmet makes my ears ring, but it gives me strength.

  Reaching the tunnel—or airlock since that’s what it is—is like reaching an oasis after a long trip through the desert. My helmet bangs against the glass and I put my glove to the control surface. One last hurdle and I’m there. I’ve done it.

  Nothing happens. Moving my hand, I press my palm to the surface again more firmly. Again, nothing.

  With an angry cry, I realize why. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Jack told me that our IDs don’t go through the gloves for these suits. Humans are too fragile for a stronger implant. This door is still a part of the Hub, which means using my implant to open it will alert Hub in a way that physical opening will not. Anything relayed through the implant is relayed through Hub. I can’t open the door. Well, I can, but this is going to hurt.

  I know what’s going to happen, but for some reason, the consequences don’t give me pause. Fumbling for the seal that will unseat my glove, I feel something press against my back and jump in alarm. A Kassa arm reaches past me, the manipulator pressing against the plate. The door to the airlock hisses open and I step through, looking back at Drives Too Hard for just a second.

  What he does next is almost too much. He presses two pairs of his manipulators together, the tips touching each other just so, the armored pads ever so slightly apart. Then he bows just a little.

  Namaskar.

  I know Hub explained to the Kassa what that meant. The words of translation are simple, but the meanings are many. Depending on how one holds their hands or bows, how one uses the word, or what form of the word they use, the meaning changes. Hub explained that to them after our first encounter. And what Drives Too Hard has done is how I would do it for someone that holds my greatest respect and love
.

  A sob tears at me, and it hurts my already raw throat. I hope with all my heart that I will see him again. He is my friend. I hold my arms up over my head and shake my hands, which is the best I can do to mimic the way they would greet a brother-cousin. I hope he understands.

  Turning away, I have to hurry. The Kassa can go into this area, so I’m not overly worried that I’ve raised an alarm, but that doesn’t mean anything at this point. The whole episode is an alarm waiting to happen.

  The only purpose of this airlock is to reach the hatch and it contains an atmosphere safe for Kassa. There was no delay or warning, and there would have been if this wasn’t a Kassa-safe atmosphere. That means the air in here is definitely not safe for me. I’m in the same position as I was before I got into this airlock.

  My legs feel the tiniest bit better now, but with each step I feel a pulling, stinging sensation that will, no doubt, make me want to die tomorrow. Hurrying across the airlock, I see the gleaming deep blue of the ship’s exterior around the hatch, the silver surface of the control panel bright against all that blue.

  This hatch belongs to the ship, not the Hub, but even so, the ship is docked and I can’t risk opening the implant. Not while I’m still on the station. I have to step over that barrier before I dare turn on my implant.

  I have no idea what will happen when I take off my glove, but I can guess, and Drives Too Hard isn’t here to help me this time. Gritting my teeth, I unseat the glove.

  For a brief second, I think everything is going to be okay. Then it’s not.

  A searing pain envelopes my hand. It feels as if someone stuck my arm inside a vat of boiling oil. I scream as bubbles appear on my skin, the flesh opening under the power of the corrosive atmosphere. Slapping my burning hand to the control surface, the door opens and a warning flashes that the atmosphere is in standby. I leave a bloody smear on the plate and bits of my skin with it. Cradling my hand and screaming, I step over the threshold. Blood starts dripping from my hand and wrist, but immediately turns into a stream, painting the front of my suit in brilliant red.