by Hugh Howey
“And we’re not just going to take a pass?”
“If this were some time next year, with dozens of successful missions under our belts? Absolutely, we would. But if we can’t get someone back from a nine, soon we can’t get anyone to take an eight. Then a seven. Conceptually, I’m all for us going after the low-hanging fruit. But if we start ignoring everything else…”
“Would you take it?” I asked.
“Can’t,” he said. “Council resolution. I’m not allowed to.”
“Roles reversed, I’m your captain, asking. Knowing what you do, and knowing how important, would you take on the risk?”
He looked away and thought. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a lot to ask. And I’ve got things I wouldn’t want to lose. But I’d like to think so.”
“Okay,” I told him. “I’ll do it.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Just don’t take any undue risks. If things aren’t right, if anything makes you uncomfortable, walk away. It’s more important that you make it back alive than with a contract in hand.”
“How long have I got?” I asked.
“The positive of this new selection process is we get lots of data to send the most qualified candidate, making it a bit less of a lottery. The drawback is limited time. You’ve got a day. So I’d suggest not wasting another second of it talking to me.” He held out his hand and I shook it.
As I walked away, I wondered if I had just entered myself in an intergalactic pissing contest. Drew was the closest I had to a rival, not that he saw it that way. He had Sam. But he also had Louise. I saw the way she looked at him, heard the way she talked about what they had. He was what she measured me against, and I was tired of being found wanting.
I was right there on the day she got back from the seafood planet. Thinking we lost her when her shuttle malfunctioned, thinking we lost her when the natives tried to feed her to a giant squid—and then a third nightmare even after she made it back, when her life was threatened by a parasite she caught in the water. It put things into perspective, made me realize that I wanted desperately to tell her what losing her would have done to me.
I planned to tell her how I felt, just to put it out there. No more pining, just, “This is how I feel. It’s not an attempt to get you to reciprocate, I just want you to know, because maybe knowing will make you just the littlest bit happier, and that would make humiliating myself worth the while.”
I went to quarantine. Drew was already there, holding her through a wall of glass—holding her and Sam. I don’t think the bastard’s ever known how lucky he was.
Fucked up as it might sound now, I felt thankful for it. Because telling Louise how I felt, from a position of neediness and fear—that wasn’t the way to win over a warrior woman. No. I had just been given the opportunity to crack one of the galaxy’s toughest nuts, return victorious, and tell her from a place of strength.
Two
It was hard not scooping Louise up in my arms and kissing her, letting loose everything I’d ever wanted to say. I could tell she wanted to tell me something, too; I’d interrogated enough people to know when they’re about to pop. But whatever it was, she wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t either. I was going to bring her the contract for a dangerous planet, then tell her everything.
“Just take care of yourself,” she said, finally. “There isn’t much room for error, out there on your own. Don’t take risks. I—the ship needs you back here in one piece.”
“I’ll ixnay the eyeingday.”
“Don’t be an umbassday,” she said, and smiled to herself as the pod closed around me.
Haley, the ship’s computer, started the countdown over the comms. I eyed the abort button on the console, then pulled up one of the cameras inside the bay and watched Louise. I wanted to stay with her. But I also knew she deserved the kind of man who could get this mission done and come back to her. So I tried to relax back in my seat as the electromagnets began my acceleration.
I passed out. The g forces we used for the pod launch were beyond tolerances that would leave a human being conscious, though within the safe window before the forces did permanent damage.
I woke up a few hours later. I wished I’d told Louise the truth. It wasn’t even a matter of wanting to impress her anymore, it was just knowing she was farther away from me than she’d ever been since the Nexus left Sol’s system—ignoring, I guess, the pod trip she took. But I wanted her to know. I didn’t care if she didn’t reciprocate, because that wasn’t the point.
I penned a letter, and my fingers were hovering over the send communication button. What was I doing? Maybe I did wish I had told her before I left, but taking the coward’s way out, sending her a letter when I couldn’t be farther from her, or repercussions…? No, I needed to sort myself out before I tried confessing my affection for anyone.
I started to pore over the information we had about the low-gravity ice planet. I had decided to call it Jötn, and its people the Jötnar. We learned from the Argus that most alien names can’t be spoken by humans—wildly divergent biology and all. It led them to a few diplomatic mishaps. So we adopted the custom of giving everything a human name, then letting the commboxes make the translation for us.
I had extra layers to my suit, to the point where it was practically an exoskeleton, protecting me from both the cold and potential hazards.
The sentient species we were going to make contact with was large: their smallest were about eight feet tall. And their exoskeletons were made up of semi-crystalline structures. It meant that some light could pass through their bodies, lending them a light form of camouflage, and also making them more durable.
Structurally, they looked like a cross between insects and dinosaurs, but unlike both, they were warm-blooded. They were technologically quite advanced, but so resource-poor that they couldn’t capitalize on most of their technological advances.
The planet itself was in the midst of a prolonged ice age, and the entire planetary surface was covered in glaciers, miles thick in most places. That meant all of their resources went to growing and harvesting food, which was only possible inside tunnels that ran alongside thermal vents deep beneath the surface.
The sociological report said that it was likely the species would attempt to relocate to another nearby planet with the technologies we would offer them in trade. The report seemed distressed by that idea, even including a note questioning whether it was our place to so fundamentally change the course of another species’s development. But—perhaps because I knew I was going to be standing among them—I couldn’t abstract their suffering like that. If we could help them, we should. I saw no point to letting their species die out just because they would have died out if they’d never met us.
Three
The probe that came before me, essentially a miniature pod, had dropped a commbox. The Jötnar had figured it out at about a median pace—not so fast as the advanced races we’d met, but still faster than the Caulerpans or Romaleons. By the time I hit their orbit they understood our opening bid enough to tell me that I had permission to land.
They sent me coordinates and a flight plan to get there. The planet was small, so I didn’t have to wait long. It gave me—and the pod AI, nicknamed Comet—a chance to check their figures. Their math was right, and maybe it wasn’t the smoothest descent, but it was within tolerances. The landing was rocky, but I told myself that following their flight plan to the letter would get us off on the right diplomatic foot.
I landed a couple hundred yards from a dome that covered the city. As I stepped out of the pod, I noted that it looked crystalline, but then I realized it was carved out of the exact same glacier I was standing on.
Out of it wended a pair of Jötnar, wielding what looked like short staves, though I realized as they approached that their weapons were probably bigger than me. They stopped just far enough from me that I didn’t feel the need to draw my pistol, then they turned inward, facing each other. My escort, then. Working the security division, I
was more than familiar with that particular gig.
I slung my rifle. I didn’t think I’d need it, but that was no reason not to want it along, and leaving it at my back felt like it would be less intimidating.
I walked past the sentries, hoping it wouldn’t be considered an insult that I didn’t introduce myself. Inside the dome were two more guards, standing at attention. Every few dozen feet there was another pair, and I walked from one to the next. It was an odd escort, but also a show of strength, that they could spare so many fighters just to show me where to go.
Eventually I reached an assembly hall. It was large, but not large enough. I recognized projection equipment and cameras. There was a studio audience, and folks watching at home.
I noticed that the panelists—judges or leaders or whatever—were organized by size: smallest on the wings and getting larger toward the center. The one in the center, while the largest, didn’t acknowledge me, but just stared off. My HUD, working in combination with the commbox’s notes, flagged several markers I wouldn’t have caught, and flashed that he was a male. I wondered idly if he was old and suffering dementia, or if he had their equivalent to gigantism, and perhaps it had also impacted his brain.
One of the Jötnar flanking him stood up straighter, though it hardly seemed necessary, because she dwarfed me. To the eye, I wouldn’t have noticed the gender differences, but my HUD marked several morphological markers, told me she was female, and also flashed a list of suggested names from the pool I’d decided to use on my way in. I selected Bergrisar, and the name popped up under her.
She began to gyrate menacingly, and made noises that I hoped were her speaking, because otherwise I was pretty sure she was about to tear my limbs off and devour whatever was left. After a moment’s deliberation, the commbox spat out a translation. “I am Bergrisar. We have disseminated and understood your proposals. Do you have anything further to add beyond the written words?” It certainly didn’t sound like she was eager, and if they were giving me a chance to sway minds, well, that was going to be difficult.
Crap. I was never one for speeches. I’d read all of HR and PsychDiv’s materials about optimal communication, but even the best of those were written with human mores in mind. I’d given a few morale talks, to grunts, but that was about it.
I took in a deep breath, held it, then let it out. “The proposal I sent is intended as an opening to talks. I believe our two species could be excellent partners. The tech we could give you in trade would make your lives better, and having existing treaties with us would make you safer. I hope we can come to some kind of an agreement.”
The commbox projected a hologram of a Jötnar above it, flailing its arms and antennae and making the same kinds of groaning, guttural noises that made me think that even my avatar was about to attack.
I heard rumbling from the audience, and from among the judges, in response. “Very well. We will now commence voting.” The judges lifted small devices and registered their votes, and I noticed the crowd doing the same. On their screens, numbers started popping up. My HUD translated them and overlaid their Roman equivalents. The voting was close; in fact, I was starting to pick up a lead. I smiled, which evidently was not a gesture they appreciated, because it cost me some of my lead. I stood perfectly still from that moment on.
After only a handful of minutes, a percentage, which I presumed was either the necessary percentage for a quorum, or the percent of the population voting, hit one hundred.
Bergrisar reared herself to her full height, several sections of carapace stacking to expand her width. I didn’t need the commbox to tell me that this was a gesture of authority and dominance.
“We are divided. In the case of division, the proposal fails.” My stomach dropped through my feet and didn’t stop until it hit the planet’s molten core. “However, you can appeal the decision. By combat.” At least it wasn’t a spelling bee or a pie-eating contest. Then again, these were giant, terrible creatures; at least a stomach ruptured in a pie-eating contest felt earned.
“How does that work, exactly?” I asked.
“You fight to prove your mettle, to prove how much you care for your cause, until there are no more detractors.”
“So I kill half your population to swing the vote?”
“Theoretically that is possible. But more likely, others will be swayed by your victories. Theories are tested at the tip of the spear.”
I thought of Louise and Drew. I couldn’t see either of them backing down, not with an entire ship’s morale hanging by this thread. They needed me to come back with a win. I needed it, too.
“In this trial, am I allowed to use my weapons?” The commbox translated, and the leadership became suddenly very animated. They were debating the rules, dozens of them talking over one another. I looked toward the commbox sitting in the middle of the floor, and above it my HUD printed three question marks.
The Jötnar on Bergrisar’s other side, who I quickly named Gýgr, seemed to be winning the discussion, and eventually Bergrisar squealed, flailed, and deflated.
The commbox helpfully translated, “Euphemism for female genital infection.”
Gýgr turned in my direction and started to gesticulate and murmur. “As your technology is a part of what’s on offer, we believe it is only fair for it to be allowed to make its case as well.”
With my tools, I thought I could do this. I wasn’t crazy about the idea. But I’d fought giant space monsters before. Maybe not this giant, but I was essentially a soldier. At least Drew hadn’t sent a poet. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. So what now?”
Bergrisar exchanged a look with Gýgr. I got the feeling that something passed between them, but the twitches of their antennae and shells must have been too subtle for the commbox to read.
“We will put you up for the night, and commence in the morning,” Gýgr said. Many of those assembled immediately began filing out, but several lingered. Bergrisar picked up a shaft of ice, dwarfed in fingers so heavily segmented and shelled they appeared most of the way to pincers. She tore it into several pieces before licking each. The other creatures on the panel then reached into her palm, each removing a stick. When everyone had a stick, they smelled them, and most dropped theirs into a pile before walking away. Only one held her shard—and stayed.
“Iviðja has the þurs,” Bergrisar said. The commbox flashed a message on my HUD. It was a guess that the word meant “thirst.”
Iviðja, the one with the chosen shard, fluttered panels over her eyelids in capitulation. One shoulder had a delicate mess of spider-webbed cracks, likely signs of an old injury now healed. The light fractured through it as she turned to me.
“What’s a þurs?” I asked.
“She marked the ice,” Iviðja replied. “All had saliva from her mandibles, but one had a special hormone, the þurs.” She paused a moment, then continued. “After we eat, you may come to my fire.” I appreciated the distinction between “may” and “will.”
I nodded. “I appreciate your hospitality,” I said. “But it’s still light—why are we retiring?”
A panel on one of her arms adjusted, and for a moment I caught a fragrance off it, akin to dried lavender. “Nights are cold here. Those of us too long on the surface out of shelter forfeit the protections of our carapace. Our secretions freeze, and we die slowly as the ice shatters our entrails. It is a punishment reserved for traitors. They are fitted with an implant that sends electricity through them should they stop moving, and they are forbidden to return to the warm tunnels.”
I shivered.
In time, several people with even limbs and flat backs came in, packs bound across them. Others helped them unload and began dividing the contents. Now, I’ve never been a carrot person—not even a parsnip one, despite my mother’s best efforts. So I couldn’t say I was relishing the opportunity to eat a meal made entirely of what looked like the unholy love-child of carrots and beets, which I decided to call beetrots. If anything, the name made them less appetizing.<
br />
Iviðja was taking her role as hostess very seriously. When a plate was ready, she brought it to me. Several shell panels slid away from her hands, exposing delicate fingers nearly subsumed by the protective plates. She held a piece to my lips, and I made myself open my mouth. When in Rome, and all that.
The vegetable was bitter—fiercely so. If it weren’t for the color, I might have believed it was raw horseradish. Iviðja set the plate before me and settled in beside me.
“There are areas deep below the ice mantle where you can rely on the planet’s turmoil to send steam to warm the soil,” she said. “We mostly reside in these tunnels. Our civilization is a mountain with only the peak above the ice; the broad base of it is beneath. We had mountains, before the flood, made of rocks and ice. Do you understand the word?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, and pantomimed a triangle.
She made a pleasant sound, perhaps the first pleasant sound I’d heard from a Jötnar. “It’s complex and labor intensive, and in the absence of sunlight, you can only grow food with pieces of yourself to nourish them.”
“Pieces of yourself?” I didn’t see any missing limbs.
“The pieces you no longer need: filth, and those who no longer move.” I tried not to let the thought that the bitter taste was alien shit sour my meal. “We must use all we can, for nature helps no one. Our strength, and our sacrifice, are what give us power over her.”
That put a different dent in my appetite. “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds here. But would it offend you if I didn’t eat more? I don’t feel right gorging myself when your people worked so hard to create this.” I patted my belly. “And as you can see, it isn’t exactly like I need it.”
