by Emma Newman
There are only three rooms left. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find. Banks is moving more slowly than I am, following rather than being proactive, as he continues to try to get a response from Principia.
I open the penultimate door and freeze. Banks bangs into me from behind and I stumble in, struck dumb by the sight of the canvases tossed onto the bed. Four of them. Four paintings of Mars, in my style, piled up and abandoned.
“What the—” I grasp for words as I approach them. The sense of camaraderie, the comfort of being in this together, is blasted away by a piercing stab of panic. How can these be real? How can paintings that are clearly my style be here when I can’t even remember painting them? Is this a mersive? Is Arnolfi doing this?
“What is it?” Elvan asks. “Anna? What’s happened?”
I can’t reply. Nothing meaningful is coming to mind. All I can do is stare at them.
“There are paintings here, dumped in one of the rooms,” Banks says. “Anna is pretty freaked out right now.” Banks looks at them in confusion and then wraps an arm around my shoulders, steadying me. “What is it?”
“They look like I could have painted them,” I manage to say. I find myself searching for something jarring within them, some clue that will reveal that they’re just clever fakes. It wouldn’t be any less confusing, but it would be less frightening than finding work that would have taken tens of hours and then somehow had been forgotten.
There’s one of the view just as a rover emerges from the base; another of a wide vista with a dust storm rising in the distance; and then I uncover one of a familiar cluster of boulders, three of them, in an aesthetically pleasing formation with the peak of Elysium Mons rising in the distance. Then I see my own signature in the bottom right corner, hidden in a crevasse, visible only to those who know to look for it. “Oh fuck.” I stagger back, my legs feeling like someone has dissolved the bones inside them. There’s no doubt that I painted these. That’s exactly the way I would have signed it and no one else could have predicted that—I sign in a new place each time. Elvan makes some sort of comment about shock and being there as soon as he can.
“I must have painted them . . .” I say, the ramifications making me shake violently. “They’re mine, but . . . I’ve never seen them before.”
19
ELVAN PUSHES THE warm cup into my hands and kneels in front of me. “I’m okay,” I say, embarrassed as the three of them stare at me. “Really. It was just a bit of a shock.”
I stare at my gloves resting on the communal table alongside my helmet. Petranek and Banks are seated across from me, both of them grave-faced. I’m doing all I can to appear calm, more for my own benefit than for theirs. A memory of the pan on the hired stove in our kitchen corner when Charlie was cooking that sauce springs to mind. How it had reached the boil and the lid was just starting to rattle. I feel like so many fears and thoughts are boiling away inside me that I need to keep my hand on the metaphorical lid. Otherwise I’ll just fall apart, and I’ve seen what that’s like. I won’t be like him. I will keep myself calm, and at some point soon this will all make sense. I have to believe that.
I don’t remember taking my helmet off, but I know one of the others must have been with me when that happened, so it isn’t as frightening. I look away from the distorted reflection of myself in the visor, back to the gloves. “Well,” I say with an attempt at a smile. “At least we know the air is fine.”
“I checked it first,” Petranek says with a hint of professional pride. Ze takes off hir helmet too and gives me a grin. “I thought it might look weird if I didn’t do that,” ze adds.
“Drink up,” Elvan says. “I know it seems old-fashioned but it does help. And it’s preferable to your chip managing the shock neurochemically.”
“I just don’t understand.” I take a sip, trying to hold the cup steady so Elvan doesn’t make even more of a fuss. Should I say what I’m thinking? It feels like such a risk, but I can’t go back to struggling through this kind of fear and doubt alone. “How did those paintings get here? And why don’t I even remember painting them?”
There are no suggestions. “Are you absolutely certain they are yours?” Banks asks. “Could someone have faked them?”
“They are definitely mine. I sign them in a particular way, in a different place on every piece. Why would someone fake some of my paintings—that I haven’t even painted yet—and then hide them here? I’ve been planning to paint that one with the boulders. Back at our base there’s a sketch pad with that exact composition on the front page, and I drew it this afternoon, from scratch! How is this even possible?”
“It isn’t,” Petranek says eventually. “Either someone is fucking with us, or you’re lying.”
“I’m not!” A lump clogs my throat. “Why would I lie about this?” I croak around it.
“I believe you,” Elvan says gently. “I can see from your MyPhys readings that you are genuinely in shock. But you led us here, and your pictures were inside this base. Are you absolutely certain you’ve never been here before?”
“Yes! I am one hundred percent certain. Christ, can’t you tell that I’m telling the truth? I don’t have any explanation for this and it is freaking me out.” The tears come regardless of the fact that the last thing I want to do is cry. “I’m not crazy,” I add. But I feel it. This must have been what it was like for him. All those times I looked at my father, staring at something with the same terrified confusion that I stared at those paintings with, and felt nothing but frustration. I simply didn’t appreciate how awful it was for him to keep forgetting things, to keep finding his belongings in places they shouldn’t be. If Travis is right, the ones who did that to him must have been using his chip to remove tiny snippets of memory. Not enough for him to consciously realize, but enough to destroy him. I close my eyes, wishing that I could go back and change what I said about him. Wishing I could have been more compassionate instead of only seeing the violence.
“No one has said that you’re crazy,” Petranek says, pulling me from the edge of another guilt well. “At least, not since I did when I was being a dick back at Principia.”
“There were tracks between here and our base,” Banks says. “Could someone have stolen them?”
“But I’ve only been here a few days. I haven’t painted anything yet! I’ve done one sketch. They would have taken me a couple of weeks to produce, and I couldn’t paint en route.”
We sink into silence once more. “Has anything else weird happened?” Elvan asks quietly.
I can’t stop the blush. “Yes,” I confess. “When I arrived, I thought I’d packed more canvases than were in my cargo crates. Four more, in fact, so this kind of fits with that, even though the flight manifest said I had the correct number.” I hesitate. “And there was the note I found in my room.”
I tell them about the painted warning I found when I arrived at the base and watch the different reactions flit across their features. There’s confusion, mostly, but I can’t see any disbelief. That’s something, I guess. And there is a relief to be had in finally telling them, even if it doesn’t lead to any resolution.
“Look,” I say, my voice a quavering mess. “This . . . is actually happening, isn’t it? I don’t want to say this but what if—”
“This is not immersion psychosis,” Elvan says, with the utmost confidence.
“But how do you know?” I shudder.
“This doesn’t follow the pattern of the disorder.”
“Besides,” Petranek adds, “this headache I’ve got is extremely real.”
“In immersion psychosis,” Elvan says, “there is a sense of extreme dissociation, of repeated déjà vu, of treating those around you as if they’re not real. And it very rarely manifests as a situation as bizarre as this. If you were sinking deeper into that disordered state, your mind would be trying to put you back into more comforting and familiar scenarios. Th
is is neither of those.”
I nod, mildly reassured. Then an explanation occurs to me that is so ridiculous, I almost discount it immediately. Given the situation though, maybe only the ridiculous can offer an answer. “What if . . . what if I was here before? What if I was sent to this base to work, and . . . something happened . . . and everyone hated me and went somewhere else and left me behind and . . .”
I wince. It falls apart as I try to voice it. Everyone is looking at me with either pity or incredulity. “What if Arnolfi brought me to Principia after she . . . I dunno, took my memories or something?” What started as speculating aloud, trying to find a logical explanation for how those paintings could be here without my recollection of them, feels horribly right somehow. “Is that even possible?”
Elvan frowns and looks away, considering it. “Theoretically, recent memories can be removed. It’s something that was explored to help trauma victims, but my understanding is that it’s unreliable and potentially dangerous. The brain encodes memories in many different ways. I think it would be incredibly difficult to do that.”
“But not impossible!” I say, my voice a little too high as my heart races. Oh JeeMuh, please let this be the answer! As horrifying as it is, it’s better than this emotional purgatory of never trusting my own eyes and memory. “And wouldn’t it explain why I just happened to send the cam drones out to the location where I’d see the mast? I mean, you asked whether I’d been tipped off about this place because it was just so unlikely I’d stumble across it right away. Maybe”—I feel the fear’s grip easing—“maybe some part of me remembered, deep down. You said it’s unreliable.” Yes, I can cope with this. I manage a smile, despite the inevitable questions that follow: who did it to me and why? Those we can find answers to together.
“It would explain the note too,” Banks says, nodding. “And, Elvan, you said that you think Arnolfi already knew about this base.”
“That was a theory,” Elvan says quickly. “She may well have had bad news from home, as she said. For all we know, she may have been told that GaborCorp was dumping Mars and we were going to be cut off for a while. That would cause the stress markers I saw.”
“I think that’s less likely, given this place.” Petranek waves a hand at our surroundings.
“Is it?” Banks’s expression is grim. “It’s empty now. Maybe they finished what they needed to and went home. Maybe we’re not needed to cover up for them anymore.”
Petranek sighs. “So what do we do now?”
“Arnolfi is stable and sedated,” Elvan says. “And it looks like whoever was living here has left, given all the rooms are completely empty, agreed?”
We all nod.
“I’m not getting anywhere with the prince,” Banks says. “Short of doing something really, really illegal—which I am not prepared to do, before you ask—I don’t know what to suggest. I’ve tried accessing the data here via all the different ways I can think of, and it’s locked up tighter than a duck’s ass.”
Petranek, frowning at my teacup, says, “Have you tried accessing the food printer logs? It’s not the kind of data that would be classified as critical and you know who might not have twigged what we could interpret from it.”
“On it,” Banks says and then grins. “Yes! Finally. Okay, so the last thing to be printed before that cup of sweet tea was—shit, less than twenty-four hours ago. It was a big meal serving twenty-one people. Lots of carbs.”
“All the suits were in place and two rovers were parked inside the storm doors,” Elvan says, “so are we agreed that it’s highly unlikely they are out there on the surface now?”
We all nod.
“We need to look behind that door,” Banks says. “The one that our base doesn’t have.”
“I reckon it must lead to that big space Anna saw below the launchpad,” Petranek says.
“Of course no one’s here,” I say, slapping the table as I realize where they’ve gone. “They took off! The scorch marks on the pad—”
“But the shuttles only fit five at a push,” Petranek says. “And it wouldn’t be a comfortable trip.”
“Unless they were working on another kind of ship or—” Banks says, and then we’re all on our feet, tea abandoned, Petranek and I grabbing our helmets and locking them back into place as the four of us head for the extra door.
“When you ask Principia for information, is there just no reply?” Petranek asks Banks on the way.
“Yeah. I’ve never known it to behave this way at all. I was wondering if it’s some sort of weird security setting to do with us not being recognized as crew here, but that doesn’t feel right to me.”
“Maybe it’s had an order from someone at a higher level,” Petranek says. “Have you asked it?”
“Well, here’s the problem,” Banks says. “Principia, have you been ordered to be silent by someone at a higher pay grade than us?”
“Principia,” Petranek says after poking hir tongue out at Banks. “Do you acknowledge our presence here?”
“I do, Dr. Petranek.”
We all stop at the sound of Principia’s familiar voice.
“Why haven’t you been communicating with me?” Banks asks. “Why answer Petranek?”
“It is not a matter of who asked the question, Dr. Banks,” Principia says. “None of you are permitted to be here. However, given your continued presence, the stress being caused to Dr. Kubrin and the injuries sustained by Dr. Arnolfi, I have queried whether the policy of maintaining silence is the best course of action and am currently awaiting guidance on how to proceed.”
“Guidance from whom?”
“I am not permitted to disclose that information.”
“Have comms been reestablished with Earth?” Petranek asks.
“They have not. Please wait.”
“Come on,” Petranek says to us. “Let’s see what’s on the other side of the door.”
“You do not have permission to go past this point,” Principia says as Banks tries to open it.
“We don’t have permission to be here either,” he snaps back. “But we are. How do you square that with your orders?”
“It is a difficult situation that we find ourselves in,” Principia says. “I cannot fulfill one of my primary functions with regard to my care of you. This is dissatisfactory. Please wait.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Banks mutters. He holds up the case and gives us a look.
Petranek shakes hir head. “Not yet.”
“Principia, there are paintings in one of the bedrooms here. Do you know how long they’ve been there?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, but I do not have the answer to your question, Dr. Kubrin. Normally, I would be able to carry out a detailed search of security footage in order to find the answer; however, I am not permitted to share any potentially sensitive data with you.”
“Have I been here before?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Kubrin. I am not at liberty to disclose that information.”
I look at Banks and his face reflects my worry. “That wasn’t a denial,” I say.
“Thank you for your patience,” Principia says. “I can confirm that I will be able to answer your questions in one hour, five minutes and ten seconds.”
We all groan except Banks. “That’s the most dumb-ass thing I have ever heard you say,” Banks shouts. “What difference will it make to tell us now?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Banks, but I am not at liberty to disclose that information.”
“Oh, fuck this,” Petranek says, and opens the manual access for the locked door. In seconds ze and Banks have got it open.
“You are not permitted to pass this point,” Principia reminds us, unnecessarily. “If you proceed, you may be subjected to disciplinary action.”
I look at Banks as Petranek strides through the doorway into the short corridor beyond, followed b
y Elvan. “Are you sure?” I ask him, on a private channel. “I’ll cover for you, if you don’t want to do this.”
He touches my forearm, just briefly, and pulls away. “I’ve dug my grave already. But I appreciate the thought.”
We go through the doorway together as Petranek pushes a second door open at the other end of the corridor. “Holy shit,” ze whispers, and we pick up the pace.
It is a hangar, as ze speculated, but it’s filled with all sorts of equipment rather than being just an empty space. There’s a whole section filled with what look to my untrained eye like bits of space junk. There are huge printers, one of them bigger than my apartment back home, and more than a dozen smaller ones. I recognize a molecular printer at the far end, built to the same specs as the one back at the lab.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say they were working on a ship,” Petranek says, going to the junkyard area. Ze clambers over a couple of pieces, frowning. “What the hell is that?” Ze picks up something that looks like a cube with several pipes coming out of it, like a modernist pineapple. Ze tosses it back. “I recognize a lot of this stuff—at least, I can figure out what it must be—but some of it . . . Whatever they made, it had some additional features I can’t even begin to guess at without seeing some specs.”
Banks is at the far end of the hangar, looking up at the base of a fully extended platform. “They built whatever it was down here, then lifted it out onto the launchpad, by the look of it.”
“There’s a clean room,” Elvan says, peering through a window I hadn’t even noticed. “Three more molecular printers in there too.”
Petranek looks from that window to the molecular printer out in the main section. “So they were building something from scratch, something that needed complex electronics that couldn’t be printed easily . . . Are there drones in there?”
