by Hugh Howey
I’m listening. I’m paying attention. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m paying attention. I take it all in slack-jawed, assuming the guy next to me knows what he’s doing. I’ll follow him. Someone else is following me.
“Digger? Hello? Soldier, you there?”
I wake up in my sleep sack. There’s a squawk of noise from the module above me. Cricket has her head across my chest, is snoring softly. As I blink away the nightmare, she stirs and peers at me from half-lidded eyes. “Shit,” I say. “Up. Gotta get up.”
I crawl out of the bag, even as Cricket tries to stop me, her head weighing a ton, a paw on my arm. I run naked to the ladder and scramble up, banging my knee and cursing. Snatching the mic, a little breathlessly and a lot desperately, I wheeze, “Yeah— Hello? Hey. I’m here. Wassup?”
I gulp and exhale and suck in a deep breath. Then I remember to add: “Over.”
“You okay?” Claire radios back.
“Me? Yeah.” Gulps of air. “I’m great. Whatcha need?”
“Shit. I woke you up, didn’t I? What’s the time here? I’m still on Houston time. Hell, I’m always on Houston time. You wanna check in with me in the morning? Your morning? Over.”
I could listen to her babble like this forever. I get ships passing through now and then, get to chat with traders and ore tug captains. They give me sports scores and war updates, which often sound like much the same thing. But this is someone right next door who is staying there, who goes to sleep and wakes up there. A mere hundred klicks away.
“No, I’m up,” I promise her. “How can I help?”
I’ll wear my good clothes this time. I rub my face, feeling the smooth skin. Sniff my armpit.
“I need you to give me a full sweep with your gwib. Trying to calibrate this bucket, but there’s so much debris here. Can’t clear the noise.”
Yes, the debris. That would be my fault. I did that. Sorry.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, disappointed that it’s something I can do from here. “No problem.” I go to my dash and power up the GWB for a full pulse. The lights dim a little while the massive capacitors two modules down charge up. I try to picture Claire standing over there, looking at her own console, watching and waiting. I see her in her sweatpants and tank top. Her hair in a ponytail. A few loose strands tucked behind her ear. Reddish hair. The color of rust.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says.
When the PULSE OK light goes green, I flip the metal toggle beneath it. There’s a sensation of vertigo, like the grav panels beneath my feet are on the fritz, but it’s just a wave of whatever makes me feel nice and numb when I rest my head against the GWB. A megadose. The light goes red for a moment and then shuts off altogether. Cricket grunts at me.
“Looks good,” Claire radios. “Muchas gracias. If there was a bar within spittin’ distance, I’d buy you a drink.”
I stare at the mic in my hand. I glance over at Cricket, then toward the chute and the business end of my beacon. Knowing I shouldn’t, but that I’m gonna anyway, I squeeze the mic.
“I’ve got something even better,” I say.
• 6 •
Claire is waiting for me at the lock collar. The split second the outer door of my lifeboat opens, I realize that she’s gonna see me for the first time, without the helmet, with my hair way out of regs, and with my gaunt face.
Whatever she’s thinking, she manages a smile. The cramp in my cheeks is a hint for me to not smile back quite so much.
“Beacon warming present,” I say, holding out the black plastic bag.
Claire looks at it quizzically, but accepts. There’s a length of red wire twisted around the top of the bag. It’s the kind of bag our air filters come in. I’m supposed to toss them in the recycler, but Cricket loves batting them around the modules.
“If this is wine, I’m gonna want to know where you got it from,” she says.
I watch as she twists the wire off and opens the bag. Reaching inside, she pulls out the can of WD-80.
“You can never have enough,” I explain. “And I noticed the circ fan was squeaking a little the last time I was here.”
She laughs. “You’re sweet.” The words hit me like a knee to the gut.
“Yeah, well.” I point awkwardly at the can. “It’s a good year, too.”
“And this is supposed to be better than a beer?” she asks.
“Oh, no, I just wanted to bring you something. The . . . uh, follow me?”
I step past her, and she closes the airlock behind me. I take the ladder first. The pristine nature of the beacon hits me just as hard this time. The two beacons are like their occupants, I guess. One flawless. The other horribly disfigured.
Up in the command module, I duck my head inside the long tunnel that leads off to the GWB. With a swimming motion from my arms, and a good leap, I launch myself down the chute, spiraling a little so the handholds are above and below me, smooth walls to either side, my fingertips brushing the surface to keep me centered. At the other end, I hit the gravity generated by the floor of the GWB module. I turn and wait for Claire. She’s right behind me, gliding through space, upside down, so that her worried frown matches my smile.
She catches herself at the edge of the chute and aligns herself to gravity, then lowers herself like a gunner gets in her tank. The space is tight for two. With Cricket, it’s never a worry, as she tries to curl up in my lap. With Cricket, it’s comfortable. Here, it’s overtly intimate. I wonder if this is why I brought her here. Then I remember why I brought her here. I move over and sit with my back to the GWB, patting the grating beside me. “Sit,” I say. And by habit, it sounds too much like I’m talking to Cricket. “If, you know . . . you want to.”
She settles in beside me.
“I don’t know why it does this, but just rest your head back against the dome and relax. You should feel it. Like a sip of whiskey.”
We both sit there for a few breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. The unblinking stars peer in through the porthole.
“Do you feel it?” I ask.
Claire doesn’t answer at first.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I . . . I think so.”
We sit like that for what feels like a few minutes. That’s an eternity to sit with a stranger in silence. I feel a nice numbness creep into my bones. I feel my mind relaxing, words coming to me, tumbling out between my lips like soldiers from a trench.
“Whadja do before you became a tuner?” I ask. I’m assuming she was an engineer. In maintenance or assembly. One of those egghead roles.
“Same as you,” she says, her voice a little quiet and distant. “Army. Two tours.”
This tries to register, but doesn’t quite. She’s too clean for that. Too pure.
“I enlisted after Delphi,” she adds.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess a lot of people did. You see any action?”
Claire doesn’t answer.
I hate myself as soon as the words leave my lips. Like a general regretting his orders, watching his men run out of the trenches in the wrong direction. If she hasn’t seen action, it sounds like I’m judging her. If she has, I’m stirring up memories best left settled in the bottom of her soul.
“I was on Yata for the push,” she tells me, her voice quiet. “A Company. Second platoon.”
No way, I think to myself. No fucking way.
“We were pinned down for three weeks. They were bombing us to oblivion. Then this squad with a death wish pushes into the hive, threatens to blow it all to smithereens, and—” She glances over at me, gives me a long, cold look. “I’m sure you know the rest.”
Of course I do. Everyone does. But all I can think is: Not her. Even though I know this is no great coincidence. All of A and B companies were there for the push. For the five weeks I was Earthside, after I got out of the VA, I had people coming up and shaking my hand, thanking me, saying I saved them. And when the tears came to their eyes, I’d nod and tell them it wasn’t necessary. Just doing my job. Lie through
my teeth. Tell them the same damn story. Over and over until you almost believe it.
“I wouldn’t take you for a soldier,” I whisper, my voice cracking a little. “You seem too . . . good for that.”
“Yeah,” Claire says. “Aren’t we all.”
•••
“You didn’t bring libations, but thanks for the lubrication,” she tells me, smiling, as I board the lifeboat. “I’m sure the grease’ll come in handy as I get this bucket up and running.”
“No problem,” I say.
It feels like the close of a date. Like she’s walking me to my car. A whiff of distant and forgotten normalcy drifts by. It’s like that pocket of warm water that comes out of nowhere when you’re swimming in a lake, or that ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, or that smile from that woman behind the counter at the DMV. The unexpected and bright. The startling joy.
“Hey—” she says, as I turn to go.
I turn back. Is she going to kiss me? We’re both soldiers, and sex was something that soldiers engaged in as casually as they tore into MREs. Just a thing. I don’t want it to ever be a thing like that again.
“Do you need anything?” she asks. Her brow is knitted together. Lines of worry across her face.
“Like what?”
“Well, I’ve got a few days here—” she jabs her thumb back at her beacon. “—then I’m back to Houston for a bit for a debrief. If there’s anything you need over on 23 . . .”
I laugh. “My can needs more than Houston’s got,” I say. “Besides, their engineers were up here a few months ago. Just made the place worse. Had the grav panels oscillate on me—”
“Shit. Really?”
“Oh, yeah. So don’t let them send any help my way. I’m good.”
“Okay.”
There’s something else. Something she wants to ask. Something she’s too kind to say.
“Okay,” she says again.
And I know that look. That worry. I know what she’s wondering. What she wants to say.
If you ever need anyone to talk to . . .
Like talking ever fixed anything. Like words have that power. I touch the rock around my neck, knowing I’ve got plenty who’ll listen, but none who understand.
“I’ll see ya,” I say, turning my back before I make a mess of things.
“Yeah,” Claire says, like she knows better.
It’s only after the door hisses shut that I pick up on what she said. Back to Houston in a few days. That’s all. Just that pocket of warmth in a freezing lake. Just a glancing ray of sunshine. A star that winks once, twice, then turns away. Death without the dying.
• 7 •
By the end of my first tour of duty, I was already an asshole. I told myself I’d never get like that. I remember when I joined my first company, after losing my wings and being put in the trenches, how I’d introduce myself to someone with too many days of service, and they wouldn’t take my hand, wouldn’t give me a name, would simply tell me to “Fuck off.”
I called them the assholes. It’s what I muttered to myself as they walked away. I later learned that this exchange wasn’t what it seemed. You shake enough hands and meet enough people and lose them all to the war, and you get to where you don’t want to meet anyone else. Looking back, I can see how the assholes were quick to give me any advice that might keep me alive, but they didn’t say shit about who they were. Names were simply home states or cities or favorite ball teams or embarrassing nicks. The assholes didn’t hate you; they just didn’t want to get attached. I got like that. I didn’t want to ever meet another Hank. I think that’s why he remained my best friend throughout my two and a half tours. I never let anyone else get so close. Those two weeks were painful enough. Hell, after Scarlett, I never confused sex and love again. Used to think the two had something to do with one another. But then the sex and dying came so close together that it almost felt like you were doing it with a corpse. Takes the joy out of it. You die a little inside every time you have joyless sex. Neurons prune back. The good in there withers. And some things never grow back.
This is why I spend the next two days staring at the HF, too self-protecting to pick it up, too enamored to just walk away. I don’t want to know another thing about her. I can already feel the agony of her leaving, off to another brand-new beacon, asking someone to pass her a bolt, the smell of soap and grease on her skin, bonding with some other soldier, leaving behind a dotted line of finely tuned machines and shattered hearts. Makes me feel sorry not just for myself, but for every other lonely and hapless vet who—
“Hello . . . ?”
Cricket lifts her head from her blanket and stares at the ladder well. What the hell? What the hell?
Looking over at the airlock indicators, I can see that collar Bravo is energized. Who the hell stops over unannounced like this? I step toward the ladder, step back, step toward it again, my arms out and akimbo, while Cricket gets up from her blanket.
Before I can think to stop her, the warthen bounds for the ladder.
“Fuck,” I say. I run after her. “Stop! Wait! No!” All the useless commands come out together in a jumble. I practically jump down the ladder, landing in a roll and grabbing at Cricket before she leaps down another level. I don’t stop to put on pants or a shirt, just have my boxers on, and I’m down the next ladder to the life support module when I hear a scream just below me. A shriek. I land to find Claire on her back, Cricket standing with her paws on the tuner’s chest, holding her against the grating.
“Off!” I shout, pushing Cricket to the side and ending up on my knees. Cricket tries to get at Claire again—I can’t tell if it’s to greet her or dominate her—and I fight to hold the alien back. Claire scoots until she’s against the air scrubber and pulls her knees up against her chest, is staring at the animal wide-eyed, her jaw hanging open.
“Sorry,” I say, sitting down and reaching out toward Claire. “I’m so sorry.”
Claire doesn’t say anything. I tell Cricket to back off, to go lie down, to take it easy, and finally the tension goes out of her muscles. She paces back and forth on the other side of me, her head tracking Claire. I keep pointing to the grate, telling her to lie down, thinking for her to lie down, and she finally does. But with a grunt. Like she’d rather be doing anything else.
“God, I’m so sorry,” I say. I reach over and touch Claire’s shin, remembering the time I touched her ankle. She startles, but not as bad as the last time.
“What the hell is that?” she asks.
“A warthen,” I say, breathing hard from the dash down. I rub the ankle I sprained a while back. “I— She sorta adopted me.”
“That’s—” Claire can’t take her eyes off Cricket. She aims a finger at the animal. “That’s against regs. That’s . . . You can’t have that.”
“I know,” I say. “I know. I suck at this job. You’re gonna can me. I know. We can go QT Houston if you like.”
I almost feel relief at this. Lately, I’ve gone from thinking I’ll serve in this bucket for the rest of my life to being pretty sure I could be fired at any moment. This is the route I took when I sided with Scarlett against the bounty hunters. But the only person who knows that is the hunter who dragged Scarlett’s body away. And she hasn’t said a thing, apparently. But with Cricket around, it’s just a matter of time. When they do the food resupply, they’ll figure it out. NASA counts every hundred-dollar bolt. They won’t miss this. And now they know. The jig is up.
“What the hell is it?” Claire asks. While I’m considering which remote planet I’ll retire on, she seems to be coming out of shock. “Canine? Feline?”
“Neither,” I say. And I see that the fear is out of her, replaced by curiosity. Here’s a soldier who’s seen a shelling. Knows when to duck for cover and when to come out, look around, see who needs help.
I snap for Cricket, who bounds up like a coiled spring, has only been lying there because I yelled at her to. She nearly knocks me over on her way to Claire, gets both paws around her
neck, and starts licking her hair.
“Down!” I say.
“Easy,” Claire tells the animal.
And I see that Claire can hold her own. She twists to the side and rolls the warthen on her back. Pins her there, which I know from experience isn’t easy. Cricket’s body is tense, but her legs settle as Claire finds that spot on her belly.
“She likes that,” I say.
“Who wouldn’t?” Claire asks.
We stare at each other.
This is the last goddamn thing I wanted. The last goddamn thing.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, unable to censor myself, angry at her for being a good person and shoving it in my face like this, waving it around like a flag, making me notice.
“Fuck you,” she says, but she keeps rubbing Cricket’s stomach. It’s just trench talk. Soldier anger, which lasts as long as soldier love does. “You said this bucket was falling apart, I thought I’d come see if I could help. But I think maybe the bucket isn’t what’s broken.”
“The hell does that mean?” I ask.
She looks down at Cricket, whose eyes are closed. She’s doing that deep growling thing that I’d call a purr if it wasn’t so goddamn unsettling.
“You’re right,” she says. She pats Cricket, then unfolds her legs and stands to go. “Good luck with everything, soldier.”
“Wait,” I say. I reach for her hand, even though I don’t know her, even though I’ve spent all of four hours with her, even though I haven’t thought of anything else for the last three days. “I’m sorry.” Two words that I used to choke on when I was younger, that I only now know the value of, the true worth, and how good they feel to say. “It’s just—”
“What?” she asks. She’s standing there, my hand around her wrist, looking down at me. Cricket is watching us both.
“It’s just that—”
I shake my head.
“You don’t want to have feelings for me because you’re scared I’m gonna leave?” she asks.
I turn away, because the tears leap up in me so fast that my throat closes and I can’t swallow or see. I wipe at my eyes, full of shame.
