Bergen raised his brows. “It depends on programming. Could be an AI.”
Jane frowned. “Oh. Artificial intelligence? He sounded emotional. I… really?”
Bergen reached out and snagged the water pouch. “So it’s just him, huh? No others in a ship of this size?”
“That’s what he says. I got the feeling that they died a long time ago. I intend on asking a lot of questions next time.”
“You do that.” Walsh said a lot with those three words. He didn’t believe any of it. She was surprised at how painful that was, given that was actually the reaction she expected from him.
She let her expression go blank and dropped her hands into her lap. She resisted the urge to try to make herself smaller, less conspicuous, or to close her eyes to escape his watchful glare. Walsh was efficient, critical, skeptical, but he was also fair. She would eventually convince him, but she wondered what that would take.
She couldn’t be sure what Bergen was thinking. Given his personality, the fact that he wasn’t openly disdainful was encouraging. But she suspected he might be humoring her because he was worried about her. She wasn’t sure if she liked that. She suspected his forbearance toward her went back to their time in Houston. Either someone at NASA had assigned him the dubious honor of watching over her, or this was his way of expressing friendship.
The silence was thick and painful.
Walsh got back on the radio with Compton. It sounded like the others were about to return.
Bergen cleared his throat. He was reaching for her hand. “Jane, you’re hurt too,” he said softly, turning her hand palm up.
“It doesn’t hurt much,” she replied.
He held onto her hand. His hand felt strong and warm on hers. She let it linger, glancing curiously into his face. She liked this side of him and wished he would show it more often.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, you know,” he said, with a sly smile.
She resisted smiling back. “What?”
“You’re supposed to be the damsel in distress. We’re supposed to save you.”
She snorted and pulled her hand away. “Times have changed.”
“But what does that make us? Two dudes in distress? Pathetic.”
“Two colleagues in distress. Gender doesn’t matter,” she replied and let a hint of a sad smile cross her face.
“Mm.” He nodded and dug into his pack. “I have something for you. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. Not asphyxiating seems as good an occasion as any other.” He pulled out a closed fist and held it out to her.
She put out an open hand and he plopped a small plastic pouch into it. She gasped with surprise and quickly closed her hand to obscure what was there. “Chocolate? Alan Bergen, I am going to tell your mother about this!” she hissed at him.
He chuckled. “She won’t be surprised. Are you going to share?”
She glanced at Walsh again. “I shouldn’t. But, I’m going to.” She tore open the plastic wrapper. They were the kind of chocolates that usually came in heart-shaped boxes. The kind with flavored, creamy centers. She slipped Bergen one, popped one in her own mouth, and left the third in the plastic, secreting it in an intact pocket of her suit. She shook her head and threatened him with a menacing glare. She whispered, “You’re terrible—blaming Ron and me for eating all the chocolate when you hid it somewhere. I’m going to tear that capsule apart until I find your stash!”
“Good luck. I have my own secret hiding places built in.” He nodded smugly and popped the morsel in his mouth.
She beamed at him, shaking her head. She didn’t doubt it was true. “Now, I’m complicit. You’re going to have to pay me blood-chocolate for my silence.”
He laughed, a loud, barking laugh. She couldn’t help but giggle at him. He had a way of figuring out exactly what she needed sometimes. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he surprised her again.
Walsh shot them a censorious look.
Bergen slid closer and bumped her playfully in the shoulder. “I’m not passing any judgment here, but you two were going through that stuff awfully fast. Would it have killed you to choose peach cobbler now and then?”
She rolled her eyes, savoring the chocolate still melting in her mouth. The peach cobbler was a joke. She didn’t know how it had escaped the excessive quality-control process NASA employed for every detail down to their underwear. Sometimes it rehydrated as a disgusting, soggy mass, sometimes it tasted like someone had used a heavy hand with some exotic spice, and sometimes it was perfect—well, as perfect as rehydrated food can be.
It was funny, but in a weird way, because they kept eating it anyway because their choices were so limited. It became a joke. Which peach cobbler would it be this time? They’d complained to Houston about it, in a cheeky, teasing way. The brass in Houston got the director of the Space Food Systems Laboratory to send a reply, during which he admitted there’d been an intern in the lab on the day the peach cobbler had been prepared. He swore there’d be nothing amiss with the food waiting in the capsule on Mars for the trip home. The thought of the return capsule sobered her and she sighed.
“Hey.” Bergen’s arm snuck behind her and rubbed her lower back. He leaned in and asked softly, “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she answered automatically, stiffening under his sudden solicitousness.
“You sure?”
He was hovering so close, seemed so concerned, she could almost believe… but no, that was ridiculous. He was kind of a legend at NASA. Space geeks were surprisingly gossipy. He was the local boy who made good, on a regular basis, or so his wingmen bragged. She was definitely not his type. He was just being friendly and that felt awkward because he probably didn’t have a lot of practice being friends with women.
“Yes.” She stood up and pulled her ponytail loose, to cover her nervousness created by his sudden attention. With the band came a clump of damp, matted hair. She stared at it, uncomprehending, and then dropped it with a squeal. Her hand was glossy with slime.
Walsh and Bergen were on her in seconds. Before she could react, Bergen was sloshing her hand with water from the pouch until it was empty, but her hand was already becoming painfully red and sore. She fell to her knees and pulled a bag of wipes from her bag. She pulled out wipe after wipe, scrubbing at her hands, her face, in case she’d splashed herself, determined to not release the tears that were so close to the surface.
Walsh stood nearby, stoically observing.
Bergen knelt next to her and touched her shoulder, saying, “It’s okay, Jane. It’s just a couple of inches.”
She flinched. “Stop it! Don’t touch me. Stop looking at me. It’s just hair!”
He backed away.
She turned her face up to keep the tears at bay. The tough Nomex suit was holding up. She would take it off soon and get under running water.
She felt a light hum, almost tentatively, like a question, at the back of her skull. She tensed up even more. Was he watching them, through cameras hidden throughout the ship? Or was he dipping into their thoughts, listening to them like a telepathic peeping tom?
You need not endure such discomfort. The vermin’s caustic exudate is a common affliction, easily treated. Please make haste to the medical facility where you may receive treatment without organic assistance—the Sectilius practice medicine quite differently.
Jane stood, her chest still heaving. She turned to see Compton, Varma and Gibbs striding toward them, laden with packs, bags, and equipment. Jane picked up her pack and set off down the corridor without a word.
9
Bergen and the rest of the crew trailed in Jane’s wake. He brought up the rear, refusing to participate in the exchange of uneasy looks being passed around. He didn’t want Jane to think he had anything but the utmost confidence in her.
She seemed to know exactly where she was going. She didn’t hesitate at intersections in the corridors. She strode purposefully to a door and tapped the control to open it, reveali
ng a small chamber. She entered, beckoning them to join her.
Bergen shuffled to a stop as those in front of him stalled.
Bergen hated the look on Jane’s face, as she struggled not to betray whatever she was feeling.
“It’s a deck-to-deck transporter. It’s like an elevator,” she ground out.
Still, they hung back. Walsh was staring Jane down with a pissed expression on his face. He was making this a lot harder on her than was necessary.
Bergen shoved himself roughly between Walsh and Gibbs, taking a place at the back of the transport chamber. Varma nodded and joined him, Gibbs following close behind. Compton and Walsh lingered a moment longer, then followed suit.
Jane examined the eye-level controls briefly, then decisively selected a symbol. The door closed instantly, and reopened a moment later.
Jane stood motionless. If she was having qualms, he couldn’t see her expression. Furtive glances were exchanged behind her back. They were probably all thinking the same thing he was: this corridor looked exactly like the one they’d just left. It hadn’t felt like they’d gone anywhere.
Then she was out the door, charging down the hall again.
Bergen heard Walsh say something in a low voice to Gibbs. Gibbs pulled a piece of chalk out of his pack and tagged the wall with an orienting symbol.
Bergen huffed. The fool should have thought of that before they got into the transport.
Jane paused outside a door and waited for them all to catch up. “This is it,” she said. “I’m not sure what to expect. The room inside is called the Assessment Chamber. From what I can gather, most of their medical interventions are carried out automatically. Most of the medical personnel that would be working here would be supportive staff, not like doctors as we know them.”
“Interesting,” Varma murmured.
Walsh was discontented. He motioned Jane back and drew his 9mm, motioning for Gibbs and Compton to do the same. He tapped the door control and stepped inside.
It was an empty room with nothing more than a large disc-shaped platform in the center of it. The wall at the back of the room was curved, repeating the shape of the platform, and was replete with numerous doors.
A voice rang out, breaking the silence. Everyone, including Jane, jumped. It was a calm, even voice, non-threatening, slightly feminine. It was speaking in some foreign language. If he’d been asked to guess, he would have said Italian.
“Is that the voice you hear, Jane?” Compton asked her.
“No,” she replied, obviously confused.
Walsh looked skeptical. “What did it say, Holloway?”
She stepped farther into the room. She spoke slowly—sure, but full of wonder, “It said, ‘Welcome, Undocumented Citizens.’ ”
The voice spoke again. Jane translated immediately, “Please step onto the diagnostic platform.”
Bergen shot Walsh a pointed look. If Jane was making all this up, it was getting pretty damn detailed.
Walsh walked the perimeter, his 9mm ready, with Gibbs and Compton following his lead.
Varma stepped close to the platform and examined it. There wasn’t much to see. The platform itself was made from the same material and color as every other surface in the ship they’d seen. It was raised a good half meter from the floor, and the ceiling above it had a recess of the same dimension. When he stepped closer to look up into the vault, he could see it was inset with a dark, glassy screen.
Bergen sighed. “Okay, who’s going first?”
Varma straightened. “Walsh’s injuries are the most severe.”
Walsh shook his head sternly. “No.”
Bergen huffed. “Christ. I’ll go first.” He made to step onto the platform.
Walsh held up a hand. “Hold on, let’s investigate further, before we jump into anything. We don’t know what this stuff does.”
But even as Walsh spoke, Jane had already stepped onto the platform. Walsh’s lips tightened. “Holloway, goddammit.”
A blue-green beam of light emanated from the recessed area above, enveloping the platform from floor to ceiling in a tube of light, casting Jane’s hair and skin in a ghastly, unearthly glow. She looked terrified, but she held her ground.
Walsh took a step toward her. “Holloway, get off—”
The voice, surely an automated computer of some kind, spoke again. Jane translated in a trembling voice, “Unidentified hominid species. Accessing files. Standby.” The light undulated in bright waves up and down her body. The voice, then Jane: “Scanning.”
Varma watched as if in awe. “Do you feel anything, Jane?”
Jane shook her head.
The voice spoke again. “Genusis Terrano. Homo sapiens. Afirmeu opu neu.”
Jane said, “Terran species. Homo sapiens. Confirm or deny.”
Compton joined the crowd around the platform. “Terran?”
“That’s the Latin term for Earth, is it not, Jane?” Varma asked.
Jane nodded, then said, “Afirme,” and seemed to brace herself.
Bergen swallowed hard, his heart slamming into his rib cage.
A full-sized, three-dimensional, transparent hologram appeared, facing Jane, mirroring her in every aspect, even down to her slightest movements. She stared at it, her own skin fluorescent with sickly blue-green light, the hologram looking more as she normally would. The voice spoke, then Jane: “Please state your full name for the record.” She raised her chin and said clearly, “Jane Augusta Holloway.”
All color flashed out of the hologram. What was left was a transparent outline of Jane’s body. Then several areas on the hologram began to glow bright red—her hands, the area between her shoulder blades where her hair had touched, and her right leg in small patches. The voice spoke again, this time going on for a bit. Jane hung on every word.
When it finished, Varma prodded, “What, Jane?”
“It knows I’m burned with chemical as well as abrasion burns. It knows the chemical I’ve been exposed to and the species it comes from. The proper name of the creatures is Coelusha limax—literally ‘space slug.’ It says when I’m finished it will open a door to a chamber where I can take a medicated shower to neutralize the alkaline substance and then receive polarized light-based healing therapy and a medicated cream to recondition my skin.”
Varma nodded slowly, her brow furrowed.
The hologram changed. Jane’s skeletal structure glowed red as well as a few of her internal organs. When the voice finished, Jane said, “It says I have multiple mild nutrient deficiencies which can be corrected with either a prescription diet or an infusion regimen.”
“Interesting,” Varma murmured.
The hologram transformed again, highlighting a small, t-shaped object in Jane’s abdomen. Jane went quiet and didn’t translate anything else. The blue-green beam faded and the hologram winked out of existence. Jane stepped off the platform. One of the doors opened, revealing another chamber. “Who’s next?” she asked.
“What was that last bit about?” Walsh asked gruffly, motioning for Compton and Gibbs to check out the room that had just opened up.
Varma stepped between them. “I know precisely what it was about. Jane and I will discuss it privately, later.”
Walsh didn’t like that answer and he didn’t make any moves toward the platform, so Bergen hopped up next. It was obvious that Jane trusted this stuff. If she could trust it, he could too, because he trusted her.
The blue-green light lit up instantly around him. The voice asked a question. He thought he got the gist of it. He grinned at Jane. “It’s asking if I’m human, right?”
She nodded.
“Afirme,” he answered, mimicking her. She nodded again and produced a slight, tremulous smile.
The voice spoke again and he grimaced. Would he say his whole name, or edit himself? Ah, shit. Jane did. “Bartholomew Alan Bergen,” he said, loud and clear. Jane’s smile went a little wider. He fixed his gaze on her.
Then his hologram appeared. From there it went o
n pretty much the same as Jane’s stint on the platform had. It highlighted his injuries and nutritional issues caused, he assumed, by the long microgravity flight. He stepped down.
So far, nothing was a surprise. Jane had led them there and it had checked out as advertised. Everyone turned to Walsh, waiting to see if he would step up there too. It was pretty obvious that he didn’t like how things were unfolding.
Walsh turned to Varma. “Varma, recommendations. Do you think these treatments sound safe? How do they compare to what you would do?”
“I recommend they do only the burn treatments, for now. They sound benign and minimally invasive. Alan has a large second-degree burn on his dominant hand that will take weeks to heal—and, honestly, Commander, hand burns are very tricky. All I can do is put a soothing cream on it, control his pain, and hope for the best. This treatment protocol—well, I’d like the opportunity to observe its effects. This ship was built by people with greater technology than our own—on Earth, medical technologies develop on scale with other technologies. I cannot help but believe that Alan and Jane would be better served here than by my own hand. The nutrient infusion can wait until we know more.”
“You want to make them human guinea pigs?”
“With their consent, sir. I’d like Jane to ask the computer lots of questions about each treatment before it’s begun.”
Walsh’s lips were pressed in a thin line. He sent Bergen and Jane hard, evaluating looks. “Are you volunteering for this?”
Jane nodded firmly and glanced at Bergen. He nodded too. At this point, he’d do anything just to get out of the flight suit.
Walsh turned back to Varma. “Fine. Go with them. Make sure they don’t do anything stupid. We’re going to secure the area.”
“Commander—”
“That’s an order, Varma.” Walsh didn’t wait for a reply. He made for the nearest door, opened it, and went inside, gesturing to Compton and Gibbs to follow. They disappeared, leaving Bergen, Jane and Varma looking at each other. Jane turned and strode through the door that had been opened for their treatment.
This second chamber was larger, but minimalist as well. Every wall and fixture was the same putrid green color that everything else in the ship seemed to be. There were several alcoves and the walls jutted with geometric protrusions in varying sizes. He wondered if it was for aesthetics or if it were a storage system.
Fluency Page 10
