I had gone to get Cecilia a drink of water. When I came back, she’s got something sharp and bright in her hand. Blood is pooling on the floor. And me, without a kit, without a patch. But I’ve still got skills. I use my shirt to stop the bleeding. I pull the alarm. Others come. She’ll be all right.
So?
Well, when I saw Cecilia there, near unconscious, spilling blood, near death, I got this lump in my throat, an empty feeling in my stomach. My heart almost beat out of my chest. My breathing was quick and shallow. My mind raced with a thousand thoughts of what would happen if she died.
And I began to shudder.
###
Manfred Gabriel's short fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including Tales of the Unanticipated, Abyss & Apex and Forbidden Speculations. He has published non-fiction articles for History Is Now Magazine, and his musings on the modern workplace can be found at www.highschoolwithmoney.wordpress.com. He writes and resides in Western Wisconsin, where he lives with his wife, three daughters and a sweet black dog who doesn't understand what it means to sleep in on Saturday.
In the Space Between
Jeff Stehman
Stephen spun in darkness, ever backward, boots following helmet. It took him 14 seconds to complete one rotation. He'd checked. Twice. He always performed calculations twice.
The view, limited only by the confines of his helmet, impressed even him. In the vastness between stars, without his ship to offer contaminating light, it was spectacular. He was one of the lucky few to have seen it.
At least, that's what Mark had said before throwing him out the airlock.
Stephen took some solace that, had their positions been reversed, Mark would already be dead. His panic-induced heart rate and respiration would have consumed his oxygen quickly. Many would consider that merciful; no reason to face prolonged existence in the crushing loneliness of the great between, without even matter for company. But not Stephen. He had the stars, and he had his mind. If he needed anything else to pass the time, he wouldn't have hired onto a survey ship. The question was, what problem to turn his attention to?
In truth, Stephen doubted Mark's claim about a lucky few. Considering the rigors of interstellar travel and the number of ships traveling the deep, many others had certainly exited airlocks never to return. The question was, how many of their killers were sadistic enough to suit them up and saturate their blood before jettisoning them? An easy question to postulate, but a difficult one to formulate. How does one quantify the vagaries of the human mind without extensive statistical data? Doubtless the Bureau had such data, but the rank and file were not made aware of it. Even anecdotes of mental breakdown were hushed.
He needed a better question, one not having to do with how his current situation had arisen, but the more relevant issue of what would happen next. Exempli gratia, what was the probability of an interstellar ship dropping out of e-space within, say, a kilometer of his present location? Infinitesimally small, to be sure, but the calculation could at least be structured. And that might be enough.
#
The fourth time Stephen had to reformulate epsilon based on the probability of mechanical failure on frigate-class ships while in e-space, he realized his calculations were slowing. He hit the light on his oxygen gauge. It showed red. Pity. He had hoped to set up the equation before—
Utter darkness descended from above, blocking out a swath of stars. Several seconds later it slid below his feet, stars reappearing as he continued his rotation.
"Huh."
Fourteen seconds after it first appeared, it was back, perhaps larger. His mind was still struggling with what he was seeing, grasping at a slippery thought, when it reappeared a third time. This time the ship's lights were on, illuminating the hull. Stephen watched the ship slide beneath his feet. He checked his oxygen level again, then activated his helmet light and wiggled his fingers in front of his visor.
It seemed the near-death hallucinations were kicking in early. No reason not to go along with it.
Stephen's course carried him toward the ship, a Bureau scout. When he was close enough for it to eclipse the sky, the airlock door just aft of the rotating cabin opened. The light within blinded him.
A single chuckle escaped him. "Into the light."
He held up a hand to block it, unwilling to drop his shield as he spun toward the ship. He kept his eyes on the handholds drawing near. They would be within reach.
Clarity was fading, but there were no calculations, just survival. His gloved hand closed around metal.
Stephen pulled himself along the rungs toward the open airlock. He was breathing deep, grabbing for oxygen. His visor seemed to be growing smaller as his vision narrowed. He reached the doorway, spotted his target, and launched himself toward the handhold by the inside door. There he fumbled with a hose in the panel. Darkness closing in, he tried to connect it to his chest panel.
Tap, tap, tap, but no click.
Falling...
#
Stephen awoke floating in the airlock, tethered near the door by the oxygen hose, his helmet still in place. The lights on the panel indicated the airlock was pressurized.
"Hello, Mark," he said. Unless Mark had repaired his sabotage, the door would not open from this side.
Mark's face appeared at the window. He wore an earpiece.
"Stephen, do you realize what I've done?"
"You came back, but since I'm still in the airlock, I assume we're not done with whatever it is we're doing."
"I came back in the nick of time. Well, a second or two too late, but still a brilliant calculation on my part. Don't you see what I'm capable of?"
"Yes, I do. But that wasn't a calculation. You guessed."
"Wrong! I made an intuitive calculation. I knew you'd be so cold and uncaring as to not panic. I knew you'd still be alive."
Stephen pulled on the air hose until he could reach the handhold by the door. He looked through visor and window at Mark's widened eyes.
"I very much doubt you've thrown enough people out of airlocks to have trained your intuition for even ballpark calculations on the matter."
Mark slammed his fist into the window. "I see you've learned nothing."
"On the contrary, I learned something very important. But what did you hope to teach me?"
"You need to learn that your cold-blooded, machine-headed way of doing things is inferior to that of a more complete individual such as myself. All you're good for is calculations and methodical procedures. But I can do that. I brought the ship back here. Even intercepted your course. I, however, have feelings and empathy and ethics and morality, concepts alien to you."
Stephen looked at the exterior door again, surprised to find himself missing the simplicity he had so recently fought to escape. "You're correct in that I don't understand your actions, but if I didn't have feelings, I wouldn't have wasted so much time out there dwelling on you." He turned back to Mark. "And while I don't spend time pondering philosophical issues, society has moral and ethical codes that I acknowledge as being necessary and agree to abide by."
"That's not enough. A monkey given reward and punishment can be taught to do right and avoid wrong. A person—a real person—understands the difference."
"I've never thrown someone out an airlock."
Mark's face reddened. He pushed off the door and turned, then pushed himself off the bulkhead and back to the door. He pushed off again. Stephen had never seen him do this before, but it looked practiced, and very much like pacing.
"Have you considered why, Stephen?"
"When I was out there, alone, I put 'why' out of my mind. I decided 'what's next' was more important."
"Typical of an animalistic brain. You know, I am seriously concerned that you're an evolutionary step backward."
"Very well, why?"
Mark stopped pacing, his face at the window again. "More specific, please."
"Why do you have me trapped in the
airlock?"
"Good. Curiosity about a human mind not your own coupled with genuine concern. Granted, concern for yourself, but still an indication of a beating heart. I'll call that an improvement.
"I have you locked in there because after six months in a teacup universe, breathing your air and drinking your piss, I realized something: you might be a danger to me. I mean, how could I know for sure? You don't have normal body language. You're incapable of discussing emotional or philosophical issues. I have no way of knowing what's going on inside that head of yours. You could be ready to snap at any moment. You see my dilemma?"
It was too much for Stephen to formulate or even comprehend. His intuition had no training in these matters. He tried to open the interior door. Nothing. He checked his oxygen gauge. When a calculation gets lost, back up to known point. He keyed in a sequence at the panel. A light turned yellow.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm sorry I can't help you with your dilemma," Stephen said. "But I can alleviate your immediate concern." The light turned red. The atmosphere had been vacated.
"Stephen, I think it's time for some tough love here. I'm not going to stop you from pushing that button, but if you do, you will have to deal with the consequences."
Stephen pushed the button. The door behind him opened. He unhooked the oxygen hose. With one last look at Mark, he pushed off. As he floated out the airlock, he reached up and pushed on the edge, giving himself a little spin. He was hoping for a 14 second rotation.
Nothing over the radio. The light in the airlock went out. He went through several rotations before the ship went dark. Mark had made it to the cabin. Stephen began a countdown. The ship vanished on queue, leaving him alone.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
#
That Mark would return was axiomatic; it was pointless for Stephen to contemplate otherwise. But what then?
Mark's behavior seemed paranoid on the face of it, and even his accusations had been inconsistent, accusing Stephen of both machine-like and animal-like behavior.
Stephen considered as the stars rolled by, his breathing slow and deep. He could not imagine a scenario where Mark wasn't either mentally impaired or mentally damaged. Insane, to use a broad term. He saw two possibilities: Mark either opened the door, or he didn't.
They were 194 days out, 59 days from their destination, and over three years from their scheduled return. If Mark let him reenter, perhaps even appeared lucid, the future risk to Stephen would be high. Stephen had no training in analyzing or repairing a damaged mind. The only safe response would be to kill Mark.
Uncomfortable with that thought, Stephen moved on.
If Mark did not open the door, what options did Stephen have? He considered the exterior of the scout. There were several access hatches, including at least two that would allow him to disable the engines, perhaps forcing Mark to negotiate or come outside. However, without the proper tool, he could not open the hatches. He considered everything he had access to on the exterior of the ship, in the airlock, and on his person, but he could think of nothing to serve as an improvised tool.
He went through the list a second time.
And reconsidered his chest panel. He felt for a square module protruding from it. With a sharp twist to start the process, he unscrewed it. Turning on his helmet light, he examined the back of the module. The locking port on the back of the electronics package was about the right size, but the wrong shape. And while the polycarbonate might stand up to the necessary torque, he had no way of adding a lever to it to apply said torque.
Stephen reattached the module and went through the list again to no avail. If he had no means of affecting the ship, that left him with only one thing he could affect, the one variable in the equation he could not pin down: Mark.
Did Stephen's best chance lay in placating Mark? Manipulating him? Trying to understand him? Or just leaving it up to the vagaries of his mind? No equation would help Stephen this time.
While he considered, a group of stars vanished. Mark had returned, popping out of his "teacup universe" at a distance. He did not stay but a minute longer than required to jump back to e-space. Stephen wondered if Mark was trying to manipulate him. Or perhaps Mark's paranoia and conscience were struggling—
"No. I will not do this." Stephen had no basis for analysis. Further contemplation would be pointless.
He turned his attention to the stars and space between them. Numbers came to mind: sizes, distances, velocities. They fell into place without effort. To say he was utterly alone, parallel universes notwithstanding, was not a figure of speech. He floated with no point of reference save the stars. The magnitude of the vastness when compared to him...
Stephen couldn't help but smile. Utterly alone, and yet light from all the stars arrayed before him intersected at this point in space.
He oriented himself on the Dark Horse Nebula. Though it was hidden by brighter stars, he found the direction of the red dwarf that had been his destination, still 7.7 light years away in this universe.
#
Mark returned before Stephen's oxygen gauge showed red. Stephen watched as the ship maneuvered into his path. He took his time reaching the airlock, searching for options he had missed, but eventually he pulled himself inside and plugged in the oxygen tube.
"I thought you'd never show up," Mark said. He had been silent until then. "Don't you like my company?"
"Several hours ago you clearly wanted me dead. Perhaps now you're uncertain, but no, I'm not likely to call you friend."
"That's uncharitable. I acted in the interest of self-preservation. Surely even you can understand that."
"I've never been a threat to you, nor given you cause to believe I was a danger."
"If only it were so easy. In truth, I would not have returned this time, but I realized the threat might go beyond you. I have to ask you a question, and it's important that you be absolutely honest with me."
Stephen did not respond immediately. I would not have returned this time. "Ask."
"I have heard rumors about the Bureau experimenting. You know, on people. Tell me, did they ever perform surgery on your brain?"
"Why would they have done that?"
"Your cold, calculating ways. They seem just the thing the Bureau would latch onto as an improvement. I can see them thinking that a couple of snips in someone's medial prefrontal cortex might give them better long-run crews. They're wrong, of course, but that's no surprise."
Stephen stared at Mark's face through the window. He recognized nothing but anticipation of a question's answer.
"Well?"
"I'm trying to understand why you would find the answer worth coming back for."
"I need to know how far it goes. If the problem is just you, that's an easy if regrettable fix."
That's twice.
"But," Mark continued, "if there's a conspiracy, if they've made more like you, I shall have to deal with it when I return. So?"
"Let me in and you can examine my head for scars."
Mark's face reddened. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"I don't know what to think."
"It'd be oh-so-convenient for you and the Bureau if I disappeared out here, wouldn't it? But you were too slow. I figured out what you were up to, and I acted first. Deal with it."
"Mark, I have no way of dealing with anything. You have me trapped. I've had plenty of time to think through the possibilities, and there is no way for me to get back into the ship unless you decide to open the door."
"Stop trying to manipulate me!"
Stephen was at a loss. "Do you think I'm capable of manipulating you?"
Mark glared at him for a moment. "You're right, I don't." He pushed off the door. "Or I didn't." He pushed off the bulkhead. "This could be a revelation." Off the door. "This could be..." Off the bulkhead. He stopped in front of the door and looked at Stephen.
"I must consider this." He turned off his earpiece a
nd pushed himself out of sight.
#
Stephen worked at the controls, but without being able to open the panel, he could not open the door. His oxygen gauge read full by the time Mark returned.
"I have decided," he said.
Stephen waited.
"I have decided that you may be more dangerous than I thought."
Shaking his head, Stephen said, "What does it matter? You have already decided to kill me."
"Oh, it matters. You may not be willing to reveal the conspiracy, but you've given away more than you know, my friend. I think I understand you well enough now."
"Well enough for what?"
"To recognize others when I see them. I will have to act swiftly when I do. Heroes are not made, but born in the moment. I will do what I must for the betterment of all. There will be no triumph for you!"
Stephen reached toward the panel. "Now that you have me figured out, are you going to open the door?"
Mark looked at Stephen's arm. He smiled and shook his head. "But I'm not going to let you leave either. Not this time. You are my prisoner."
"I'll be out of water in a day, and you can't give me more without opening the door." Mark's face reddened again. Stephen pressed the buttons to vacate the atmosphere. "If you let me go outside, I'll tell you something you haven't figured out yet."
Mark's jaw clenched, but he didn't stop the process.
Stephen opened the door and unplugged the oxygen hose. He maneuvered himself outside and onto the rungs. "Thank you, Mark. I feel better already. See? I can feel."
"You promised me information."
"Yes." Stephen searched the heavens as he climbed away from the ship. Adjusted to the lit airlock, he could only see a small percentage of the stars he'd seen before. "I'm glad this will be our last conversation. I value clarity, and your insanity clouds my mind. I cannot think with you spouting irrational gibberish."
Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 7, October 2014 Page 7
