Win this battle, Ellis thought to herself, lose the war.
She deliberately released her hold.
No one noticed the missed opportunity. Even Davis couldn’t be certain if Ellis’s failure to act was intentional. As they separated he rolled onto his side and defensively delivered a straight–leg kick up and into her shoulder. The kick was more of a reflex, but Ellis, crouching and leaning in, took the full force of the blow.
Only the combatants heard the popping noise as her shoulder dislocated, but everyone could see Ellis’s arm dangling horribly at her side. A dislocated shoulder is an excruciating injury. Eyes glassy and fixated on empty space, it took every gram of Ellis’s self-discipline to sublimate that pain.
A hush came over the viewing gallery. “Let’s get you to Treatment Bay,” Davis, visibly disturbed, was clearly heard to say. He had no intention of causing harm.
“Can’t disagree,” Ellis managed to utter through clenched teeth.
She had the presence of mind to make sure the Lieutenant was first to exit through the fitness room door.
***
For the second evening in a row, Davis and Anderson had agreed that the game of poker using an actual physical deck of cards was an appropriate way to mitigate Ellis’s month-long suspension of their rec room privileges. Four accomplices had joined them in the tech’s quarters.
Poker was considered worthless without some form of betting. On commerce-forsaken Murkor, where currency was absent, a suitable substitute had been found: Shot-sized, consumable spheres of alcohol dubbed Nanos. Lightweight and convenient (no bulky packaging to transport and discard, no serving container to wash), they could be found on every colony beyond Earth’s Moon.
“One more time, let me get this straight,” Schulman, new to the game, said. “Browns are 151 proof rum, reds are ten-year-old scotch, the clears are vodka. Browns are worth two of the reds, reds two of the clear, therefore one brown is equivalent to four clear.”
“Hate for there to be any doubt as to which of these little beauties is which,” Anderson joked, popping a brown sphere in his mouth for the fifth time that evening. As the outer coating dissolved: “Yup, brownies are rum. You got it right, Shule. Happy to provide confirmation.”
“In that case, I’ll wager two browns,” Schulman submitted, pushing them into the center of the makeshift table.
“A good bet. A mighty good bet,” commented Imholtz. “I’m perceiving a high level of confidence in you. Totally counterfeit, of course. I raise you one red.”
Anderson, who was dealing, watched as two players, Kreechum and Davis, folded by throwing in their cards. “What about you, Coop?” he said, talking to Jess Cooper, the sergeant who had spoken up at the morning meeting.
“I’m out.”
“I call,” Anderson stated. “Leaves just the three of us, Shule. What do you have? Or do you know?”
“Two pair. Tens and fours.”
“No good,” Imholtz replied. “Queens and threes.”
“Sorry, gentlemen,” Anderson said, flipping over his cards. “Three sixes. Read ’em and weep.”
“Speaking of weeping,” Kreechum said, “how is Ellis?”
“Hey, give her credit,” Cooper objected. “Weeping is the one thing she did not do. Davis’ll tell you. I was with him in the treatment room. Doc said her humerus was knocked clear out of the ball joint. You could see the head of the bone bulging beneath the skin.”
“Okay, okay, we get the picture,” Imholtz remarked.
“Thinking back on it,” Cooper continued, “it was the same injury, worse, that Maxwell suffered when the stupid bastard fell off of the harvester. Max’s pretty tough, but he whimpered like a baby until Stewart dosed him up, but good. There wasn’t a peep out of the Commander, even when Doc popped the bone back into place. She’s expected to make a rapid recovery.”
“Yeah, thanks for the medical update,” Anderson sneered as he swallowed another Nano. “And you can cut out the Commander bullshit—she ain’t listening in.”
“No, but I am,” Davis advised in a low, firm voice. He had remained relatively quiet since the match.
“Do I detect a change of attitude since Ellis put him on his ass?” Kreechum interjected before Anderson could manufacture his own insult.
“Just for the record, it was on his stomach,” Schulman observed, trying to lighten the conversation.
Davis ignored Schulman. “That goes for you, too, Kreechum,” he said. “It’s Commander Ellis from now on.”
“Yeah, whatever you say,” the IMC foreman responded. A furtive glance sideways at Cooper had made it clear that he had one less ally: The sergeant was going to take his cues from his superior officer.
Anderson wasn’t buying any of it. “So, what’s this, she calls all the shots? We abandon the mining? Turn tail and run?”
“Don’t push it, Ed,” Davis warned. “You’re in no condition to.”
“What the fuck. You give up drinking too?”
“I won’t be tearing up any more rec rooms. Neither will you.”
“Meaning what? Privileges are restored starting tomorrow, aren’t they?”
“I didn’t win,” Davis stated matter-of-factly.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Anderson said, slamming his fist on the table.
“She should have won that match.”
“What?! Is that what she’s claiming?”
“Just the opposite. Only I know otherwise.”
“You’re confusing the shit out of me,” Anderson said.
“Me, too—and I’m sober,” Imholtz added. “Twenty people saw you walk out that door first.”
“Don’t you get it?” Davis said, staring at Anderson. “I can’t prove it, but she wanted to lose. Lose so I would be responsible for punishment. In the process, she had her arm torn out of the socket by making an evasive move. One she wouldn’t ordinarily make. I’m not repaying whatever confidence she has in me by shirking my duty. We busted up the damn rec room. Privileges stayed denied, that’s for both of us, until further notice.”
Anderson, far along to being drunk, sat sullen and silent. Reaction came from a different quarter.
“Hell, Ed,” Kreechum snickered, aiming to drive a wedge between Anderson and Davis, “with a friend like that, who needs an enemy?”
“Don’t be a dick, Kreechum,” Schulman said, his anger surprising everyone, including himself.
“Just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying.”
“Yeah, well, none of this bullshit matters,” Kreechum said. “Ore production has come to a fucking halt and we are almost out of water. Tell me, what the hell is being done about that?”
“I’d cut her some slack,” Schulman said. “There’s more to our new CO than we’ve given credit.”
“Blah, blah, blah, are we here to play cards, or what?” Imholtz complained. “Davis, you’ve got the deal.”
***
Ellis was gratified, and it came as something of a revelation, just how modern, almost state-of-the-art, Zenith’s medical facilities were. That said, advancements such as auto-surgery, bio-replacement, gene-matched drugs, and others were still unable to replace an excellent physician, and Stewart was certainly that. Hours after her traumatic injury, and she was experiencing no discomfort and had regained mobility in her arm and shoulder. In a couple of days she would be completely recovered, the last vestiges of her physical injury to be outlived by the memory of the pain she experienced.
She would, however, never forget the look of confusion, dismay, and amazement displayed on Davis’s face. In some respects, it was almost comical how much emotion he showed while she was busily masking hers. Admittedly, he did have a lot to process in a very short time: Why she hadn’t taken advantage of her superior position, shock at having unintentionally caused her injury, the way that she had remained composed.
Later, while immobilized and receiving treatment, she overheard two techs talking. “It took cojones (ironic, t
hem using the Spanish word) to square off against that big bastard,” one remarked to the other.
Not really, she had answered to herself. Especially when you’re a Hachidan, an eight-degree black belt.
The techs had been fooled, Davis had not. After processing what happened (to his credit it didn’t take him long), he began to question whether he had won the match. Of course he won, she informed him. By his rules, whoever passed through the door first was the victor. Had he ever specified that victory was predicated upon one person exerting physical superiority over the other? No. In fact, one person could have pushed the other through the open fitness room door if they so choose.
Succumbing to the logic and spirit of her argument, he had responded in kind. If he was to be acknowledged as winner, if it was up to him to determine his and Anderson’s punishment for their drunken behavior, then he was also in no way obligated to reduce that punishment. For the present he was disinclined to do so.
It was hard to imagine a better outcome to her gambit. If she had revoked Davis’s and Anderson’s privileges she would have appeared weak and indecisive to those who were already forming such an opinion. By having the “cojones” to face a physically intimidating man, then finding a subtle and suitable way to lose to him, she had shown flexibility from a position of strength. She had won him over, perhaps some of the others too, by refusing to use superior force: A general principle that had wider application to Nadir and Zenith and their respective governments back on Varian and Earth.
She was playing with abstractions. Time could be better spent finding out who, other than the five military personnel under her command, she could rely on in a crisis. Maybe Schulman and a few of the female IMC techs. Certainly not Kreechum or Anderson, or most of the other IMC workers. They had come to Murkor seeking fortune and would refuse to leave here empty-handed. Kreechum and Company had deduced how weak her support was back on Varian. They might be willing to risk the penalty for violating the orders of a base CO by unilaterally initiating a move against Nadir.
Eliminating their reasons for making such a move was paramount. To that end, she had hopes of rapprochement with her counterpart at Nadir. She remembered his name as Andrés Garcia. Hard to imagine what he was contemplating at this moment. Was he approachable, or was he afflicted with the same intractable mindset as those who had ordered her to Murkor?
Almost forgotten, for she assumed it was only tangentially related to more pressing concerns, was the mishap in Tube Z784C, as described to her by Davis and Imholtz, then later in the day by Jensen who had been particularly reticent about volunteering her account of what transpired, presuming she would be deemed unfit. A hardened IMC tech would do anything to avoid having his or her work assignment curtailed. It meant giving up the chance of production bonuses. No matter how remote earning them now seemed.
Careful examination of several disparate pieces of information, including the mission time log and a detailed diagram of the tube network, had rendered aspects of Jensen’s story intriguing. Most notably, given the distances involved, several minutes would likely have transpired from when Imholtz attempted communication with Jensen (answered by Davis in the CAM-L) to when he, Imholtz, finally ran to her aid. If this was so, Jensen would have spent an inordinately long time unconscious in Murkor’s low-oxygen atmosphere, apparently with no lasting ill effects. Very strange.
Sharing this knowledge, unsubstantiated by hard facts, would serve to further incite fears that an undiscovered life-form was lurking on the planet. Having no desire to increase the trepidation crews felt when entering the tubes, she decided, for the time being, to keep these thoughts to herself. Allowed time and opportunity, she would come to her own conclusion regarding what Jensen and others were experiencing here.
Meanwhile, she refused to judge Jensen harshly or in any way diminish her personal experience in Tube Z784C. How could she, when her own transcendental meditations took her mind to a place few would understand?
What she had told the tech, and it had thrown her off-stride, was that there was little the imagination could conjure that didn’t have the possibility of becoming a reality.
It could be said that people have competing realities.
“Lights out,” Ellis commanded.
After a long and trying day, she was sorely in need of rest.
8. Worse Than Bad
UHHMMMFAHH-PHANNGAHFAA!
Damned distracting, Comandante Garcia remarked to no one but himself. The sounds erupting from the nearby fumaroles, now clearly discernible on all three of Nadir’s levels, were louder and more frequent than he could ever remember. Sitting alone in his claustrophobic cabin, he wondered why, with so few days left in his long career, everything was conspiring to turn to shit. Even the damn coffee he was drinking tasted insipid.
Just two more examples of irritations that he seemed powerless to rectify.
Self-doubt, and now he was wallowing in it, is particularly ill-suited to a person with leadership responsibilities.
Earlier in the day, Amanda, claiming to need “comforting” following her harrowing (and to a large degree inexplicable) experience in Tube N119, insisted that the surest way to soothe her frayed nerves could best be found later that evening in the security of his private cabin. The suggestion was a shallow pretense, he well knew, and patently absurd. His reply had been awkward and hesitant, but he hadn’t said ‘no.’
Furthermore, there was a strong possibility that Marianna had overheard his exchange with Amanda, brief as it was. Nadir’s physician would have seen his wavering and, being perceptive almost to a fault, would have comprehended the reason behind it. It was not a fitting portrait for a CO of a base spiraling into crisis mode.
Much bigger problems loomed, threatening to overwhelm.
Subsequent to that gloriously indecisive moment with Amanda, Garcia was approached in his cabin by a harried and dejected-looking Carlos. He immediately grasped what his senses were already telling him, that the engineer’s efforts to improve the quality of the air they were breathing had failed.
“My report won’t make your day,” Carlos said, crestfallen, the confidence he displayed a mere day ago having evaporated.
“Then best be out with it,” Garcia responded.
“Air quality had begun to slowly improve—the oxygen concentrator was doing a good job of removing excess carbon dioxide—”
“Is that why your so glum? Can it be so bad?”
“It’s worse than bad,” Carlos answered. “Oxygen levels are falling.”
“Slowly,” Garcia stated hopefully, as if saying so would make it fact. He received a despairing shake of the head. “No, then, Carlos? What has changed since your last report?”
“It’s as if the Nexus is behaving like we aren’t here at all, as if six humans aren’t occupying the base.”
If Carlos hadn’t looked so fatigued and worried, Garcia would have thought him joking. “My good friend,” he said, “in trying to solve this, you have worked yourself too hard. Have you slept?”
“Why else would the Nexus shut down the carbon dioxide scrubber?” Carlos continued, talking as if to convince himself. “And now it’s starting to do exactly the same with the oxygen concentrator, powering it down, reducing the amount of oxygen it extracts from the planet’s atmosphere. There’s no other explanation possible. It’s all traceable back to the invasive nanoparticles—”
“And not rising carbon dioxide levels?” Garcia asked, attempting to channel Carlos away from an unproven accusation to more actionable information.
“No,” Carlos insisted, put on the defensive. “Both the oxygen concentrator and the scrubber receive instructions from the Nexus. I tell you, sure as rain, the Nexus has been subverted.”
“Except it never rains on Murkor,” Garcia said dismissively. “Have you tried reversing the scrubber bypass?”
“Done. No effect.”
Garcia searched for further suggestions; found none. “Time-wise, what’s the bottom line?”
“Say again?” Carlos asked.
Garcia impatiently repeated the question in a louder voice. “The bottom line, time-wise, what’s the bottom line?”
“I wish I knew. We’re trending below the nineteen percent oxygen level Mariana warned us about. I can extrapolate the rate oxygen is consumed and carbon dioxide produced. I can factor in the small losses caused by the misaligned exterior panels. What I can’t do is predict what the Nexus will do next.”
“I need a better answer, Carlos.”
“Maybe we have a few days before stabilizing at Murkor’s nine percent oxygen.”
“And the synergistic effect of carbon dioxide levels rising at the same time?” Garcia asked, alarmed at the time constraint.
“Isn’t that best put to Mariana, Comandante?” Carlos said. “You know, her being a physician and all?”
Garcia contemplated responding with a rebuke, then reconsidered. It was a reasonable question. “You’re right, you’re right, best put to Mariana. I intend to consult her. If you haven’t noticed, none of us are operating up to speed, myself included. Get a few hours’ rest. When you resume work, start over. Go through everything again, every cubic centimeter. Overlook nothing, no matter how trivial. Apprise me of any new developments.”
What Garcia held back saying was that he remained unconvinced a corrupted Nexus was the root cause of the ESS problems. Some other explanation would be found, despite Carlos’s protestation to the contrary.
“I will solve this, Comandante,” Carlos promised, feeling accountable for, and disturbed by, the worry and doubt evident on the Comandante’s furrowed brow. Turning to leave, he stopped to scowl down at the drinking vessel he had been sipping from. “You’d think Unión would be able to provision us with good Manizales coffee. I bet the damned chancros at Zenith drink better than this.”
The Symbionts of Murkor Page 13
