Colony One

by Tarah Benner

“Will do!”

  “Just be careful,” she says, sitting back in her chair and meeting my gaze with a hawklike expression. “Don’t get caught. If you do, even I won’t be able to protect you.”

  16

  Maggie

  I’m so excited after my talk with Alex that I’ve been lying awake for several hours. My awesome cloud bed should make it easy to go to sleep, but I can’t stop thinking about my Space Force story.

  I have no idea how I’m going to get insider access to Elderon’s private military, but I have to find a way. My gut is telling me that there’s something Maverick doesn’t want the public to know, and as a journalist, it’s my job to drag that truth into the light.

  Not long after I doze off, I’m awoken by a loud creak and the odd feeling that the world around me has ground to a halt. I try to ignore it and go back to sleep, but my tired brain is summoned back to life by a loud ding! from my Optix.

  My bed lurches beneath me, and I suddenly feel sick. I reach up onto the shelf over my head and feel around for my glasses, but they aren’t where I left them. My hair is all over the place, and I can’t move more than a few inches in any direction.

  Earlier today, we received a notice that the bots would be performing routine maintenance on the exterior of the space station. We were instructed to zip ourselves into our bed bags before going to sleep so that we wouldn’t float off when they stopped the colony’s rotation. The bed bag is basically a thin sleeping bag that fastens to the bed frame. It has a zipper on the inside and room for the scratchy gray blanket.

  I unzip the front of my bed bag and immediately feel a swoop of weightlessness in my stomach. I throw up a hand to keep from face-planting into the ceiling and yell out the command for lights.

  The light above my bed flickers to life, but I can’t see much of anything. My hair is floating around my head like a clump of tangled spaghetti, and the rest of my room is still in shadow.

  Yanking my hair tie off my wrist, I gather up my curls and cram them into a bun. I look around. My glasses are floating somewhere near the door, so I kick off from the wall and snatch them out of the air.

  I put them on and look out the window. The stars are no longer shooting by in a blur of silver as we spin around the axis of Elderon. We’re still orbiting the Earth, of course, but we’re moving so slowly that we appear to be standing still.

  The star-studded black velvet abyss stretches for infinity in every direction, and I feel an overwhelming sense of calm and insignificance that I haven’t experienced before.

  I don’t know how long I float there staring, but eventually I become aware of a blinking red light in the corner of my Optix. I have an unread message from an unknown sender.

  I select the message and read it twice, feeling my sense of inner peace shatter.

  I know what you’re looking for.

  My heart rate ticks up, and all of a sudden I get a swoop of nausea that has nothing to do with free-floating in space. I can’t be sure that the sender is referring to my Space Force story, but I don’t know what else it could be.

  Whoever sent the first message is already typing a second. The instant I read the first message, three blinking dots appeared just below the line of text.

  Suddenly, another message appears, and I get a fresh swoop of paranoia.

  I can help.

  Trying to focus on my breathing, I hurriedly dictate a message of my own: Who are you?

  There’s a longer pause after I send it, and I want to kick myself for spooking the messenger. If the sender wanted me to know who they were, they would have led with their name. They certainly wouldn’t have blocked their contact info to send the message anonymously.

  But just when I think that I’ve ruined everything, the blinking blue dots appear, and a third message pops up on my Optix.

  Someone who’s noticed the same thing you have.

  I settle back and float for a moment, thinking hard about the message. I have no idea who this could be or why they would want to help. Of course, they could be fishing to find out what I know, or they could be setting me up.

  The sender starts drafting another message, and my breath catches in my throat. I wait, heart thumping violently, and another message appears.

  I can get you in.

  This time, I don’t hesitate. I start to draft a response, thinking that if I want this person’s help, I’ll eventually have to show my hand.

  But before I can send my message, the space station begins to move. I sense it rather than feel it — a great lurching shudder as Elderon begins to spin again.

  It’s a slow, painful process, and I imagine the sheer amount of energy it must take to move an object of that size. The stars blur as we pick up speed, and Earth is reduced to a smear of blue.

  It takes several minutes of turning, but soon I sense that I’m sinking toward the floor. My feet touch down on the platform beside my bed, and I stumble as the craft attempts to stabilize itself.

  Just as the sensation of standing starts to feel normal, I get a notification that the mysterious sender is attempting to send me a file. I hurry to block it — thinking it could be a virus — but it’s too late. My Optix automatically accepts the file, and it quickly downloads onto my device.

  Trembling with anticipation, I select the attachment. I can tell immediately that it’s a personnel file. It’s typed on Maverick Enterprises’ letterhead, and the heading tells me that it came from the Space Force.

  There’s a photo of a woman in the upper right-hand corner. She’s got straight brown hair, a smattering of freckles, and a tiny upturned nose. I can tell from the picture that she’s very pretty, but the person who took the photo must have told her not to smile.

  The name on the file reads Amelia McDermit, though I have a feeling she isn’t the one who’s been sending me messages.

  According to the file, Amelia is an intelligence specialist who was recruited to join the Space Force. She’s exactly my age, and she lives in San Diego.

  She’s supposed to be docking in Elderon tomorrow.

  Just then, I get a notice that my mysterious informant is sending me another file. I don’t attempt to block this one. My curiosity is killing me.

  It’s a copy of Friday’s flight plan, and Amelia McDermit isn’t on it.

  As I scan the document, I get an uncomfortable tightness in the pit of my stomach. I’m definitely not supposed to have access to this, and whoever my source is has to be breaking at least a dozen laws to send it.

  They must know that this is important.

  Moved by a sudden sense of urgency, I flip back to Amelia’s personnel file. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for, but if my informant sent these documents without explanation, they must think that I’ll be able to glean something important from them.

  I select a box in the upper left-hand corner and scan the file’s metadata. The date shows that it was altered last Friday, which seems awfully close to her deployment for anything to have changed.

  I scroll down to the bottom. The file is multiple pages long, containing everything from her résumé to her letters of reference. The last page is a copy of her physical, documenting that Amelia was fit for duty. The physician recorded her vital signs, immunization records, and the results of her recent blood test.

  In the notes, I see a line of red text that’s typed in all caps: Patient tested positive for pregnancy.

  The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. That’s why Amelia wasn’t on tomorrow’s flight plan. The Space Force found out that she was pregnant and cancelled her deployment.

  I still don’t understand why I’ve been made privy to Amelia’s private medical file, but my wild train of thought is interrupted by a sharp knock at my door.

  I freeze.

  “Who is it?” I call, scrambling to the door to peer out the peephole.

  There’s no one there.

  The corridor is unusually dark — illuminated only by emergency lighting. In the dim orange glow, I s
ee a stout, bulky shadow looming to the left of my doorway, and my heart skips a beat.

  Did someone from Maverick get wind of my story? Did they plant a bomb outside my suite or send an assassin to take me out?

  I give myself a mental shake. I’m being crazy. Maverick wouldn’t blow up their own station — not when they’ve invested so much money in making Elderon a success. Plus, an assassin seems like overkill.

  I open the door a tiny crack and peer out into the corridor. A bot is waiting patiently to the left of my door, and I almost collapse in relief. It isn’t one of the creepy human ones — just one of the delivery bots.

  “What do you want?” I ask weakly.

  “Package for — Magnolia — Barnes,” it says in a stilted robotic voice.

  I get another surge of paranoia. According to the Elderon welcome packet, the bots are all equipped with cameras and facial-recognition technology. For all I know, the person who sent me the messages could be watching.

  “What’s the package?” I ask.

  The bot doesn’t answer. Instead, it just swivels around to the left, and the light on the side blinks blue. The right side pops open, and a tray slides out. On the tray is a shallow white bin about the size of a shoebox. I take the box with both hands, and the bot immediately speeds off.

  I close the door as quick as I can, staring down at the box in my hands.

  Taking a deep breath, I slide my finger under the lid and slowly open the box.

  Inside is a folded swath of dark-blue fabric. It’s a military uniform — smallish — with the name “Jones” embroidered over the chest.

  My heart gives an irregular thump, and I feel a swell of confusion. It can’t be a coincidence that the last name on the uniform is “Jones.” It seems like the sort of sick joke that Kiran would make, but Kiran isn’t here.

  My mysterious friend beams me another file, and I open it immediately.

  My own picture appears in front of my face, and I drop the box on the floor. The photo looks like a mugshot, but it’s definitely me. The file is a digital ID card, and the name at the top says Magnolia Jones. All the details match my real ID. Even the weight is scarily accurate.

  Everything looks right except for the division. Apparently, Magnolia Jones is a private in the Space Force with low-level security clearance.

  A flurry of notifications pop up on my Optix — apparently queued in from a fake account.

  Not only have I been assigned a fake identity — I’ve also been assigned a bunk. I have a summons telling me to check in with my commanding officer tomorrow at nineteen hundred hours.

  Suddenly, all the pieces snap together, and a surge of excitement shoots through my veins.

  Someone — and I don’t know who — just gave me an all-access pass to the Space Force. It’s more help than I’ve ever received on a story, and whoever it is took an enormous risk.

  17

  Maggie

  My stomach is in knots the entire next day. I barely notice what I’m eating at breakfast, and by lunchtime, I’ve chopped together an incoherent piece about the stoppage of simulated gravity last night.

  I touch base with a few sources to find out what maintenance was being performed on the colony’s exterior, but I’m repeatedly stonewalled with generic PR speak.

  Apparently, all the “routine maintenance” is performed by specialized bots, which reduces the need for humans to perform dangerous extravehicular activities. All a person has to do is program the bots and schedule the stoppage in rotation to minimize the risk of equipment loss. Maintenance is completed in the middle of the night to allow activity inside the colony to continue as usual.

  But no matter how opaque the hospitality office’s explanation of the maintenance seems, I just can’t focus. I can’t stop thinking about the messages from my mysterious source and my invitation to infiltrate the Space Force as Private Maggie Jones.

  Deep down, I know that I should tell Alex what my anonymous helper sent me, but I don’t want to. Maybe it’s because I know that Alex would never let me follow a breadcrumb trail laid out by someone with top-level access and dubious motives who’s concealing his or her identity. She was fine with me digging into the Space Force, but I seriously doubt that this was what she had in mind.

  For one thing, I’m fairly certain that falsifying identification and using it to get inside the Space Force is a serious crime. It wouldn’t be the first crime I’ve committed in pursuit of a story, but it does seem a little more serious than posing as an administrative assistant to eavesdrop on a city councilman or lying to the police to get out of a minor trespassing rap.

  Pretending to be a counterintelligence specialist is definitely crossing a line. But is maintaining my moral high ground more important than uncovering the truth?

  My nerves stretch thinner and thinner as the day wears on. I know that this is, without a doubt, the best chance I’ll ever get to look inside the Space Force and figure out what’s really going on — a chance that expires at seven o’clock tonight.

  I eat dinner alone in the dining hall and think about the mysterious messenger. I can feel the uniform burning a hole in my bag, and I start to question not if I should do this, but whether or not I’ll get caught.

  According to my research, the Space Force is at the tail end of its Reception — the period of time where they wait for recruits to arrive, teach basic commands, and get them oriented with the Space Force.

  Monday marks the beginning of basic training — a ten-week crash course in Space Force values, hand-to-hand combat, space navigation, weaponry, and military operations both inside and outside the space station. After that, each recruit will be assigned to posts corresponding to their background and their performance in basic.

  The question is: Will I have enough time to figure out what’s going on inside the Space Force before the ten weeks of basic training are up? Two and a half months seems like a lifetime, but I know from experience that earning people’s trust can take a long, long time.

  I have every intention of going back to the newsroom to work on my Layla Jones piece — if for no other reason than to distract myself so that I don’t put on that uniform.

  But instead of cutting through Sector L, I take the escalator down to the lower deck and head straight for the women’s restroom outside the waiting area in the docking zone.

  The time is eighteen forty, and the shuttle that was supposed to be carrying Amelia McDermit will be docking in twenty minutes.

  For a moment, I just stand by the sink, staring at my own reflection. The journalists who really make it are the ones ballsy enough to follow their instincts and take real risks.

  What type of journalist do I want to be? One who plays it safe with Layla Jones or the kind who sticks her neck out to get that really great scoop?

  “Screw it,” I mutter, wedging the doorstop into the crack under the door to keep anyone else from entering the bathroom.

  I kick off my boots and peel off my jeans, grabbing the uniform and stuffing my real clothes into my bag. There’s a boxy gray T-shirt that goes underneath, androgynous cargo pants with lots of pockets, and a bulky long-sleeve overshirt with my fake name stitched across the chest.

  Whoever sent me the messages got the size right, at least. It’s a little tight in the butt and hips, but it’ll do.

  I get all the buttons done up and stare down at my bare stocking feet. My socks are bright purple, and I don’t have the correct shoes. For some reason, my mysterious benefactor didn’t bother to include the black combat boots they all wear, but my boots are close enough that I don’t think anyone will notice.

  I straighten up to examine myself in the mirror and immediately realize I have a problem.

  I might look like a Space Force recruit from the shoulders down, but from the neck up I am still one hundred percent Maggie Barnes. My hair seems to have reacted poorly to the gravitational upset last night. My curls are a frizzy mess, and I’m guessing my big tortoiseshell glasses won’t be allowed. />
  I dig around in my bag for the contacts that I never seem to wear. My face looks disturbingly pale and naked without my glasses. I’m suddenly very aware of the bluish circles under my eyes and the stray hairs under my eyebrows that are begging to be plucked.

  I gather my hair up into a ponytail and pin my curls into a bun. A few stray tendrils spring loose and curl stubbornly around my face, but I plaster them down with some hair gel to make them behave.

  When I’m finished, I look like a completely different person — a person who could use some mascara. I’ve gotten pretty lazy in the makeup department, but since I can no longer hide behind my glasses, I suddenly feel the need to primp.

  What the hell, I think, scrutinizing my face. Whom have I got to impress?

  Suddenly, I hear the cheerful garble of Vanessa’s voice over the intercom. Passengers must be disembarking from the Impetus. It’s showtime.

  I kick the doorstop out and hover in a stall until the bathroom door opens. I hear the excited clamor of women pouring in to empty their bladders, and I see several pairs of black Space Force boots. I’m officially in the clear.

  I open the door and shuffle out into the crowded lavatory. I catch several looks from my fellow Space Force women as I wash my hands, but they’re mostly friendly glances of acknowledgment. Two of them seem to know each other, and I give them each a quick once-over to make sure I’m not missing anything.

  Manly uniform? Check. Boring bun? Check. Regulation black combat boots? Working on it.

  I hustle out of the bathroom and reach up to get my room assignment from my Optix. I nearly poke myself in the eye instead, and I realize that I’m no longer wearing it.

  I head up to the mall and stop by the tech store to buy a new wearable to host my Optix. I purchase one of the Space Force–approved bars that clip onto the skin just outside the eyebrow. I log in and head straight for the Space Force barracks, crossing my fingers that Maggie Barnes’s face will get me into my room.