The Homestead

by G R Higginbotham

  Ignoring her cries, he shifted into clinician mode. He checked her thoroughly for additional injuries - signs of internal injury or concussion - in spite of her painful protests asking him to stop moving her. She was able to respond, and assisted as he helped her rise from the floor. He up righted a chair to allow her to sit, blocking the wheels to prevent it from rolling as she placed her weight down on the chair heavily.

  “It looks like you have some minor surface abrasions, a broken wrist, and a nasty bump on the head, but no serious problems.” He talked to her about her current injuries automatically, still acting solely as doctor without a thought for gathering information. “I’ll need to get you up to my clinic to run some scans to be sure, but I don’t think you’ll need to travel to a better-equipped facility. We should be able to handle everything right here in Homestead IV.” As he squatted beside her chair to bring himself to eye-level with the lead mycophycologist, for the first time he was torn between treating her immediately and taking advantage of her temporary disorientation to ask his questions. He had wanted to speak to this person for quite some time. Their initial interview was less than helpful.

  She looked back at him weakly, barely holding on to consciousness. “Thank you. I couldn’t have gotten out of there on my own.” She held on to her hairline with her one good arm, cradling a considerable lump that was getting larger. Her hand accidentally forced open a small cut. Blood was starting to trickle from the wound into her curly dirty-blond hair.

  Moses got some clean water and paper towels from the lavatory to rinse the wound and staunch the flow of blood. When he returned, she was leaning in her chair against a nearby partition that had not been turned over, but she was still conscious. He used what he had to clean the blood off of her face and head, and grabbed a wad of dry paper towel that he instructed her to hold firmly to the head wound. It wasn’t deep, but head wounds could bleed profusely.

  “So what happened?” He didn’t waste time with false concern. This woman was involved in something that was spreading through Homestead IV, and he wanted some answers to his questions. He didn’t have much time before he would have to start treating her injuries.

  “I can’t really remember. I sent the night shift worker to bed because I couldn’t sleep, and then I was on the ground. The next thing I knew, you were uncovering me.” She looked around for the first time, taking in the disaster around her. Her eyes widened. Her mouth worked open and closed a few times without producing any sound. As if she had cycled through the ritual of panic and was ready to face the situation head-on, her face slowly reworked itself into the familiar resolute and emotionless face Moses associated with Stephanie Idleman at her normal evasive best. With his help, she rose once more from the now-ruined work space and began the difficult walk to the elevator without speaking. She would willingly go with him to his clinic where he could assess the total damage and treat her injuries.

  Her progress to the lift was slow enough to allow Moses to take in the rest of the room. The disarray seemed like a near-total loss at first glance: metallic tables and desks overturned, tan dividers tipped over in the absence of the desks that supported them, workstation monitors and tablets strewn about. Closer inspection revealed that although things were haphazardly moved about and knocked over, most of the furniture was intact and would be fine. Even most of the electronic equipment appeared sound. The focus of the damage appeared to be the workstation where he had found Dr. Idleman. The devices were shattered beyond repair, the desk itself turned over with the drawers pulled out, and the partial walls that separated it from neighboring workstations pushed out and away, not simply toppled over like the others.

  It was like someone wanted to make the room like it was totally destroyed, but only actually managed to damage one key piece of equipment.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  When the scans were completed and he was sure there were no lingering injuries - internal or otherwise - that would lead to future complications, Dr. Truman began to question Dr. Idleman. Along with the questions, he gave her medication to help with the pain. Fortunately for him, they might also help to loosen her tongue.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” he asker her.

  “I was working and then you found me. I don’t remember anything else.” She was still holding her head, and answered through half-closed eyes.

  “You didn’t hear anything? Nothing alerted you?” He maintained a quiet, calm tone and an even expression. She shook her head no with a wince. “What about the elevator? It had to have brought whoever did this to you, and it makes noise when it opens.”

  “There was no warning. Nothing. I was working on cataloging the most recent mutations of the algae-bacteria hybrids, and then I was on the ground. Shouldn’t you call for ICE to report a crime?” She was growing annoyed already. That wouldn’t do if he was going to get some answers.

  “I’ve already told them you are here,” he lied. “They’ll be here soon. But it wouldn’t be good for you to lose consciousness now in case there’s a concussion. Let’s keep talking. It will help.” Not exactly a lie, but he was stretching the truth. “Let’s change subjects. I have something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, anyway.”

  “What’s that?” She closed her eyes but he could tell she was listening.

  “I’m worried that the cyanobacterial algae could be more dangerous than we think. Even more so, now that it has found it’s way into the ventilation.” He remained expressionless, watching her face for a reaction that might give something away.

  For a long time she didn’t answer, and he thought she might have drifted off to sleep. Eventually, when he was about to reach out and nudge her awake, she opened her eyes with a reply.

  “We’ve known that it is dangerous from the beginning. There’s a reason we have to wear those big yellow suits when we’re working directly with the stuff.” She turned her gaze to look at him directly. “It was never thought to be safe for people to handle without proper precautions. We were just concerned with the rate of atmospheric conditioning. We increased the ability of the subsequent generations to provide exponentially greater amounts of carbon-dioxide with minimal oxygen. Along with that enhancement came an even more volatile and unstable base of flora to populate the germination vats.” Moses was following her just enough to understand that the scientists knew the dangers and were willing to accept the risk to produce more substantial greenhouse effects.

  “Did ICE know what you were doing?” He had an uneasy feeling that he knew the answer.

  “Know about it?” She laughed with another wince. “They were the ones who demanded higher output. When I explained the risks, they said to increase containment measures and proceed with the manipulation.” With another abrupt laugh that was without amusement, she continued, “Hell, it’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  She was right. There was a certain degree of risk they had all accepted with the decision to move to Mars, and they had also agreed to work on the transformation of the planet into one that would support life.

  Moses decided to push the conversation a little bit further.

  “I have a theory that both Adrie Petersen and Bill Epps were killed by the effects of your algae.” She looked away again, studying the clinic to avoid making eye contact. “Their autopsies showed signs that were consistent with exposure to high levels of the cyanobacterial spores. Like an amped up version of the respiratory distress everyone had last week. Any thoughts on that?” He kept watching her face, looking for any betrayal of guilt or intent.

  “Adrie was an old woman. They get sick and die sometimes.”

  “And Bill? He was a healthy man, with no signs of any sickness before he died.”

  “Sometimes middle-aged men have sudden heart problems. Nothing like algal exposure.” She kept on looking around the room.

  “There was water on the floor of his quarters when he died. I recovered the sample from Lamar’s lab. The water contained lethal levels of your spores
. Young enough to be impossible to see with the human eye, but enough to wreak havoc on his cardiovascular system. That’s some toxic stuff you’re growing down there.”

  Her wandering eyes found his and locked into place, and she remained silent for a long time. Moses refused to give her the grace of breaking the silence. He waited, never taking his eyes away from hers. Was this a surprise to her? Or was she trying to cover up her knowledge by acting shocked?

  Eventually, she worked up an answer. “How on earth would he have gotten hold of our spores? Those are kept contained in a negative pressure room to prevent environmental contamination. There is no way anyone could sneak any out, because we have to strip and change clothes in a clean room. Nothing from inside gets out. There’s always redundant checks to make sure of it. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Out of nowhere, he interjected, “What workstation did Adrie Petersen work with? When she forced Jacobs to allow her to work down in your lab for research, which station was hers?” Maybe his abruptness would catch her off guard.

  “I don’t remember.” She answered before she could think about it. “Those devices get passed around all the time. When she died it was re-purposed. There’s no way to know which one was hers.”

  “Yes, there is,” he challenged. “I have access to all of her work. It has the identification number of the workstation she used embedded in the files.” He held up one of the shattered tablets. “Is this going to have a matching ID number?”

  She grew pale. Before she passed out, she tried to say something but Moses couldn’t understand what it was.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Dr. Moses Truman would look back at his next action as necessary, but also one of the low points of his career as a physician. Instead of informing the command center of the attack right away and treating the injured scientist, he removed her ID badge so he could gain access to her private research laboratory. Her injuries were only minor and an opportunity to study the remains of the lab and Idleman’s office undisturbed and unsupervised would not come up again. Plus there was a chance that Rebecca was somewhere down there.

  He made sure she would remain unconscious for a while. Locking the clinic on his way out, Moses considered his options. How thorough should his search be? Should he prioritize finding Rebecca, leaving the lab if she wasn’t there? Or should he search for answers? He wasn’t certain which task was more important. He may not know which he would choose until he made the decision. But one thing was certain: something didn’t add up in all of this. He didn’t believe Idleman about her level of involvement, Petersen had just confessed to motive, and Jacobs was definitely involved somehow.

  He was still uneasy about the decision to pursue breaking into the offices when the lift doors opened on the mycophycology department. He held his breath, half expecting the damage to be repaired and all clues gone. But it was still there. Disorder and chaos, disguised as an attempt to do widespread damage, but only really damaging one workstation. Tools like the ones down here were too important, too valuable, even when covering up murder. Anything broken would take at least nine months to replace, and that was only if the resupply schedule was in their favor. If the resupply was already in transit then it could be even longer to get replacement equipment.

  That means that whoever did this probably worked down here in the labs. Anyone else would be happy to destroy the equipment in another department as long as it meant nobody noticed that it was covering up the unpleasant truth. That is, of course, unless the person involved was responsible for overall productivity of the habitat. Someone in a leadership position may also be tempted to save as much equipment as possible. It wouldn’t do to have a year-long hiatus in productivity while Homestead IV waited for replacement equipment in its core terraforming program. Each of those lines of thought led to the top of their respective departments.

  Rather than spend more time in the debris in the center of the main laboratory, Moses decided to focus on Idleman’s personal office and lab. He could always come back here and call in the discovery of the ransacked workspace. It would be best to take advantage of the opportunity to search the elusive researcher’s secretive inner sanctum.

  Her office space was surprisingly tidy and neat. He had unknowingly pictured it in his mind as something more sinister, with samples of different stages of algae and cyanobacterial samples merging into their now highly-productive current forms. The wall-climbing lichen of his imagination was absent. Instead it was uncluttered and sterile. White walls lacking framed pictures or degrees surrounded the antiseptic room. There was a hooded lab table in one corner with some petri dishes and a microscope that hooked in to a flat monitor that filled the back wall behind the table. Very low tech for the most technologically advanced bacterial research lab in the solar system.

  He powered on her workstation and began browsing through the programs. Her chair was remarkably comfortable. No wonder he couldn’t ever find her. She was probably always here. He would have to get a chair like this for his office. As he scrolled through programs, something caught his eye. He recognized the pollinator drone program. Stephanie Idleman had no use for reprogramming the tiny robotic bees. Why would she have access to the program that rerouted and re-prioritized the habitat’s main source of sustainability?

  He opened the program and looked through the history. Her activity was pretty minimal for the most part, but there were consistent commands to send a tiny percentage of bees into the ventilation system that corresponded to the time of the massive sickness that nearly brought the habitat to its knees. Moses scrolled back further. He didn’t have exact dates, but did have an idea about the timetable of events.

  He continued his search, learning many surprising things about the role of the reprogrammed robots in the problems that plagued Homestead IV. But as he did this, time got away from him. He lost track of how long he had been searching until he heard noises coming from the main lab. He quickly cut off power to the private workstation of Dr. Idleman and quietly made his way to the door.

  The sounds stopped abruptly. Moses didn’t think he had made any noise. Could they see through the small window in the door? Did they know he was in here? He waited. He could almost hear his heart pounding. The light out in the lab turned off. Whoever it was knew how to override the automatic lights.

  The lift doors opened and closed. Silence.

  After a long wait with no new sounds from outside, he decided to see if the other room was clear. He opened the door, exposing the lab one fraction of an inch at a time, not taking any chances. When the door was opened enough to squeeze through, he waited even longer. Getting caught in Idleman’s office, while not strictly forbidden, was an obvious breach of habitat trust. He finally forced his way through the small opening, thankful that he was wearing darker colors today. They must have missed him.

  As soon as the thought went through his head, something struck him from the right side.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The main lab was darker than he thought it was. The only light came from the workstations that had not been thrown into the center of the lab in a pile of rubble. The light provided little opportunity to see the attacker. But Moses didn’t need to see this person to defend himself. Staggering to his left and shaking his head to recover from the blow, he took stock of the room. Someone was to his right, preparing to strike again. Moses crouched low, taking advantage of the low light to throw off his attacker’s sense of where he was. His right ear was burning hot, probably bleeding. No permanent damage. As he heard the other person approach, Moses waited for them to come close enough and then launched himself at them. The unsuspecting opponent received a gut full of shoulder and let out a yell. Definitely a man.

  Moses fell to the floor among overturned chairs and wall partitions. In the commotion, he had lost track of the other man. The shadows seemed to be coming in at Moses, shapes moving in the darkness all around him. The illusion that near-total darkness always hid nefarious characters
was one that had been with him as long as he could remember. It was an irrational fear he had learned to deal with a long time ago. Now it was true. He just needed to focus on the sounds in the room instead of the fluctuating gyres with evil faces that his brain told him were there.

  Objects were still settling around him from where he had landed. He forced himself to listen outside of that area for movement. Had he won so easily? Was the other man already out of commission?

  No such luck. As Moses began to get himself up off of the floor, a kick to the stomach threw him onto his side. Again, he landed on the furniture that was already scattered around the room. The sharp pain in his left flank where he landed on a metal table could be a broken rib. The pain brought white lights to the corners of his vision. While he reeled, the other man came closer. He kicked at Moses again and again. Stomach. Shin. Face. White lights went off over and over, bringing tears to his eyes. He reached out with his arm to grab the leg and caught it with the inside of his elbow just after it made contact with his chest.

  The air went out of him. The whole world was shutting down. Gasping, Moses focused everything he had on not letting go of the leg. He allowed himself to fall flat onto his stomach, bringing a world of pain back to his injured rib, but never let go of the leg. He could hear himself trying to force air back into his lungs and failing. Still holding on to the leg of the man attacking him.

  He held his breath, intentionally stopping his body’s automatic reaction to get air back into the lungs, life back in to his chest, so he could recover. He kept twisting the foot at the ankle with both hands to force the other man to adjust his balance so he couldn’t stomp on Moses’ back or head. After an eternity of struggling to breathe, just as unconsciousness was about to take hold, Moses managed to force himself to suck in two lungfuls of air and hold his breath. Stopping the automatic breathing response let his body reset itself. Instead of struggling to force air into a deflated bag, he had allowed his muscles to do the work of forcing the lungs back open. This of course terrorized his rib all over again, the muscles pulling at the broken rib as they attempted to expand the chest wall.