Brian Ellis listened to the ’com snap off and sighed, setting aside the electronic/hydraulic-interface manual that Katherine had lent him. He’d been waiting for the command from Pop to run systems, as he’d been trained. It had become painfully obvious in the three weeks since his assignment to Nemesis that the commander had his own way of doing things.
Ellis typed in the codes and then sat back, taking off his glasses to polish them with one overlong coat cuff. The check only took a few minutes, and everything else was ready; it wasn’t as if he were some kind of slacker, as Izzard seemed to think. What else was there to do? He was anxiously excited about the prospect of running Max outside a simulator, but it would also be his first actual activity since they’d left dock.
The Company recruiting brochures had promised mental stimulation and real-time training on the cutting edge of robotics and synthetic repair. Appealing, bright holoshots of eager young techs like himself, actively working in full labs and glowing with the joy of a job well done, enjoying the camaraderie of their shipmates as they made a real difference. There had been a big push at the university for synth techs with a heavy background in chemistry, corporate cards in every senior hand, and he’d been enticed by the chance to work with Max. That had been six months ago, before the Company program and before this assignment.
The reality was that the Nemesis was cold all of the time, the food was reconstituted and chalky, and the workplace was the size of a walk-in closet—where his primary duties to date had been monitoring endless stats for minor changes. Not to mention a macho commander who seemed to think that techs existed to be crapped upon and three cons who hadn’t particularly bothered to notice him yet.
There was Katherine Lara, but he sometimes got the feeling that she was simply trying to be nice to the new boy. Although she seemed interested in the robotics work, she didn’t seem interested in him, as a person.
Story of my life, yes? He’d never been very good with people anyway; machines were much more… understandable. Still, the brochure camaraderie had been appealing; perhaps when he felt more comfortable with his job, he’d attempt to strike up a dialogue with some of the team. His work was essential to their survival, after all. And Pop would be leaving soon, which would almost certainly help matters along; he could endure the commander for three more runs, couldn’t he?
Ellis put his glasses back on and watched the systems check run. The lab only had one chair, surrounded by screens and buttons and a ceiling low enough to reach up and touch while standing. Thick bundles of electrical cords snaked through the wall directly to his left, where Max could be seen through a shielded window, smudgy with plasticine dust. Max looked exactly as he’d looked the last thousand times Ellis had glanced over: inert, inactive, expensive. Dead tons of metal and weaponry hooked up to over a dozen tubes, a machine with no power source in a cold blank room.
Of course, all of that would change soon. The power source was there, only waiting for the touch of a button to spark into action. Waiting for his touch.
Maybe this would be worth it after all, in spite of the long wait and the numerous drawbacks; he had to admit, it was rather exciting now that the moment was close at hand. This was the kind of work he’d always been fascinated by—the machine as a physical power, led by the whims of man for the greater good of all. Perhaps a naive and idealistic view of his career choice, but one that still drew him as nothing else could.
The monitor in front of him bleated softly to let him know that the check was over, no deviation from textbook standards, no irregularities except for a lysine flutter that this Max had always had; every Max had its own idiosyncrasies. The training model had been diabetic…
Pop’s voice suddenly blared loudly over the shipwide, causing him to jump in his seat. Silent treatment over, so it seemed. Five minutes until atmospheric break.
Ellis took a last look at Max’s condition and then belted in, wondering if it would be everything he hoped. This was what he’d worked toward, for the few critical moments when his skills would be called upon to save human lives; would he perform as well in true crisis as he had been trained? Lieutenant Lara was the fail-safe, would take over if he stumbled—but his twenty-run contract would be terminated and he’d end up in a small subcorporate lab somewhere, running repairs or studying tissue deterioration. The rest of his life would be mapped out, a safe and tidy existence that would never know the thrill of actually living.
Pop interrupted him. “All right, boys, get settled. Here’s the count: three… two… one… mark!”
Ellis gasped as the Nemesis dropped, heaving his stomach into his lungs, his heart suddenly constricted and seemingly overfull. His blood seemed to surge against his skin, a tingling and not unpleasant sensation, and his fingers reflexively tightened against the armrests.
He heard the ground team cackle and whoop from their locker room, joyful and unrestrained through the sudden rise of temperature in the poorly insulated ship. Ellis grinned, feeling a nameless emotion at their voices that unexpectedly threatened to overwhelm him with happiness.
“This is life,” he breathed, and closed his eyes tightly as they made their way to the doomed colony.
* * *
Wesley Acchord Teape was at the circus behind his closed eyes, watching the acrobats twirl and tumble. Pretty designs, they made—circling, twisting, falling. There were no crowds, no stands, no sound except for the sharp and deep inhalations of the athletes as they performed their beautiful feats of the flesh beneath a brilliant spotlight.
“Coming in at 0702, ETA two minutes fifteen… the guy’s name is Sturges, Supervisor, got it?”
“Yeah… Christ, what a sad little rock! You’d have to be nuts to go into geology these days, the way they have these things set up.”
Distractions. Teape tried to hold out a little longer, but it was no good; the acrobats blurred and faded, their miracles only a memory as Lara and Pop guided the Nemesis over Traon to Deep 4.
He sighed but kept his eyes closed, the signal to Jess and Pulaski not to disturb him. They were generally respectful of his need for a little peace when the Nemesis was going in, saving their posturing and jokes for afterwards.
Except there may not be an afterwards, Teepee-Teape, you wanna think about that? What if Traon is where you buy it?
Teape scowled. Pulaski’s pet name had been taken up by the Voice, apparently. He tuned his thoughts to a fuzzy black, breathing evenly and slowly. It had become a familiar companion, that voice in his head, checking in gleefully for almost five months now. He watched for it and did what he could not to listen—but it was getting harder. The Voice had gathered a lot of material picking through his memories, visions that he had thought buried or blocked; with each new recovery, the Voice got louder. He’d been to hell eleven times now, but at least one could escape from hell. The Voice was worse in some ways, because it wanted to drive him insane or see him dead. And because it was part of him, there was no way out.
Check that shit. New picture.
A white vastness, dotted with pockets of shadow. A plain of sand that filled his vision, deep and blank. Endless, even breaths.
Time passed, maybe only a few seconds, maybe longer. As soon as he wondered, the desert began to fade, giving in to reality. Teape groped for something to hold on to, some focal point to keep him there. There—a lone wanderer far below, trekking across the wastes but headed for nowhere, no bigger than…
…an ant, maybe? Ants like monsters breeding with nightmares and teeth that stink of carrion death and is that YOU, Teape, is that you in their teeth?
Teape opened his eyes wearily; the Voice had learned a trick or two of its own, the rat-bastard.
Across from him, Pulaski noticed that he had tuned back in. The Candyman grinned and raised a clenched fist in the air. The left side of his mouth was smeared with chocolate.
“You know it! Balls of steel, Teepee!”
“Wouldn’t know it. Mine went in and never came back out when I took this job,” he managed, and pasted on a lopsided grin. Pulaski talked a lot of bite and was badass with a rifle, but Teape usually thought of him as kind of a big, dumb dog. Intimidating at first, but loyal to the death as long as you kept smiling at him.
He could almost hear the huge man’s gears grind to life beneath the short white mohawk as Pulaski searched for a one-liner to shoot back with. Teape waited him out, suddenly eager for a bit of conversation, even with a dope like Candy; sometimes talking the game worked at getting him through landings without the Voice.
“At least you still got ’em, right? My ex-bitch wife wears mine like they’re earrings!” Pulaski slapped one meaty thigh and roared at his own wit.
“Gee, Candyman, she told me that they fell off while she was shelling peas and were forever lost; of course, maybe that was just pillow talk.”
Pulaski worked that one over for a moment and then decided that it was a keeper. He slapped his thigh again, braying laughter through horsey white teeth. Teape wondered what it would be like, to be someone like Pulaski— big, dumb, happy; just smart enough to enjoy wine, women, song, and a good brawl every now and then, not enough brainpan to concern himself about what came next…
Actually, maybe the Candyman was a genius.
“All right, all right, that’s enough.” Jess held up one long-fingered hand while Pulaski shook his head, still chuckling. “You wanna listen up now, I got something to say.”
From Jess’s carefully patient expression, Teape got ready for what he thought of as the prologue speech. Martin Jess was a good leader, if predictable; a few words to the boys, get ’em revved up for action.
Jess had a deep and soothing voice, brimming with the confidence that Teape had long wished for. “We know what to do and we know how to do it. We got this down to a’ art and to a science; we see the plan, we drop the man, and he takes care of the problem. Ain’t no reason to think it’s gonna be different this time, all right? Clean and smooth.”
Pulaski’s mammoth jaw was set and clenched, his eyes glimmering with the prospect of battle. “Semper fuck yeah, brother!”
Jess looked at Teape, and although he kept his tone light, Teape saw a sizing-up in his mild brown eyes. “You in there, Teape? You gonna know that we in there for you?”
It doesn’t matter what you know, Teepee, it’s the Max that saves your ass and he doesn’t even know your name—
Shut up!
Teape let his grin widen and played along, trying to muster enough certainty to still the enemy voice. “Ain’t no other way, baby.”
Jess hesitated, still searching, then smiled and slapped Teape’s shoulder pad. He looked back at Pulaski and then abruptly leaned over and ruffled the giant’s bleached strip of hair.
Pulaski scowled and ducked away. “You better watch that shit, black man, or I’m—”
The Nemesis shuddered noisily around them, temporarily swallowing Candyman’s words as the forward motion slowed to descent.
“…and stick it to your mother!” Pulaski finished, bellowing to be heard over the compressors.
Jess glanced at Teape, who shrugged. “Sometimes he forgets that the ship is bigger, you know?”
Jess cracked up and Pulaski tried to look menacing, but failed. Teape liked them better than the last two on Vengeance. His first seven runs had been with a quiet but competent pair of ex-gangsters who had finally time-served and gone home. The replacements, though: an overweight spouse-beating psychopath named Aberdeen and his toady, a tall, pimply-faced bigot who kept trying to get everyone to call him “Razor.” They’d been malicious and stupid, and Teape had applied to transfer before they’d been out for a week. Baiters were in high demand, since most crapped out on their first try, so transfers were approved quickly. Teape had heard that both men went MIA on their first mission; dorked and corked was the term for it, lost to the alien first-stage, the face-huggers. No great loss, really; he was just glad he hadn’t been there—
—to see those little babies crawling for you, Teepee, the sticky fingers trailing embryonic fluid tickling around your throat, eh, Teepee-Teape?
He tried to pretend that he hadn’t heard, but for the briefest of instants the locker room smelled like them. When an egg opened, there was an overwhelming scent for just a second or two; he’d once heard it described like a chemist’s version of rising bread yeast and fresh semen, and that was close…
He blew out sharply, and the odor was gone. He had no doubts that it had been one of the Voice’s newer tactics; it was searching for weaknesses, trying to draw him out.
And why would I do that, Teepee? How could I do that, unless you were already insane?
Teape grinned to himself. He knew how it was; insanity was relative. Considering what he currently did for a living, he was batting a thousand.
The final metallic thunk of the landing gear drew the three of them to their feet, checking lockers and shouldering rifles.
“Down and power-down,” Pop called out. “Let’s take care of business, boys; cargo gates in two.”
In the sudden quiet and lack of motion, Teape realized that they were there.
An unexpected rush of what was to come crashed over his senses like a wave of darkness, filled his mind with the things he spent all of his waking hours trying to hide from: the stink of bodies dead and dying, a cloying stench like rotten apples and sour milk and vomit; the lithe and cool press of improbable metallic limbs against him in the furious dark, echoing with shrieks of animal rage; humid, steaming dead air hissed between alien jaws, centimeters away from his own unblinking eyes. Most of all the terror, the pure sensation of one’s sanity struggling to get away and the knowledge that you cannot hold sway for much longer. Not a snap; it would be the sound of wet tissue gently pulled, you can hear it starting to stretch and only the very bad place will follow where the screams never stop—
A huge hand cracked down on his shoulder, Pulaski’s chocolate-tinged voice monstrous in his ear. “You startin’ without us there, Teepee?”
Teape let it go, all of it. He looked into Pulaski’s earnest, stupid face and felt a genuine smile creep into place. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and take up breath mints, Candyman? You smell like a fuckin’ Zagnut.”
“You and your mother, pussyface,” Pulaski replied promptly.
“Enough, white boys. Let’s go learn what we can.” Jess walked between them, hanging a right to lead them to the boarding gate.
Teape brought up the rear as they walked silently through the belly of the ship, past dim corridors of greased machinery and panels of time-smudged buttons. He tried not to look to either side, not wanting to open up any of his mind’s doors; he’d had enough of long, dark tunnels to last the rest of his life.
Teape tried to think about blackness, and wondered how close he was to the end of his rope.