Chapter 12
PSD 29-212: 1815 hours
Cait stalked down to Dodge’s room once again, but unsurprisingly, he’d already shot through. Not one to start early or work late, Dodge’s hours were more malleable than most.
Some days he didn’t show up at all.
And he’d made it perfectly clear to everyone in the workshop that he was not to be contacted outside of work hours.
“You don’t bug me when I’m not around,” Cait could quite clearly remember him telling them in one of his “inspirational” addresses to the crew. “Not if you need something signed. Not if you stub your toe, or if there’s a rash on your butt. Not if you blow up a whole freakin’ transport. It can wait till morning, got it?”
More than once, Cait had seen him hanging around bars down in the Cross, in what was regarded the entertainment hub of the outpost, but none of the Optechs ever approached him there. Not after he’d made it clear he was off limits to them.
As she stared at the door to his empty office, she realized that the only thing she could do was lodge a notification through her omni-device to Dodge’s work queue. If there was an investigation into Landry’s disappearance later, that would effectively shift the blame to Dodge. Cait had done everything that was in her power to do.
And besides
, she told herself,
Landry’s going to be back within the next few hours, just like Dodge and Barakula said. He’ll be fine. This isn’t something I need to get all worked up about.
What she
did
need to do was put this out of her mind and get back to what she should really be doing—
celebrating
.
She was a supervisor now. She was on her way.
Feeling better about things already, Cait punched the notification into her omni-device and made her way out of Maintenance. She hitched a ride on the elevator down to Accommodation. Around here, others were also heading home for the night. Two young women who worked in Outpost Control got in at Minus Two, chattering about some dreamy Marine who’d strutted through the office earlier in the day, and they were trying to decide if they should try to track him down before the troops lifted off in a few days. They cast sidelong glances at Cait and her messy coveralls, her grease-streaked face, letting her know that she was an outsider to them, that she would never be part of their clique.
Cait stared back at them, leaning against the scratched metal wall of the elevator car with her arms folded across her chest, regarding them evenly. She cared little for their approval or their acceptance. She would never be one of the prissy female administrators, and she was perfectly happy about that.
They got off at Minus Six, Cait at Minus Seven. The narrow, dingy underground passageway that led to her apartment was covered in shallow pools of water again, and she was forced to mind her footing so as not to slip.
All the brochures and pamphlets that she’d seen back on Earth had depicted the outposts as technological marvels, shining white domes with broad, sunny walkways. Healthy and happy workers stationed at gleaming consoles, carrying out their part in humanity’s war against the Argoni.
The reality couldn’t be further from the truth. The outpost at Proc-One was a dive, plain and simple. The colony was originally created as part of a terraforming project, of which the mining operation had been the first phase. It was far more cost effective to extract and process the ore locally than to ship it eleven light-years from Earth. However, the whole terraforming setup hadn’t gone very far before the war began, and after that, all focus had shifted toward the Argoni invasion.
The mine was still running, but like the rest of the industries on Proc-One, it was solely geared toward providing construction materials for the war.
As part of that legacy, ninety-five percent of the outpost was located underground, hallways and living quarters repurposed from the mining operation that pre-dated the war. As such, water seepage and the stink of chemical residue were common companions in these parts.
At least the pay was good, she figured. That was about all it had going for it. There certainly wasn’t anyone who came out here for a holiday. The people here were all ancillary staff like Cait: Optechs, botanists who worked in the Ag-rooms, administrators and overseers from Outpost Control, as well as the opportunists who had set up shop at the Cross to provide entertainment services. One big happy family.
Cait badged through the door of her apartment and went inside. It was tiny, like all the others on that level, just a one-room rectangle with a small sleeping cove on one side, a couch on the other, and a shower behind a panel at the back. She stripped off her coveralls and showered quickly, then slung on her “nightwear:” a simple white off-the-shoulder blouse and black jeans. Not exactly something that would impress the OC girls with their push-up bras and tight skirts, but for Cait, that was as fancy as it got.
She left and headed back up the elevator, stepping out at the Cross, the nexus of Proc-One’s nightlife, where she grabbed a miso rice bowl from Shen’s Snack Bar before continuing on to Dive, an oversized hole in the wall that tried to pass itself off as a bar. The patrons were rowdy that night, the majority clustered around the pool tables at the far end. The booths by the wall were dotted with occupants, older men mostly, staring over the rims of their glasses at anyone who happened to walk by. Cait made her way to the bar, which was a rusted and weathered conveyor belt that had been discarded from the mine propped up on broken transport axles, and took an empty stool.
“Well,
hello
,” Shillington said upon catching sight of her. The regular bartender at Dive was young and good looking, with long chestnut hair and an easy smile. “Look who it is.”
“Shill,” Cait said. “How’s tricks?”
“Business has really fallen off a cliff without you around, man.”
“Get lost. I don’t drink
that
much.”
Shillington spread his hands across the bar and gave her a mock-serious look. “The first step is admitting you have a problem. Don’t you know that?”
“So you’re gonna talk me out of a drink, now?”
“Heck, no. As if I’d pass up the chance to make a few bucks.”
“Then shut up and hit me with a synth.”
Shillington finished drying the glass he’d been working on, then poured her a shot of her regular—whiskey neat. She took it and downed it in one go, savoring the heat of it in her belly.
It wasn’t real whiskey, obviously. You couldn’t get that stuff out here, not without paying a hefty price. This was some kind of synthetic crap, a vague approximation of the real thing, but in the end it had the same effect. That was all that mattered.
“Another?” Shillington said.
“What do you think?”
Shillington filled the glass again. “Going hard, eh?”
“Yeah. I’m celebrating.”
“Let me guess, your fiftieth birthday?” She smirked and gestured rudely at him. “Okay, okay. Tell me.”
“Got a promotion today. You’re looking at
Supervisor
Underwood.”
“Oh, wow. Do I have to address you as ‘my lady’ or something now?”
“No. Bowing in my presence should be sufficient.”
Shillington bowed, then gave a little flourish with his hand. “Seriously, that’s cool, man. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
“So where you been? It must’ve been six, maybe eight weeks since I’ve seen you round here. There were cobwebs growing on your favorite stool.”
Cait shrugged, then took another slug. “Just taking it easy. Cutting back a bit, y’know?”
“That doesn’t sound like you. What gives?”
Cait watched as he filled the tumbler yet again, considering what to say. She could tell Shillington the truth—that she’d been going too hard on the synth lately, that it had been affecting her mood, bringing her down—but she didn’t want to talk about that heavy stuff. She just wanted to enjoy herself.
“Been working late,” she lied.
“Hence the promotion, right?”
No, my supervisor was an idiot, and I made sure I was first in line when he failed.
She smiled. “That’s it.”
Shillington leaned forward conspiratorially. “Hey, I’ve got some spare time later if you’re looking for something to do.”
Cait pretended to watch the pool tables for a moment, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah? Cool.”
“
Cool?
Is that all you’ve got to say?”
Cait knew exactly what he was suggesting, and a part of her was tempted to give in. The guy was a good-looking bartender, and charming and funny to boot. But she wasn’t sure she wanted that right now. Shillington was a player, for a start. He’d probably had his way with most of the girls at the outpost at one time or another.
In addition to that, she was practically the only female at Dive tonight, she knew, and she couldn’t help but feel like he was just using her to scratch an itch.
When she considered it, she realized that she wasn’t in the mood for celebrating anymore. She kept telling herself that she should be going crazy, savoring her triumph, but something was nagging at her, and she couldn’t let it go.
That night, she just didn’t feel like it was the right thing to do.
She thumbed the creditpad on the bar, then finished her drink as the payment went through. She got up. “Thanks, but I’ve gotta go,” she said.
“What? Are you crazy?”
“I’m a responsible managerial type now. I need to go home and do some filing.”
“Killjoy,” Shillington said, his disappointment evident.
“Later, man.”
“Hey, come back tomorrow,” he called after her. “The offer still stands.”
“Call my secretary,” she said airily, then she swept through the door and left Dive behind her.
Chapter 13
PSD 29-213: 0501 hours
Landry awoke in darkness.
He started, not knowing where he was, the dream of Freida still clinging to him, bittersweet, potent, and all too real. The cockpit came into focus around him, and he saw the stars above through the cockpit canopy.
Oh yeah. That whole stuck-in-the-middle-of-nowhere thing.
He sat up and looked around. Outside, Procyon B had set. Now there was nothing but stars looking down on him, a desolate and cold vista. His situation hadn’t improved.
Still, this was a good morning.
He hadn’t been ripped apart by the giant alien rock monster in his sleep. That was something to be thankful for, he figured.
Out on the eastern horizon, the sky was turning pinkish, heralding the imminent arrival of his savior, Procyon A, the fiery orb that would start charging his battery pack again. He checked the clock on his HUD. Proc-One had a 23.3 hour day—not much different from home, really—and by his reckoning, Procyon A should arrive within minutes.
He was going to make it through to sunrise.
Or was he?
He realized that he couldn’t hear the air hissing through the SCU anymore. The pressure in his suit had also dropped slightly.
Had the battery run out of juice, he wondered, shutting down the OXEE?
There’s air in the suit. Keep calm, breathe slow. You’ll make it.
He closed his eyes again, and tried to do just that. It wasn’t easy. He kept thinking how pointless it would be to have come this far, only to run short of air by a few minutes. But, then again, he could have easily been killed in the crash, or gutted by the Toad. The backup battery could have been damaged, thwarting his attempts to renew his air supply.
Maybe he was just looking at this all wrong.
As he lay there, he thought of the dream again.
Freida
. It was as if she’d been right there with him. He couldn’t be sure if he felt comforted by the thought of her, or the opposite. That was how it usually went with her. She’d messed up his head, good and proper. That was why, in general, he tried not to think about her too much. There was just too much conflict in his mind whenever she made an appearance.
At some point, he must have drifted off again, because he was awoken by the sound of air coming in through the SCU once more.
He sat up. Procyon A was above the horizon. The solar cells were running again; the OXEE pumping out air.
“That’s more like it!”
Things were looking up, he thought. This was good. This was
great
. He’d made it through the night, which was much further than he’d imagined he would get after the Argoni had flattened him.
Okay. Now it’s time to get to work.
He struggled forward and located the AI module on the avionics panel at the front of the cockpit. It wasn’t hard to find, labeled ‘HAIRI’ in bold lettering. The caption underneath read,
Himura Artificial Intelligence and Robotics Incorporated.
He stared at it for a moment, carefully considering how to proceed. He could pull the AI out, no problems there. It was a modular component, and was meant to run discretely from the scout’s main computer so it wouldn’t be affected by software bugs or crashes, while still being able to interrogate the system through its own interface. Landry had extracted and replaced at least half a dozen AI units during his time in maintenance.
Once that was done, he would need to hook it up to the battery to get it running.
At the back of his mind, he was conscious that the AI would draw some voltage from the battery, reducing the amount available to the OXEE. It wasn’t like he had a choice, though. He needed the AI online, so he just had to hope the OXEE would cope.
He took a screwdriver from his toolkit and removed the faceplate of the AI, then carefully removed the module itself. He disconnected the data and power cables and then ran his eyes over the components. The CPU looked fine, he thought, as did the circuit board and the memory wafers. Encouraging.
Drawing through more ducting from the OXEE, he gave himself enough slack to get back outside the cockpit and reach the makeshift battery pack. Forcing himself to work slowly and deliberately, he hooked the AI up to the power battery and then booted it up. A small LED display set into the fascia allowed command line configuration, and Landry used this to redirect the AI’s comms from its direct input cable to short-range wireless that was tuned to the receiver in his EVA suit.
“Communications established,” a pleasant male voice said. It was one that was familiar to Landry—the same one that was possessed by all HAIRI units. It repeated the greeting in several other languages.
“English,” Landry said, keeping his breathing steady and suppressing a little thrill of excitement.
“English language selected,” HAIRI said. “Would you like to proceed?”
“Yes. Continue.”
Don’t get carried away. Not yet.
“Cold boot has completed. Diagnostics passed with one warning and no critical errors. System serial number is seven-seven-two-two-one.” There was a pause. “Power interruption detected. Would you like me to attempt to resume operation?”
“That won’t be necessary, HAIRI.”
“Warning.” HAIRI’s tone became more urgent. “Vehicle comms-link appears to be down. No heartbeat detected in twelve point two seconds. Please—”
“That’s okay. You’ve been disconnected from the ship. Please enter offline maintenance mode.”
“Thank you. Maintenance mode initiated.”
Landry exhaled heavily, drumming his fingers on the hull of the scout, wondering how to proceed.
“My name is Landry Stanton. I’m a supervisor for the maintenance crew that’s based at the outpost on planet Proc-One. Please stand by for situation report.”
“Proceed, Landry.”
“We’ve crash-landed in the wilderness and have no way of contacting the outpost. I estimate the distance back is probably around three hundred clicks. I’m running the ship’s OXEE from the backup battery, which in turn is being fed by the emergency solar system.”
“Warning. This configuration is not optimal for the Oxygen Environment Enhancer.”
“No kidding. Right now, I don’t have an alternative.”
“Understood. My last reported connection was to a Himura Seagull scout class vessel. Can you verify this is still current?”
“Correct.”
“How can I be of assistance?”
“Currently I’m hooked into the scout by the OXEE. I need to remove it from the nacelle so that I can get out of here. You with me so far?”
“I’m with you all the way, Landry.”
Landry wondered briefly at the unusual phrasing, but decided to plough on anyway. “I brought you online to assist with the removal of the OXEE. If I make one mistake, I’m dead, so there can’t be any foul-ups. You have detailed schematics of the Seagull, right?”
“I certainly do.”
“Then let’s begin.”