“Attention all passengers. Outer Rim flights have been delayed. Please check the flight information display board or consult one of our friendly gate agents for more detailed information,” the PA announced and everyone began scouring the news for what happened.

Then the large holo-screen up above addressed Port 7 with the following announcement: “We here at the Deimos Intercolony Spaceport would like to ask everyone to bow their heads in a moment of silence.”

Most everyone did in remembrance of the Kharon Incident last year. Even one of the infiltrators, a young woman with blue hair, Sonya Alkes took a deep breath to steel herself for the mission ahead.

But the mission leader strode forward among the bowed.

“Only cowards pray before the gates of Hell.”

They wore their face masks. If they stood out, it was as foreigners during flu season, raising only the hackles of the most conservative, but a space port was a place for foreigners even during these war-stricken times and the war lingered in the distance, among the starlight, a supernova of great destruction that for those at the viewing screen, looking out into the cosmos, was almost beautiful, a backdrop to their days.

In the year 2154 CE, humanity renewed efforts into its expansion into the solar system. Space was no longer the sole domain of scientists, but miners, cooks, families, every profession under the sun needed off our planet. At first, colony ships were sent up with enough for a sustainable population: 80. And once these 80 settled between high Earth orbit satellites and Luna, daily life began. Half of the first wave were critical systems professionals. Repairs, constructions, agricultural scientists (farmers), but even professionals want to start families. The first off-Earth child was born in 2155.

It marked the start of an era.

With a growth rate of 3%, that colony pod started to swell as more immigrants from Earth flocked star-ward for a new life and when the pilgrim pod’s population approached sustainable development goals, rather than send up a second colony and cluttering the (2.29 * 10^17) cubic kilometers of open space, they future-proofed the colony.

Construction crews donned their space suits. Citizens were asked to ration manufactured goods for a few years. An annex was built then subsequently filled. The new sector became an industrial complex that continued adding onto the colony until the pilgrims in the first pod became the center of a beautiful, ever expanding flower.

Other colonies arrived, using a modified blueprint of the first.

These expensive, overcrowded colonies would become known as the Inner Rim.

But the Earth’s resources were strained supporting such expansion and it became vital to excavate space. New colonies situated between Mars and the Asteroid Belt took half a year to reach and while the growth rate was a similar 3%, the birth rate was significantly higher. The companies who invested their fortune into this gamble saw great returns after a few years, but after several round trips, it became clear that the Outer Rim laborers would see little profit.

Outer Rim colonies grew jealous of one another. Supply ships would be pirated. Earth-bound ships would be held for ransom.

Eventually two major factions came to power.

The United Earth Colonies, popular but not ubiquitous in the Inner Rim, and the Independent Space Front, a loose confederation of Outer Rim colonies.

“And remember,” the PA concluded, “if you see something, say something.”

A common misconception is that shuttles, stations, and colonies need to be airtight to survive the vacuum of space. While that is functionally true--the little air leaking out does not endanger denizens--it is not absolutely true. The same principle applied to security. Blind spots existed and hampering travelers with excessive protocol was bad for business, so ports opted for a theater of security. A sign that said “Employees Only” would deter the weak-willed, but without a keypad, those that came on a mission just had to glance this way and that, then step through.

The corridors led from the civilian access port to the military, where security was eased because soldiers had been vetted before enlistment. In the main hangar, a fighter had been disassembled to a puzzle-piece sphere with the main turbine out on blocks. Stripped to the chassis. Parts exposed. And the repairman stepped away to eat his lunch. He glanced at a nigh illegible maintenance request form for fixing the arm of a collector before tossing it into the pile. He had examined it yesterday. It was fine.

The emtact, MTCT, military traffic control tower had dark windows. Not just tinted, but unattended.

A call came in.

A light switched on.

The sleepy ensign Lisa Maldoon slapped her face. Tested out her voice. Then answered. “DMS emtact. Call sign. Over.”

Silence lingered a moment and just as thoughts of her nap returned, the distant vessel replied, “UEC Defense Force escort carrier Scorpio en route to Ceres. Over…”

“…Purpose for dock? Over…”

“…Refuel and pick-up. Over…”

“…Transmit logs. ETA? Over…”

“…49 hours. Over…

“…Roger. Over and out.”

It was the worst part of her shift. Shortly after a spacecraft entered detection range, transmissions took 1.22 minutes to cross the vast expanse. 1.22 minutes there, 1.22 minutes back. And once answered, like someone performing CPR, the operator was obligated to stay until all signs of life went quiet for good. The ensign went back to sleep.

The busiest sector in this port was shielding. That needed constant attention.

An asteroid the size of a grapefruit--manageable, low-energy--disintegrated before reaching the titanium coating. The shield, otherwise invisible, flickered when activated and the color depended largely on the metal ions present in the asteroid moving to an unstable, excited state. Copper: green. Strontium: red. Potassium: purple. Science teachers felt equal excitement demonstrating since they got to play with fire. This grapefruit flickered yellow: iron.

Drones orbited the colony, armed with lasers and an emergency explosive ordinance. Their patrol detected no threats large enough to activate defense protocols, but once in a blue moon, a large asteroid turned up that needed to be broken into manageable, low-energy chunks.

“Goddamn litterbugs!” a new engineer cried as the data logger in his hands fried from overuse. “What are those junk rats doing?”

The real plight of laborers was pollution.

Stray space waste lit one of hundreds of pale dots on a graph, charted by an arbitrary Earth-centric time or the objective place in orbit. Certain sections of the orbit had dense groupings of dots, and while a single piece of junk required no more attention than a single fruit fly, a swarm was an annoyance. Last week’s orbital position was officially called a series of long, boring coordinates but among the engineering staff, was collectively known as Tie-Dye Hell. Pretty. Sparkly. And a nightmare of overtime.

“Cheer up, guy.”

“Cheer up?” The grouchy engineer took up his wrench in singed, bandaged hands to threaten the supervising mentor with. “Why the hell should I cheer up?”

“Think of the paycheck.”

His expression softened to one already a little drunk off celebration.

Time-and-a-half or no, as shield surgeons reached seniority, they requested for cushier positions like emtact. The high turnover meant unfamiliar faces keeping the colony safe.

“Hey, you.” The supervisor snapped her fingers, trying to grab the attention of a newbie. ”Fetch another data logger from maintenance.”

“Data logger?” Sonya asked.

“In the bird cage.”

She looked around. “Bird cage?” She looked to her mission leader who also shrugged.

The supervisor slapped her forehead. “I’ll get it myself.”

She walked down the corridor, past a trash can overflowing with recyclables that when not properly sorted wound up giving Shielding more overtime and normally she’d do something about it, but not today. If she had, she’d have discovered the infiltrators’ civilian disguises buried beneath.

Every step after reaching shielding was a trade. A dollar for 2 quarters. 2 quarters for 3 dimes. 4 nickels. 5 pennies. Those pennies in the machines. Sudden maintenance.

Then sneaking away in the cover of a rolling blackout.

As Sam carried his three-legged dachshund into the hall, he heard voices by the elevator. From the tone, clearly friendly chit-chat between long-time acquaintances, perhaps even friends, but he didn’t have his translator tapped on. He stopped to consider.

With the long day of paperwork he just had, with the earlier reprimand for filling it out incorrectly, with Sushi in his arms, Sam left it off.

“So cute,” the short and athletic guy said. Sam had heard the phrase enough to understand it.

The tall woman pushed up her glasses and said something like, “You think he’s handsome?”

“Mhmm.”

They couldn’t see Sushi’s prosthesis.

Sam had seen them around. He assumed the two were dating. Always together, leaning on one another, heading into the same 50-square meter apartment--too tight of living quarters for friends. All three lived on floor 40, but their schedules rarely overlapped. They ran into each other on nights like tonight where they were taking out his bag of trash & her box of recycling, and Sam had Sushi.

He smiled to be polite, but they only saw his eyebrows scrunch up since he was in a mask, beanie, and sunglasses. If they commented on his flu season protection, strange on this colony, it wasn’t with any words he knew off the top of his head, but they continued to chat amongst themselves.

The elevator arrived. Everyone got in. The man held the door open button until Sam was in, 23rd century chivalry.

“One?” the guy asked.

He nodded.

The guy pressed the 1 button then B1 then let Sushi sniff him--Lee Ji-Ming, 32, First City native, 3 tours, senior airman.

The dog averted his eyes and shuddered when the stranger pet him. A long whine let loose. He nestled deeper in Sam’s arms, settling by the time the affection stopped.

The woman pushed the door close button--Tele’ktrides C. Lee, 37, Second City native, weapons R&D, team leader.

As the elevator descended, they were rocked by a sudden KA-CHUNK!

Rubber soles slapped the ground.

Everyone looked to the door then each other.

The collective thought that broke language barriers was, “Are we going to die?” followed immediately by “What should we do?” but the elevator soon started down again and somehow, having had the warning of the first drop, the second surprised everyone more—KA-CHUNK!—and Tele’ktrides box of cans scattered across the floor.

Emergency brakes engaged immediately and though the drop felt like a few meters, a few centimeters was more realistic. The display said they were on floor 39 and in the local alphabet, ERROR.

Ji-Ming pried open the doors to reveal they were between floors as the top half of the elevator was open to the 40th floor, marked by signage, but the bottom showed a shaft too small to squeeze into.

Sam remembered a dream like this. In it, he had tossed Sushi out thinking it’d save the dog, but as he had tossed the dog, the elevator went into freefall, the lights went out, and because it was a dream, they had impossibly survived the crash but as the red emergency lights flicked on, Sam saw Sushi cut in two, down to a single front leg, whimpering, betrayed, and he desperately tried to apply pressure to the poor pup’s missing hindquarters.

It was not a recurring dream. He’d had it once, back when nightmares were new, and yet it stuck with him, rearing its ugly head even during rare moments of tranquility and that ugly head now grinned with delight that the premonition seemed reality.

“Don’t worry,” Sam cooed to the pup. The two seemed to tremble at the same frequency as he stroked his back, slowly, firmly, letting the dog hear his words through touch. “You know, it’s actually a good thing. We’ll get down much faster this way.”

The two strangers exchanged quizzical glances. Dogs don’t get dark humor, and neither do cochlear translators.

“Did he just say…?”

Ji-Ming nodded.

Despite his attempts to soothe the boy, the anxiety must have been evident on Sam’s face, because a comforting hand touched his shoulder, grounding him as he did the dog. Ji-Ming said in English, “Should we crawl out?”

Sam slapped his ear in a fit, slamming his translator deeper in as it tapped on. “No!”

“That’s correct,” the woman said. Tele’ktrides pressed the big yellow Emergency Call button. An alarm sounded. A voice broadcast in several languages that all got translated, imperfectly in their ears, to something like, “Stay where you are. Help is coming. Don’t worry.”

“Guess we wait,” the guy said. “I’ve seen you around a few times, right?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so!”

A thin disguise of politeness. Sam stood out on this colony. His muddled appearance relayed that he was human and little else of his ancestry on Earth, compared to here where not-so-distant segregation had led to a starker contrast in skin tones. This couple might feel judgmental eyes on them as the man’s parentage received privileged treatment that he still reaped the benefits from while the woman still felt the sting of prejudice in outdated laws. Regardless of their personal beliefs, he stood out as an individual as much as they stood out as a couple and there was no ignoring that.

“You can call me Eddie if it’s easier.” His accent was thick and Sam realized it was because Ji-Ming was speaking rusty English and the translator wasn’t doing any work.

“Tele’ktrides,” the woman said. She kept to the colony French. “Are you one of the recent cadets?”

Sam shook his head. “Collector. For about 3 months.”

Ji-Ming’s eyes went up and over as he tried to recall when he first saw Sam, closer to 5 months prior, and the pieces started to snap in place when they heard a THUNK! overhead.

The maintenance access panel opened and a bright young face popped into view--Jean Beaumont, 26, Second City native, repair person. “Hey, folks! Don’tcha worry. We’ll have y’all out of here in a jiffy,” they said. “Oh, it’s you two! I don’t know you, though. But your puppy!” If Jean were a cartoon, their eyes would have turned to hearts. “Are they okay? They’re very cute. They don’t bite, right? I’ll just stay up here and admire from afar but tell them the next head-pat is from me--THANK YOU!”

As quickly as they popped into view, they popped out, their flash of red hair trailing behind them, and the sounds of tools on the metal roof echoed in the elevator.

“It’s okay,” Ji-Ming said, clearly calming Tele’ktrides down, not from adrenaline-fueled fear, but from a boiling resentment of this buffoon. “Give them a chance.”

“Oops!” A tool scraped the outer wall before it plummeted down the shaft.

“Another chance.”

“How many do they need? They flunked out of grease monkey duty on base after their half-assed repairs nearly got you sucked out of an air-lock and now our lives are in their hands--again. It has to be intentional.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

“Maybe it’s an assassination that’ll look like an accident.”

Sushi began to whimper at all the stimulus--tools falling, mag-boots, feuding, and Sam squeezing too tightly. Tele’ktrides took an intentionally audible deep breath and shut up.

Ji-Ming said to Sam, “These power outages happen occasionally. You’re just not usually in an elevator when they do.”

Jean called down, “Actually, it’s city-wide. Maybe Second City, too.”

The couple exchanged looks.

Sam noted it, but took it as a bad sign.

A building outage was just the result of crappy repairs, complements of hiring a flunkie. A block outage was an easily-fixed fault in the grid. City-wide could only be the result of space debris making it through the barrier and the astronomical odds having a grudge against shield surgeons. But the electrical grid had separate blocks for situations like that. One goes out, another reroutes power to critical systems, and the lights go dim but stay on. If it was the whole colony…

Was this Kharon all over again?

“Two muffins are sitting in an oven,” Sam whispered to Sushi. “One says, ‘Wow, it’s hot in here.’ The other yells, ‘Oh my god! A talking muffin!’”

Sushi didn’t laugh.

Tele’ktrides didn’t either.

Jean peeked down amid sparks.

Ji-Ming chuckled, his eyes nervously darting to his partner then to Sam in the corner who leaned on the hand rail. Without it, there’d be no other reason Sam’s shaking legs supported him. Touch was no longer enough.

The main lights flicked back on the and the alarm went silent. That emergency message turned to one of cheer. Jean hopped through the access panel and undid their belay line, which shot up the shaft, dinging the rim. They must’ve been wrong about the Second City. Nothing so widespread would get fixed that fast.

“Thanks, Jean,” Ji-Ming said while Tele’ktrides turned away.

The elevator stopped at the 12th floor. The short ride was smooth as butter, but everyone got off except Jean. “Should be all good. We have a form in the lobby for you to fill out and if you could give me 5 stars, it’d really help me... Where you going, Tele’ktrides?”

“Stairs.”

“Don’t bother with that! It’s fixed.”

She didn’t stop.

Jean reached toward Sushi and he turned his snout up to sniff their hand which frightened Jean into yanking it away which frightened Sushi into burying himself into Sam’s arms.

“I need the exercise, too,” Sam said so Jean wouldn’t in an enclosed elevator with a trembling wiener dog.

“Thanks, bud.” Ji-Ming pat Jean on the back, but already torn as Tele’ktrides left, he saw Sam go, too. “I guess I should as well, but you did great work--as always!”

In the windowed stairwell, Sam gathered that Jean had apparently restarted the building’s systems before the AI had been able to. Probably by by-passing a few critical diagnostic checks that would almost certainly turn up green but were still there for a reason. Back-up generators and emergency personal lights dotted the First City. The streets were especially visible as cars fell into an algorithm of stopping at the flashing traffic lights. No scarlet dome rose from the horizon and Sam suspected Second City had indeed been hit as well.

An early dark inspires nightmares. Ancient people died of shock upon witnessing an eclipse. Sam was not so primitive, but those overprotective instincts were, so perhaps that was why, out the window, he at least thought he saw a silhouette falling from the roof.

No.

Not falling, not a loose piece of paneling that spelled the doom of this colony, too. It descended too controlled for a fall.

A landing.

While he parsed the information, Tele’ktrides heard the door open, footsteps, and from half a flight below, yelled a bit hushed, “What the hell were you doing speaking English--” She stopped upon spotting Sam looking startled. “Apologies.”

Ji-Ming made it in time to watch a wave of lights roll through a dark city. He rushed toward Sam then seemed to usher him quicker toward his girlfriend so the trio could walk as a group.

Jean’s footsteps echoed in the stairs above them, opting for the company on the long trek down than an elevator ride alone. They did, however, stay a floor above Sushi, rushing down then stopping to let Sam get further then rushing more and repeating.

By the time Sam saw out the next window, the silhouette was a figment of his imagination. There was no more dark. He couldn’t remember the shape or where it supposedly landed other than generally in the forest by the mountain where no one would witness it.

He let the thought go--as much as he could.

Tele’ktrides continued down to B1 with her remaining recycling, having left the top layer of aluminum cans in the elevator, but Sam, Jean, and Ji-Ming went to the security guard at the front desk. She spoke gruffly to Jean, “Rooftop needs you.”

They hurried back to the stairwell, leaping up the first six in two steps.

“Elevator, Jean,” she said with a sigh.

One big hop down.

Ji-Ming mulled over the maintenance survey like a final exam and Sam wondered how long it’d take. His arms ached from holding Sushi for now 30 minutes of panic or stair climbing, but finally Ji-Ming signed it SrA Lee Ji-Ming and took the dog from Sam, quickly finding a paddle point that eased the poor boy’s trepidation while Sam took the stylus. The survey amounted to a few basic comments then some ratings. It took Sam 10 seconds.

The entrance to the building faced a parallel entrance and the cigarette butt-filled courtyard between buildings with sparse plantings of grass and a symmetrical saplings propped up by stakes led to the shopping center to the right or a distant park to the left—where Sam took Sushi most mornings, nights, and afternoons he wasn’t working. The park had quite a few people out for strolls or bike rides or similarly walking their own dogs.

However, to the left if you took another left into the alleyway by the building were the dumpsters--where Ji-Ming was headed.

Adrenaline has a strange nature to it, in that as it recedes, it leaves a person, however shy, traumatized, or generally anti-social, craving bonding. So Sushi, not feeling this, automatically headed toward the park and felt only the harness tug at him to go a strange direction full of strange smells. Sam had not intended to follow Ji-Ming but they’d been together so long already and there hadn’t been an explicit goodbye so his feet moved on their own as the two chatted. Ji-Ming threw his bag into the pile and stood with the two lost puppy dogs, giving them the attention they all needed after that experience.

“What happened?” When Sam was filling out the form, Ji-Ming had felt the prosthesis. But politeness meant asking later. Later was now. “Dogs never get the good ones unless you’re filthy rich. Lawyers, CEOs, arms dealers, and I guess soldiers too. We might be dogs of the government, but they still fit us with the latest and greatest.”

He twitched his pointer and ring finger on his left hand. The movement was sharp and more to the point, the other fingers didn’t move. Complete isolation.

“Long story.” Then Sam asked, “SrA?”

“Senior Airman. Military rank probably holds more sway, and Jean does deserve someone pulling for them.”

The Deimos colony was a part of the United Earth Colonies, but in name only. They were safely within the middle of the middle rings. The Goldilocks of Goldilocks. No active conflicts anywhere near here. No lucrative mining operations. Not even overcrowded enough with soft targets to become a spectacle during breaking news.

“Why are military here?”

“Ask the brains of the operation. Sit!” he said to Sushi. “Dogs don’t know what orders mean. They just know how to get a treat. But it’s a cush assignment. Early morning runs and weekend drills. Otherwise, border patrol, policing, colony repairs, and Tele’ktrides is Randy.”

The lewd lingo threw Sam, some friendly hazing.

“R and D. Research and development.” He started lighting up a cigarette, but the wind fought him.

“Does that mean she’s the ‘brains of the operation?’”

“Ha! I wish.” He turned his back to the alley entrance and finally got his light. “One day. One bright, sunny day after the long dark.”

“What kind of research?”

Tele’ktrides appeared around the corner. “Sharing that would be treason.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sam snapped out of his auto-pilot and realized he had followed a stranger into a dark alley and was sandwiched between another stranger, the first’s partner, and not only that, they were dressed for a date. Sam was the tag-along, playing third wheel, and apparently asking them to commit treason.

“No harm done. Civilians often ask how their tax dollars might murder others,” she said. “Should we go?”

“Where you headed, Sam?” Beyond the park was a set of restaurants the couple liked and often couldn’t decide between until they got a whiff of the specials. That’d decide their craving. “Walk with us.”

Tele’ktrides took a deep, calming breath as she looked at her partner with a strained but familiar expression. “Only if you want.”

“Either we’ll awkwardly walk near each other or we can make some new friends.”

Sam looked to Tele’ktrides for a sign.

She nodded. “He’s hard to argue with.”

They walked past some construction of a new apartment building rumored to cost so much per month that only two neurosurgeons cohabitating could afford the rent. Sam, who purchased blackout curtains in a futile attempt to sleep till his alarm, often woke up at 6:00 am to the sound of hammers.

“Have you met many people yet?” Ji-Ming asked.

“I mostly stay in. Work, home, Sushi.” His comm AI lit up in his pocket, listening.

“You really like fish, huh? But sushi does sound good right now. My treat if you want to join us for some.”

“They won’t let a dog into the restaurant,” Tele’ktrides reminded him.

“There’s outdoor seating. Or we can get it to-go and have a picnic in the woods!”

Tele’ktrides’s glare again.

“My dog’s name is Sushi.”

“Aww.” Sushi had been on the far side of Sam, always a step behind. Perhaps the dog’s fear was eased by the newfound kinship of Sam and them, so when the soldier squat down to give pets, Sushi let him, then walked between the two instead.

Then they reached the corner that Sam had never tread beyond. Turn here and reach the park. Go another few blocks, turn right, and that accessed the spaceport where Sam worked. Another block beyond that was the grocery store and the final corner to Sam’s territory, a comfortable rectangle with everything he needed.

But the two were heading the other way and while conversation wasn’t stellar--his fault--it scratched a long-standing itch.

There were trees that way, too, a lot in the woods around the mountain, and there were restaurants with new smells and probably messages left by other dogs and most immediate, that direction had a few minutes longer with his new acquaintances, maybe even friends.

“I’ll see you later,” Sam said as he turned toward his usual route.

Ji-Ming, through a subtle set of questions, drawing on his own memory for other evidence, had been on the cusp of an epiphany since floor 40—an epiphany that Sam feared.

“Gentlefolks of all ages, are you ready for the opening match-up?” the announcer yelled, trilling his voice as it rose to scratchy peeks, fomenting the crowd with pure enthusiasm. “They may be rookies but their trash talk has been professional. And if the talk is to be believed, we might need to the police on standby!”

The music changed to a song full of bravado that hyped his fans.

“Our first fighter—you know him from the corner of your eye, that sense that something or someone is there, that brief glance in the mirror to see a shadowy figure behind you! The Gorgeous Ghost of Georgia!”

The crowd’s fervent energy bubbled over. The crowd didn’t pack the meager bleachers, but the few here wanted to see a fight. His fans loved the pure technique and speed he employed to get around his opponent like an assassin striking from behind then disappearing like a phantom. Some wanted to see this pretty boy get hit again after the first punch to ever land hit him last week, a lucky blow right to his nose. He was so stunned to have taken a clean hit that a follow-up almost clocked him before he put the opponent in his place.

“With a win-loss record of 7 to 0 with 3 KOs, he’s a rising star for the rookie division of Deimos. Please, put your hands together for Peeete Holmes!”

The spotlight hit the blue corner’s entrance, but as many punches missed, the light found nothing.

It started panning the corridor leading up to the ring. Fans held out there arms past the barriers hoping for a hand shake or autograph.

The announcer made the call again with that same rote speech.

He wasn’t there.

The music stopped.

An official ran up to the ring and the announcer leaned over to talk. The mic picked up a bit of it. His real voice was much softer, higher pitched. “Go fetch him from the dressing room. I’ll bring out the other guy.” Then the official went running down the walk-up.

Another music change. Slow operatic chanting in some ancient language not standard on anyone’s translator.

Fithos yusec wecos vinosec (anotehr fake latin anagram)

Fithos yusec wecos vinosec

Back in the changing room, the fighters warming up for their fights after this opening match turned their eyes to the door.

Knock, knock.

The fighters rushed to block it.

The official only managed to crack it open enough to peek in. “Where is he?”

The room collectively shrugged.

“Can I see for myself?”

A broken telephone of hand signals passed from gladiator to gladiator. “Sure.”

They opened the door completely let her step inside, but only to a point.

From her vantage point just inside the door, there was nothing suspicious--boxing gloves, jump ropes, hand wraps, water bottles, egg shells--all perfectly normal. Nothing suspicious. Other than the fighters themselves.

Then she spotted the closed door.

“I’ll check it and I’ll leave.”

The barricade of bodies hesitated, then finally let her pass through the throng.

She put her hand to the doorknob when a toilet flushed.

The door opened.

It wasn’t Pete Holmes.

“Wash your hands,” she told them.

The fighter looked at their perfectly done hand wraps then to the official in disbelief.

With a sigh, she finally left down the hall, radioing others. “Not in the changing room. Have you checked the--”

A sudden bark caught her attention and she peeked back. “What was that noise?”

The fighters shrugged and she left for good.

The music switched to a common language. The strings built to a crescendo. Fast-paced excitation. Cannon fire

“Huddle over the dying embers of this old world

Butterfly wings could extinguish with a small flap

But the tides of change are upon us

Watch as they crash down”

In stark contrast to the solemn voices and his own natural voice, the announcer resumed his duties. “Our next fighter is like a living tank. He gets hit and keeps on trucking! How long can this poor boy last taking so many hits?”

“Now,

You, who whisper to me,

The mirage with wings,

The deja vu who wakes me up,

Surround me.

Holding me.

Wind,

A small flap

Starts inside the heart.

A hurricane”

“Hits or no, tonight’s blue corner fighter has been a hot streak these last few weeks. 5 wins, 3 losses, and all of them for better or worse by stunning knockout, give it up for Saaaam Nuwim!”

“As stars sink into dreams,

Wake from your slumber

On this fated day.

Deliver us from the Deluge.”

Tippy-tap, tippy-tap, tippy-tap…

Sitting impatiently, his whole body wiggling, his tail polishing the bench, whacking everyone nearby, when the challenger’s name was finally called, Sushi stood on his hind legs and barked once more.

Like watching a gym newbie trying to bench too much, the fighters rushed to spot him but he didn’t need it. He sat back down, waiting to see the close-up.

Unlike on the other side of the ring, there were few hands reaching out for acknowledgment. He could have easily shaken them all. But Sam let them brush against him without breaking stride. He peeled off his beanie. Then his sunglasses. And finally, each ear strap of his face mask.

He was bared faced he ascended the steps into the ring.

Alone.

The announcer caught his expression. He shrugged. The official at the gate shook her head.

Then a murmur swelled to a cacophony behind Sam. Coming from the challenger’s entrance. They had found Pete Holmes, backing up to get a running start. He sprinted down the corridor, the throng of hands slapping him in what sounded like applause, he leaped over the stairs, flipped over the ropes, and landed between Sam and the stunned announcer.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” Sam said.

“Don’t worry your little self. I’ve got plenty of gas in the tank.”

“Now that’s how you make an entrance,” the announcer called. “We finally have our two gladiators in the ring and the fight will commence shortly. Gentlemen, to your corners. A reminder, Holmes, your corner’s over there.”

After some last minute pep talk and strategy discussion from their coaches and cutmen, it was time for the two to touch gloves and get this started.

The two approached and the referee went over the rules.

“Pretty fitting match-up, eh?” Holmes said. The ref’s mic picked up his words for the crowd. “A wild bull taking every spear and arrow thrown his way and someone who’s never hit?”

“How’s your nose?”

He sucked on his mouth guard in frustration. “How’s your mom?”

“Sam, they’re two-minute rounds and you couldn’t even let one go by? It’s not exciting that way.”

He sat on the bench and stroked Sushi’s back. The pup worked off his excited energy by doing circles on Sam’s lap, then occasionally standing up to lick his face. Sam was back in his flu weather protection.

A hardly recognizable man, beaten and bruised, approached Sam.

“Hey, you know, it was just for the show,” Pete Holmes said, his voice no longer swollen with bravado. “I really didn’t know.”

“Next time, ask about my sister.”

“You got it, bud. Again, really sorry.”

They hugged it out, then walked together to get their purses, Sam with the lion’s share.

The couple chose outdoor seats, but not for fish. Their new furry contact turned them off, momentarily, to sushi, and instead they opted for warm oxtail soup on the chilly evening. Their table had the perfect view of the mirrors as they angled away the sunlight and the day came to a rest. The mirrors perhaps mimicked the day cycle, but the mirrors were functional and the sun divine. Maybe one day they’d see a real sunset together.

“What if he had accepted?” she asked.

He rubbed the scar on her knuckle, drawing her back to an old memory, first bitter then sweet, when while dissecting the rotor of a defunct, early model starfighter, her pristine knuckle caught on a bolt. She wanted to shake it off and keep working, but while shaking, a droplet splashed on the canopy he had just polished. He hopped down from the ladder and stuck her hand in his armpit. It kind of worked at applying pressure while he fetched liquid stitches from the medkit. Bitter, sweet, and a little smelly. They’d been married two years at that time. “Then we’d excuse ourselves for some alone time.”

They smiled across the table.

“He just seemed like he needed a friend. And almost getting dropped from an elevator, that’s scary for most people in their bubble-wrapped lives.”

They finished their soup. Ji-Ming summoned his comm’s AI assistant. “Pronoia, can dogs safely gnaw on oxtail?”

Cooked bones might splinter so, against Tele’ktrides wishes, he talked to kitchen staff for some raw ones that they had to charge him for, but the bag was full of about ten full of marrow, then the two headed off.

According to CCTV footage on the street, after finishing their meal, the two turned right to walk hand-in-hand to her one-room, off-base apartment and even the building footage, doorbell’s camera, and keypad log showed the same.

But those would be discrepancies with reality.

They turned off their comms.

Deep in the woods, Sonya Alkes tugged on her face mask painted orange by the light of the small fire.

Tele’ktrides wiped her brow.

“Nice weather for camping.”

“If you’re okay with the cold.”

Sonya said in a sharp tone, “You’re late. Kill a deer en route?”

“They’re for a friend’s dog,” Ji-Ming said.

“Shouldn’t be making friends,” their contact said.

Tele’ktrides gave her a flash drive. “If all goes as planned, this will save the colony.”

“And they’ll hate you for it. How soon do we move?”

“They’re doing final diagnostics tomorrow, so the first test flight is slated for the day after, off colony of course. Pick-up arrives in 47 hours. That’s our window.”

“During test?”

“Before.”

As Sam lay in bed, his dreams spilled over to reality. The sound of collapsing buildings, that cacophony of voices and materials crashing into one another, were confused by the erection of the new apartment building next door.

Breathe.

“Sushi,” he called and his comm lit up as well as the AI panel on the wall and the dog. It was a constant source of confusion for machine and mammal. “Time.”

Deep breath.

“7:06 on a bright sunny morning. Would you like to hear headlines?”

Sushi jumped from the spare pillow on the floor to bed, then settled in the same coiled dragon position he always did, his fluffy tail draped over his nose.

“Yes. Lights on. Curtains up. Music.”

Some generic background music played, harkening back to spring in a meadow with birds chirping and apparently strumming a harp as the friendly voice, not at all how he imagined his dog’s, read off, “Kharon Gone but Not Forgotten,” a pause, “Pollution Predicates Power Outage according to Officials,” followed by a few innocuous accusations of corruption, wasting tax dollars, and the usual government criticisms.

He could not settle.

“Sushi. Call police non-emergency number.”

The dream was familiar. Except for the not-falling silhouette.

The convincingly human operator listed several options. Personal extension. Press inquiry. Case inquiry. Appointments. Tip line.

“Tip line.”

“Please leave your name, address, and contact information along with any relevant information to an open case or suspicious activity and an officer will get back to you.”

Sam remembered a similar message when he first arrived on Deimos. The hospital said they’d contact him with test results and clearance to exit quarantine, but they never did, and every attempt to contact them had him leaving a similar message that went unreturned.

It was probably nothing.

“Remember, if you see something, say something.”

But due diligence.

A month ago, an announcement spoke of visiting soldiers from the United Earth Federation, the head of the Commonwealth known as the UEC. Soldiers, clerks, and factory workers knew of the visit regardless of clearance, but only a percentage knew why they were on layover. Tele’ktrides was at the top of that list.

And even she was not informed that the Feddies would be sending their own test pilot, an ace from a long-running and long-over civil conflict on Earth. Low-gravity space travel was hard on the body and he was given a week to get his space legs underneath him. The spin of the colony threw Earthlings.

Today, it’d been a week and Tele’ktrides would be his tour guide around the Deimos military base.

As was too often required, she held her tongue, letting her opinion known only through barbs of logic.

“A war hero, you say?” She made faces like she was impressed as he recounted a battle on Earth.

Commander Reynolds was in his late 30s with rough skin that sagged. His build was large, but the flesh atop it had gone soft. “Deserts of the Gobi--do you know it?”

Of course not. No more than he knew the streets of Deimos.

“Five men. Two ATVs. Surrounded on all side by enemy drones. Tac-Com told us, ‘It was an honor.’ No one expected us to make it out. Maybe if they had sent evac when requested, Scratchy would still be with us.”

“Well, you’re with us now. Our test pilot. How was the journey here? Did you stop anywhere interesting?”

“No offense intended, but all the colonies look the same. I’m happy to see each and every after a month in flight, but if you were to ask me whether I won it big at slots on Artemis or Freija…” He shrugged.

“Perhaps you remember the shape of the colony? Was it a Torus like Deimos? Or perhaps a cylinder or sphere? Most Inner and Goldilocks colonies use these shapes to create artificial gravity through rotation.”

“Like on Earth. Otherwise, we’d all go flying off into space.”

She stopped in the path for a breath. “Only in a poorly researched piece of science fiction. It’d be almost impossible to stop the Earth’s rotation instantly, but if that were to happen, people would fly off in spite of gravity. The Earth creates gravity via a mass.”

The commander had been the kid in the back of class with doodles instead of notes. “Have you ever had the chance to go abroad?”

“Yes. For our honeymoon, we went to the popular gambling district on Freija.”

Their tour had taken them to the training grounds. Soldiers sprinted down the obstacle course to low netting that needed crawling underneath, then tractor tires, a fence to scale, and at the end, a pull-up bar next to a bulletin board. Each month, whoever scored the fastest got a prize and whoever got the most pull-ups got a prize, but each week, the slowest and the lowest got significantly less desirable prizes: latrine duty and KP, respectively.

Tele’ktrides continued her tactical assessment. “It’s taxing keeping up with the exercise as well. Even civilians need an hour or two on machines to maintain their physical condition, and soldiers… Well, motivation’s tough when you’re too high ranked for drill sergeants.”

“I did what I could.”

“Of course. You can always tell which soldiers have been on-colony, though.”

“It’s true this simulated gravity can’t compete with Earth’s,” he shot back. “You colony folks can’t even draw a straight line.”

They approached the starting line where some grunts in fatigues saluted the higher officers.

“Would you like to show them what real gravity does to a man?”

“Another time.”

“And your experience with cosmic combat is…”

“Cosmic? Fancy term for flying without restriction.”

“So simulation only.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, starting to sense her objective. “I have a sixth sense that’s gotten me this far.”

“This far completes the tour.” And her assessment of this ace pilot. They rejoined the group in the hangar, but Tele’ktrides had bad news. “He’s unqualified.”

The shock radiated out from her superiors but her assistants had expected such a scene. Commander Reynolds himself spoke above the others with indignation. “Unqualified? I’ll have you—”

“Shut up and listen. First, his physical conditioning from his peak on Earth I’d estimate is less than 70%, and I’m trying to be nice with that, but he refused physical testing. It could be lower. Do you think succumbing to half a year of sloth can be rectified in a week? I’d posit that even 90% would be a challenge with this machine.

“Second, his mental acuity took him the entire conversation to realize the test pilot was being tested. A slow mind and slow body equal bad reflexes and with hundreds of billions invested into a single machine, you don’t want him crashing on take-off due to poor condition.

“Finally, and most importantly, the reason we hand-selected pilots was because growing up off-Earth forces the mind to develop a real sixth sense. Because you’ve grown accustomed to real Earth gravity, you can only think in two dimensions: forward-back, left-right, right? You probably expect this fighter to look like a plane, but there’s no atmosphere out here. There are no reasons for wings.

“Even if you were at peak conditioning, the moment an enemy pilot comes from below, you and, more importantly, my prototype will be space dust.

“Trash collectors have a better sense than you do for space flights. Enjoy your vacation here. Take some pictures. Do your best to remember this trip.”

Tele’ktrides walked away. Her assistants knew she was right, as did her superiors, but they didn’t want to admit it. All they could admit was that without her approval, the test wouldn’t be happening.

Some dazzling description of the vastness of space.

Infinite and open. The vastness of space stretches on to this day. Humanity, as humanity does, continues to consume all that is before it. Manifest Destiny. But not one light in that direction was man-made. Even our insatiable appetite is meaningless before infinity. One day, civilization will reach so far that a child might be born en route and die before ever seeing the edge of our own borders, and yet, the stars that light our night are even further beyond that. It is painful yet beautiful silence.

An alarm sounded.

“Look alive, rat,” his operator snapped.

A piece of junk pinged off the rear camera panel. Was that an egg carton?

The three-axes of the debris collecting unit--a ball with mechanical arms--spun and for veteran pilots, they felt the whirl and steadied their eyes on the panel ahead of them and went about their business, but for Sam, even after three months in this ball, he gripped the throttle’s foam pads till he felt bones. Collectors often gabbed about rumored newly manufactured units in the Inner Rim that had inertia dampeners so magic that a sleeping baby wouldn’t wake up. Things would have to break before Sam ever saw one of those, and chances are, they’d break with him inside and he wouldn’t get to see.

The mask hooked up to his face, feeding out through his helmet into a waste collection pack, kept the expensive--if outdated--cockpit controls clean and working, but the tube still reeked of old nausea, further sending him back to his first, soul-suckingly embarrassing day in training when of the three candidates, he’d been the only one to vomit.

Yet here he was.

“Transport is waiting.” Sam’s operator didn’t like him, but to be fair, Keen grouched at everyone. He was old with bad eyes and sometimes forgot his glasses. “Finish already so you can brush the stink out your mouth.”

Was he here because of that?

Had the other applicants been rewarded with less twirling, whirling work and the one with the weak stomach been punished in an attempt to train it out of him?

No.

When he steadied, when his eyes focused, when the tide in his throat ebbed, Sushi was still running analysis on material and orbital trajectory of the swarm of debris. He had collected junk that would be useful to recycling, the raw materials going to the plant, melted down and made again into junk that’d wind up here. Factoring in how long the recycling process took, time on the shelf waiting for purchase, the forgettable instant it was chucked in the trash, the 487 days of orbit, he’d be out here collecting it again in some form in two years. Then again in four, ten. Twenty if he lasted that long.

Sam waited for permission.

“Whatcha waiting for?”

The main screen changed.

What reflected on the screen was the same vision he saw, but his eyes were closed. He was no longer, Sam, rookie of the year space janitor, but at one with the bit drones in his territory. The drones locked onto the largest pieces of trash. Their single dot lasers fired. Space debris now space dust.

Space is infinite. But the space around us is not.

An alarm.

Transport’s final call.

His shift was up.

Nausea returned as he returned to the sickening, aged smell of his helmet.

With the colony laid out on a grid, self-driving cars make travel efficient and safe. They communicate with each other faster than humans can even register another presence, but beyond that, they reach everyone. Where as a single person gets confused by the bustle of a conference call, the AI can coordinate approaching lanes so that wait times are minimal.

This was not fast enough for delivery.

And thus the food delivery industry continued among the stars.

It took a daring, selfless or self-destructive individual to even apply but to flourish, took complete disregard for not just their own life, but everyone’s lives. Technically outlawed, even the law hated room-temp pizza.

A scooter careened onto the sidewalk, squeezing their handle bar, not to decelerate with the brakes, but to warn pedestrians with the horn as they rounded the corner into the corridor between apartment buildings, decorated with symmetrical saplings and cigarette butts.

Tele’ktrides was walking through the security vestibule when she heard the horn, but the echo of the corridor didn’t give any effective warning as to which way to look and so the screeching scooter, trying to stop centimeters from the door, hip-checked her with the last of its momentum.

She sprung to her feet and grabbed the driver by the jacket collar.

This was such a common occurrence that drivers wore break-away clothes. The collar came off in her hands and he slid through the door that was closing behind her. Again, she was on the pavement.

By the time she scanned her comm unit’s NFC to let her back in, the driver was up the stairs and on the elevator, having pressed every button so the irate non-customer wouldn’t know where to corner them. Again, a common enough occurrence that there was a plan in place.

However, in the lobby, was Sam getting his mail.

Tele’ktrides had her eyes glued to her comm unit as she punched in commands and so didn’t notice him even after they stepped into the elevator together. He waited a polite amount of time of peeking over her shoulder at the comm’s display screen before he asked, “Is that the elevator camera?” He looked up their own little bubble in the corner.

“Yes.”

The display showed the driver in a helmet and non-descript jumpsuit. It must have been the other elevator. Digital readings also showed the floor they stopped at. The 13th.

“Should you have access to that?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

This elevator was already beyond that, not hampered by the constant stopping, so Tele’ktrides pressed the already lit 40F button and the elevator speaker said, “40th Floor canceled,” followed shortly by an announcement of their new destination, “13th Floor.”

The elevator descended.

“I actually really need to get home.”

The elevator stopped. “13th Floor. Please exit.”

“Hold the elevator.” She threw break-away jacket in front of the door sensors, then peeked down each side of the figure-eight halls, even as the door dinged that there was an obstruction.

“I think I should--”

“Hold it.” She punched in a few more commands on her comms and the dings stopped.

It was about then that she found the driver and chased them down the hall, but they were well trained in the art of escape and made it to the elevator Sam was holding before she caught up. They grabbed their jacket and punched the door close button.

The doors closed.

Again, Sam heard, “40th Floor canceled,” and they hit the G key.

But the doors immediately reopened.

No one was at the door the entrance yet but Tele’ktrides strode toward them and unmasked them, expecting a dumb kid she could yell at beneath the helmet, but it was an old woman.

Suddenly caught, she began to apologize.

“That’s all I wanted,” Tele’ktrides said and unlocked the elevator.

Sam stepped out.

The second elevator returned to their floor, but to both of their surprise, out stepped Jean Beaumont.

“Hi y’all. So it wouldn’t have happened to be you who hacked the elevators?” they asked Sam. After he shook his head, they continued, “That’s what I was afraid. You really can’t be doing that, Deez. Um… Dr. Deez.”

“I shredded the video files already.”

“That’s kind of the main problem. Without video of original problem, the boss thinks I made a mistake or something and then I get lectured by folks who can’t even reprogram their AI summon command. Luckily, I added back-up recordings to a hidden partition that saves locally.”

Tele’ktrides, technically outmaneuvered by a flunky, let out an audible sigh. “I’m not the problem here.”

“Well, you did kind of let them into the building, too.” Jean pulled up the footage of Tele’ktrides exiting the building and not waiting for the first security door to close before exiting the second one as was suggested on posters all over the apartment complex.

“Can I go?” she asked.

“Promise not to hack into systems again and I can delete this footage.”

“Fine.”

Their bright expression returned. “How’s your puppy? Can you pull up some pictures? I like pictures!”

“Sure.”

All three of them stepped onto the elevator and since both were heading down and only Sam was heading up, the elevator went down as Jean cooed over the cute and safe photos on Sam’s AI drive, then once Jean and Tele’ktrides stepped off, Sam finally headed back upstairs where he could grab the real Sushi and head to the park.

While waiting for the light at the corner of his territory, he peeked over at the mountain with the forest around it.

The shadow stuck with him during the whole walk.

Sam took a taxi to the military base, but the car wasn’t allowed past a certain point by signage or its programming, and he walked the last bit near the chain-link fence. He gawked at the expected vignettes of military life.

Soldiers ran laps in sharp formation, chanting with bravado between breaths. Beyond the corner, a firing range aimed at the broadside of the mountain. Stray shots might hit a squirrel, but that was just protein.

Beyond those superficial necessities for military life, the design of the base stuck out. On some colonies, the military base was like a Third City with home supply stores and restaurants and suburbs. You could find kids in the park. Movie theaters played the latest hits.

However, on Deimos, the base reminded Sam of an industrial complex. The ugly aesthetic of function. Every building laid out on a grid. A candy cane-striped smoke stack piped toxic fumes into the infinity outside the colony. Four water tower-type structures were marked with a series of warnings. A transport vehicle parked against one with a polytetrafluoroethylene hose hooked up. It was slightly translucent and whatever dark liquid inside had stopped flowing, but the driver waited for the dregs that might disintegrate, drop by drop if, the outer coating of the colony if protocol was ignored, until finally she could drive along oddly wide roads, hauling her trailer to a building designated by an alphabet. To civilians, each letter on a near-identical building meant nothing, but to inhabitants, the difference was obvious.

The fence became a vestibule with a guard booth inside. A camera scanned for license plates and would open automatically for the guard to then check credentials and wave them past the boom barrier.

When Sam approached, in his usual flu season get-up: face mask, beanie, and sunglasses, the guard approached. The pattern of chains separated them and while this guard had no weapon in hand, a guard standing at the far gate was armed with a rifle. Sam felt her eyes, too.

“Identification.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Sam said.

“Civilian ID,” he barked with a commanding gruffness that sent Sam into a panic of patting his pockets to find it. He handed it over without a thought. “Remove your face coverings.”

First his sunglasses.

Then his hat.

His dark hair had natural highlights.

Then a pause.

Then he started to do his mask, when the soldier nodded that that was enough.

“What’s your business on base?”

Sam hadn’t really thought about it. And definitely not how to explain it. He sputtered, “Um, I—well…” while he prepared it in his head. “I’m looking for someone named Ji-Ming. Eddie, maybe. Airman. Senior airman. He lives in my building.”

The soldier stayed silent as a short-range radio on his shoulder buzzed with background noise. Low, whispering voices not directed at this soldier but another one elsewhere. Finally the static-masked voice rose to an intelligible level. “Senior Airman Lee is in recreation.”

“Samwise Nuwim at the gate.”

“He’d just know it as Sam.”

“Sam.”

Low voices again before the gate separating the soldier and bundle of nerves slid slowly along a rickety track and Sam was looking the soldier in the eye. He remained silent but returned Sam’s ID.

“Can I go in?”

“Wait for escort.”

Ji-Ming threw his arm around Sam as they walked deeper into the base. He peeked over their shoulders before shaking his head. “Security these days. But it’s good to see you.”

After the pleasantries, there was a noticeable silence between them as they continued the walk. He was a bit sweaty from double-timing it over, but the colony fans blew a nice breeze today.

“Was I expecting—did we make plans?”

Sam shook his head.

“I’m happy to give you a tour. At least of the visitor friendly section. How about some lunch? It ain’t great but that’s part of the fun.”

“I saw something.” Sam’s feet moved on auto-pilot and before he realized it, his escort’s friendly arm no longer draped across his shoulders.

“Gonna need you to be more specific than that.” Ji-Ming’s tone changed. “This isn’t a friend-thing, is it?”

“There are just all these posters and announcements these days—’See something, say something,’ right?” Sam was suddenly feeling very silly.

A blackout?

A shadow?

A dream?

And he was making reports like he stumbled on some conspiracy. It was arrogance to think two monumental events would happen in his vicinity. “Forget it. I should go. It was probably nothing.”

“Let me be the judge. Pronoia, voice recording.” His wrist watch had a red light and the screen showed the sound waves rise and fall with his each sound. “This is United Earth Colony Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming on Deimois military base with Samwise Nuwim. Do I have your permission to record this conversation?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s fine.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Sam recounted the blackout last night and the elevator and taking the stairs. “It was end of the day so only a little natural light and everything else was dark and I thought I saw a shadow fall into the woods. Maybe it was a trick of the light or something. But it looked controlled. Like a landing. Or something, I don’t know. I called the police department this morning and left similar information, but who knows how many tips they get.”

A long pause as Ji-Ming waited.

“That’s it,” Sam said. “Probably nothing.”

“Any specific place it touched down? Mountain-side? City-side?”

“I don’t know. I lost sight of it when we kept heading down.”

“It won’t hurt to check it out. I’ll report this immediately to superiors. Pronoia, stop recording.” The wrist watch screen faded to standby. The soldier’s tone was back to friendly apartment dweller. “And it’s always nice to get off base.”

“Should I submit a written report or anything?”

“Not necessary, but if you want a paper trail in addition to the recording, we can arrange that. We’ll have to ask around for a notary. Might take a bit, but if you want.”

“No, the recording’s fine. I should go.”

“What about lunch? I can’t promise it’s good, but that’s half the fun for civilians. Freeze-dried ice cream,” Ji-Ming said in an attempt to tempt.

For Alisha Al-Abidi, search patrol was a fine way to spend the afternoon. The base got so cramped, sometimes feeling more cramped than the transport vessel she came in on with Commander Reynolds. Transport felt like a cruise. While all the food came from cans or dehydrated powders, the chefs aboard were expert at making that work. A poor in-flight cuisine for months of travel spelled danger. The crew needed hope and the best way for that was gourmet meals.

Here, food was fine, but it was just fine. Always the same kind of fine. Never spectacular, never interesting, never even bad. Maybe if it were bad every once in a while, the rest would seem better by comparison.

So when an officer came into the dorms asking for four volunteers to search the forests by the mountains yesterday, she thought it’d be taking full advantage of colony-life by seeing nature, however artificially transplanted, and to her surprise, toward the end, the patrol leader named Lee Ji-Ming had stopped as dark approached to make dinner over a three-pronged camping stove.

The smell…

It was…

Terrible!

She got so excited by it that she began falling into friendly chit-chat with the crew she’d only really just met, or met a few times and forgot.

“Alisha, this like our third time meeting,” Ji-Ming said as he stirred the burning the beans.

It was easy to forget names with so many on the colony.

“Sorry, sorry, I know. Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming, Ji-Ming. C. Ji-Ming.”

“Lee,” Sonya corrected her. “Come on. I’ve been here as long as you and even I remember. Remember in transport when you kept calling Commander Reynolds ‘Commander Reynard?’”

“Wait, it’s Reynolds?”

The three other soldiers had a laugh. Everyone took a scoop of beans, not wanting to take more than their fair share, leaving plenty for the cook and Alisha to finish, which they did with delighted disgust.

How little the third shift meant during arbitrary time, and yet, even for debris collectors, it was the least desirable position. Instinctual lethargy dragging their movement down. And though data showed that rare accidents happened equally across shifts, it was widely known that strange things happened at the witching hour.

“Careful tonight,” the transport pilot warned their crew. “Comms are finicky. Downed satellite in Sector 7. Repairs at 0900.” Then they held up crossed fingers—Hoping? Or lying?

Each member had a name for their collector Ball, and as even Balls were expensive, the dozen of Balls used by the first shift were the same dozen used by the second shift and so each Ball had several names depending on the pilot.

“Macbeth 7 reporting a reading at perimeter.”

It was just Junie in the dispatch room, staring at the feed of the remaining collectors as well as last year’s charts. Without closeness of drifting debris or the data coordinates transmitted, the feed would be black dotted by starlight. Whether the pilot was moving at all was hard to parse, and even the faded green numbers in the corner relaying vitals, coordinates, and the like fell to background noise. Only a yellow sphere inside a red sphere made of vector graphics indicated a visual. After reaching the yellow, an alarm beeped warning the pilot and operator that they were leaving colony space. The first transport carrying 1 through 5 had already begun docking procedures, a bit early, but with paperwork and clean-up, it’d even out.

She wheeled her desk chair over to Station 7 for a better look at the reading. The object sat on the far side of the downed satellite. It wasn’t on a collision course. It wasn’t en route for the docking procedures. And it was too far for a proper reading of elemental composition. She made a note of it on the chart for next year.

“There’s no overtime,” radio replied.

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.”

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

If this maverick pilot took too long, it delayed 6 through 12 from docking on time, they took longer with paperwork, and then Junie is stuck sitting around when she was supposed to be on a pancake breakfast date with Nic.

“You could be the goddamn Red Star of Deimos after this but you’re still not getting an extra cent.”

7 Comms went silent.

She reported it to the other Balls and the transport pilots, who groaned.

7 Comms stayed silent.

“Well?” Junie buzzed impatiently. The reading had intrigued her as nothing was listed on the previous chart.

“En route! Hold your horses.”

Junie put a remote headpiece on to take with her as she fetched coffee, certain she’d late now. But remote work always went silly in the break room and it’d been too long since last report.

“7, report?”

Nothing.

“What’d you find?”

No answer.

“Macbeth 7, do you copy?”

Impatience gave way to dread.

“Nic! Are you okay?”

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.”

The feed for Macbeth 7 cut then returned then cut again.

“Still out. Get back here and we’ll requisition repairs. Repeat. Return to colony for repairs, Macbeth 7. Return ASAP. Macbeth 7, come back to base and we’ll have pancakes. Macbeth 7!”

Tele’ktrides ran her diagnostics, waiting for the results to compile into a 3D image she’d seen a dozen times in various shades. A new actuator here, a different circuit there, an algorithmically upgraded AMPSystem that even at a slowed pace made only partial sense to her. No one could explain it.

The software engineers had made the testers. The testers had ran infinite number of fledgling AI through an infinite number of data points. The AI who passed made other fledgling AI who were run through improved tests. And so on, into infinity, until all tests were aced and they had the AMPSystem.

The screen she stared so intently at suddenly turned from code to a friendly, smiling face of home.

“Dinner tonight,” Ji-Ming called her comm.

“Did we have plans?”

“No.” His voice was not smiling.

Usually when they placed Sam in a different collector unit than usual, they told him in a single word: Repairs. Today, the comms operator used two: “Can’t say.”

It wasn’t Keen, either.

It was some new lady with blue hair. Sonya.

He crossed his fingers that he’d missed Keen’s retirement party.

He might not have minded the different unit had it included a different suction mask with a better smelling hose, but those were pilot-fitted, not unit-fitted, and the smell remained.

No more was said on the subject.

On a normal day, in the blackness of space with empty sectors, only numbers indicated the distance from Deimos at (0, 0, 0) and those were background noise on a screen, not vital like your fuel levels, O2, or distance from objects. No trash collector ever turned back at that warning rope to notice the colony was slightly larger than last time they heard the beeps, which might’ve been months ago as most debris came from the colony--it stayed near the colony, and thus collectors did, too.

But Sam, perhaps already suspicious, noticed.

He had the coordinates memorized, but they only confirmed the whisper calling him further.

The perimeter had been reduced to 75%.

60%

“Deucalion here,” he called to Sonya. “Satellite down?”

“Shouldn’t be. Maintenance went out at 0700 and already came back. Are you getting weird readings?”

“Sort of.” The gages on his dash indicated normal. “Did they confirm repairs?”

65%

Sonya left the channel open as she typed away. “Seems so. Comms are fine so just leave it. You’re at perimeter. Go no farther.”

70%

“Why is Sat 7 outside perimeter? Why is the perimeter reduced?”

“Can’t say.”

He took that to mean she didn’t know earlier, but now, it seemed more like code for confidential.

75%

“Return to transport.”

“Operator.”

“What?”

80%

“I found Ball 7.”

“Return to port via emergency transport ASAP.”

70%

After a demerit on his record signed by him and his operator—her handwriting almost as bad as his, Sonya took him into a private room. She lit up a cigarette and turned some music on—loud. If anyone was outside, their conversation would go unheard.

“The official story is Macbeth 7 collided with Sat7.”

There’d been no crumpling. Most of the damage seemed aimed at the cockpit. And an arm was dislodged, defensive wounds of someone instinctually trying to defend themselves. “Damage was inconsistent with that.”

“Sat7 would’ve been 95% out, but according to communication recordings, she was beyond perimeter. She saw something.”

“What was she looking for?”

“Don’t know. Her feed had interference.”

“Did she save the local recording?”

“She was instructed to,” the operator said. She blew out a puff of smoke into the ventilation shaft. “Why?”

Sam had never had to sift through any of the debris he brought back before. “How can we get access to the trash?”

*V2 - tense after a long wait, kicks it off sooner, better written conflict*

Sonya filed a QL-2240 for further inspection of debris. A QL-2250, emergency inspection, would’ve been faster but might’ve tripped alarms, too. Both she and Sam had to submit reasoning, and considering the reprimand his record just received, someone might eventually bring him in for questioning, but by then information from the local recording had would be turned over to government officials, he reasoned. They’d know he was trying to help.

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7.

The view ahead was empty space. Metadata showed readings that couldn’t be understood without a cipher that the two sleuths didn’t have access to. Audio-Video would have to be enough. The recording played back the operator and pilot’s discussion.

“There’s no overtime.”

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.”

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam.

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right.

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.”

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio.

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?”

Sam rewound the tape to play it back. He wasn’t 100% sure that was what happened, but it was all he could imagine given the circumstances. Perhaps the bit drone set-off a self-defense protocol? Or the static interfered with attempts to contact and they had a poor visual of the Ball? Regardless of why, it seemed like the only possibility.

“Samwise Nuwim, hands on your head,” Sonya commanded quietly from behind.

When he started to turn around, she placed the muzzle of her pistol to him and he froze.

“You’re not in any danger if you do as you’re instructed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Will you resist?”

“No.”

She removed the muzzle, but he still felt it trained on him.

“Wipe the file. Hard reboot the computer. And eject the drive. Hand it to me.”

Sam did each slowly and carefully.

“You live on Floor 40, Door 18, correct? Your room overlooks the park with the little river.”

“Yes.”

“What happened today?”

“Nothing.”

“You requisitioned an inspection of some debris. What was it?”

“Nothing. Just junk.”

“Good. Your dog is very cute.”

She left the room and Sam stayed in the chair, waiting for his heart to settle, before looking into the hall. No trace of her.

*V1 - funny and ironic, better setup for later, stealthier*

Macbeth 7 had been beyond Sat7.

“There’s no overtime.”

“Too big to ignore. Might be what damaged the Satellite 7.”

“Still no.”

“I’m checking it out.”

Sam in the chair fast forwarded while Sonya looked over his shoulder. At first she leaned in to squint but seeing there was nothing, she settled back waiting for Sam.

“Nic! Are you okay?” her operator cried.

“Sorry, sorry! There was some static interference. Are you seeing my feed?”

A shadowy behemoth eclipsed the distant stars from left to right.

“I guess it’s frozen. Save local recording then power cycle visuals.”

“Copy that. AI won’t provide analysis. Do I have permission to fire? Comms? Hello? Firing in 3… 2… 1.”

A bit drone fired a pinpoint laser that never stood a chance against the shielding of United Earth Colonies’ military escort Scorpio.

Then static.

“Why would a UEC ship fire on a collector?”

“We have to report this,” Sonya said. She reached over Sam and plugged something into the desktop. Her fingers flew with the grace of a data-entry professional. “I’m copying this to a secure drive with a decryption key that’ll match only our AI. You find the person you trust most in this colony and you show them, copy it, but do not let them have your original. Can I trust you?”

“Yes.” The purpose filled Sam with a feverish energy.

She plugged her comm unit into the second slot. Sam did, too. Three drives into this machine that’d save the colony. And he had helped.

“Summon your AI. Bahamut, copy.”

“Um…”

“Let’s go.”

A wave of embarrassment swept Sam up, but national security was at stake. “Sushi, copy.”

The blue-haired woman glanced over.

“My dog, not the food.” He hoped that made it better.

At the military base, Sam knew the drill now and waited with impatient, dancing feet for Ji-Ming to escort him. He looked haggard and waved it off as having the night shift, though he was dressed in fatigues today. Maybe just getting off the shift.

“How’d the pup like his bones? Quality, eh?”

“He wanted me to say thanks.”

“Wish I had an update on the case for you, bud, but we’ve turned up nothing.”

“Actually… can we go somewhere secure? Private?”

Ji-Ming almost laughed at his demeanor but Sam was dead serious, jumpy, like a kid at a cookie jar. “Sure.”

Inside his dorm room, he locked the door and offered Sam the bed or the desk chair. There wasn’t much else. A closet. Dresser. A desk with scrolling precious memories with Tele’ktrides, the two of them slowly aging through the years, as adults do. Widening, thinning, regrettable hair styles, but mostly the deep strain wrinkling their flesh and the smiles appearing more tired until the final photo from just the other night with oxtail soup and a jump cut to 10 years ago.

“See any more shadows?” Ji-Ming asked.

“Is your computer hard wired to the Internet? Or can we go offline and view things locally?”

“Internet cuts out all the time, so I guess the latter.”

“I have evidence now.”

He crawled under the desk, both to take the Ethernet cord out the back and to take a moment to process. “Of the shadow?”

“Of something that has to be connected to it. But if the investigation lists me as reporting, I’m worried about what’ll happen next.”

“We could redact your name from the initial report? Or withdraw it completely?”

“You’re a senior airman, right? You said military rank holds more sway. For the good of the colony and the people on it, I need that sway.”

He crawled out of the darkness, his friendly face looking serious. “OK, you got my support. What’s this evidence?”

“We’re unplugged?”

“Off-the-grid.”

Sam plugged in his AI drive. Usually it took a few seconds to go through start-up on a new computer, but it popped up with command prompt immediately. “Sushi, open file Evidence.”

The drive didn’t light up with the usual recognition light at its summon phrase. “Sushi,” Sam said again more clearly.

He reached over the mouse to manually open the file.

This Computer > External Drive (F:)

Empty.

“Maybe because we’re offline,” Ji-Ming suggested.

Sam unplugged it and tried again while disconnected. “Sushi, what time is it?”

“Sushi, time.”

“Sushi!”

“Sam, what’s up?”

The woman! What did she…?

“Can you pull up personnel files on this?” Sam frantically started groping in the back of the PC, trying to reconnect the Ethernet.

“Public ones, sure.”

“Pull up Collecting Unit operator Sonya Alkes.”

Ji-Ming typed it in with the old hunt-and-peck method. “There’s no one by that name.”

“Can you pull up me? Samwise Nuwim.”

Yes.

“Keen Okyere.”

Yes.

There was no one working in the Sanitation & Collection Department by that name and scrolling through the list of operators, transport pilots, collectors, no one had blue hair.

“She wiped my AI! It must’ve been a time-bomb for my drive.”

“Or… drives fail sometimes. This, the elevator. You’re having a string of bad luck this week, but don’t start looking for conspiracies to explain it.”

“Tele’ktrides is a science person, right? Randy?” Sam reeled from the lost, grasping at whatever might save this. “Does she work with computers? Could she recover?”

“One of her three degrees is computer engineering, but even if it were foul play, would it really be so easy to get it back?”

“At least she could see if it’s tampered with.”

“I don’t know. I use computers but I don’t understand them. I don’t know what leaves a ‘fingerprint’ of sorts.”

“Please. I’ll buy you dinner every night this week.”

The way the boy looked at Ji-Ming… He still had a heart. He still had to try. If nothing else, this would bring a bitter closure. Evidence gone, case closed, failure.

“All right, but I eat a lot.”

“That’s fine.” As they were walking down the hall, Sam asked, “Three degrees? Really?”

“Computers, mechanical and… Bio? Don’t tell her I forgot.”

The lab they’d found her in required clearance that Ji-Ming didn’t even have. The windowless door from the lab to vestibule had to close before the windowless door from the vestibule to the lobby could open, but she walked out with AR lenses still strapped to her face.

“How long have you had this?” Tele’ktrides asked, waiting for her personal laptop to boot up.

“I guess since university.”

The boot process took only a second.

“I don’t know how long ago that was for you.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Three or four years now? No issues with it until now.”

She pulled up the empty directory and with a few more buttons revealed hidden files.

Sam felt some hope.

“These are just the default AI directories. At the store, the machine will run you through set-up like you probably did three or four years ago and that’s how you name yours and program a summon phrase. For example, ‘Prometheus.’”

Her own lit up. She had the same watch as Ji-Ming but in red.

“Call yours,” Ji-Ming suggested.

“It won’t work.”

“Sushi,” Sam tried.

Ji-Ming smiled. Tele’ktrides scowled.

“Based on your account of the incident, it’s possible the data wasn’t formatted but shredded. I’m not a recovery specialist so I can’t tell the difference on my computer, but if files are shredded, they’re deleted then the partition is overwritten. In running recovery, you’ll only come up with deleted junk files.”

“All of them are shredded?”

“Sorry, Sam, but next time leave the investigation up to professionals. We’ll keep investigating the woods and--”

“It’s not just the recent files shredded?”

“I’d imagine a malicious actor would shred everything not stock. Take some new pictures. Start fresh.”

“My family was on that.”

Ji-Ming felt a pang in his heart. “Maybe if you leave it with us, we can recover something.”

“That’s OK.”

Sam left, not just with failure, but a harsh reminder that he was an orphan with fading memories.

The first thing Sam did when he returned was hug Sushi. The AI may be gone, but the pup remained. They headed down the elevator, the other night a distant memory for the dog, and when they reached the lobby, there was Jean Beaumont fixing the security locker meant for packages.

They saw Sushi and backed into the alcove for paper mail boxes that were unanimously stuffed by untouched fliers. “Did you need in here?” They waved at the dog. “Something funky happened with passcodes. You know yours, right? Perfect. Enter any other number and you can get your package.”

Sam nodded and passed, then turned around to see Jean cautiously exiting the mail box fortress. “Are you good with computers?”

“The best! Anyway, bye! Have a nice walk.”

Sam placed his drive on the security desk and stepped way. “I need your help.”

According to Jean, the data recovery would take a few hours. Sam felt his hope live once more. He reached the edge of his rectangular territory, that corner that led to the park or to the restaurants. In truth, this rectangle was established by Sushi when they first arrived. It was all the three-legged boy could handle upon recovery. It’d take time to adjust and find new ways to move. By the time his prosthesis arrived, Sam had settled in that comfortable routine.

For once, he went to the restaurants, then past them, then to the forest to find that shadow. He knew it was there.

And Sushi loved every new step.

The mulberry trees with little snacks to keep his energy up. The deer hoofs imprinted in soft dirt. The occasional candy bar wrapper. So many things to mark as his new territory. A group of birds took off and Sushi squirmed against the harness to chase them with his tongue hanging out so far the black spot in back was visible.

At the branch of a well-trodden path, Sushi let his nose decide.

There came a point when he needed to rest and Sam carried him.

Soon Sam needed his own tree to mark. Sam put him down.

And it was around there that Sam heard the voices. Grumbling voices.

“Another day, more nothing,” a woman said. “Next time, can’t we just kick back the whole shift with some beans and say we couldn’t find anything?”

“The comm units track movements,” another said.

Peeking through the bushes, Sam saw it was a group of four soldiers stopped for dinner in a clearing. They huddled around a small camping stove with an empty pot. A search patrol!

At first, Sam wanted to approach them and perhaps help out. They were looking for the shadow. Another person could cover more ground, right?

And when Sam spotted Ji-Ming among them, the urge rose further.

Until his stomach dropped.

Sonya.

The traitor.

And in the world of fight or flight, Sam was torn between the two and froze.

“Dark’s on its way. We should head back to base with a report.”

The fork in the path had two trails. Theirs would converge with Sam. His feet finally worked and rushed to catch them before double-time proved too fast. He was heard.

Good.

“Hello!” another soldier called out. Her name badge said Al-Abidi. “Having a walk?”

“With the dog,” Sam said. “You’re not scared, right?”

“Not at all.” Al-Abidi approached and squatted down before Sushi who retreated. “It’s okay. Boy? Girl?”

“Boy, Ji-Ming answered. He greeted them cautiously. “Sushi? Sam?”

Recognizing the voice, the dog got excited but Sam held the leash firmly away from the traitor. Did he know Sam knew? “Are you scouring the woods for something?” When Sam glimpsed the others’ surprise, he added, “I was the one who reported a falling shadow to UEC Defense Force Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. Find anything? Ceiling tile or something mundane, I assume?”

“Friends?” Al-Abidi asked.

“Same apartment building.”

Ji-Ming said, “Nothing to report.” He traced Sam’s eyes. They were went past the front three soldiers and locked on Sonya.

It was around now that Sam noticed the side arms on everyone’s hip, and as guns often do, they made him process everything as a threat. Before, he had assumed Ji-Ming and Sonya were the only two infiltrators, that he had somehow sneaked her into the group so that she’d be one of the ones reporting back that they found nothing. But maybe all four of them were in on it.

And Sam was in danger.

“We should head back,” Sam said. “He gets pretty tired so far out.”

“Let’s walk together,” Al-Abidi said. The others fell back. One was afraid of dogs and the other two were definitely traitors to the colony and maybe the entire UEC.

But Al-Abidi did the heavy lifting to keep the walk from going suspiciously quiet. “My parents take care of the family dog back home—have you ever visited Luna 2? Anyway, she’s getting up there in years. Always hard to say goodbye. By the time I get back, who knows? Another year is a long time for an old gal.”

Sam, between polite but empty responses, glanced back on occasion wanting to see if anyone prepared to pull their guns and fire into the backs of him or even the other soldiers.

The math was simple:

Two traitors. Two questionables that even if trustworthy & armed themselves were unaware. Two shots at most to take out the threats and then Sam and Sushi would remain.

She had already erased Sushi before.

Would she try it again now in plain view?

They street lights came into view at the mouth of the woods. Restaurants that Tele’ktrides and Ji-Ming liked. And beyond that, their apartment.

“Nice meeting you,” the friendly soldier said, specifically shaking Sushi’s paw. First one, then the other, telling him he was a good boy. “Maybe I’ll see you around again.”

Back in his apartment, he contacted maintenance to try to find Jean. Their shift had ended. Sam got an address, but wanted to drop Sushi off. He needed to refuel on more than mulberries.

Sitting with their flash of red hair against the door, holding their own comm unit up to the light, playing games, was his technical hero—Jean Beaumont.

Who backed away upon seeing Sushi.

“Let me throw him inside and we can talk out here.”

“Oh, please don’t throw him. Gently is fine.”

Sam gently placed Sushi inside and opened a can of wet food for him. Lamb & Peas, according to the tin, but it neither looked it or smelled it. He washed his hands then was back outside. “So…” Sam waited for Jean to update him.

But Jean, polite as could be, waited for him to continue his statement.

“Did you manage to recover the drive?”

They shook their head. “The data is gone, but your unit actually has a backup partition that it stores main processes to during updates.”

“What does that mean?”

“Recordings and documents and whatever are gone forever, but I managed to restore the AI from a recovery drive.”

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

In the figure-eight building, Sam lived in the northern half, and the steps walking toward the southern half were from Research & Development team leader on Deimos Military Base, Tele’ktrides C. Lee.

Their eyes locked.

“Sushi,” Sam said and the light on his AI drive turned on. “Set alarm for 7:00 am.”

“Got it. Your alarm is set for tomorrow at 7:00 am.”

The Earth Federation had sent three pilots to test the new machines, but that scientist talked them down to one. Regardless of the humiliation a few days back, Commander Reynolds donned his suit to prepare for the test flight--starting with the diaper. He’d show her who was unqualified.

The next layer of long johns were from off the shelf of his local general store back home. He searched the shelves for a paper clip, then secured the folded-over elastic waistband to secure the oddly loose underwear.

Next, another stretchy layer but no civilian store would sell these, but perhaps they should. These were specially engineered ages ago and only improved since. Throughout this special designed suit were intestines of tubes running water. The flow rate helped to maintain his body heat, task independent.

Then a containment layer, then a protective layer, followed by a Snoopy cap with in-ear radios, simple cotton gloves, and the final outer layer with a helmet. The personal shielding would protect him and the suit’s electronics during turbulent flights, even should he get bounced around the cockpit. In this, he could go toe-to-toe with the heavyweight champion back on Earth and come out unscathed. A modern day suit of armor.

The bubble over his face darkened automatically or on command and had a radiation visor that could lower.

Once in the suit, it was hard to recognize which pilot was which, but Reynolds, a tall individual stood out, as did a short, bulky individual.

“Who do I have the pleasure of flying formation with today?” Reynolds asked. The voice transmitted over comms.

“Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming. The pleasure’s mine, sir.”

-Sam goes to military base

-The guard asks if he wants to see Senior Airman Lee Ji-Ming

-Actually, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name.

-Sam heads off thinking he sneaked inside without alerting Ji-Ming or Sonya.

-However, the guard watches Sam go and calls Ji-Ming anyway

-”You said you wanted to know if Nuwim returned to base. He just asked for Al-Abidi.”

At the military base, the guard Sam had been getting acquainted with via inspections asked for his ID.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Orders are orders and if something happens these days, I’m not getting blamed. Looking for Lee again?”

“Actually, a girl.”

The guard seemed interested in the development and Sam played into that.

“Yeah, Al-Abidi. I didn’t catch her first name, but her uniform wasn’t quite the same so I think maybe a visiting soldier. If you could help me out.”

The guard radioed to the hut a few meters behind him and they found Alisha Al-Abidi, who arrived at the gate to escort him on. The guard waved playfully behind them. “Have fun, you two.”

The ever-extroverted Alisha was happy to have company, though she’d forgotten his name, and Sam looked around the base, just in case Ji-Ming was around, but he wasn’t. Sam’s infiltration plan had worked. The two walked off together.

But once they were out of sight, the guard in the hut radioed. “I’m trying to reach Senior Airman Lee. When he’s free, give him the message, ‘His packaged just arrived.’”

They walked for a bit, enjoying pleasant chit-chat, mostly one-sided as Sam scoped out the activity around him. He saw neither Ji-Ming nor Sonya. Sam’s plan for this section wasn’t quite formed. In his mind, he’d catch them in the act of something, but where were they? What would they be doing so indiscreetly that onlookers would rally to his side? He was the civilian here. His word was already at a disadvantage. And even if he caught them, if there weren’t onlookers, was he, a trash collector, going to take down two trained soldiers on a mission?

During the pause, Alisha asked, “So?”

“I need a toilet.”

“Oh! Sure.”

It gave him a little more time to think, but eventually he’d have to return to her and with an escort, his hands were tied on how much he could actually explore a secure military base worth infiltrating.

The sounds of transport vehicles came through the open window. It was long and short and high up, but if he stood on the cistern, he could reach it.

“You OK in there, um… Dan?” Alisha called.

There was no answer.

In the lobby of the Port Tram Station, the three test pilots waited for final preparations from the engineering team.

“What the hell is this?” Commander Reynolds said when one pulled out a syringe for his blood.

Tele’ktrides explained, “The AMPSystem uses biometric data to bind you with the on-board AI. It won’t be so different than your personal unit and you can even use the same name, if you like. However, the system is… particular. A bit of DNA goes a long way in getting it to accept you.”

“Sounds like we’re letting a new pet sniff us,” he grumbled to Ji-Ming.

“Thank god, pets don’t ask for blood.”

“You’ve never had an ocelot,” the commander said it with the coy expression that made Ji-Ming laugh but he wasn’t sure. “Can we hurry and get this under way?”

“We’re all impatient,” Tele’ktrides said, though she knew from Ji-Ming that pilots always felt ill at ease in a jumpsuit and most at ease in a cockpit. She checked her watch. Two hours left.

“Maybe we can pass the time by starting final briefing. The bulk of this will take place in the hangar so you can see the controls in-person, though obviously it’ll be similar to your time in the simulation.” Ji-Ming pulled up his AI unit. “The three units have been designated with call names already. Because I was fortunate enough to serve as the test pilot during development, I already know my AI. GX-001: Pronoia.”

“Let me guess: it means something.”

“From the ancient Greek myths, Pronoia was a minor goddess of foresight and wife of Prometheus.”

“The Fire Bringer?”

“That’s the one. And I’m sure you also know the word ‘paranoia,’ right?”

“Of course.”

“The world’s cynicism teaches you that word but not its opposite. ‘Pronoia’ means the belief that the world conspires to do you good.”

“Do you really believe that?” the commander asked.

He shrugged.

“Then what’s mine?”

Tele’ktrides brought up some a time line with three points highlighted. She pointed to the first. “Seeing as you’re our guest, the choice is yours. GX-000: Prometheus, as you said, ‘the Fire Bringer,’ was our first unit in development. A prototype with some quirks, but I believe is the easiest unit to pilot. The lowest skill floor but perhaps the lowest skill ceiling as well.”

“And the final one?”

“GX-002: Deucalion, hero of the flood.”

The commander smiled. “Fitting. I like that one. Guess that leaves our youngest with the oldest. What’s your name again, soldier?”

“Alkes, sir. Sonya Alkes. It’ll be a pleasure to fly beside you.”

An alarm sounded.

Commander Reynolds looked to his fellow pilots, but the three conspirators looked to each other. This wasn’t part of their plan.

“Senior Airman Lee?” an escort approached. “We have a message from the security gate.”

Traipsing through the military base already put Sam on edge.

He peeked around a corner. Two soldiers marched by with folks who appeared to be scientists. They were escorted from Hangar A into Laboratory A. While they didn’t appear to be under arrest, there was ice in the air. No one said a word. No one looked around. One clutched a hard shelled briefcase.

He stepped out into the open and made his way toward Hangar A, reasoning that if they’d just come from there, there wouldn’t be anyone else.

To Sam’s surprise, the soldiers weren’t out en force beyond the second security checkpoint. It was harder to get past the entrance gate. Sam had no idea the majority of soldiers were preparing for the test flight or sent elsewhere to preserve secrecy, but it worked to his advantage.

He started to relax.

Then the alarm sounded with large holo-screens displaying both his identification photo and the security footage from the front gate, his heart raced.

He ducked into the alleyway behind Hangar A to catch his breath behind some crates.

The alley was between Hangar A where the people had just come from and a building marked Port Tram Station.

At the command of a superior officer, the soldiers in the Port Tram Station fanned out around the base. Then the door went quiet. Those inside were instructed to remain. Test pilots had no business hunting down an intruder. However, that was boring and soldiers are creatures of action.

“A friend of yours?” Commander Reynolds said as they stepped out.

“Same apartment building.”

“So why’s he here?”

Tele’ktrides looked to Ji-Ming, but she kept her mouth sealed for the time being. “Don’t wander too far. We can’t delay this test.”

The door closed and Commander Reynolds stepped out with his fellow test pilots.

They hadn’t seen Sam yet. But Sam saw them from the shadows. The jumpsuits they wore were a more advanced version than his own at work, both out of necessity and out of preference from the higher-ups on who needed protection. It wasn’t collectors like him.

His heart beat so loud they’d soon find him on sound alone.

Ji-Ming went straight. Sonya right. And Commander Reynolds toward Sam.

Now was the time.

“There are traitors on this colony,” Sam said with his hands up.

The Commander reached for his side arm, but kept it holstered. “Are you Sam Nuwim? People get lost on tours all the time. Follow my instructions and we’ll sort everything out. Keep your hands up. Turn around.”

“I have video evidence that proves Sonya Alkes is an infiltrator from the ISF. And Senior Airman--”

“Do you have any weapons on you?” he interrupted.

Befuddled by the question, Sam started to approach.

The soldier drew his own weapon and asked again, louder, “Do you have any weapons?”

“No! All I have is proof of danger to this colony. Sushi,” he started to summon his AI.

A shot hit the wall.

Commander Reynolds turned to see who had fired.

The accused.

Sonya Alkes.

Ji-Ming currently wrestled her to the ground but she was wily, familiar with the same type of hand-to-hand combat UEC Defense Force soldiers were trained in--and more. She scrambled to grab her pistol off the ground when Commander Reynolds joined the scuffle. This kid was not clear and present danger, but Sonya might be, if not to the colony, at least to Sam. And the commander knew civilians froze in situations like this.

“Resistance is a clear sign of guilt. Thanks,” Ji-Ming said as the commander helped him pin the suspect down. “I got her. Where’s Sam?”

The kid had run off.

“Dammit.”

He couldn’t have gone far.

Tele’ktrides comm unit flicked on with its walkie-talkie function. Only Ji-Ming had access to that.

“Sonya Alkes has had accusations laid against her as an infiltrator or defector.”

“Allegedly,” Commander Reynolds said in the background. “But her response maybe tipped her hand.”

“What about Sam?” Tele’ktrides asked.

“Disappeared when Alkes fired a shot near him.”

“She’s not saying anything?”

“No.”

“I’ll recall some MPs to take her to a holding cell.” Tele’ktrides checked the time. “And I’ll let everyone know the test has been delayed due to rain.”

Sam found himself in Hangar A, a large room that immediately descended around the perimeter of the room so the exterior was deceptively short, only appearing three stories but with the depth, maybe clocked in closer to five or six. Nothing in the room warranted such height currently. Some boxes were stacked high, but nowhere near the ceiling. Stairs led up to a catwalk that had lines and harnesses akin to a Boatswain’s chair most often used in window washing. But there were no windows.

All there was that stood out to Sam was a large flatbed covered in an uneven tarpaulin, which, as the door was thrown open behind him, seemed the only good place to hide.

The tarp was too thick to see through except where wear and tear near the folds had formed pinpoints for light. He navigated against the odd geometric shapes of the metal, trying not to make noise or moving mounds beneath. He played this game with Sushi all the time. He put his hand under a blanket. Moved it slowly, carefully, then rose up like a shark fin and Sushi would pounce, trying to pin him down, only to find the shape had reappeared elsewhere.

Now was no time to get pounced on.

He moved slowly. Carefully. Following the odd shape. It was actually easy, though. The structure was like his apartment wall, maybe 9 or 10 feet tall. The empty space it created was more than enough to sidle through.

Curiosity started to get to him.

He felt like an ant on a tractor tire, aware of the grooves and ridges, but unable to piece the mass together in his mind. It was too long. Or… If the wall he stood against was actually the depth of it, then perhaps it was not long, but tall. Probably the thing requiring such six stories of hangar.

“Sam!” yelled a voice he knew as Ji-Ming’s. “I know you’re in here. There’s still time for this to all work out.” He threw up a corner of the tarp, but he picked the wrong corner.

Suddenly, Sam could see the UEC colors on rough metal, but a paint job gave him no clearer mental picture.

The tarp flapped down and he heard footsteps around the bend. A light shining.

Ji-Ming made his way around, not hampered by a need to be stealthy, but he saw and heard nothing.

Sam had pulled himself up to the roof of this thing.

But now the tarp rustled with Sam moving against the top of it.

Less gracefully, Ji-Ming heaved himself up to grab the ledge and Sam knew it’d be a few seconds then till he was caught if nothing changed.

His pursuer’s light showed a hatch.

He groped the metal nearby looking for a handle or latch or something. A sharp edge cut his fingers. He swore but there was no time. Ji-Ming had seen him.

“Freeze!”

Sam rose to his feet. The two men formed tent poles under the canvas. Sam put his hands up.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You don’t have a choice. I know now.”

“You don’t.”

Sam backed up.

“Don’t move, Sam!”

His heel caught a ledge. The hatch opened with a hydraulic pop and hiss. He could no longer see the other.

Ji-Ming bolted.

Sam stumbled inside, grabbing the inner handle, and using his weight and gravity to pull the heavy hatch door after him into the dark.

Orange Peals

Orange Peals

NaNoWriMo

Orange Peals

Week 3: 17,000 / 73 pages

Orange Peals