One Way

28

[transcript of audio file #145816 10/16/2047 0930MT XO Mission Control, White Sands Missile Range NM]

Frank couldn’t hear anything except his own heartbeat in his ears and the hoarseness of his own breath. The gloves, the suit, the boots, the helmet, isolated him from anything in the environment that might give him clues as to what was going on around him. He was relying completely on one sense: sight. And even his peripheral vision was non-existent.

He kept watch on the base, and opened up his tablet. No signal. It couldn’t sync, and it was because his own suit transmitter was off. That might be why Brack had retreated inside—Frank’s suit wouldn’t give away his location, and he wasn’t close enough for the telltale hidden in his chest to broadcast either.

As soon as he approached the base, the system would automatically pick him up, and even if it didn’t light him up on the map, it’d push his vital signs into the medical monitor. It would tell Brack he was both alive and close, rather than as he currently was, in limbo.

Of course, Brack could afford to wait him out. He had the base. He could do pretty much anything he wanted now. He knew that Frank would have to come to him, and he’d know when that happened.

So, in order: Marcy. That could have been an accident. They were at full stretch that day, and they both knew they were low on air. But the scrubber in Marcy’s life support had failed first, and it could absorb waste gases for much longer than there was air. That was suspicious.

Then Alice. Alice was the smartest one on board. She was professional and knowledgeable and didn’t take shit from anyone. Yet once they were all defrosted, her work was over. In fact, she became a liability because she knew so much. She’d have spotted Brack’s painkiller addiction simply by counting the pills.

It left them short-handed to build the base, but there were no more deaths until it was done. Being two people down eased the food situation hugely. It would have been tight, starvation-tight, with eight mouths to feed, and it was no coincidence that they’d just squeaked it with six. Marcy and Alice had been culled, taking out enough of the crew to make the food go around. That the first two they lost were the two women? That, surely, wasn’t going to be a coincidence either.

Goddammit, Brack.

Zeus was next. Zeus was both physically strong and knew how to fight. He was also someone who would have felt it his duty to protect the others. He’d already done his job, and more, with the installation of the central heating. His dream of a steam engine had died with him, but maybe there were more panels in the stuff XO was sending later. They didn’t need his generator, and they didn’t need him.

Dee. Dee was just a perpetual victim. He’d set up all the control systems, and maybe he’d seen things he shouldn’t have in the tech manuals. XO probably knew what he’d been reading. Maybe he was a threat after all. So they’d got Brack to kill him next.

And how? It had been all too easy because no one had thought that the person going through the crew and picking them off, one by one, was the same person who was supposed to be overseeing their work, and making sure there was a functioning base to invite the NASA astronauts into when they finally arrived.

It would have been Frank and Declan and Zero next, whichever order Brack or XO wanted it done in, until all the convicts had gone. Except they’d ruined the planned order of execution by working out what was going on and talking to each other about it. The simplest thing—an honest conversation—had led to this. It had led to Frank hiding out in the frozen Martian night, not daring to approach the one place that he could live in.

Not that that was true. There was still the ship.

Brack had a gun, though, and the walls of the ship were going to be as much use as the walls of the habs at protecting him. Was there anything there he could use? Were there more guns, or at least better weapons than what he had currently? Probably not, and driving there would give away his position as much as it would going closer to the base.

All it would do would be to give him a different place in which to die.

It simply had to be here and now. At night, and on territory which he was at least familiar with. He had no advantages, and lots of problems. It still had to be done.

If Brack was still watching the buggy, then he might see Frank break cover. But there was a way around that. He left the shelter of the wheel, not hesitating, moving quickly, because a shot could come at any moment and he’d never know until it hit him. He grabbed one of the headlight array and turned it so that it shone directly at the space between the habs.

He couldn’t see anyone lurking there. And now, with a bright light aimed straight into their eyes, they couldn’t see him either.

If Brack wasn’t psychotic, and just a cold-hearted killer, it actually counted in Frank’s favor. There’d be only so much that he’d be prepared to bust up—only so much that he’d be prepared to let Frank bust up—before pulling his punches. And bullet holes in the hab skin were going to be difficult to explain away.

That settled it. He had to get inside, and fast. Close with Brack.

He couldn’t let go of the buggy chassis. He wasn’t the kind of guy who ran towards danger. He was deep-down scared. No, he was a coward. Last time, he’d chosen the easy way, the simple way, the pull-the-trigger way, just to make it stop, so that all the complex decisions he wouldn’t make collapsed into one course he couldn’t alter.

Being in jail had been so straightforward. He hadn’t had to do or be anything other than a prisoner. What had he been thinking to come here, dreaming he might have a future rather than only a past? He’d allowed himself to hope. Idiot. All his choices were going to end in abject, painful failure. He was going to die tonight, and the only difference he’d make was which part of Mars he’d water with his blood.

He was still going to have to try, though. If not now, in a minute, in an hour. At some point, he’d convince himself that not doing it was worse than doing it, and he’d run the short distance to the med hab, wondering if the next bounding step would be his last.

His arm ached where the bullet had cut his suit. If he was just bruised, then OK. If he was bleeding, then things would only get worse.

So why not now? Why not go now?

He forced his hand open, and he was suddenly running, passing behind the buggy, covering the distance as fast as he could, kicking up dust with his heels.

He caught hold of the corner support leg and let himself swing around with his back to the hab. All of a hundred feet, and he hadn’t died yet. The base’s Wi-Fi would have picked up his heartbeat by now, so he needed to keep going. He ran down the line of supports, and around the back to the airlock there. He cycled it, stepped into the chamber, and cycled it again.

The suit relaxed around him.

Another choice to make: take it off, or keep it on? The suit controls told him that the pressure had stabilized at three point nine. Twenty per cent less than normal. Like standing on the top of a mountain. Yes, he’d be free to move and run and fight, but he’d be gasping like a stranded fish the whole time. And the suit was, to some degree, armored. Keep it on for now.

He gripped the door handle, and in one swift movement pushed it down and swung it open, hard, like a punch. There was no resistance. Brack wasn’t behind the door.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t there somewhere, though.

The consulting room was just to his left, the usually locked door uncharacteristically ajar. Frank nudged it with his foot, and it slowly opened. Another bedroll sitting amid a sea of squalid filth, and an open metal flight case. The foam was cut out in the shape of a gun, and there were empty slots for magazines.

A metal-edged case would be useful as a club. He slid in, and bent down to close the lid and click the latches.

As he did so, he heard a faint noise, even though it was muffled through his helmet. A creak in the metal that wasn’t due to night-time cooling. He knew what that sounded like, a steady tick-tick of contraction. This noise was a flex, the muted groan of someone trying to be stealthy.

Frank stayed perfectly still. He could just see through the door from where he was crouching. The light outside in the med bay dimmed slightly. The floor creaked again. He was there, right outside, looking up and down the length of the hab, trying to see if anything had moved.

Frank slowly slid his hand inside the flight case handle, and waited. He barely dared to blink, in case his lids rasped against his eyeballs.

Another creak, and he could see the very edge of an XO-issue overall. No spacesuit. He tightened his grip on the handle, and tensed his arm.

Then they turned, and their eyes opened wide as they spotted him.

Frank was already launching the open flight case at their head when he realized it wasn’t Brack.

It was a direct hit. The case seemed to wrap around Zero’s face, and the momentum and suddenness of the impact carried him backwards off his feet. He fell through a loose curtain and against one of the examination tables, sending it spinning and clattering through the med bay.

Frank scrambled to his feet. “Crap. I thought you were him.”

Zero ripped the case from his face. He was bleeding—a cut on his brow, a cut across the bridge of his nose—and he came up still holding his knife.

He lunged at Frank’s chest. The outside curve of the blade skittered across the hard shell of the torso and Frank managed to turn so that the cutting edge didn’t slide into his arm. He forced Zero back with a two-handed shove that sent the lighter man flying down almost the entire length of the med bay.

The knife seemed welded into Zero’s hand. He bounced up again, wiping blood out of his eye with his fingers.

“It’s me,” said Frank. “It’s Frank. Look.”

“I know who it is! I know what you’ve done. You killed everyone. Brack explained it all.”

“No. He’s lying to you. He just shot Declan in the face. He shot me.” Frank pointed to his ragged sleeve. “He’s not what you think he is.”

“I’m going home with him. Just like he promised me.”

“He promised that to everyone, Zero. Remember? Where is he? Where is he right now?”

“Gone to the ship, looking for you. And he’ll be back here soon.”

“We’ve got to stop him. Me and you. He’s been working his way through the crew, and we’re next. Those are his orders, Zero. His orders from XO. He has to get rid of us.”

“That’s not it. That’s not it at all. It’s you we have to get rid of.” Zero, hand starting to tremble, advanced back down the hab. “Then we’ll be safe.”

Frank backed away as far as he could, which was only as far as the airlock behind him. “You don’t understand. We’re not meant to still be here when NASA turns up.”

Zero was close enough to strike again, and he hesitated for too long, shifting his weight from one leg to another, feinting and dodging but never following through. Frank jabbed for Zero’s eyes, trusting the suit to take whatever counter-blow came.

Zero tried to fend off Frank’s first attack, and left himself completely open for the second. Frank’s knee jerked up, caught Zero right in the groin, and Zero started to fold, the air pushed out of him in one short grunt.

Frank doubled down. He crowded Zero, using his weight and the hard surfaces of the suit to keep him moving backwards and off-balance. He finally managed to get his hand around Zero’s wrist and wrenched his arm up.

Something went pop in his biceps and a bright flash of pain blinded him. Zero was able to brace his feet and push, and Frank toppled back onto his life support, Zero on top of him. They were still locked together, neither willing to let go of the other.

The low oxygen was taking its toll on Zero. His face was slick with sweat and blood. It dripped down onto Frank’s faceplate as they both grimaced and groaned, Zero trying to turn the knife towards Frank, Frank straining to keep it away.

“I’m not your enemy,” said Frank. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“He said. He said.”

“He lied. Everything we’ve been told is a lie.”

Frank got his hand between them, and the pain was so intense, so sharp, he thought he was going to cry. He forced himself to push the hand upwards, into Zero’s face, fat, gauntleted fingers probing for the eyes. Zero jerked his head away, but it meant that he wasn’t concentrating on his knife hand for a moment. Frank slammed it into the deck, point-first, once, twice, and the third time it came good.

Zero’s unprotected hand slid down the blade and it cut deep.

He gasped and choked, and tried to grab the handle again but couldn’t because he couldn’t grip any more and everything was slippery with blood.

He twisted his hand, and Frank wouldn’t release him. The wound just opened up more.

There was no way that Frank could get up or roll over. The most he could do was rock side to side on the broad curve of the life support, which was worse than useless. He couldn’t bring his legs up to get his knees between him and Zero. He was left with trying to lever his injured arm up and into Zero’s face.

They were stuck. Neither could do anything to the other.

“You’ve got to believe me, Zero. I don’t want to hurt you. Brack’s the real enemy. Brack and XO.”

“No, no, no. Brack wouldn’t do that. Brack said he’d take me home.” Zero tried to break out of Frank’s grasp again, and squealed with pain. Not just pain. Anguish. Loss.

“You’re doing his dirty work for him. You’ve got to understand that. I don’t want to die here, so I’m only going to let you go if you tell me you believe me, and you’re not going to try and hurt me. We can still work together. We can still beat him.”

Zero’s head slipped away from Frank’s fingers and he brought his forehead down on Frank’s faceplate. Hard.

The blow was shocking, surprising, stunning. It left smears of blood and bubbles across the major portion of Frank’s view.

“Don’t, Zero. Don’t do this.”

He did it again, just as hard. The impact jolted Frank. More blood. Frank was almost blind, his vision coated in a red, liquid film.

Again. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t see anything.

He let go of Zero’s wrist and pushed as hard as he could. The weight on him, on his legs, left abruptly, and he brought his good hand up to scrape five lines through the gore.

Zero was all but unrecognizable. His face, his fine features, were mashed, broken, swollen, bruised. His hand was not just dripping but oozing, a continuous dribble of hot red liquid streaming off his fingertips.

Frank pushed himself to sitting, and awkwardly got a knee under his body.

The knife was on the floor, next to Frank. He saw Zero squint for it, trying to see through slits where it was. Frank reached for it, to push it away behind him, and Zero jumped him, howling.

Then he made a gagging sound. He pawed at Frank’s helmet, patting at it with increasingly gentle taps, before falling still.

Frank heaved him off, and Zero slipped gracelessly to one side, his own knife buried between his ribs.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He laid his hand on Zero’s head. “I’m so sorry. I tried. God knows I tried, but you just wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry.”

And there was still Brack. He couldn’t rest. Brack would know he was still alive. He’d still come for him. He wouldn’t stop.

The inside of the med hab looked like an abattoir. There was blood everywhere. Ceiling, walls, the furnishings, the floor. Especially the floor.

Frank knew what he was going to do. He hated himself. He hated that he couldn’t just curl up and go to sleep for a hundred years, and wake up to find everything was fine again. He hated that he’d been forced into such extremes, and even then it might not be enough.

He opened his suit controls, and opened up the back-hatch. He took his last few breaths of good air, and dipped his head out into the cool thin atmosphere of the base. It smelled of copper. Sharp and sweet and metallic on his tongue.

His left arm came out OK. His right arm stuck, and there was nothing left to do but pull, slowly and surely, until it came free.

It was like tearing something off: that feeling of fear and trepidation as to just how much pain pulling that loose tooth, peeling back that Band-Aid, was going to deliver before the glorious moment that the task was over and it could stop now.

It left him weak and breathing hard. There was blood on his overall sleeve, a hole through it, but there wasn’t as much as he’d anticipated. Perhaps the suit had helped, pressing against his skin, holding it all in.

He touched it, the jelly-like plug of blood in his arm, and he could feel the bullet as a solid mass partway into his muscle. He tried to squeeze around the area, push it out, but the flesh was just too tender and the bullet didn’t seem to want to move.

He pulled his legs free, and he was standing in sticky blood.

He went to the box that he knew contained the sterile packs of medical instruments. He ripped a pack open, and wondered in which order to do things. He knew he didn’t have much time, but neither did he want a bullet left in him.

He used the scissors to cut the cloth over the wound, making access easier. The hole in his arm was indented, like a crater. The skin around it was puffy and hot to the touch. The clot glistened darkly.

He loaded his undexterous left hand with the forceps. He rested his arm on the shelf, braced his other elbow, and pressed the open jaws deep into the wound. He couldn’t not look, and screwed his face up all the same.

Frank pulled, and the plug came sliding out, like the polyp of some sea creature. He felt cold. He couldn’t faint now. He turned his head, swallowed hard, took some highly unsatisfactory breaths, and came back for the second round.

He could see it, metal washed with blood, at the very bottom. He panted. Then he lowered the forceps into his arm until the tip clinked against the bullet. He slowly opened the jaws until they slid around the circumference, and closed them again.

He gave an exploratory tug. He bit at his own lip until it bled. He panted again, clenched his teeth, and pulled.

It wasn’t so much that it hurt. It was that it was coming from inside of him. He dropped the bullet onto the floor, and laid the forceps back on the shelf.

He felt strangely, inexplicably, good. High. The lack of oxygen, the pain which, perversely, made him feel so incredibly alive and abruptly nauseous. He still had something else to do.

He gagged, swallowed, steadied himself.

Unzipping the front of his overall revealed the shining scar over his sternum, no more than a glossy red circle the size of his little fingernail. The monitor was long and smooth and hard under his skin. He took up the scalpel, and wondered if he should swab before he cut.

No time. No time at all. He flicked off the cover and lined up the blade. He pushed it in, then dragged it along downwards. The monitor wasn’t nearly as far down as the bullet. It almost popped out on its own. He teased it the rest of the way with the flat of the scalpel, and put it in his hand, tightly closed. He put the cover back over the scalpel and pocketed it, then hid the bloodied forceps and the opened pack of instruments back in the box.

He stood astride Zero’s body and pushed his monitor into the boy’s open mouth, pressing it between teeth and cheek.

“Sorry,” he said again.

The wound in his arm and the wound in his chest were bleeding, but not much. Neither was going to kill him. He bundled up his spacesuit and threw it down the ladder to the floor below. Then he lay down next to Zero, turned and turned again until he was caked in blood. He was a little way into the med bay, face down, head away from the connecting corridor, with Zero between him and it. He sprawled his arms out, his legs too, in what he hoped was a natural repose for death.

It was the best he could manage. Now all he could do was wait.