The Introvert |
Issue 19
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Barrett is always so calm, almost serene. I wonder if he thinks anything at all, staring out the porthole at the same red expanse, at a planet that doesn’t want us here.
As soon as I look at it I am shaky. My scientific detachment erodes. For the millionth time I wonder how I passed the psychometric tests, why I even applied. He’s had it, you know, your voice says in my ear. The treatment. I almost tell you to shut up, but the others would hear, and I really would be locked up in psych. The only thing worse than having to go outside, is not being able to go outside. The treatment’s a myth, I say to you. Someone burbles a reply on comms and I apologise. ‘Talking to yourself again. That’s the first sign,’ Mallory jokes over the line. ‘I’ve been talking to myself since before it was cool,’ I reply, before muting my mic. There’s silence now. I move through my work methodically, collecting samples from the dead, red dirt, dropping electronic location tags, sliding vials into the storage case. Only a few more for today. My arms are tired, the suit bulky around me despite improvements in design. I move to the next set of coordinates, press my tool down into the soil, and extract a cylindrical section. In the distance, something catches my eye. A plume of dust, maybe. As soon as I look up, it’s gone. Just dull red to the horizon, and beyond, stars who stare at me. No storms predicted, and they’d send me a warning, I rationalize. I’m safe. As safe as anyone can be surrounded by a wasteland of rock and no atmosphere. The sample slides neatly into its container. Just a few more to go. It’s not a myth. You’re back, right in my ear as usual. It’s what they do to those who can’t hack it. Like you. You never should have come here. We both know it. I ignore you, my mind on soil samples and routine procedures. Boring, predictable. Safe. If you know you’re going to lose it, the least you can do is get treated. It’s only fair on your colleagues. The ones who got to come here. The ones you didn’t leave behind. Shut up, I say, my voice bouncing around my helmet. It’s not my fault. I didn’t choose who came and who didn’t. But you could’ve stayed. With your family, your friends. Now you’re all alone with these people, and before too long, you’re going to lose your mind. Hell, maybe you already have. You’re a danger to everyone. I’m fine, I say. If you’d just leave me alone, I’d be fine. I’m not the problem and you know it. ‘How’re you coming with those samples?’ Mallory asks, making me jump. I look down at the case and reply, before remembering to reactivate my mic. ‘Just one more to go,’ I say again. I move to the final location, fumble the sample into the vial, and slide it home. ‘Heading back. ETA ten minutes.’ ‘Roger that,’ Mallory says. After he signs off, I can hear a voice echoing down the line. The storm is nothing to be worried about. I sit in the mess and spoon stewed carrot into my mouth while through the porthole, dust and rock whips around. If I listen, I can hear the structure straining. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. Barrett is there, eating his dinner. Fork to mouth, mechanically. I want to ask him if it’s true. If he’s had the treatment. But I’d look crazy. No one here can afford to be crazy. We rely on each other. Outside, wind forms the dust into shapes, gone as quickly as they appear. For a moment I swear I see your face, a silent scream. I wait for you to speak. ‘Mind if I sit?’ Mallory says, blocking the view. ‘Sure,’ I say, though he’s already taken his place. ‘I always wonder about the carrots,’ Mallory says. Seeing my quizzical expression, he goes on. ‘We were asked about our favorite foods, and a menu was created which combined the best of those flavors with the maximum nutrition. But my question is, whose favorite food is stewed carrots?’ He runs a fork through the mush, allowing it to drip back into the serving container. ‘I mean, of all the things to have chosen. Right?’ ‘I guess…’ I reply, not knowing what to say. I can’t think about carrots. Beyond Mallory the red wind persists, scraping sand and sky. You could be out there, caught in the storm. ‘Maybe they’re just easy to synthesize,’ he goes on, still playing with his food. I excuse myself and get up. Mallory watches me go. Barrett doesn’t. He stares straight ahead, the way he always does. I understand now that you are right, at least in part. I need to see you, really see you. I reach the airlock and proceed through the first cycle. Then Mallory and the others are there, faces tight against the small window. Shouting, banging on glass so thick I don’t hear anything. I feel like they’re upset, but the door is locked, and I turn away from them, pressing the buttons which engage the outer airlock. Soon I’ll be able to find you, to save you. I’ll be with you again, the way I should have been before. The world is white. ‘You’re pretty lucky,’ the person is saying. ‘The safeguards detected you weren’t wearing a suit and reversed the airlock opening before it was too late. The team were able to get to you in time. How do you feel?’ I don’t feel anything. There are faces and lights above me. All around, a soft pressure, like I’m being held in place by bubbles. ‘She seems responsive, but we can’t rule out the possibility of brain damage,’ the person is saying. Whoever she’s speaking to replies in a low tone. ‘It is safe to proceed?’ ‘Safe is relative,’ the person replies. I see a blue mask and brown eyes. ‘But we can’t let her do that again. She could kill herself, and others.’ ‘Very well. Let me know when it’s done.’ The person talks to me again. ‘There’s a procedure,’ she says. ‘Something we can use to help you.’ I drift away from the room and am watching the Earth, from above. God’s-eye-view. Just days after we left. Everybody had expected it, but everyone was surprised. How can you deal with the enormity of such a thing? Cities swept from the map, forests blazing, oceans boiling. I want to turn away, but I see everything. Just as I think I’ll lose my mind, it all fades, and there is only blissful nothingness. Outside the porthole the storm rages. Category five: base defenses active but no extraordinary measures in place. I watch the dust fly by, unconcerned. Now and again a small rock hits the porthole and is flung away. I do not flinch. Once every ten seconds I take a mouthful of carrots, chew, swallow. I recall before, when I worried about the structural integrity of the base, to the point that it made me unable to consume my regular nutritive packages. I no longer understand why. Isn’t it better now, I imagine you’d say. So much calmer, everything clear. In deference to this thought, I nod slightly, but only slightly, so no one will notice. But you are not here, and you never will be. Across from me, Barrett sits, consuming his food and staring at the porthole. I feel a slight twinge, as if I should speak to him, but before I can examine it, it is gone, and I turn back to the storm lapping at the edges of my mind. |
Richard A Shury is a SF nerd who dabbles in the literary arts. His short stories have appeared in DreamForge Magazine, Parsec Ink, Roi Faineant, and After Dinner Conversation, among others. He hopes these successes are the calm before a storm. Call him a part-time optimist.
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