Destination Europa: Chapter 24

Awakening

This is Destination Europa, a psychological sci-fi thriller set aboard the R. G. Leifr, a colony ship headed towards Jupiter to establish a settlement on the ice moon Europa.

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Previously, Quill and Priska raced to escape the Leifr aboard one of the lifeboats, with some unexpected help from Safira and Olga. Quill was injured in a struggle, but managed to get Priska into the lifeboat before he was dragged away by Security.

Pained gnawed on the edges of Quill’s consciousness. The bed felt unfamiliar, and the back of his hand itched. I need to pee. He tried to sink back into sleep. I was dreaming. The ferry, Bergen to Lerwick. Seasick. Trying to get off the boat. There was a kraken. Mum was there. Saying I had to do my laundry. No good. Need to pee.

His eyelids blinked open to a sterile white light. The view, a smooth white ceiling, was unfamiliar. For a fraction of a second, Quill felt unmoored, like a kite whose owner has let go, and then the memory of what had happened hit him and he wished he hadn’t woken up. He tried to sit. Pain seared up his right leg and he collapsed backwards.

He looked towards the foot of his bed. His broken leg was in a traction frame. I’m in Sick Bay. He tried again, more cautiously, to prop himself up, but his right arm pulled up short. A security cuff tethered his wrist to the side of the bed. In the back of his left hand, a cannula led to a drip bag.

The door opened.

“You’re awake.” Doc Engebretsen stepped briskly around the end of the bed. She checked his drip, making no effort to be gentle.

Quill’s head swam. “Hurts,” he gasped.

She checked something in her optics. “Your next dose of pain relief will be administered in approximately one hour.”

Quill activated his own optics and tried to check the time, but the numbers made no sense.

“Need t’ pee,” he said.

Engebretsen looked at him coldly. “Bedpan.”

She swept out and the door slid shut behind her.

Quill slumped back. His optics said it was Saturday morning. What happened to Friday? Have I been out cold all this time? His personal countdown timer blinked in a corner of his vision. 1902 days until I’d have been home. Who knows what the number should be now though. I guess if they were going to throw me out the airlock they’d have done it already. A mining camp in Siberia, or on the Far Side, if I’m lucky.

He felt strangely detached, as if his emotions had been anaesthetised. The events of the last two days — his attempt to stop Priska, then to help her escape — blared at his mind in over-vivid colour, like a too-loud cinema, but he found it hard to grasp that he was the protagonist of the movie. I don’t get it. I don’t understand. He turned it over again and again. The darkness of the ship’s central shaft, the message of judgement, Priska’s silhouette in the server room, the heat of sudden fire, the cold of the mushrooms, Safira appearing like a strange and unforeseen angel, Olga, the mess and chaos of the lifeboat hatch. The stab of electricity in his ribs. The red rim of the hatch as they hauled him away. Red. Does that mean it launched? I think that means it launched. I hope she’s OK. Lord, did I do the right thing? I thought so. But what was I thinking? How can that have been the right thing? Those moments with Priska had been like a crucible, a volcano, burning blindingly bright, scorching, spitting sparks, and now he was away from it, he could no longer feel nor remember the intensity of the heat or light.

Engebretsen’s assistant stalked in carrying a tray. He was a young doctor called McFadzean, who would stay with the Europa colony as their doctor; Quill had chatted with him a few times during the voyage. He slapped the tray down on the table beside Quill’s bed, avoiding eye contact, and was going to leave without saying anything.

Quill cleared his throat. “Umm…”

McFadzean stopped halfway to the door. His eyes flicked towards Quill, but he said nothing. Quill felt his face flush. They hate me. They all hate me. No wonder.

“Umm, could you help me? With, uh, the bedpan?”

The young doctor did what was necessary, without saying a word, his mouth pursed in disgust. When he was gone, Quill turned weakly to the tray. Magnetically clipped to the top of the standard covered meal tray was a small box with two pills inside. He swallowed them eagerly, hoping they were the promised painkillers. Inside the meal tray he found mashed potato and beans, but after a few mouthfuls he felt sick and pushed it aside. The pain in his leg began to blur and soften, and Quill let himself drift back into unconsciousness.

“Thought you said he was awake?”

Gundarsson’s voice cut through his doze like gravel. Quill opened his eyes and saw the Security Chief looming over him.

“Oh, you are awake, are you? Well, listen up, O’Neill, and listen good. I’m only going to say this once.”

Quill tried to speak, but his throat was dry and the words came out as a croak.

“Shut up. Today, I’m going to speak and you’re going to listen.” Gundarsson stabbed a finger at Quill’s chest. “You, you dirty •, are going to speak plenty when we get going. You’re going to sing like a • canary.” The finger jabbed at him. Quill could see the bristles at the edge of Gundarsson’s moustache and the wiry hairs in his nostrils. “Today,” Gundarsson went on, “all I need to tell you is  that you are being held on remand until such time as your trial takes place. You will be appointed a lawyer by the court, but unfortunately — or fortunately, for you — we’re a long • way from the nearest court and we’re still getting clarification on whether the radio delay disallows remote representation or not. But you better • believe that as soon as your • lawyer is appointed, we’re going to question you until your • brains melt out your • ears.” With every noun and verb, Gundarsson’s finger stabbed into the muscle of Quill’s chest. “And after your trial, you’re going to • fry, you traitorous little •. And if we ever catch her…” Gundarsson gave one final stab and turned to leave.

“Wait,” croaked Quill. His heart had jumped at Gundarsson’s last words. “She got away?”

Gundarsson narrowed his eyes, glowering at him. “Why the hell would I answer your questions about anything?”

Quill gave a great breath of relief. She did get away. She’s safe, for now.

He was awake when Tark came in, late in the afternoon. She stood in the doorway for a moment, and Quill couldn’t tell whether the expression on her face was shock at seeing his leg, or revulsion at what he’d done. She seemed to be forcing herself into the room.

“Hey,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Hey, Dr. O.,” she said at last. She moved a little closer.

“I’d offer you a seat, but I don’t think Sick Bay has such luxuries,” he said, trying to inject more humour than he felt. Tark shrugged, and leaned against the wall, her hands clasped behind her back.

“I don’t really know what to say,” she said after another silence.

“I understand. I don’t know what to say either.”

“Does it hurt?” She nodded towards the traction frame.

“Kind of.” Quill remembered that when they’d last spoken, she’d been in the backup server room with the fireball from Priska’s home-printed gun. “Um, how are you? Were you hurt? In the fire?”

“Not really.” She pulled her left hand from behind her back, and he saw that it was bandaged. “Minor burns.” She shrugged again. “We’re all lucky to be alive, so, you know. Perspective.”

Her voice was flat, hard to read.

“You’re part of the reason for that,” said Quill. “Without you, we’d never have caught on to Priska in time.”

Tark straightened, pushing herself away from the wall, her forehead furrowed. There was pain in her eyes, and confusion. Quill heard her take a sharp breath, and she turned her face away before looking back at him. When she spoke, her voice was low and bitter as orange peel.

“Dr. O… What the hell happened?”

“I wish I knew how to explain,” he replied miserably.

“Who was she?”

“Priska.. she was my fiancée, once.” He felt a lump in his guts as he spoke. I’m sure they’re listening, but it doesn’t matter any more. Let them. I need to save my friendship with Tark, if I can. “I didn’t know it was her. Hard to believe, but it’s true. I only realised yesterday — I mean Thursday — when I worked out those calculations. Then it all made sense. She had a thing about colonisation, about the, well, evils that happen in the FSS, and how we should deal with them. One of the reasons we broke up, actually. I wanted to engage with people, show them a different path. She thought we needed more, um, activism. But I didn’t know she’d got this extreme.”

He reached for the beaker of water by his bed and took a sip. Tark said nothing.

“I thought I could save everyone,” he went on. “The ship, and her. If I could persuade her to stop it. I made a deal. If she called it off, I’d help her get away.”

“But she didn’t stop it. Our techs did.”

“I know. She was too late. But she was trying. I had to keep my word. And I thought they might, you know. Lynch her.”

For a while, there was no sound but the whirr of the ventilation system and, far off, voices in the corridor.

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

The barely-controlled tremor in Tark’s voice took Quill by surprise. “I— I don’t know,” he eventually replied, his words faint. “Honestly, I don’t know.” He looked around the room. “I don’t think it matters much now.”

Tark looked at him long and hard, as if trying to read him.

“I have to go now,” she said. “But I’ll be back. And I want you to know that I’ll testify in your defence.”

“You will?” Quill felt a tightness loosen, a warmth in his chest.

Tark nodded. “You’re a good man, Dr. O. In spite of… Well, I know you weren’t plotting with her. If my testimony can help, I’ll give it.”

“Thank you.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “Thank you.”

Tark smiled, for the first time since coming in. “Oh, and Safira says hi. She said she’ll be in touch.”

He was dozing after dinner, groggy from the medication they’d given him, when he became aware of a steady clicking sound in the room. He held his breath, his eyes still closed. A tale from his childhood uncurled in his foggy brain. The deathwatch beetle. It’s hiding in the wall. Counting down until I die. The clicking stopped, then restarted. No, that’s ridiculous. His mind cleared a little, and he opened his eyes.

Olga was perched on a small portable stool next to his bed, knitting. A strand of hairy purple yarn dangled from his drip stand, feeding into the clump of garment in her hands.

Startled, Quill tried to push himself up. The sudden motion jerked a muscle in his neck, and he winced.

“Olga,” he said.

“You are not expecting me, I think.” She knitted to the end of a row, then straightened out the stitches.

“Well, no, not exactly,” he replied.

Olga turned the half-knitted jumper around and began on the next row. “I come to see how you are. Company is nice, when you are sick, when you are prisoner. No?”

“Well, yes.” He managed to get into a more comfortable position. “Yes. Thank you.” Why is she here? Why did she help me? How much should I ask?

“You are wondering, maybe,” she said, “why I come here, why I visit enemy traitor.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Reason is simple. Number one, I know how it’s like, to be sick and alone.” She looked up from her knitting then and straight at him, her eyes tensed meaningfully, though her fingers kept moving. “Number two, you are nice to me, and you are nice to my bee.” She looked back at her knitting needles. “Now, you lie back and rest. I tell you stories from when I was little girl in Irkutsk, OK? I think you like that. You know Baikal? Most beautiful lake on Earth, yes. OK, I tell you story about Baikal…”

The lights in Sick Bay were dimmed to night settings. Quill lay in the dark, unable to get back to sleep. Olga’s a funny one. But that was incredibly kind of her. And Tark. No sign of Demas or Bowen, at least not yet. I guess that’s to be expected. I need them to know that I wasn’t part of Priska’s plot, though. How many friends have I lost? What’s Dad going to think? And Archie? How is Mars media going to report this? If the FSS lets it get out, of course. What about Rob? What’s the Alliance going to think? Bit late to worry about that. Safira’s going to be in touch. What does that mean? Does she still want me to work for her? And how in the world did Priska’s cousin tell Archie he’d seen her just a few weeks ago anyway? Did Archie misunderstand? Or had she set up pre-recorded videos or something? How did she get aboard in the first place? And why did she wait this long? Drama? No, it probably took this long to hack the ai and set everything up. But how did it come to this? What happened? What went wrong? What have I done?

He churned over the unanswered and unanswerable questions for a long time, then turned on a sim. Phobos hung in the pale sky above the ridge. The rusty track stretched in front of him, bordered by the yellow maps of lichen and the coarse green tufts of horsetails. He scrolled forward, his shadow sharp and small beneath the far-off sun. The turn of the road, looking down on Ransom City. His breath shuddered in his body. I don’t know if I’ll ever see home again, now. He scrolled on. The oxygenation grove, the susurration of leaves. The hard angles of the emergency shelter, the dark shadow on the steps. Priska wasn’t there. She hadn’t been there, of course, the day he’d recorded the sim. Their parting had been after that. But he still felt as if she were about to step out from behind the shelter or among the thin-bodied trees. He stopped. I’m sorry. Pris, I’m sorry. We messed up long before this, and we should have dealt with it then. Father, I’m sorry. Please let me start again. Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.

There was no immediate answer. He still felt hollow and numb. But somehow, it felt like the hollowness of a wine cask waiting to be filled, and the numbness of frozen soil waiting for spring. Quill turned off the sim and asked AiLeifr to show the view from the ship’s forward camera. Jupiter lay against the starfield, a king’s orb on a dark mantle. The diamond that was Europa caught the light reflected from the planet by the far-off Sun and winked it at them. My boots are never going to crunch on that ice, thought Quill. But at least I’m not running any more.

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Cover image of Jupiter © National Astronomical Observatory of Japan, colour modification by SDGL.

Divider image and final image of Jupiter: NASA, ESA, A. Simon (Goddard Space Flight Center), and M. H. Wong (University of California, Berkeley) and the OPAL team, adapted by SDGL.