Destination Europa: Chapter 11

Resolution

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, things did not go well for Quill’s team in the Vampyre Hunter tournament. Quill is concerned that Demas’ choice of new team name is too political; Demas also seemed to disregard his concerns about Safira’s allegiances.

I do have some exciting news to share this time. I learned from “Otter” that there is another brother in this place!

Quill deleted the optimistic lines he had written the previous week, before meeting Jörg and before the disastrous Bible study meeting where he’d learned Jörg was a member of the Eastern Lightning sect. How things have changed in the last week! Just as well I didn’t send the letter yet. He doodled in the corners of the screen. A planet, a cluster of five-pointed stars, a curling row of high-peaked waves. Still, got to get it done.

He flicked back to Archie’s message. His brother had finally replied to his request to find out how Priska was, with a short video note. Something about it was bothering Quill. It was grainy, low-resolution, to avoid using too much of Quill’s bandwidth allowance, but Archie looked and sounded tired.

Hey, Quill, sorry, things have been a bit rough. Cal’s been ill. They think it’s just some kind of flu, he’s going to be fine. I just haven’t had time to ask about Priska yet. I’ll try and do it soon. OK, love you, bye.

The note ended abruptly, with Archie looking to the side as if someone was coming. He wasn’t at home. Behind him was a plain cream wall, a corridor somewhere, a corner of a picture frame at the edge of the shot. A metallic rattling echoed in the background as the video finished. Where is he? That’s not his work, either. Archie was an art teacher in Ransom City Secondary School. Frowning, Quill tried to work out whether it was term-time. There was something uncomfortably familiar about that rattling sound.

He re-opened the other message he’d found waiting in his Alliance inbox. Pamela and Patrick, his old maths teacher and her husband, his honorary grandparents and his staunchest supporters after his own family. Haven’t had an update in a while, the message said. Just checking you’re OK. Quill penned a quick reply, suppressing his discomfort. It’s going to hurt them so much to see me quit the Alliance, after all this time. On impulse, he added a P.S. Have you by any chance had recent news of Priska? I’m a little concerned about her.

Quill was waiting in line for lunch when the rattle of a kitchen trolley clicked a memory into the foreground. His mother being taken into surgery, her tiny frame tangled and knotted with tubes. The clotted-cream tint of the corridors in Bradbury Memorial Hospital and the reek of antiseptic. The framed paintings and prints by local artists, pools of colour in the paleness. One of his mother’s still hung there, as far as he knew; a still-life of three Olympus apples and a trailing lüluo in a willow-pattern vase, painted in the detailed Dutch style she had loved. Oh, Lord. Archie was messaging from the hospital. Cal’s in hospital. The chatter of the mess and the clatter of trays and cutlery crashed into Quill like a cavalry charge. Oh Lord, little Cal’s in hospital.

“You OK, Dr. O?”

Tark handed him a beaker of coffee. They were in her office, a third of the way round the Green Ring from Quill’s office on Deck 11.

“Thanks. Uh, I’m OK. I guess. There’s a lot going on.” Quill took a sip of the black strong coffee and looked up at Tark. He saw compassion in her eyes. “I just found out my nephew’s in hospital.”

“Oh, f-freya, Dr. O. That’s rough.” She paused and stirred her coffee, as if she were wondering whether to ask more. Among Norskers, it would be rude. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked awkwardly.

“I’m not exactly sure,” said Quill, grateful for her making the effort. “My brother just said he had flu. But I’m worried about Mars lung, you know? He’s only ten. No, eleven.”

“I’ve heard that’s pretty rough,” said Tark cautiously. “I hope he’s OK.”

“So do I.” Quill looked at his coffee, focusing on the smooth lines of the beaker, same shade as the SymbioNor uniforms, the overhead light glowing in the blue like a moon in a pool.

“Think about it rationally, though,” said Tark. “Mars lung is pretty rare these days, right? The probability of it being just a common flu or whatever has got to be much higher.”

“Yeah,” replied Quill, but the word was hollow. Focus. This is not the time for tears. He bit the inside of his lip.

To his utter surprise, Tark reached across and put a hand on his shoulder. The weight of it rested there, warm like freshly baked pie, before she gave a little squeeze and took it away.

“I know how you feel, I think,” she said. “Or something like it. My father died of radiation sickness on the first Europa mission. Not being able to be with them, it’s rough.”

“What?” Quill looked at her in astonishment. Tark had never told him anything about her family. “What do you mean, radiation sickness? You mean the mission that set up the research station?”

Tark nodded. “You’ve spent enough time in the FSS to know that not everything gets reported in the news, right?” She turned her coffee cup in her hands, three hundred and sixty degrees. “We didn’t even get the body back. Which is normal, but…” She shrugged in a gesture of helplessness. “They don’t even acknowledge it happened.”

“But how… I mean, radiation sickness?”

“There was a problem with the shielding in part of the ship. My theory is that a micro-meteorite tore something off and no-one noticed. I don’t know how the ship’s ai missed it though. Anyway, seems like my father’s bunk was right in the line of fire, as it were. Another engineer got ovarian cancer and died right after they got back. But of course we can’t prove anything.”

There was a long silence. Quill turned this new information over in his head like a jeweller examining an uncut stone.

“Tark, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t need sympathy,” she said bluntly.

“But this is why you’re so keen to track down whether there’s a problem on the Leifr?”

She nodded silently. Quill looked at his beaker again, but deep down, below the surface of conscious thought, a hard knot of resolution coalesced.

“Well, let’s get to it,” said Quill. I’ll message Dad later and ask what’s going on with Cal.

By the end of the afternoon, they had a plan and a shared document folder called Anomalies, with  two files in it. Tark copied her calculations of the oxygen discrepancy into one file. The other was called Miscellaneous, and contained three question marks:

* Printers? 
* Farm? 
* Dagon?

The last of these was a coded reference to AiLeifr, on Quill’s insistence. “Better not to have it in writing that we’re trying to check up on the ai,” he said. “Even if we’re talking about it here right now.” It had then taken an unreasonable length of time to decide on a codename. Dagon was Quill’s idea, but they might have iterated another half-an-hour if Tark’s office-mate hadn’t come back from the gym. They agreed that Tark would follow up on the problem with the Deck 11 printer, since she had found nothing anomalous in the other printers on board. Quill would look into the Farm. Neither of them knew how they might investigate AiLeifr. Priska would have some ideas, thought Quill. Ai integration was her thing. He left the thought unspoken. No good talking about her. Not like I can call her and get her advice anyway.

Tark walked with him to the mess.

“Would you like to eat together?” asked Quill as they headed forward along the Blue Ring corridor.

She shook her head. “Not today. I have an appointment.”

“Sure.” Oh, shoot. I was going to talk to her about Jörg. He slowed his pace. “Uh, Tark… I meant to apologise about Thursday.”

They were near the entrance to the mess, and both automatically moved to the side of the corridor and stopped.

“What do you mean, apologise?”

Quill ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, the way it turned out that Jörg is not, um, that he’s part of a very different faith to mine. I’m worried that might have been kind of confusing.”

“It was a little confusing,” said Tark frankly. “But actually it was very interesting for me. And I’m quite happy about it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I think he’s weird, and you’re not. At least, not more than the average weirdo who’s signed up for a seven-year mission to the outer solar system.” Tark gave him a gentle punch in the arm. “So I’m glad you’re not part of the same cult or whatever.”

“Oh. Thanks. I mean, that’s good, I guess.”

“So I was wondering, do we have to study with him?” Tark went on.

“You don’t have to study anything you don’t want to,” said Quill.

“What I mean is, could I study just with you?”

Quill broke into an incredulous grin. “Of course! Yeah, of course you can. I’d be very happy…”

“When shall we start?”

Demas was sitting by himself at their usual table in the mess. Quill watched him as he lined up at the counter for his food. He appeared to be in a foul mood. I need to talk to him. But maybe he wants to be alone. He probably doesn’t even want to see me at this stage. But the clump of resolution that had been building up in Quill tightened and compressed like powder packed in a cannon. A decision sparked into life with the suddenness of a banked fire blazing into flame. He carried his tray over to the table and set it down opposite Demas.

Demas glanced up at Quill then looked back to his tray without a word. Quill bowed his head in a brief silent prayer, then slid his tray open and cleared his throat.

“Demas. Hi.”

His colleague said nothing for another minute, but continued to viciously stab his potatoes. Quill allowed the silence to brew. He sliced off a small piece of his own fauxmon steak and nibbled it.

“The hell you want?”

Demas had put his knife and fork down and was now glowering at Quill.

“I want to sign.”

Quill thought he had never seen Demas taken so utterly by surprise. He had clearly been expecting some kind of remonstrance. Demas’ mouth fell slightly open, then closed again.

“You what?”

“I want to sign,” Quill repeated. “The letter.” Stop trembling. Have a little confidence. The courage of your convictions. “I changed my mind.”

Demas was shaking his head, still looking stupefied.

“And I’m sorry about your five hundred crowns. I really am.”

Demas shook his head again, as if shaking off a mosquito. “• the five hundred crowns. What’s got into you, Aquilla?”

“I changed my mind,” said Quill again, trying to look Demas in the eye.

“The hell you did,” said Demas, but in a less aggressive tone. He suddenly and vigorously rubbed his bald head, then looked hard at Quill with eyes that were still half-suspicious. “What brought this on, Rodin?”

“A lot of things,” said Quill. “I guess I realised I was wrong to not speak up about injustice.”

Demas barked a short laugh. “Always the idealist! I’m in it for the money, you know.”

Quill looked at him thoughtfully. “I’m not sure that’s totally true, you know.”

Demas shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, you’re too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ship’s sailed, son. I sent the letter just before coming for dinner.”

Quill felt his stomach tighten. I finally decide to do something, and the horse has bolted. He looked at the table and poked at his food. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe it’s God’s protection. Not allowing me to get involved.

“Of course, nothing to prevent you writing your own letter in support,” Demas went on, tidying his cutlery into his tray and closing the lid. “I’ll leave it to your conscience.”

“Right,” said Quill unhappily. It was one thing to be a name among many on a list of signatures, and quite another to stand out with a letter of his own.

Demas stood and picked up his tray. “And that five hundred, Quill — I will be getting that back in the finals. One way or another.”

I better message Dad, find out about Cal. Quill checked the time in Ransom City. Early morning. He won’t be up for another hour or so. He walked slowly down the Blue Ring corridor, feeling heavy despite the half-g centrifugal force. Dad might not know anything more than I do. Depends what Archie and Kath have told him. They might not want to worry him. Same as they don’t want to worry me, all the way out here.

He went into the Observation Lounge to look out the viewport for a while, waiting for the bright pale Sun to come into view as the ship rotated. Everyone I love is back there, somewhere, and they won’t even tell me when things are going badly. Same as I won’t tell them how I’m really doing. The O’Neill love language: whatever you do, don’t worry your loved ones. He felt a sudden craving for some shrooms, for the sense of release. I said I wouldn’t, though. He hesitated, then pinged Bowen. I don’t care. SymbioNor deserves to have its resources diverted. I don’t care.

It was half an hour later when he got back to his cabin after meeting Bowen at the Farm, the little packet of Bowen’s latest blend tucked in his pocket. He opened an interface and sent his dad a quick and vaguely phrased message that he hoped would encourage his father to provide more information if he knew anything but wouldn’t cause anxiety if he didn’t. The memory of the strain in Archie’s voice bubbled and prickled at him, and he knelt to pray for little Cal. He felt the vastness of the solar system pressing in on the fragile cylinder of the Leifr, with nothing else to bring him back home. One thousand, nine hundred and nine days more.

He got up, weary with tears, pulled the packet of shrooms out of his overall pocket and dropped it on his bunk, then pulled off his overalls and t-shirt. He dropped the t-shirt into his laundry bin, then picked it out again. The bin contained only a pair of jockey shorts and socks. But I did laundry yesterday. This morning I dropped my underwear in there, and yesterday’s t-shirt. He looked around the tiny cabin in case he had misremembered and the t-shirt was under the bed or tangled in the bedding. He opened his underwear drawer to count the clean t-shirts, in case he had worn the same one today as he had the day before. The drawer was never tidy, but it looked somehow different from his mental picture of how it had been in the morning. A chill ran through him. He groped in the back of the drawer and pulled out his bottle of Fiducezol. His hands felt clammy. Surely it felt lighter than it should? He opened the bottle. Surely there were fewer pills in there than there should be? He tipped the bottle into his hand and began to count the pills back in. Bottle of 100. I’ve used, what, forty-something? Say fifty. There should be at least fifty left. But his counting only reached twenty when he could see that there were far fewer than there should be. He kept counting anyway. Thirty-five. Someone’s been in my cabin. Oh, Lord, someone’s discovered my Fidz. Someone’s stolen nearly twenty pills.

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

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