Fast-Tracked And Other Stories

Planet Rock

We are still on Madelstrom III. All I want is to get this micro-tech to the whitecoats on Jaco V, then be off to the Greenholt Sector to see Daisy and squander my brass at Lake Meake. Daisy, Daisy. It was her that told me to use these touchdowns to help with my claustrophobia. And she was right— when it comes down to it, the HMS FD-19 is just a cargo cube with rocket jets welded on, so it was a godsend to stretch my legs and take in the sights on Axington and Cremerlay.

But I'd rather be cooped up in that glorified cargo cube and on course than marooned here, more than 10,000 light-leagues from the Greenholt Sector. It's up to Gillian or the doc to explain why we aren't on the approach to Inner Finniter when it comes time for our fourth weekly check-in with control, because there's a snowballs chance that I'm putting myself in the firing line— way above my pay grade, that.

If only Dalton had sent out a distress signal when the HMS FD-19 went haywire, then a clean-up crew would've been despatched by now. But we didn't call him Old Cryoveins for nothing, did we? I want this on record— we'd be nought but stardust scattered to the four corners of the galaxy without Dalton's cool head. He wasn't to know how off the topo-scan of Madelstrom III was. If he was still here...

But he's not.

Gillian is in command now that Dalton is dead. The doc has backed her in everything— he wants her, but all she wants is her name immortalised in the galaxpedia beside a discovery. The thing is, the topo-scan said this was an earth-like but there is no tundra, no veldt, no ice-caps and no visible sign of life. Everything is just rock, boulders and pebbles. The only earth-like thing is the grey clouds.

Yesterday, she came across a cave on the far side of an outcropping a couple of clicks to the west. Muggins here was monitoring the micro-tech readouts when the doc came bounding over to grab some comp-lines to use for a spot of cave diving. Gillian said it would be wee buns, what with her being a dab hand at the old speleology, and with the docs unwavering support, I was out-voted two to one.

She stopped short of saying we could find Dalton down there, but I harboured my hopes that we might. We lost the captain to a pond of pebbles that sucked him under like quicksand, and I for one didn't think it was farfetched that he might be wandering the catacombs— spacesuits are hardy contraptions, after all.

The opening was small and grotesque. We shimmied headfirst down a smooth stone shaft like Santa Claus squeezing down a tight chimney—aren't they all tight?— and emerged not into a cosy living room, but a cavern that ran for clicks and clicks.

Our bio-scanners were still warbling and malfunctioning— check the footage from my helmcam and you'll see it said there were specks of life all over that cavern— so I disabled all vizor augments.

Dark valleys and stony peaks rippled out before us like a grainy old polaroid of a static ocean. After a minute, I was able to make out lines snaking from one rocky trough to the next. Over there, the lines became a child's black and grey doodle, over there the Mona Lisa, over there letters, a word, a name:

DALTON

I waited for Gillian or the doc to say something intelligent.

The commander and her lapdog were silent. The only sound came from the shifting stone dunes— scratching, reforming, mesmerising. Come. Come to me. Let me squeeze you, fill you, stretch you. Dalton is—

I stumbled forward and came back to my senses. Fist-sized rocks lapped over my boots and tried to pull me under. Gillian and the doc remained silent, standing as still as statues. I kicked free and made for the shaft, and, without being dismissed, hauled myself out of there and back to the surface.

The three of us entered that shaft on the afternoon of day 26. I emerged this morning, day 27. I checked the recording and sure enough, I was down there for seventeen hours. There is no audio of a gravelly voice wanting to squeeze me, fill me, stretch me but I swear I heard it. I swear on Daisy's life that I heard it.

First thing I did was take a recon cam, rig it to a comp-line and lower it down the shaft. They are both still there, standing in front of those swells of stones. The only difference is Gillian's right hand is now outstretched, as if reaching for the doc's left hand. They appear to be covered to their ankles.

There are no discernible patterns or words when viewing the cavern onscreen, but I know the stones are saying something. They must be.

My next move is to begin disassembling the micro-tech for spare parts to get the ship's comp system fully operational. When I went up for the recon cam I noticed there were some stray stones in there— they get everywhere, like sand! So, I need to flush the ship of all foreign matter, then depressurise and get out of this suit pronto because I feel pebbles scraping around in here with me.

Wait.

There is a third spacesuit onscreen now.

Dalton.

Frig.

I'm going to have to—

Listen, if you've backtracked our vector and found this, please make sure that Gillian Brookehall, acting captain of the HMS FD-19, is duly recognised as the discoverer of the Madelstrom III subterrane and hereby have all my brass transferred to Daisy Canner, #765238 Firmané Way, Pardrard Sector.

I'm going to try to get them all out, claustrophobia be damned.

And don't come after me.