Outpost: Hetero Version

He sat in silence for a long while, scanning the room with his eyes, taking in every detail and imperfection. There was nothing else to do. The least his captors could have done was give him a book to read to alleviate the boredom that would not doubt drive him half crazy, but maybe that was the idea.

He felt a subtle inertia as the massive vessel began to maneuver, they were underway. There were no windows in his room, it must have been located somewhere towards the middle of the superstructure, but experience had honed his senses to detect the subtle movements of a ship in space. Jump carriers never went far under the power of their chemical rockets, it must be preparing for the first of several superlight jumps. Schaffer held the bit in his hand apprehensively, hoping that he would have time to insert it. The hairs on his arms stood up, and he felt a strange tugging sensation in his sinuses, this was it, the carrier was drawing in energy from the space around it. The engine would suck in hydrogen from the surrounding interstellar medium, along with charged particles and exotic matter from small, microscopic dimensional tears that would form around the hull as the roiling energies flickered across it. When the superlight engine had stored enough power, it would release it, directing it towards the front of the ship and creating a tear in the fabric of space. Schaffer was no astrophysicist, he didn't understand the details of inter-dimensional travel and miniaturized black holes, just that the ship would be sucked in, catapulting it dozens of light years away where it would be birthed into our reality again like some giant stellar infant.

He inserted the bit, biting down on it and wondering if it would be better to be seated or lying down, then his senses left him.

Like trying to crawl out of a tar pit, Schaffer slowly regained consciousness. He was on the floor beside the bed, his head pounded. Had he hit it on something, or was it just a migraine from the jump? He couldn't tell. He spat out the plastic bit, wiping it on his clothes and stowing it in his pocket. He rose to his feet unsteadily, bracing himself against the metal bed frame for balance. His whole body was wracked by the slowly receding ache of cramping muscles, and he felt like someone had twisted a fork in his brain as if it were a bowl of pasta. He sat heavily on the bed, rusty springs creaking beneath him, and cradled his temples in his hands. He had done this numerous times before, it would subside in a few minutes.

After a while the pain and dizziness abated, and he was startled by the whoosh of the automatic door. It was the engineer, carrying a ration pack, the same kind soldiers used in the field. He was probably unable to smuggle food from the ship's mess, so this was yet more evidence of supplies and equipment being misappropriated. He stood in the doorway, not actually entering the room, and tossed the ration pack to the floor.

"Still alive then? Good. Here's your 24 hour ration, has everything you need. I'll be back again tomorrow." The door slid closed, and Schaffer rose to his feet, walking across the small room and crouching to retrieve the package. It was an MRE, marked 'three thousand calories' and sealed in a green pouch. He didn't have a knife, but these packages were easy to open. He chewed at it with his teeth, eventually succeeding in tearing a hole in the plastic. He pulled it apart with his fingers, exposing the cardboard boxes within. There were three compartments, breakfast, lunch and dinner, along with a small, transparent packet containing plastic cutlery, toilet paper, gum, a disposable toothbrush, and waterproof matches. Interesting, the engineer had either not cared, or forgotten to remove the matches. Perhaps he could light a fire? There was no mattress though, and the smoke inhalation from anything he managed to burn would probably suffocate him in the enclosed space before anyone could arrive to help him.

Fuck it, he was hungry. He broke open the box marked 'lunch'. It contained a packet of beans and rice for reheating, some dry crackers with a small cup of peanut butter, dehydrated hamburger helper, and packets with powdered juice and coffee. There was a small tin stove that unfolded on hinges to support a pot, and the flammable gel packets that were intended to be used to cook the contents.

He took the little metal pot over to the sink and filled it with water, then placed it on the little stove and lit one of the gel packets, then sat on the bed waiting for the water to boil. The food could be a lot worse, at least there was that. His biggest gripe right now the lack of a mattress.

The days crawled by, his maddening boredom dragging out every hour to lengths that felt unbearable. Every day the engineer, Patrick, the shuttle pilot had called him, brought him food, and every three or maybe four days the carrier would make another jump. The physiological effects were just noticeable enough to warn him a few seconds beforehand, giving him scant moments to insert the bit and brace himself against the bed or a wall. Borealis was around seventy light years from Earth if he recalled correctly, and Pinwheel was about twenty to a similar heading. If his math was right, it should take about four jumps to arrive at their destination.

This was confirmed when after the fourth jump, Patrick lingered for a few extra moments at the door after throwing Schaffer his MRE.

"We're about a day out now. When the ship enters orbit I'll come to collect you and take you to a shuttle." He hesitated, making eye contact with Schaffer for the first time. "I don't envy you, just remember, I do what they pay me to do. It isn't my choice. If it was up to me I'd flush you out of an airlock and you'd be dead in seconds, but it's not a good idea to cross the boss. If I went against his orders it might be me on the next shuttle down to the Terminal."

Schaffer didn't reply, he had no sympathy. These people were all complicit, all working together to operate this vast network of black markets and corruption, he wasn't about to spare a thought for the feelings of this lackey, a man willing to take blood money.

"Think about me when you're counting that fat wad of bank notes," Schaffer sneered. "Hopefully being an accessory to murder won't tarnish the taste of your next drink."

The engineer shook his head dismissively.

"You don't know me, you don't know my situation. I don't agree with this, but it isn't my problem, and I need the cash. Your fault for sticking your nose in the boss' business, not mine."

"You're helping him murder me, don't act like you're uninvolved. You're no middle man, you're a hitman." Schaffer's tone softened momentarily, pleading with the engineer. "Listen Patrick, you can still stop this. Go to the captain, tell him what happened. We can have Rawling in irons before the end of the day. They'll make a deal with you, give you immunity, protection."

The engineer shook his head, reaching over to thumb the door panel.

"Not everyone gets to be an officer on a fancy space station. That place is a fucking resort. Some of us are out here in the engine rooms, crawling through ducts to patch battle damage while the ship is under fire, cleaning up blood stains after a bulkhead collapses and crushes someone. My problems won't go away because I decided to be a 'good guy'. Doing jobs for Rawling is my ticket out of this sardine can. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Patrick, wait-"

The door closed with a whoosh of stale air, and Schaffar sank back down onto his cot. That was his only chance, if he had more time he might be able to reason with Patrick. The man didn't seem happy about the situation, but now it was too late. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep so that he didn't have to think about what was coming.

Patrick returned the next day with a zip tie, binding Schaffer's hands in front of him and draping a jacket over them to conceal his restraints. He led him out of the tiny room that had been his prison for the last two weeks, and back down towards the carrier's hangar bay. There was more activity now, the previously idle cargo loaders were transporting large crates and pallets across the deck, loading them onto shuttles and larger cargo haulers. Patrick was careful to keep him out of earshot of the crews, pressing the point of his knife into Schaffer's lower back and skirting the edge of the bay, headed towards a waiting dropship. He ushered him up the ramp, closing it behind him, and then walked around to the cockpit, Schaffer heard him tap on the pilot's window. The shuttle hummed to life, then lifted off the deck, landing gear rumbling as it stowed in the shuttle's belly. It coasted past the hangar force field, then Schaffer's stomach turned as he felt it drop, caught in the gravity of a planet. The carrier must be in low orbit around Borealis. Strange, were there no satellites? No danger of collision from orbiting stations or shipyards? This planet must be even less developed than its reputation as a backwater suggested.

He felt turbulence as the shuttle hit atmosphere, and clung to one of the handholds embedded in the cargo bay wall, trying to stay on his feet as the winds buffeted the craft around. Eventually they leveled out, and Schaffer sensed that the shuttle was slowing as inertia tugged him forward. They hovered as the landing gear descended, then made landfall with a thump. Schaffer shielded his eyes as the ramp lowered, blinding him with a white glare, and chilling him to the bone as a freezing wind blew through the opening. He immediately began to shiver violently, the cold penetrating his clothes like ice water.

There was nobody at the ramp controls, the pilot must have lowered it from the cockpit, unwilling to leave his heated chair perhaps. Schaffer got the message, and inched forward, feeling his eyelashes begin to freeze as the frigid wind hit him with full force. His shoes left the ramp, crunching in crisp snow. The crushing gravity crippled him as soon as he left the AG field of the shuttle, and he doubled over, groaning in pain and surprise. Moisture soaked through to his socks, and he tried to shield his face with his bound hands, looking around, trying to get his bearings. He was in a tundra, completely flat fields of white snow as far as the eye could see. The sky was a piercing, deep azure with no clouds, and the light from the planet's primary star was as white and glaring as a fluorescent lamp. Schaffer stumbled as the shuttle behind him began to rise, the blowback from the engines knocking him off balance as the craft's thrusters melted the snow beneath it. It rose and shot off over the horizon, and Schaffer despaired, the tears of anger and frustration that fell from his eyes freezing into hard droplets as they rolled down his face. He felt as if someone had dropped a donkey on his back, he could barely stand, could barely breathe under such intense pressure.

He felt as if he might just keel over and succumb to the elements where he stood, but then he glimpsed something in the distance. Metal, reflecting the harsh light of the sun, barely seen through the rapid onset of snow-blindness. That must be the outpost, he had to reach it, had to try, at least. The cold stabbed at him like a thousand knives, his uniform providing no worthwhile insulation, and his socks were soaking with moisture. He couldn't even wrap his arms around his body, the zip tie still restrained him. If he didn't move now, he might start losing toes to frostbite.

He inched forward, marching against the wind as his knees threatened to give out. Each shaky step took enormous effort, his muscles and joints struggling to support his new weight. He waded through knee-high snow drifts, he couldn't even feel his feet now, he had to keep moving, had to reach that base soon.

After what felt like an eternity his hands found metal, the handle of the door cold enough to burn his skin. Would it even open? Was the base powered? Was the door frozen shut? He turned the handle, nothing. He gripped it harder, feeling the skin on his palm sticking to the metal, and tugged. It was frozen, or perhaps blocked by the snow. He wailed in despair, his voice lost on the wind, and drove his shoulder against the door, slamming it with a newfound animal strength. It creaked under his weight, and he gave it another desperate heave, his shoulder bruising against the hard, frigid surface. One last time, he turned the handle and threw his weight against the door. It creaked open, and he spilled through into the dark interior of the base, falling heavily to the floor.

He panted, his sweat freezing to his skin as he lay there, trying to catch his breath. Even his lungs were freezing, his lips starting to chap and crack in response to the cold air. He rose to his feet with great effort, his arms shaking as he tried to support himself. The massive gravity gave him an illusion of frailty, as if all of his muscles had wasted away, leaving him weak and sickly. He turned to push the door closed, and it fastened with a click, casting him into gloom.

It was barely warmer inside, but at least the wind no longer tore at him. He removed his boots, tugging off his wet socks and casting them aside. Was it better to go barefoot than to wear wet socks? The end result might be the same. The floor was tiled, oddly rubbery, and he stumbled deeper inside the base. There were windows, small and placed high on he walls, but enough light penetrated the glass to illuminate the cramped rooms, allowing him to navigate.

The base was deserted, nobody had been here for a long time, that much was immediately obvious. He entered a dining area, a layer of glistening frost coated the table. Icicles clung to the faucets over the kitchen sink, and the cupboards and shelves that should have held food were bare, save for a few solitary cans of food, their labels too covered in frost to make out. He spied a knife on the counter, and fumbled with it, his fingers almost too cold and stiff to function. He turned it around in his grip and sawed into the zip tie, freeing his hands.

He proceeded deeper, rubbing the red marks on his wrists, his violent shivering making his teeth chatter. There had to be some reprieve here, some dry clothes, some kind of heating element, a power switch, something that might relieve him before he died of hypothermia. He passed a bathroom area, crew quarters, their doors ajar revealing bunk beds and equipment lockers, and what looked like a rec room with a pool table and couches.

He knew that this outpost was still operational, even if it wasn't manned, the station computer would be running, sifting through planetary chatter and relaying relevant data to the UNN. It must have a power source, and where there was electricity, there would be heat.

Yes, there at the end of the hall, just enough light to make out the yellow 'danger of death' warning labels on the door that indicated live machinery. He struggled towards it, gripping the handle and trying to turn it. It was locked. He pounded the door with his fist, frustrated, and the sound reverberated through the metal. There was a keypad just beside the frame, he would need a combination to open it. He would have to come back later.

He returned to the crew quarters, entering the first room to his right and almost falling as he crouched to open an equipment locker at the end of one of the beds. He couldn't keep this up for long, he was exhausted, becoming delirious, unable to think straight. He opened the box, nothing. Cursing he shuffled across the floor to an adjacent locker, and flipped the lid. Electronics, nothing he recognized, nothing he could wear or burn. He rose to his feet with great difficulty, leaving through the door and crossing the narrow hall to search another room. The next locker he opened had clothing, finally some luck! He rifled through it, pulling out coats, hats, pants, gloves. It wasn't much but it would help. He tried to pull on one of the jackets, but it was too small for him. Had it belonged to a woman maybe? He pulled a woolen hat over his head and wrapped a purple scarf around his neck, those at least were gender neutral. The gloves didn't fit him either, his hands were too large.

Encouraged by his minor success, he mustered the strength to keep going, and in a short while had retrieved everything of use from the crew quarters. He had found an insulated coat with a furry hood that fit him well enough, work gloves, several pairs of thick socks that he had layered, and a pair of boots that, while too large for him, stayed on well enough if he fastened the laces tightly. Blisters from ill-fitting footwear were the least of his problems right now.

There was nothing he could do about the gravity, but at least he was starting to warm now. It was still intolerably cold, but sheltered from the wind, and with his own body heat starting to compound as the clothing trapped it, he was out of immediate danger. He should rest, he was close to collapse, but he felt compelled to gain access to that locked door. Behind that numeric lock could be a simple switch that would activate the building's heating system.

He shuffled through the hallway, was there some kind of administrator's office? Somewhere the combination might be written down? Or had some long departed engineer committed it to memory, taking Schaffer's hopes for salvation with him when he had fled the base? He would have to turn this damned place upside down and inside out.

He rifled through the kitchen, the muscles in his thighs and calves burning under the strain of supporting his body. The fridge was powered off and empty, but he was able to collect a few cans from shelves and cupboards. Who knew what they contained, all of the labels were either so decayed as to be illegible, or frozen over. He piled them on the dining table, and then tried to turn on the water. If he could find a heat source he could melt snow to make clean water, but if the boiler was still operational it would save him a step. He turned the handle on one of the faucets, and there was a great, echoing creaking. The pipes must be completely frozen. He decided to leave it running, perhaps if the boiler was still able to heat the water, it would eventually melt its way up through the plumbing system.

What he needed were some of those damned MREs, the matches and flammable gel packets would be invaluable right about now, but he doubted he would find any such equipment here. There must be a storeroom somewhere on-site, this kitchen couldn't possibly hold enough food to supply the base staff for more than a week. With luck there would be crates full of supplies and useful equipment. He should try to locate it.

But he was getting sidetracked, his tired mind wandering. Find the door combination first, that was the most pressing issue. Perhaps he could even call for help somehow if he were to gain access to the computer. The base was a massive transmitter after all, its only purpose was to send data into space.

He left the kitchen and wandered the installation, it was fairly small as far as outposts went, yet its design was odd, maze-like, and it all seemed to be constructed around the central computer room. There must be a large transmitter dish protruding from the roof, though he had barely been able to see anything outside, the glare of the snow was so blinding. There was just enough illumination to see, and wherever he went, glistening frost coated every surface and motes of dust hung in the shafts of light that penetrated the dirty windows.

He circled the central room, and found himself on the opposite side of the building, looking up at an office door. There was a name on it, though he couldn't read the text, the plaque was obscured beneath a layer of opaque ice. This must be some kind of administrative room, had to be. He tugged at the doorknob. Another locked room, god damn it. Why all the security? The base was in a wasteland, there were no natives here to go snooping through UNN secrets. This door was made of wood however, not metal like the one protecting the computer room, he might be able to break it down. He was already so tired though, his muscles were on fire.