Outpost: Hetero Version

Schaffer didn't reply, but Patrick seemed satisfied. He turned to leave, then hesitated for a moment, digging through his pockets.

"Catch," he said, tossing an object to Schaffer. He snatched it out of the air, examining it. It was a clear, plastic bit, of the kind used during superlight jumps. "Don't bite your tongue off during the jumps, or it'll be my neck on the line."

Patrick left, sealing the door behind him. Schaffer was glad for the bit at least, although he had no crash couch and no restraints in this cell. He would have to make do.

The nervous system was unable to handle the strain of inter-dimensional travel. The neurological effects included uncontrollable muscle spasms, blackouts, and temporary insanity. The safest way to traverse the dimensional tears was to be safely strapped down, rendered immobile with a bit preventing you from biting off your own tongue and bleeding out.

He shivered as he realized how cold he was. There was moisture dripping from an exposed pipe that had been sealed with some kind of tape, and there were no heating elements visible. This must be one of the older vessels still in service, it certainly didn't seem up to spec. That was probably why it was hauling cargo to irrelevant allied worlds rather than serving on the front. What had Rawling said, it took two weeks to get to Borealis? Fuck...

***

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 no doubt drive him half crazy, but maybe that was the idea.

He felt a subtle acceleration 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.

Suddenly the hairs on his arms stood on end, and he felt a strange tugging sensation in his sinuses. This was it, the carrier was preparing to expend the energy that it had accumulated in the superlight drive. When the drive had been charged with enough power from the several nuclear reactors that the carrier housed, 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. He only knew that the ship would be sucked in, exiting reality and entering an alternate dimension of space where the laws of physics allowed it to exceed the speed of light. At the end of the process, it would be catapulted 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 found himself on the floor beside the bed, his head pounding like a hammer. 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, then rose to his feet unsteadily as he braced 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, the rusty springs creaking beneath him, cradling his temples in his hands. This wasn't his first rodeo, he knew that 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 his jailor, an MRE clutched in his arms, the same kind that 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 twenty-four-hour ration, has everything you need. I'll be back again tomorrow."

The door slid closed, and Schaffer struggled to his feet, walking across the small room and crouching to retrieve the package. The plastic pouch was marked Meal Ready to Eat, three-thousand calories. He tore it open with his fingers, exposing the cardboard boxes within. There were three compartments, one for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It also came with a transparent packet containing plastic cutlery, toilet paper, gum, a disposable toothbrush, and waterproof matches.

Interesting, the engineer had either not cared, or had forgotten to remove the matches. Perhaps he could light a fire? There was no mattress, however, and the smoke inhalation from anything that 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 and upended the contents onto the cold deck. 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, along with 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 miniature stove, lighting one of the gel packets beneath it. He sat forlornly on the bed as he waited 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 Patrick 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 the Pinwheel wasn't far off that, situated near the borders of Coalition space. If his math was right, it should take about four jumps to get from one to the other.

This was confirmed when after the fourth jump, Patrick lingering 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. "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."

Patrick 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. It's 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," Schaffer shot back. "You're no middleman, you're a hitman." His tone softened momentarily as he pleaded with his captor. "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 man 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 Schaffer 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, steering him towards a waiting dropship. He ushered him up the ramp and closed it behind him, then walked around to the cockpit, Schaffer hearing him tap on the pilot's window. The shuttle hummed to life, then lifted off the deck, its landing gear rumbling as it stowed in the shuttle's belly. It coasted past the hangar force field, Schaffer's stomach turning 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 the atmosphere, bouncing in his seat as the winds buffeted the little craft. His captors hadn't even seen fit to strap on his safety harness, and he couldn't do it himself with his hands bound. Eventually, they leveled out, and Schaffer sensed that the shuttle was slowing as inertia tugged at him. 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 they had been soaked in 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 as 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, the glare from the planet's primary star as white and as harsh 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, Schaffer despairing as he watched it disappear, the tears of anger and frustration that fell from his eyes freezing into hard droplets as they rolled down his cheeks. He felt as if someone had dropped a donkey on his back, he could barely stand, scarcely able to breathe under such intense gravitational 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, the Terminal. 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, his socks soaked through with moisture. He couldn't even wrap his arms around his body, the zip tie still restrained him. If he didn't move soon, 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, not even able 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 its surface, and tugged. It was frozen, or perhaps blocked by the snow. He wailed in despair, his voice lost on the wind as he drove his shoulder against the door, slamming it with a newfound animal strength. It creaked under his weight as he gave it another desperate heave, his shoulder bruising against the hard, frigid surface. One last time before he expended the last of his energy, 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, shutting out the sunlight.

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 structure. There were small windows placed high on the walls, but enough light penetrated the glass to illuminate the cramped rooms so that he could 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 coating the table that occupied the center of the room. 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 found a knife on the counter and fumbled with it for a moment, 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, maybe some kind of heating element or something that he could burn, anything that might relieve him before he died of hypothermia. He passed a bathroom area and what looked like crew quarters, their doors ajar, revealing bunk beds and equipment lockers. There was even 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's 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, there was just enough light bleeding through the tiny windows 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 on the door with his fist, frustrated, the sound reverberating through the metal. There was a keypad just beside the frame, he would need a combination to open it. Could he find the number somewhere else in the base?

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 to find it empty. Cursing under his breath, he shuffled across the floor to an adjacent locker and flipped the lid. Electronics, nothing he recognized, nothing that 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 that he opened had clothing, finally some luck! He rifled through it, pulling out coats and hats, pants and gloves. It wasn't much, but it would help. He tried to pull on one of the jackets, but found that 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 he 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, and several pairs of thick socks that he had layered one on top of the other. There was even 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, checking every door that he came across. Was there some kind of administrator's office? Somewhere that 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 under the planet's brutal gravity. 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, then tried to turn on the water. If he could find a heat source, then he could use it to melt snow and 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.