Solitude
Jessica Schlenker
“Well, Brandon, be a dear and introduce us!” chirped an unfamiliar woman wearing a blue hat, from just behind Payload Master Brandon Davidson of the Sri Lanka. Davidson, who had just opened his mouth to say something presumably not an introduction, closed it with an audible click.
Reginald Baxter loathed her perky, falsely cheerful falsetto already. He steadfastly stared at Davidson, not acknowledging the woman. Davidson visibly suppressed a wince. “Baxter, this is Maria Sanchez, of the United Nations’ Office of Health and Safety. Ms. Sanchez, this is Grainne Asteroid Mining Complex One’s hydroponics specialist Reginald Baxter.”
“It’s Maria, and I’m so pleased to meet you, Reggie,” she chirped, extending her hand. Reginald noticed the carefully manicured nails, which rivaled those of any high-end courtier and bespoke of her complete lack of familiarity with hands-on work. He did not extend his hand in return, instead clenching the order tablet.
“Ms. Sanchez.” he acknowledged as he kept his focus on Davidson. “I have the supplies you ordered, Payload Master.” He offered the tablet to Davidson, who took it and led the few meters to the pallets.
“I was surprised to discover you lived on this station alone. That’s quite a safety violation,” Sanchez continued, speaking over the conversation regarding supplies. “I’m afraid that can’t be continued now that we’re in charge of the system.”
That finally forced Reginald to respond. “Mr. Hayes constructed this facility based on UN requirements to facilitate trade with UN parties, and there are provisions for a single individual with my documented—”
“Disability,” Davidson interjected. “As Mr. Hayes informed you, Ms. Sanchez, Mr. Baxter has a documented disability which makes it difficult and even painful to interact with other humans beyond the most minimal of requirements. We have all been briefed by Medic Phillips on how to interact and assess his situation to minimize concerns. He is monitored remotely as unobtrusively as possible. Please desist. You’ve seen for yourself that Mr. Baxter is healthy and hale, and you’ve reviewed his medical records and orders. Now, please, return to the Sri so that we do not unduly distress Mr. Baxter further.”
The woman huffed but finally left. Reginald felt himself relax slightly. “Disability?” he asked quietly.
Davidson shrugged. “We all like some peace and quiet on occasion.”
Reginald snorted. “And why the hell is she here? Leons didn’t mention a trade delegation inspection, and that mentioned as being in charge. Hayes wouldn’t sell out.”
Davidson paused. “I suppose it makes sense you haven’t heard. The UN invaded Grainne. Rumor is the spaceport is half obliterated. Most of the military installations got kinetic strikes, and trackable military ships were disabled or destroyed. I’ve seen handheld video of the Jefferson base. It’s nothing but rubble.”
“What the hell?”
“Hayes might have more information, but the UN has control of communications right now.”
So Reginald couldn’t even ask. Lovely.
They completed the checklist and mutually signed off, releasing payment. Davidson paused at the hatchway. “Let me know if you get overcrowded?”
Reginald scowled. He lived alone in Mining Complex Delta, or MicDees, for damned good reason.
* * *
Two days later, it became apparent that Davidson’s suspicion held true. The computer alerted him to an unannounced, unscheduled docking. Video showed several people wearing blue hats.
He hailed Mining Complex Command. “MMC, I have unscheduled visitors. Please advise.”
Sally Leons answered, her expression blank. “Ms. Sanchez has ‘offered’ the use of ‘unused’ space in the crew quarters of MicDees to certain UN-affiliated groups. They are expected to interact with you regularly for your own good.”
Reginald drummed his fingers on the desk. “Do they have any notion how bad of an idea that is?”
Sanchez peered over Leons’s shoulder, which explained the carefully neutral expression Leons wore. “You just need acclimation and socialization, Reggie, and I’m sure you’ll adjust. Humans are social beings, after all.”
He would rather flay his own hands and shove them into buckets of salt. But Leons must have realized the gist of his response, because she was shaking her head ever so slightly. He bit back his response.
Sanchez smiled, an oozy, smarmy expression which further aggravated Reginald. “I knew you would listen to reason if you weren’t given a way to escape it. The crew assigned to the station should introduce themselves shortly.”
Leons’s expression made it clear what she thought of the situation. “Please inform myself or Mr. Hayes if your disability becomes unmanageable. Preferably before you take steps to mitigate it yourself.”
Before he increased their insurance costs, he assumed, if the insurance was even functioning still. “Understood. Baxter out.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement; he never did.
The UN “affiliates” were still milling around the docking area when he approached. It was better to initiate contact on his terms. “Who is in charge of this group?”
The others cleared out from in front of an older woman. “I am. Civil Manager Heidi Brichenstock. Are you our . . . host?”
“I am Hydroponics Specialist Baxter. I believe you have been led to believe there are spare . . . accommodations on MicDees. That is not precisely accurate.”
“I’m sure we’ll make do,” Brichenstock assured him. “I’ve been provided the official plans for the facility.”
“They are more than ten years out of date.”
She looked unsurprised, not even resigned. “It wouldn’t be the first time. I do work for a bureaucracy, after all.”
He almost liked her. He shrugged. “You have been warned. This station also does not have sufficient crew-support quarters or supplies.”
“I did notice that.” She hesitated. “I also was informed you have a disability, the nature of which I was not given details. Is there anything I should know?”
“As I recall, the official diagnosis was ‘anti-social.’”
She blinked, then nodded. “I will ensure that my people understand to limit their enthusiasm for following Ms. Sanchez’s instructions regarding socializing with you, then.”
“I am sure my boss’s insurance would appreciate that.”
She looked confused but did not question why insurance would be involved.
* * *
MicDees’s first life as the initial administration office for Hayes’s endeavor included sufficient support, including bathroom facilities and cooking capabilities, for a respectable crew. The complex had been replaced by the MMC and retrofitted to be primarily hydroponics. The remaining crew quarters, designated for emergency use only, were skeletonized, and most of the facilities were converted into hydroponic support and the necessary attendant activities.
Reginald rediscovered how much he loathed sharing a bathroom with anyone, let alone some of these utterly piggish UN office workers. He griped to Leons about the complete inability to maintain the most minimal of hygienic standards. After the third time that Sanchez peered over her shoulder to chirpily inform him that “didn’t sound too bad,” and that he’d “adjust in due time,” Leons found a UN regulation that enabled private communications, completely encrypted, to Medic Phillips.
Phillips took over the task of keeping Reginald from losing his frail hold on his temper. Before two weeks was out, this required nearly two hours a day of Phillips listening to Reginald rant and rave while making notes.
But, despite the UN’s much vaunted love of processes, procedures, and proper protocols, the combined forces of Hayes, Leons, and Phillips could not convince Sanchez to remove her administrators. Brichenstock’s complaints about the insufficient facilities also prompted no movement or mitigation response.
Reginald wondered if Sanchez was a sadist, getting off on inflicting unnecessary discomforts on, well, everyone. Did she hate Brichenstock? Reginald himself? Or was it some perverse kink?
Not that it mattered. If that damned video next door didn’t shut off . . .
He yanked himself back under control. He’d promised Phillips and Leons. He owed them a lot. He could keep trying, he told himself, grinding his teeth as the barely audible fake laugh track came from the break room next to his administrative office. He heard Brichenstock chastise her people for the volume, and it went down. She seemed to feel sympathy for him and was at least trying. He still almost liked her, an odd feeling for him.
A snippet of conversation made it through the door. “I know the guy keeps the areas he uses spotless, but the place could really use some color,” a female voice said.
“Oh, definitely. Maybe even a mural in the rec?” replied a second female voice. “Ocean views would work.”
The first laughed. “You and your oceans.”
Reginald had a superior idea, one which suited him better than ocean scenes. They could get the hell off his station.
His hydroponic checks weren’t completed for the day, but he retreated to his quarters anyway. Every time a door or hatch moved, every barely heard conversation as UN personnel went past, every single sound that wasn’t either the slight mechanicals of the station proper or caused by himself, he twitched. He dug out the long-unused sound suppression headset, from back before he fled groundside. It cut down on the persistent slight echo, whether real or just in Reginald’s ears, that resulted from the movement of other people in his domain.
The headphones worked for about a day. The pressure of the headset on his ears finally pushed him to pull it off for just a moment. The very first thing he heard was that insufficiently bedamned laugh track on whatever insipid video was being played in the breakroom.
He fled to the hydroponics chambers, which Brichenstock had declared off limits to her crew, despite Sanchez’s smarmy encouragement that they “get the freshest air possible.” Plants fared better under at least slight gravity, so the hydroponics chambers existed on the outermost side of the station, under the gentle spin. Having a “down” sometimes helped, but today, nothing soothed his nerves. Even the softly humid air, redolent with the scent of growing plants, failed to bring him the normal serenity.
Here, though, he could at least pace. And pace he did, for hours, while he manually tended his charges. After every last task was completed, he stayed in the chamber. He was too wound up for the most calming of his music choices. Hunger and exhaustion finally pushed him to return to his quarters.
He found a carefully situated packet at the entrance hatch to the hydroponics chamber, with a note taped to it. Paper was even scarcer on the station than elsewhere, and this looked to be torn from someone’s diary or journal.
My apologies.
Phillips contacted me to check on you without actually checking on you, and when I reported that you appeared to be pacing in Hydroponics, he directed me to acquire the items here.
I explicitly did not enter your quarters, so these may not be up to your usual standards.
Phillips explained how long you’ve been isolated, and a little more clarification. If I’m about to toss one of these idiots out an airlock, I can only imagine how hard this is on you.
I’m attempting to get this group relocated . . . anywhere. I’m in contact with my upper management about the situation with Ms. Sanchez, as well. She is unaware of this, which is one reason for this being handwritten.
Phillips requests that you communicate with him via your standard method.
Heidi
The packet contained a set of the emergency crew supplies, including a handful of the choicer meals. The meals he didn’t recognize had UN markings, and he assumed she’d raided her own crew’s backup supplies. He did not dare contact Phillips today.
Two “nights” in the hydroponics section left him calm enough to contact Phillips.
“Are you still in hydroponics?” was Phillips’s first question.
Reginald panned the camera, so Phillips could see for himself.
“Right. Brichenstock has made progress cutting around Sanchez, but until there’s an incident, that’s as far as she can go.”
“What does that mean?”
Phillips shrugged. “It means you can’t, how was it Brichenstock put it, ‘shove anyone out an airlock or anything else quite that drastic.’ She’s sympathetic. Seems she’s quite the introvert herself.”
“‘Introvert’?” Reginald snorted. He knew damn well he made the average introvert look like a social butterfly.
Phillips grinned at him. “Just be your normal, charming self then, I guess. Hayes requests that no important equipment be damaged, however. We have limited capability for resupplying under the circumstances. Scuttle we’re getting from groundside is that the resistance is using up all the electronics they can get their fingernails into.”
Reginald nodded, then blinked. “Wait. What? How are you getting rumors with Sanchez breathing down your neck?”
Phillips smirked. “Seems that you aren’t the only one with ‘mental health discretion’ requirements out here in the boonies. Handy little loophole, that.” The pious expression Phillips wore for a moment nearly made Reginald laugh. “After all, it is my sacred duty to ‘do no harm,’ and to ensure that everyone remains healthy. These are ‘trying times,’ and everyone has to ‘do their part’!”
Phillips mimicked Sanchez’s voice so well, Reginald actually flinched. “I see. And my part is to get these idiots off my hydroponics station?”
“We need you to keep feeding people. From your perspective, nothing really has to change. Except, of course, removing your . . . irritations.”
“Got it. Baxter out.”
Reginald cautiously returned to his quarters. He encountered no one directly, but certainly heard traffic. When he arrived in his office, he found Brichenstock waiting for him.
“I do apologize for intruding,” she started.
He waved her off. “I’m okay for now. Thank you for the supplies.”
She relaxed a little. “You’re welcome. I wish I could do more.”
“And I’ll try to not kill anyone.”
She winced. “That’s why I’m here. Phillips told me about what happened back groundside.”
“Does it worry you?”
She stared at one of the displays and didn’t answer immediately. “They’re basically kids,” she sighed. “I mean, I’m not that much older than they are, maybe ten years older than the oldest of them, but they’re basically kids. Decent-meaning ones, at that. Puppies who like numbers.”
“But there has to be an incident, doesn’t there?”
“And I’m asking that there be no lasting damage to whichever puppy needs its nose smacked with a shoe.”
“I will do my best to not actually hurt anyone. That . . . incident . . . was . . . a very long time coming, and I’ve gotten better control since then, too.” He actually meant it.
“Thanks. I know you can’t promise anything. I know how it is.”
He must have shown his doubt, because she half-smiled. She pushed up a sleeve and traced a faded scar along her forearm. “I know how it is,” she repeated. “And I will protect the puppies.” She left.
Reginald had not considered that her support was rooted in more than a sympathetic disposition. He, for one of the very few times in his life, actually wanted to talk to someone to find out about them. It was an odd feeling, but he didn’t suppose it would last long.
Over the next several days, Brichenstock continued to intrigue him. He knew, and she knew, that until his tolerance was breached irrevocably, the situation would continue. Knowing that there were plans and an endgame for his torture to be ended . . . brought him a curious level of peace, and his temper rose more slowly than it had previously. Her temper, however, seemed to have made up the balance. She snapped more frequently at her “puppies” and rode on them hard for previously innocuous situations. He heard a couple complain about it while they walked past his office, or he wouldn’t have suspected.
It was his turn to check on her. It felt . . . odd. Very, very odd. It had been a long time since he felt compelled to reach out to someone for any reason, rather than having it forced on him by external dictates.
He checked with the computer for her whereabouts and discovered she was pacing in a quiet-even-for-MicDees wing. He’d paced that passageway a few times himself and went to stand in the most conspicuous but least intrusive spot to wait for her. She glanced at him when he leaned against the bulkhead but kept pacing for several more minutes.
She eventually slowed and sighed. She leaned against the opposite bulkhead. “I know. You’re supposed to have an incident, not me.” He tilted his head at her and waited. She shrugged. “You haven’t stayed on top of what’s going on down on Grainne, or even in the system, have you?”
He shook his head.
“When I took this position, we were told . . . I guess it doesn’t really matter what we were told. What we thought was going to happen, or anything. The . . . expectation was the regular person on the street, or ship, or whatever, was going to open their arms and happily accept the UN’s oversight.”
He snorted, and she half-smiled. “Right. I believed them. Why shouldn’t I? I didn’t know better.” She paused. “Jump Point One is destroyed. Your Resistance took a Skywheel down.”
“Wait, what?”
She nodded. “And you’re out here, just feeding spacers and trying to be left alone, with a sadistic bitch from theoretically my side trying to force you to socialize with us, and if that’s not a microcosm of this whole fiasco, I don’t know what is.”
She paused. He recognized the expression, or at least thought he did, of assumed dispassionate distance. “I never really explained what we’re doing—what my team does. OpSec and all that. We basically just run payroll. There’s been a flaw in the program for, I don’t know, longer than I’ve worked on the team. Occasionally one user would get someone else’s info, things like that.” He blinked, and it was her turn to snort. “Has never been fixed. So, against policy, I’ve always kept an offline backup, personally. I didn’t trust the online backups.”
“And?”
“I caught someone using an account that should have been expired out years ago, making edits two days ago. Major edits.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she looked at the ceiling. “I overwrote my copy with the new ‘master’ version in the system.”
“You . . . ”
“And then I deleted my copy. Shouldn’t have it anyway, after all. ‘Policy should guide us in every step,’” she singsonged with obvious sarcasm.
“Sanchez?” he asked.
“The very same. Coincidentally, also the individual who appears to be utterly incapable of following policy in any other matter.” Brichenstock shrugged. “Honestly, given everything else, I expect to throw that problem on her, too. Upper levels are ignoring everything else so far.” She tilted her head at him. “You’ve lasted a bit longer than I expected.”
“There’s a plan.”
She nodded. “That was a risk of letting you know about it, I guess.”
“What about you?”
She shrugged. “I’m technically just a contractor. If they get too mad at me, they’ll ship me home. I might forfeit the short-term bonus pay, but there’s jobs enough I can do back on Earth.”
The answer felt off, somehow, but Reginald couldn’t place what made him think that. She shrugged. “Thank you for listening to me. I should go back before someone wonders where I am.”
* * *
Reginald assumed Brichenstock had shared the bit about the database knowing he might share it with Phillips. For her sake, he only did so a couple of days after the conversation, once he was reasonably confident that she had settled down a bit.
Phillips gave him a long look after he relayed the information. It was unnerving.
“What?”
Phillips shook his head. “Nothing, Baxter.” But even Reginald could tell it wasn’t nothing. “How’s your temper been?”
Reginald shrugged. “They’re really starting to get on my nerves again.”
Phillips nodded. “Just remembers Hayes’s request.”
“Will do. Baxter out.”
* * *
Of course, it wasn’t necessarily the people alone getting on his nerves. That damned laugh track might get someone killed directly. Every time he heard it, the red would start seeping into his vision, and he’d start seeing heads smashed in, almost hallucinations of slamming people into walls to kill them. He hadn’t experienced those in a long time, and he was more than a tad concerned. The effort involved in not wrecking things increased every time, and he knew it was just a matter of time before the necessary “incident” occurred.
Reginald’s nerves were already humming with frustration and anger when the computer announced an incoming message from Phillips. “Baxter here.”
“Sanchez is on her way over,” Phillips started, “and she’s pissed at Brichenstock.”
“The database?”
“She thinks Brichenstock corrupted it to make her look bad, or some nonsense. She’s caught some heat from letting them out of her direct supervision.”
Reginald felt almost joyful for a brief second. “She’s coming to take them off ship?”
Phillips shook his head. “That certainly didn’t seem to be in her plans. I’m not completely certain.”
“ . . . she isn’t intending to stay here herself, is she?”
“Just let Brichenstock know. You have a couple of hours; Davidson is her ride again, and he’s feigning ‘difficulties’ to buy you some time.”
“Understood. Baxter out.”
He checked with the computer to locate Brichenstock. She was in private quarters, so he sent a comm query.
“Brichenstock here.” She looked disheveled and a bit disoriented, as if he’d woken her up.
“Sanchez is en route, and apparently pretty angry at you.”
Brichenstock shook her head and looked more alert. “About damn time there was some kind of response from her.”
“She might be coming to stay on MicDees for ‘direct supervision,’” Reginald replied. He felt this was the worst possible outcome of “response.”
Brichenstock smiled, not a particularly nice smile, and shrugged. “Let me handle it, although I’d recommend you be there as well.”
“Might not be a puppy needing its nose whacked?”
“Sometimes you have to discipline adult bitches, too,” Brichenstock agreed.
Brichenstock met Reginald at the primary airlock after Davidson alerted MicDees of the ship’s approach. “Allow me to handle her as much as possible,” she told him.
“And let you have all the fun?” he replied.
She snorted. “For the purposes of the UN, a ‘peaceful’ resolution, where I run roughshod over her, is best.” She not-smiled again. “Although I highly doubt it will happen, I must make the attempt.”
Sanchez only waited for the airlock to pressurize because she did not have access to overrides. Her typically smarmy smile and coifed appearance were missing, and she looked more like the snake that Reginald treated her as. “Brichenstock, how dare you report problems without consulting me first.” Reginald noted the lack of first name usage.
Brichenstock shrugged. “You were provided reports and status updates. Your inability to read is not my concern.”
Sanchez hissed. “I will have your career.”
“For proving you don’t know how to do your job? Hardly. You won’t be the first I’ve gotten removed from that role. Ah, Payload Master, greetings.”
Davidson’s appearance distracted Sanchez from her diatribe, and Brichenstock prompted, “I believe, Ms. Sanchez, that you were about to request an in-person tour of the facilities which I have repeatedly filed complaints as being inadequate per contract for my personnel.”
“I—” Sanchez started.
“—want to keep getting promotions?” Brichenstock interjected. “We all do, hence my suggestion. In fact, Mr. Baxter, would you do me the kindest favor, and show Ms. Sanchez around?” Reginald gave her a look, and she not-smiled. “Perhaps start with the corridor near the chemical storage?”
Reginald gamely agreed. He felt impressed with Brichenstock’s sudden control over the situation and wondered why she hadn’t exerted it before. Sanchez looked confused and flummoxed as she found herself being herded off and out of the bay. Reginald faintly heard Brichenstock speaking to Davidson and hoped the conversation would result in the UN crew’s removal.
Sanchez was mercifully quiet at first and appeared to be looking around the station. Near the transition between crew and working decks, she asked, “Why is it so barren?”
Reginald didn’t consider his home to be barren and replied as much.
“It’s bland, with no color. UN specifications do require sensory enhancement for long-duration space life,” she answered.
“I like it this way.” He shrugged and opened the hatch into the working decks.
Despite being the primary individual concerned, Reginald scrupulously ensured that all the hazmat and warning signs decorated the appropriate areas. The chemical storage section was carefully maintained. “Why do you have so many liquid chemicals?” Sanchez asked, picking up an MSDS binder.
“Water is the restricting resource on a station, and each type of plant requires different supplements. Some plants require different mixes depending on their lifecycle to ensure the most productivity. I find it easiest to mix the solutions in volume, and Hayes has some of the bare chemicals brought in from the reduction plants. Recycling or using the chemicals here is essential for cost efficiencies.”
Sanchez stared at him for a moment. “That was a long speech for you.”
He started ushering her in the direction of the hydroponics entrance. “I like plants.”
“But not people.”
“Correct.”
“You have to get used to people at some point,” she replied. “This team must stay on the station. It’s safe—”
“They can’t stay,” he stated bluntly.
“Well, Brichenstock will obviously be removed from her role, but the rest of the team will remain here.”
Reginald ground his teeth and glanced in the direction of the chemical loading bay airlock, at the end of the corridor. She looked in the same direction. “What’s that?”
“Nothing important,” he said as dismissively as he could.
Sanchez glowered. “I’ll determine that for myself.”
Reginald shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster and gestured in that direction. She engaged the inner airlock door, and Reginald stayed outside the marked swing radius. Several meters deep, the airlock could handle large pallet loads, a holdover from the days when MicDees was the only part of the mining facility. Sanchez moved to the far door, frowning at the outer airlock’s control panel.
The outer airlock’s indicators correctly showed the other side was depressurized. “What is in there?” Sanchez demanded as she punched buttons, randomly for all Reginald could tell from here. The video feed from the bay had failed years ago, and repair was deemed noncritical.
“A loading bay, generally unused,” he answered her question curtly.
She frowned in irritation. “I want to inspect it.”
“That will have to wait,” he replied coolly.
“I want to inspect it immediately,” she demanded, raising her voice. She turned back to the panel.
“I suggest waiting,” Reginald replied. He did not permit his tone to vary and based on the way her lip curled when she glared over her shoulder, it was aggravating her to no end. He took satisfaction in needling her as much as she had harassed him these last weeks. He noticed error messages showing up on the corridor’s interface, and assumed she’d hit something she shouldn’t have.
“Now,” she hissed.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Do it, bitch.
“Now,” she snapped as she keyed the airlock to cycle. He caught a brief glance of Sanchez’s expression as the hatch swung shut. She didn’t even have the sense to be afraid, just puzzled. He watched as the pressure readout dropped to zero.
Reginald gave it about ten minutes before keying comms to MMC. The emergency gear inside the airlock should have been sufficient, had she paid attention.
“MicDees to MMC, Baxter here.”
“Leons speaking.”
“Ms. Sanchez appears to have attempted to inspect the chemicals loading bay without protective gear. The airlock emergency gear has not triggered.”
“Well, hell.”
Brichenstock was summoned to the passage, as was Sri Lanka’s captain. They had been working on loading her team onto Sri Lanka.
“I didn’t mean for you to actually throw her out of an airlock.” Brichenstock sighed.
“Her lack of reading comprehension is also not my fault,” Reginald replied. “I hope the paperwork is not too onerous.”