Homesick

Vladimir listened for voices as he made his way down the corridor. He had made it a point to wait until he heard Ian’s door close before exiting his quarters. He didn’t know how long their meeting would be, but could assume it would occupy at least twenty minutes, and that would be enough. His door closed silently, as he had disconnected the chime that normally rang when a compartment was sealed. He glanced back before leaving the module, checking to be sure the door to the conference room was still closed and that nobody was observing him from the airlock window.

He grew calmer as he entered the forward module, though it made him slightly apprehensive to stand outside Buds’ quarters for any length of time. He tried to form a reasonable excuse for his presence there, but could think of nothing. The thought occurred that she might discover she’d forgotten something and stroll back through the airlock at any moment to find him standing there. If this happened, he would have only a few seconds notice from the time he heard the airlock door from the previous module cycling open to the point where he’d be visible. Where could he hide? He thought of the pilot’s cone, but by the time he got that door open, got through it, and closed it behind him, she would either see the door closing from the airlock window or hear at least part of the cycle before it closed completely. That left the small alcove between compartments, though it would surely be inadequate. His only real escape would therefore be to open the aft door the moment he heard the other door cycling and then act as though he’d been coming to see her at the time but found her absent. A weak pretense, but it couldn’t be completely denied.

He glanced at his handheld and noted his progress on a checklist. A stroke of luck. He had read one of the maintenance reports sent to Earth and found mention of the brief navigational blackout. Officially, Captain Buds had blamed it on the alien interference device. There was therefore a remote possibility she didn’t suspect him of anything, but naturally he couldn’t count on this. Re-booting the entire ship was not something that went without a hitch. He’d searched for subtle problems that might emerge as evidence of the reset, but was surprised at how seamless the whole process had been, at least as far as he could tell.

He checked again for pursuit when he arrived at the red panel on the wall. It was marked “Power Generation Control.” He pulled it free, revealing a small data screen and an old-fashioned keypad below. It was old-fashioned because the keys actually had to be pressed, not touched. They had a quaint plastic feel to them, reminiscent of the antique desktop computers he’d used in school. He keyed in a number after referring to his notes. The screen came to life, displaying a diagram of the ship. Within it was a series of red and blue lines linking large rectangular shapes that were animated to look as though they were pulsating. The shapes represented power sources and the lines indicated the flow of energy from one area to another. He studied the diagram, squinting at the details. He jotted down two numbers that were small enough to be hard to read. Then he paged through another screen, glancing back at his list. After this, he checked his watch. Two minutes so far . . .

But then he heard something that made him jump. His ears had been fine-tuned to the aft compartments and he was ready to spring into action the moment he heard the doors move. But now he was confused. This sound hadn’t come from aft, but from somewhere much closer. He looked across the hall. It sounded almost like shouting. He strained to hear the words. The cadence didn’t resemble English or Russian. In fact, the shouts sounded more like animal cries than speech. A video, perhaps? He almost returned to his work. But then there was another sound, this one he sensed with his feet more than his ears. A knocking sensation in the floor. His eyebrows knitted together. The sounds were coming from the compartment opposite the Captain’s. Anderson’s quarters. His nameplate was not standard-issue, but looked comically exaggerated like something a child would put on the door to his room at home. Hanging below it was a stuffed version of the even more childish Nebraska Football mascot. The knocking continued.

Vlad closed the panel discretely and approached the door, pushing the chime. Other than more knocking, there was no answer. He glanced at the door control. A green light shown on top, indicating the door was unlocked. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that Anderson was in there. He knew he had returned, but he hadn’t been involved with his treatment. In fact, he barely knew anything about what happened on the surface except that Anderson had needed surgery. Last he’d known Anderson was still in the infirmary. He heard a grunt associated with the continued banging from the compartment. What could Anderson be doing in there? He touched the panel and the door slid open. Then his mouth dropped open in full-blown amazement. There stood Anderson completely naked with a pickaxe in his hand! He was raising it up now, preparing to bring it down hard on the window! The transparent surface was pockmarked in the middle below where he stood. This is what he had been banging on! Horror filled Vlad’s eyes.

“Anderson!” he shouted. “Have you gone mad?”

4702 was making no progress in breaking through the barrier. He also discovered that the Masters’ home was only there sometimes. It drifted in and out sight and was replaced by the blackness of night at regular intervals. Aside from his attempts to break through, he had also tried walking up the surface to follow it in a pathetic dance.

When the stranger rushed into the room babbling gibberish at him, 4702 ignored him at first. But then the man tried to take his tool. He was trying to keep him from the Masters! This made 4702 angry, but also confused. Why was he doing this? When he faced the stranger, evidently his anger showed. The odd man danced around him fearfully, always keeping his distance, as if afraid 4702 would strike him. In a flash, he recognized the man. He was one of the others trapped in the machine! He vaguely remembered that this man wasted food a-lot, food that could be given to the Masters. Did he know a way out of the machine?

“You,” he said. “I want to get there!” He pointed to the planet below. “I’ve been taken from my home and I need to get back! I’ve got to get there now!”

The man seemed even more scared at his words and showed no sign of understanding them.

4702 brightened. “If you’ll go with me, I’m sure the Masters can rescue you, too! You won’t have to be scared then! We can leave this place! They promised to let you join us. Mistress Obiiilion said!”

The man backed up farther as two others rushed in. They were the ones he saw on the planet, the ones he thought the Masters had rescued. Were they recaptured now, too?

They were both on him instantly. The man wrenched the digging tool from his hand while the woman stung him with one of her needles. It was at that moment he realized the truth. The Masters had never rescued these people. They had never been trapped in the machine. These people were from the machine, and they were his captors all along! Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Why did they steal him from his home? He tried to ask these very questions, but the black sleep fell over him again and he sank to the floor below.