Chapter Text
Mistakes happen.
When it’s a mistake that causes the death of two senior engineers working around the clock to fix the Ark’s failing life support system, consequences have to be faced.
”Under Ark law, punishment for negligence of this kind is death by floating.” Kane surveys the two young engineering apprentices before him. They are barely adults, nineteen at most, themselves victims of circumstances which placed too much responsibility on their inexperienced shoulders. The rest of the Council is respectfully silent, and Kane continues. Contrary to what many people would think, he dislikes these moments, and how loud his own voice is in the Council chamber. He softens it in accordance with the softer blow he’s about to deal. “But that will not be your fate today. Your services to engineering are still required if we are to repair the oxygen scrubbers within the necessary timeframe. Therefore, the Council is making a concession. Your lives will be spared, but you will be transferred to the Skybox, and permitted day release to work.”
The two boys relax visibly. One blinks rapidly, and Kane purposely avoids meeting his eyes. He doesn’t want to see tears of relief.
“You will be given a review twelve months from now, all other factors pending.”
The meaning hangs in the air. If any of them are still alive in twelve months. Nothing is a foregone conclusion. Their survival is still a race against time.
“Do you have anything to say?”
“No sir.” The boys speak in unison. They’ve already presented their defence. As mere apprentices, they couldn’t have known that temporarily isolating a faulty door overnight would also isolate the door to a nearby service bay, trapping inside two engineers who were extracting the oxygen scrubbers ready for replacement. For the two trapped inside, death was quick and painless. Carbon monoxide poisoning usually is, but the fact remains that the already over-stretched engineering team is now two engineers down. The consequences could be calamitous.
Kane nods. “Guards, escort them to the Skybox.”
The boys leave the room to a clinking of handcuffs, and Kane takes his seat at the table.
Jaha takes up the reins. “Is there any other business, before we adjourn?”
Kane sincerely hopes there isn’t. It’s been a long day, and a long week since the accident happened. Now that they have reached a decision on the boys’ punishment, he needs to focus on the future; schedules will have to be revised, objectives redefined. He has a meeting with Sinclair the following morning, and he has other business he needs to see to this evening.
Opposite him, Dr Griffin raises her hand. Of course she does. He sighs inwardly.
“I have two requests,” she says. “I have a patient with severe asthma, which is worsening due to deteriorating air quality.” Her eyes flick to his challengingly; she already knows opposition will come from his direction. “I’d like to submit a request for extra doses of cortisone.”
She’s right. He immediately opens his mouth to protest. No special treatment. She knows that.
“He’s an engineer,” she cuts him off before he can speak. “I don’t think we can risk losing any more of the team, do you?” Her eyes flick around the table, but he knows she’s talking to him. And again, she’s right.
“Absolutely not,” says Jaha. “How much do you estimate he needs?”
“For now, I’d say an extra dose a day for at least a week. Then we can review.”
“I propose granting the request for two weeks,” Kane puts in. Abby’s eyes snap to his so fast she must have got whiplash. “We really can’t afford to lose any more engineers,” he qualifies. “Cortisone will be of no use to any of us if we don’t have oxygen.”
“Councillor Kane is right,” agrees Jaha. “All those in favour, raise your hands.”
It’s unanimous, and Abby looks satisfied, if a little bewildered. “Thank you.”
“Your second issue?” Jaha prompts.
“I haven’t yet received Tenk Holtmann’s ration tag,” she says. “I had understood Councillor Kane was going to collect it from his quarters.”
Tenk Holtmann was one of the engineers killed in the accident. On death, ration tags have to be handed back in to the Chief Medical Officer, who is in charge of deciding the food rations allowed to each citizen of the Ark based on gender, age, health and build.
Marcus swallows. “I couldn’t find it,” he says lamely. “And since then I’ve been busy with the trial. I’ll go and look again.”
Jaha frowns. “Kane, missing ration tags are no small matter,” he says. “We cannot risk an abuse of the system.” A ration tag in the wrong hands means a potential waste of precious resources, usually stolen and sold on the Ark’s black market.
“I know, and I apologise.” The whole council is staring at him like he’s the one who has committed a crime. “It was an oversight. I’ll take it to Dr Griffin as soon as I find it.”
Jaha is satisfied, though Abby is looking at him as if he has horns coming out of his head. No, not horns. More like a crooked halo. She looks at him as if she sees him, curious but somehow knowing. He hates it, and he looks away, determined not to give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement.
He’s still stubbornly avoiding her gaze, lost in thought, when he realises the Council meeting is over, and members are beginning to vacate the room. He picks up his datapad, and heads to the door, anxious to get out of there before he falls under any more scrutiny.
No such luck. “Kane.” Abby intercepts him at the door. “Wait up.”
He looks down at her in annoyance. “What is it?”
“When you bring Tenk’s ration tag to Medical tomorrow—“
“Assuming I find it,” he says stiffly, but she dismisses it, carrying on as if he hadn’t even spoken.
“—I’d like to give you a check up. You seem to be a little out of sorts, and I think it’s stress.”
He gapes at her in disbelief. “Stress?”
“You were distracted during the meeting. You agreed to the extra cortisone far too easily,” she says with a wry smile, “and you’re forgetting things. That’s not like you. You’re usually the epitome of efficiency. It might just be a vitamin deficiency, but it might be something more serious.”
That’s the thing about doctors, he thinks in disbelief. They think they can save everyone, but even the brilliant Dr Griffin can’t stop even a single person suffocating on air that is devoid of oxygen. Stress. The idea is laughable when he has the survival of two and a half thousand people on his shoulders.
“Kane?”
He’s still staring at her open-mouthed, which probably only serves to confirm her suspicions.
“Sure.“ He can’t be bothered to argue with her right now. Let her do her blood tests or whatever she needs to do. Anything to get her off his back.
She narrows her eyes, and tilts her head. “Actually, come to Medical at nine anyway. Ration tag or no ration tag.”
“I have a meeting—“ he begins, but he’s talking to her back.
“Nine a.m. Doctor’s orders,” she throws over her shoulder, and then she disappears around the corner and he’s alone in the empty corridor.
With a sigh, he opens messages on his datapad, and changes his meeting with Sinclair to nine thirty.
……………
The mess is quiet by the time he gets there. He puts his own ration tag in the machine and collects his food; a small cup of soup, a protein biscuit and a cracker. As a grown man, he could easily eat three times that, but resources are limited and carefully allocated on the Ark. He eats quickly, alone at a table, waiting for the moment when the mess is completely empty except for a couple at the other end who only have eyes for each other. Kane can’t imagine what it’s like to want to stare at another person so intensely. It’s ridiculous. Surely you just see their imperfections, like stray nose hairs and pimples. He can’t think of anything worse than having someone looking at him like that.
When he’s sure no one is taking any notice of the loner in the corner, he makes his way back to the food dispenser, and inserts Tenk Holtmann’s ration tag. Guilt twists like a knife in his gut. It’s for a good cause, he tells himself. And Tenk should still be here. It’s only food that would have been consumed anyway.
A sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. He’ll be floated if he’s caught. Normally, he has no interest in his own life beyond ensuring the survival of the human race, but suddenly things are different.
Suddenly, he has every reason to not want to be floated.
He slips the biscuit and cracker into a small tin, and pours the soup into a flask which fits perfectly into the inside pocket of his jacket. He’s about to leave, when his mom walks in.
“Marcus!”
Today is clearly the day of being accosted by well-meaning but interfering women, he decides. He forces a smile. “Mom.”
She glances around the empty mess. “Will you join me for dinner?”
“I just ate.” He looks towards the door. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“You could keep me company anyway,” she says. “Or do you have somewhere to be?”
He has somewhere to be. “I—um—“
“We could have a game of cards, if you have time.”
He smiles again, this time more naturally. His mom is a spiritual leader, not a scientist or an engineer or a politician. She has no role in saving their people except for ensuring their emotional well-being as the end draws near. Palliative care for the soul, so to speak.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he repeats.
She looks disappointed. “Marcus. You’re overworking yourself. I know this is a stressful time, but you’re not going to be able to help anyone if you run yourself into the ground—“
He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. So many women worrying about his stress levels. What the hell is going on? “Mom, you have no idea,” he says through clenched teeth. “Playing cards or listening to Mozart is not going to save our people.”
She flinches, hurt, and he immediately regrets his words.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “That was uncalled for. Forgive me.”
Vera nods, slightly wary, although there’s a sadness in her eyes too that makes his heart heavy. “It’s okay. I know you’re busy. Tomorrow will be fine.”
He feels terrible. “Here.” He takes her ration tag from her, and inserts it into the machine, then takes her food and walks to the nearest table. “Madame,” he says, pulling out the chair for her with mock flourish, and she rolls her eyes slightly as she sits down.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, meaning it. “Night, mom.”
“Goodnight, Marcus dear. Thank you.”
He leaves without looking back, so he doesn’t see how small she looks, sitting alone in the huge mess.
……………
The Ark is busy at most times of the day, because life is organised into two twelve hour shifts. Day and night have no meaning when the sun rises every ninety minutes. Each person is expected to be present for work for twelve hours, followed by four hours leisure and eight hours sleep. It’s not like leisure activities abound on the Ark.
The corridor leading to his quarters is particularly busy tonight, and he hovers uncertainly outside his door, waiting for a lull in the flow of people, before knocking rat-tat-tatat-tat with his knuckles. He counts to ten before he enters, hoping nobody will take any notice of him knocking on his own door. Once inside, he places the food on the table, then sits on the chair and reaches down to tap on the floor in the same rhythm. Rat-tat-tatat-tat.
People would think he was mad if they could see him.
Maybe he is.
After a pause, the hatch in the floor opens, and two blue eyes peer up at him.
“Good girl. You can come out now.”
The child beams, her pale cheeks dimpling. “Marcus!!” She crawls out of the space below the floor and wraps her arms around him. He huffs a slightly awkward laugh, and places her on the chair next to him.
“It’s best if you sit there to eat. Here.” He gives her the soup, and the protein biscuit and cracker. She drinks the soup and shoves the dry cracker into her mouth, crumbs falling on the table.
“Is Daddy coming back today?” She’s asked the same question every day for the week since the accident. Kane can’t find the words to explain that her dad is never coming back, that he suffocated in a service bay and his body was ejected from an airlock.
“No, Jorja.” The girl turns sad eyes on him, her bottom lip trembling, and he feels a temporary panic. He doesn’t know how to deal with a seven-year-old’s grief over losing yet another family member. “Eat your biscuit,” he says, pushing it towards her gently.
“Will you play with me after?”
“Um. I have work to do.” He doesn’t know how to play with children. He doesn’t know how to deal with any of this, and he wonders for the millionth time what he’s gotten himself into.
“Daddy used to play with me.”
He rubs his forehead. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Will you read to me before I go to sleep then?”
He sighs in defeat. That, he can do. “Sure,” he says, and when the child beams at him again, cheeks full of biscuit, he can’t help a small smile in return.