Survival Tactics Read online

  There was one in greens and blues, curved over itself in impossible balance, that reminded Nora of the look she’d seen on Else’s face that first day, when she’d been staring at the train tracks. The sculpture should have toppled under its own weight, and indeed it looked as if it would at any moment.

  Failure, it was called.

  Nora entered her credit card number into a public records site, and came up with an address a few blocks away from their coffee shop. So close. All along Else had been so close. For years, maybe.

  Nora dialed the number as she headed out the door. Else didn’t answer.

  Nora leaned on Else’s buzzer until she heard the intercom click. “Get the fuck off my doorbell,” Else said, and Nora nearly passed out from relief.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  There was a long silence. Nora wished for Gerald, and then there was a click as the door unlocked.

  The building was short—six stories without an elevator—and Else lived on the top floor. By the time she arrived, Nora was puffing; but Else opened the door at her step.

  She looked as if she hadn’t bathed in several days; her long hair was matted and sticking up at angles from her face.

  “Well,” Else said. “I suppose you should come inside.”

  Else’s one large room sported crown moulding and wide wood floors, and a single countertop kitchen. Beyond that, there was a mattress on the floor and a laptop sitting next to it. Cushions were scattered against the walls. Nora wondered if this was some sort of artists’ lifestyle.

  “I was worried,” she said.

  Else turned away and shuffled to the counter. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice was gray. “I have bad days sometimes. Do you, Nora?”

  Not like this. “How can I help?” she asked.

  Else had pulled two mugs out of the cabinet and was pouring coffee. Not as rich as the coffee shop’s, but from the smell Nora thought it was from the same beans. “I think,” Else said, “I just need to get through it.”

  Nora took the cup Else offered her.

  Nora was not a taker of risks; she never had been. Software was not her dream profession, but she’d had an aptitude, and it paid enough. Before Else, she’d been gliding through life, comfortable if not joyous, safe if not secure. Her handful of relationships had each petered out due to apathy on both sides; she was fairly certain she’d never had her heart broken. All the songs, after all, said she would know.

  She was not a taker of risks. But she said: “Do you want company?”

  And Else smiled.

  “I should go home,” Nora said.

  “No.”

  They were curled around each other on the mattress on the floor, the remains of three take-out meals around them, no lighting but the glow from the laptop screen. Nora had thought she understood contentment, but she’d never felt anything like this soul-deep wholeness.

  “I should have cooked for you. I’m a lousy guest.”

  “You’re terrible. Stay.”

  “I didn’t come for this. I came to cheer you up.”

  Else lifted her head off Nora’s shoulder and looked into her eyes. In the half-dark Else was luminous, like an apparition, and Nora tightened her arms around her.

  “You did cheer me up,” Else told her.

  For a long time, they didn’t talk.

  Before dawn, they got up and showered. Nora fluffed out her short curls, and then with a wide-toothed comb tugged the tangles out of Else’s long, wet hair.

  “The day we met,” Else told her, “when you asked me for the time.” She inhaled. “Nora. I was staring at the train tracks.”

  “I know,” Nora told her.

  “I would have, if you hadn’t stopped me.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did you stop me?”

  “Someone was looking after us,” she said.

  “Call me the second you get home,” Else commanded as Nora left.

  The morning was clear and cold, the air full of the sharp, tangy city smells that Nora loved. So beautiful here, the sprawling buildings, some reaching high into the clouds; the green spaces; the gridded streets and the wandering paths. More people than Nora could count smiled at her, and she didn’t wonder, because she knew somehow she was glowing, the fire inside of her visible through her skin, blazing the world around her with joy.

  She took the stairs down to the train station, only to find two workmen setting up a scaffolding under the clock.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  They each gave her a quick, assessing glance, then turned back to their work. “Replacing it,” they told her. “Took long enough for them to cough up the cash.”

  Nora found her cement pole. “Gerald,” she said, “will you be all right?”

  YES

  If the men taking the clock down saw the word, they didn’t react.

  “Can I do anything?”

  NO

  “But you’re stuck in the clock, aren’t you?”

  NO

  Oh. “You’re stuck at the station.”

  YES

  “So I’ll see you again.”

  A long pause.

  DONT

  KNOW

  Something tightened in her chest. “Gerald. I want—before, when you said HELP. You didn’t mean you were helping me, did you?”

  NO

  And then:

  ELSE

  “You knew what she was going to do.”

  YES

  “You’ve seen it.”

  YES

  Her vision was growing blurry. “You saved her life.”

  NO

  YOU

  “I love her.”

  GOOD

  HPPY

  BE

  HPPY

  NORA

  “Obsolete piece of crap,” one of the workmen remarked, and yanked the wires out of the ceiling.

  4.

  “Else. You’re not ready.”

  “What? Of course I am.”

  Nora frowned at her. “You’ve been painting. There’s color in your hair. The non-premeditated kind.”

  Else had dyed her long hair bright blue three weeks earlier, but the yellow blob of paint clinging to the tips was not part of her planned look. Else looked down, swore, and headed back to the bathroom. “I shouldn’t have worn white,” she groused.

  Else looked beautiful in white. She looked beautiful in everything.

  Nora had asked Tamal what they ought to wear when he’d invited her and Else to be his son’s godparents. She had never seen him in anything other than jeans and a polo shirt, and he’d laughed at her. “Be there. Bring love. The rest is up to you.”

  At Else’s suggestion, Nora was in pale blue. “Because you’re the sky,” Else had told her, shyly. “Always there, no matter how cloudy I get.”

  Else emerged from the bathroom, hair cleaned, and picked up their coffee mugs. “Can we get breakfast after?” she asked, heading for the kitchen.

  “Sure. But please, real food. If I have more donuts my brain will short-circuit.”

  “There’s no such thing as too many donuts.” Else poured out the now-cold coffee and ran water into the mugs. “You ready?”

  “Been ready for ten minutes. C’mon.”

  Else pulled on her long coat, and something about the way the garment flowed over her dress made her look like royalty. Nora didn’t realize she was grinning like a fool until Else waved a hand before her eyes. “Nora. We’ll be late.”

  Nora grabbed her own coat off the hook by the door. “There’s a brunch place around the corner from the church,” she said.

  Else made a face. “I hate brunch.” She opened the door. “Bye, Gerald,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Bye, Gerald,” Nora echoed.

  Before she pulled the apartment door shut behind her, Nora saw the coffee maker flash

  BYE

  Factory Reset

  DEFINITION: Felis lutrina. Indigenous pentapedal pseudomammalian carnivore.
Diet based on smaller mammals, rodents, and insects. No plant-based consumption in evidence. Hunts in groups and will attack larger prey. Rudimentary problem-solving skills; no recorded tool use. Colloq. were-kat.

  ADDENDUM: In groups of three or more, capable of killing and consuming humans. Treat with extreme caution. All we found of Raffiq were fingernails and teeth.

  SALVAGE REPORT

  Haven Systems Terraformer Model 8 (deactivated)

  Day One

  * * *

  Followed all day by a pack of felis lutrinae—seven or eight of them, I’m not sure. Despite the aggression documented by the original terraformer installation team, their behavior suggested little more than mild curiosity. They wove in and out of the deeper woods, shifts of two or three keeping me in sight, and when I stopped for rest and meals (times and rates outlined in the salvage contract) they waited for me, staring as if I were entertainment.

  They are not at all feline in appearance. The closest analog I can think of is an otter, although felis lutrina has feathers rather than fur. The largest of them is about a meter long, and they move with a strange, buoyant grace, covering the land in long leaps. Their fifth leg is narrower and remains curled beneath them most of the time; it boasts very fine, sharp claws ideally suited to rooting insects out of the detritus of the forest floor.

  Even if there are other mammals my size here, they would have seen nothing like my EnviroSuit. They should be afraid of me.

  They should also have been made extinct 57 years ago.

  Existence of specimens from the planet’s original biome suggest faulty terraformer installation or maintenance, with unpredictable consequences for a standard salvage operation. The reassertion of indigenous plant life has forced me to land 165 kilometers away from the Main Terraformer Control Center and complete the exploratory journey on foot. Surcharges and overtime will be invoiced as outlined in the salvage contract.

  HOURS BILLED: 15.75

  COVERED BY PRE-PAY: 100%

  THANK YOU FOR SELECTING

  DEEP HAZARD SALVAGE SERVICE!

  HAVE A NICE DAY!

  [message not sent. error code 1104 atmospheric interference.]

  DEFINITION: Amici Lagomorpha. Indigenous pseudomammalian herbivore. Dependent on low-growing open fields for nutrients. Primary food source for indigenous carnivores. Does not hunt. Easily frightened but non-hostile.

  ADDENDUM: Virulently poisonous to humans unless consumed raw. Don’t eat them. Really. They don’t even taste good. At least that’s what Tara said before the vomiting and brain death.

  Day Two

  * * *

  Looks like at least one B42 Secondary Soil Module is still live.

  This morning, after cutting through a particularly dense copse of thorn-bearing bushes, I stumbled into a clear-cut path 2.8 meters wide—the precise width of the B42’s effective cutting capacity. Based on the growth of hecate moss, a cespitose perennial that should have been extinct along with felis lutrinae, the path is about seven terran weeks old. It seems likely the B42 was not properly maintained during its original run, and retained rootable debris from plants it was meant to eradicate.

  The path has allowed me to make up some time. The were-kats seemed to prefer it as well, probably because both amici lagomorphae and a wide variety of slow, bulbous insects enjoyed grazing on the open growth. They spent most of the day dining.

  Which is perhaps why later, after I’d made camp for the night, three of them approached me, one carrying a live lagomorpha. They dropped it at my feet and backed away, and the lagomorpha froze, staring up at me with very rabbit-like yellow eyes. The were-kats watched me in anticipation, but I did nothing until the lagomorpha’s paralysis broke and it bolted into the higher underbrush.

  The were-kats sighed in disappointed unison and returned to their pack.

  They are of course unaware I consume all nutrition via my EnviroSuit. But I did feel, in the moment, very much an inferior hunter.

  * * *

  Given the active B42, I must assume the terraformer shutdown transmitted 15 years ago was not successful, and manual shutdown will be required before salvage. Extra time for this operation will be billed at the overtime rate outlined in the salvage contract.

  HOURS BILLED: 17.00

  REBATE FOR RECLAIMED DISTANCE: 2.5

  TOTAL HOURS BILLED: 30.25

  COVERED BY PRE-PAY: 100%

  THANK YOU FOR SELECTING

  DEEP HAZARD SALVAGE SERVICE!

  HAVE A NICE DAY!

  [message not sent. error code 1104 atmospheric interference.]

  DEFINITION: Titanium Viventum. Molten product of stable eruptions, produced at regular intervals on the planet’s surface. Thermal radiation tops 800 degrees Kelvin. Terraformer modules will fail within fifteen meters of the eruption zone. Steady effusion; no explosions recorded.

  ADDENDUM: People will fail within fifteen meters of the eruption zone, too (Ellsworth got greedy). But that’s real titanium. No kidding. Shouldn’t we be figuring out how to mine this stuff?

  Day Three

  * * *

  It seems the original notes on the were-kats were incomplete.

  After our lunchtime break, they didn’t resume their usual scattered, loping progress, but clustered before me, all nine of them, their movements slow and hesitant, stopping frequently to sniff the air. After an hour of my EnviroSuit persistently showing no hazards ahead, I attempted to get around them, and for the first time since my arrival they turned on me, surrounding me while emitting a low-pitched rumble.

  I had not really believed were-kats were capable of killing humans. But that sound…I know a threat when I hear one. I’ve seen a were-kat skin and part out a full-grown lagomorpha in less than five seconds. And they were closing in on me, none of the companionable friendliness of the last several days in evidence.

  I wasn’t worried about being eaten alive. Once they pierced my suit, the atmosphere would kill me in thirty seconds. It would have been merciful, at least, and I wouldn’t have been the first—or last—salvage jockey to die for Deep Hazard. But I didn’t want to die of poison gas, either. Or anything else.

  I retreated as they closed, but it wasn’t until I was forced off the path and into the woods that I recognized I was being herded.

  Once I stopped resisting, their entire demeanor changed. No more threats, no more visions of having my suit ripped open and my eyes taken out by spiny needle teeth. Just me and my cheerful companions, hiking up and away from the safe path and into the dense woods where the footing was far more precarious. They bounded ahead of me, unencumbered by my size and my clothing, and I followed without question.

  Eventually we broke into a clearing, and I was able to look down over where we’d come, all the way back to the B42 path where they’d threatened me.

  Twenty meters ahead of where we’d veered off, concealed by tight, high thickets of thorny undergrowth, was a swamp that expanded into a red-and-white pit of hot lava.

  I’d have been fine, of course. My thermal readout would have warned me, or I’d have noticed the change in the footing. I’d have paid attention and turned around like a sensible person, finding this alternative route all on my own.

  But the were-kats didn’t know that.

  * * *

  Addendum: It’s the middle of the night, and I want to add this note before I forget.

  I can’t sleep well on solid rock, so it’s no surprise I woke up when the were-kats approached my campsite. I stayed still as they nosed through my meager personal belongings until they came across my daily waste canister. Per regulations, I have been leaving them along our path to be collected on the way back to my ship.

  It took two of them to lift it, winding their fifth legs around it like supple terran serpents. They carried it down the hill and into the woods, and returned—nearly half an hour later—empty-handed.

  Damned if I don’t think they dropped it in that lava pit.

  * * *

  The deviation from the
path has added an extra 12 kilometers to my route. Additional time will be billed as outlined in the salvage contract.

  * * *

  HOURS BILLED: 19.00

  TOTAL HOURS BILLED: 49.25

  COVERED BY PRE-PAY: 18%

  SURCHARGE: 3,331,2⧲

  * * *

  THANK YOU FOR SELECTING

  DEEP HAZARD SALVAGE SERVICE!

  HAVE A NICE DAY!

  [message not sent. error code 1104 atmospheric interference.]

  DEFINITION: B42 Secondary Soil Module. Removes native soil and replaces with terran-equivalent tillable material. Native soil sequenced and destroyed. Compatible components recycled as fertilizer.

  ADDENDUM: Also appears to save the DNA sequencing data locally, even after synching with the main controller, which means its memory fills up too quickly. We’ve had to retrieve and reset these things way more often than the manual says we should. Come on, people. Don’t you test this stuff before you send it out?

  Day Four

  * * *

  Found the rogue B42.

  My first warning was when the were-kats disappeared, but I didn’t think much of it. They hunt frequently during the day, usually in groups; it’s only at night that I see all of them together, snoring, piled on each other like discarded socks.

  But if my oxygen recycler hadn’t had its hourly clean-and-reset cycle, leaving me with three full seconds of nothing but the unenhanced ambient noise of the woods around me, I wouldn’t have heard the module coming, and I probably wouldn’t have been able to outrun it.