The Pedestal (37 page)

I don’t know what time it is, but Wallace has abandoned his post and is in the bathroom adjoining our dorm. He’s been in there for a while now, grunting occasionally.

We’re eating breakfast. Well, Grogan and I are eating breakfast—Wallace is staring at a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon as if it just flagellated. “You see that?” Wallace whispers.

I glance at Grogan with a question mark in my eyebrows.

“Okay there, Wallace?” asks Grogan nervously.

“It’s telling us the way, but we’re not listening.”

I have something witty and nasty to add, but I swallow it with my eggs. Wild animals are at their most dangerous when they’re wounded, after all. Wallace glances at Grogan, and then at me. His skin has taken on somewhat of a translucent quality, and despite the cool in here, his upper lip is brimming with droplets of sweat.

This guy does not look good.

“What did you two do to me?” he hisses. Grogan stops in mid-chew; he looks truly frightened and scoots back in his chair until he’s in danger of toppling backward. I’m feeling particularly dark—and for once, I’m not at all afraid. Again, though, until this guy’s down, he’s still too dangerous to unleash.

Grogan turns to me and asks, “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “He probably just needs one of those motion sickness pills.”

Grogan nods hopefully, remarking, “Yeah, good idea.”

“I’m not taking any pills, so don’t bother getting up.”

“But you look really sick, Wallace.”

“I’m fine. Your cooking blows, that’s all. It makes everything sound orange.” Well, I don’t begrudge him that point. My eggs are a little runny, though I think they sound more yellow than orange.

I finish my breakfast with a smile working like crazy at the corners of my lips. Grogan notices—I can tell because he looks at me as if I have a death wish—but doesn’t say anything. Wallace has fallen asleep at the table, slumping haphazardly against the back of his chair.

When we’re done eating, Grogan pulls me into the kitchen and yanks me away from the door, against the wall; he’s sweating and breathing in short bursts. “You figured it out, didn’t you?” he whispers.

“Yeah, I did. I know I can be a little dimwitted—but I’m not a complete misfire.”

“Okay then. Keep cool, though. Don’t give him any reason to freak out.”

I agree, but I have to ask: “I’m not complaining or anything, Grogan. But surely you know that if Wallace looks like this when we get to the USS, Gunn’s gonna take it out on your family. How do you know you haven’t just signed Fiona’s death warrant?”

“Don’t worry about it, Wil. Actually, if you think about it, this only makes me look better; I singlehandedly brought you in when Gunn’s own guys weren’t up for the challenge.”

“But why even risk it?”

“Because no matter what happens, that freak can’t be allowed to continue terrorizing people. I had the chance, and I took it. No regrets.”

I can only stare at him, this man who I’ve clearly underestimated.

Grogan swallows and blinks, eyes utterly haunted. “He’s done things you can’t imagine, Wil.”

I open my mouth to rebut, but then clamp it shut again as another thought occurs to me. “Grogan, about Skelly—was that you, too?”

“Nah, that was just nature finding a way. It gave me the idea for Wallace, though.”

I nod and breathe a deep sigh. “Well,” I add, nodding toward the doorway. “I guess this guy had it coming. You hear the way he was bagging on your cooking?” Through the door, we hear a loud thump as Wallace collapses to the floor.

Wallace sleeps most of the morning away, stirring now and again only to slip back into an uneasy slumber. By lunchtime, it’s all over. I find him in a bathroom stall, propped up on a toilet with a network of leafy vines exiting both ends. Too late to turn back now, huh?

Grogan and I drag him to the airlock and release him into space. With horror—and a little fascination—I watch as he disjoins the ship in a lazy tumble. At near light speed, the corpse will reduce to vapor upon collision with even a single speck of dust. I turn away, knowing I’ll never free my mind of that image if I witness it firsthand.

I can’t believe I’ve played a part in the death of another human being. I suppose the circumstances might justify our actions—to some extent, anyway—yet I’m overwhelmed by sadness over what I’ve done. Not remorse, exactly. Just shapeless guilt for breaking the code of life.

I’d like to think I’ll find within myself a previously unknown font of self-preservation, but the truth is that from here on out, everything is out of my control. My fate has been in motion for a long while now. In the background of my waking moments, I’ve heard the telltale clinking of its gears; too bad it’s taken me this long to distinguish it from the noise of circumstances. Even still, I think I’ve known all along how it would end, even if I hoped for something better. I imagine Grogan is thinking something like this, too. If I thought it would help, I’m pretty sure I could take him in an all-out fight, if by no other margin than the depth of my desperation. But at best, that would only delay the inevitable; even if by some miracle I could figure out how to fly his ship, I’d have to land it eventually. And when I did, I have no doubt Gunn would be waiting. Besides, as much as I’m viscerally driven to save my pathetic life, I can’t sacrifice Fiona’s any more than Grogan can.

In a way, I think this situation is even harder on Grogan than me. After all, as much as I feel caught in the middle of a tug of war, Grogan has much more to lose than I do. Because when I leave this life, no one will miss me and my pain will have ended. Grogan, in contrast, has loved ones relying on him—the combined weight of their lives is upon his shoulders, and that’s got to be more of a burden than any man should ever have to bear.

The ship is utterly silent as we dock at the USS. I lie in my bed, trembling. The bandage on my arm is gone; my fingers trace circles around what was a crispy crater, yet I’m too distraught to be amazed. I can’t see much through the window portal from here, but I can just discern the glow of Earth’s atmosphere creeping into the corner of the pane like a peeping Tom. The floor shudders faintly as the ship mates with the Unified Space Station dock, then I feel more than hear a series of clicks as locks engage to solidly couple the two masses together.

Ten minutes pass, and I’m ashamed to admit that I spend them weeping. Grogan knocks gently on the door, which is already ajar, and peeks his head in. I wipe my eyes with my shirtsleeve and take a deep breath.

“It’s time,” he says.

I nod. Shuddering, I get to my feet. My knees wobble like jelly. Grogan approaches and—with unexpected and blessed kindness—takes my arm, gently guiding me from the dorms. Wordlessly, the engineer leads me through the ship to the airlock, which has already pressurized with the USS. I follow him through the hatch, inching toward my death.

Despite my frightful state, I can tell Grogan’s only marginally better off—he stumbles often; his breathing is taxed, rasping with worry and sorrow.

And then, just like that—with no shoe-clopping preamble of gathering dread—there’s Palmer Gunn. I suppose I was more than half-expecting another throng of his meatheads, not the main man. But here he is—and he’s utterly ecstatic at the sight of me.

“Well, well, well. Long time no see, Mr. Abby,” he remarks. He sounds ridiculous, like a bad caricature of some film mobster. “So happy you accepted my invitation,” he adds. Good grief, this guy needs to work on his presence; scary or not, I can’t imagine how he’s managed to get this far, talking like that. If he had a gun in hand, I’d more than half expect him to add, “Say hello to my little friend,” in a thick, Cuban accent. For once, my internal filter catches these remarks before they can slip through to hasten my death.

Grogan squeezes my arm—the closest I’ll get to a goodbye from my friend—and then takes a deep step back. It dawns on Gunn now, for whatever reason, that things aren’t necessarily copacetic, even if his evasive quarry is finally within his grasp.

“Where’s my boys?” he grunts at Grogan.

Grogan shows the palms of his hands, shaking his head pleadingly. “They didn’t make it, Mr. Gunn.”

Palmer Gunn steps toward Grogan and his face darkens like the night itself. “What do you mean,
they didn’t make it
?”

Grogan swallows visibly, but holds his ground. “I’m sorry, sir. They didn’t acclimate well to Mars. Despite my best efforts, neither took our safety protocols seriously.”

Gunn takes a second step toward Grogan, who looks like he might vomit.
I’m right there with you, buddy
. Gunn grabs a fistful of shirt and draws Grogan in until only centimeters span the gap between them. “You kill my boys, kid?”

For a brief moment, it occurs to me that even if he’s armed, Grogan and I might stand a chance against this guy—he’s alone here, after all. But against all logic, he instills something that surpasses fear, something that seems to psychologically eliminate any possibility of ever prevailing against him.

One moment, I’m thinking,
He doesn’t look that big
. The next? If I had a loaded gun in my hand, I’m fairly certain I’d hand it over without a fight.

“No! Of course not,” Grogan yelps.

Gunn drills him with his eyes and then lowers his voice to a guttural whisper. “If I find out different, things are gonna get really messy for you, got me?”

Grogan nods, eyes bugged like his head is in a vice. Abruptly, Gunn releases my friend, who stumbles back and to the floor, and diverts his attention to me. “He tellin’ the truth?” he demands.

I suppose he has good reason to think I’d betray Grogan—after all, the man has betrayed me—but Gunn has miscalculated. “Yeah, he is. They both died from exposure to one of our research specimens,” I say. Grogan swallows and looks at the floor, nostrils flaring. “Truth is,” I add, “I was ready to make a run for it. But this crank dragged me in, even after those other guys died.”

Gunn looks at me with eyes like needles, probing deeply into me as if to unearth a hint of deception. But he finds none because, though I’m a terrible liar, I’m telling the truth—if stretching it a bit. Gunn seems satisfied. With lightning efficiency, he fastens an iron grip on my upper arm.

“Time to go home, Wilson.”