Chapter Eleven

"She was wet."

"How wet?"

"It was making a fucking puddle on the floor."

"An' you never touched her?"

"Not down there. It's all in the motion. It's like a flick of the wrist. Down the side and right 'round the tit."

McCormick leans back, raising the bottle and swigging loudly. "Sheeit," he drawls, recrossing his boots on top of the heater.

James passes a hand over his face, blinking wearily. This is the third of Rogers's stories they've had to endure, and it shows no signs of being the last.

Andre having gone to his bunk and Jocelyn Tyler not due to arrive with the mech for another six hours, the remaining men had clustered in the supply tent around a space heater and a box of beer, courtesy of Rogers. The conversation had turned to sex soon enough, of course, and then to Rogers's own, probably imaginary, sexual exploits. James has been lucky so far in staying out of it, but he has the feeling that it won't last.

McCormick sighs, staring into the glowing orange filament of the heater. "I'll tell ye, lads, it's the worst part of the mining life. It's lonely work we do here, and the touch of a woman is a precious gift, seldom felt."

"That was fucking poetic," says Rogers, raising his bottle solemnly. "But in your case, Keith, I doubt it makes a difference."

McCormick stares at him for a moment, then both men burst out laughing. James watches with a half-smile, shaking his head as the older man splutters and wipes at his beard. "Oh, that were a good one," he says, regaining his breath. "Right good." His eyes roam the assembled faces, settling on young Anderson. "What about you, pup?" he asks, the alcohol making his voice a little louder than is polite. "Have you got any stories, eh? Anybody but yerself and yer mammy ever get a look at that stick of a body?"

Rogers snickers, and Anderson seems to bristle. "Yes," he says, glaring at the older men.

McCormick waves him on, resettling himself in his seat. "Go on then, regale us, lad!"

"Erm," says Anderson.

James slumps down a little more, hiding his nose inside the neck ring of his suit and closing his eyes. The inside of his suit is pleasantly warm, and the heater is chasing the chill from his toes.

"Oh, you're too young to have done anything good," says Rogers. "What about you, what's-your-name?"

"Nah," says McCormick. "I doubt it. Fifty credits says me boy James is savin' hisself for marriage. That right, James? You got yerself a girl back on some station somewhere?"

Rogers snorts. "Like Briggs. With his bitch back on Earth. Earth. He's never going back there. He's fooling himself. Ten years from now he'll be doing a shit job in some shit colony fixing computers, not retired and fat on Earth."

"Maybe," grunts McCormick. "Still, I admire the dedication. Could never do it m'self. Too many fine girlies, too little time. "How 'bout you, Zael? Got a future wife waitin' on ye back at th' flotilla?"

"No," mumbles Zael, so quietly that James can barely hear him.

"What? Speak up lad, I'm goin' deaf in me left ear."

"No," says Zael more loudly.

"Ah, why not?" says McCormick. "There are some lovely quarian women. So sensitive under those suits. I hear it's like taking a virgin, every time."

"Maybe he doesn't like women," sneers Rogers. "What's the matter, quarian, you like men, huh? How long have you been staring at my ass?"

James opens one eye, smiling at the thought of it. "I don't think anyone's lining up to look at your ass, Rogers."

McCormick hoots with laughter and Rogers turns bright red. "You some kind of expert, then? You and the quarian were probably getting real friendly up on the roof. I bet the second I left he was down on his knees."

"Shut up!" shouts Zael, much too loudly.

The tent is suddenly silent. Everybody is staring at the quarian. James blinks. Where did that come from?

Zael stands up abruptly. "I'm going to my bunk," he says. Four pairs of eyes follow him out of the tent.

"Well, shit," says McCormick, breaking the awkward silence. "You two weren't really sucking each-other off up there, right?" He laughs uneasily.

James raises an eyebrow, forcing humor into his voice. "If we did it must have been pretty disappointing. Or so great that I forgot it ever happened."

Rogers scowls at him. "Fucking disgusting," he mutters.

McCormick throws back his head and laughs heartily, taking another swig of beer. "Oh, I like you, James. We're gonna get along fine. Just fine. Just, ah, see if you can get Zael to calm down a bit. He's twitchy enough as it is. I don't need him dropping a crate of explosives or cutting his arm off."

James nods, sinking deeper into the warmth of his suit. "Will do." He rubs his nose against the fabric liner, wishing he had more than just his own body heat and the electric coil to keep him warm.

…

Blood. The scent of it fills his nose, tangy and bittersweet, and he can taste it in his mouth. Keelah, he can taste it …

The wind is howling, howling in his ears and he can't tell if it's all the wind or if there are voices. He hears voices, too. … They speak without language, with feeling only. Rage and fury and loss, a terrible feeling of loss. They are screaming in him, bursting from the surface. He tries to move but he is trapped. Blood trickles from jaws that are not his own, should not be his own, but are. It falls to the snow, staining it red, and he is in a field of red, nothing but crimson snow all around him. His eyes refocus and he sees tracks.

He follows them, powerless to stop his own legs. There are two sets, one small and close together and another large, irregular and loping. He doesn't make a sound, coming closer and closer to the source of the tracks as the feeling of horrible loss and terror in his gut intensifies.

He comes over the top of a low hill and sees the place where the tracks end. A man lies there in the snow, his body twisted and his clothing torn, one hand raised as he tries feebly to push himself back through the crimson snow.

He has reached the end of the tracks now, and he looks down and sees that the large, fearsome pair is his own. He turns his eyes to the man and brown eyes look back up at him, holding no recognition, only fear.

The blood in his mouth and on his awful, clawed hands belongs to this man. He is still trying to crawl away. He collapses suddenly, unable to push himself any further. His eyes turn to the distance, searching pleadingly. "Kal …" says the man, and his voice wavers. "Help me, Kal …"

"James," he tries to say, but his mouth is the wrong shape and all that comes out is a growl. He coughs, choking as blood fills his mouth and falls to the scarlet snow below.

"Kal," says James once more, then his head falls and he is still. Blood seeps from countless gashes on his body, and where it touches the snow it turns it a bright and brilliant white.

Kal tries to move but he cannot. He tries to scream and the blood fills his throat, acrid and suffocating and he raises his claws to his face, tearing at the black fur and thick skin but he feels no pain, draws no blood. The wind and the voices howl in his ears and he tears at them too, but the sound doesn't go away, only gets louder and louder and louder and –

Kal wakes. Within his suit he is drenched in sweat. His suit's climatization systems whirr, whisking the moisture from his skin and cleansing his pores, but Kal pays no attention to the tingling. He locks his arms around his knees, squeezing so tightly his muscles ache. In his mind the dream plays again and again. Red snow, blood, and James laying there dying, looking up at him with fear. …

No, not a dream. A vision. Kal pulls in a breath, shaking so hard that he can barely take in enough air. I saw it, I felt it. It was real. He grips his helmet in both hands, spreading his fingers across the glass faceplate. I killed him. I killed him. I killed him. Kal tightens his grip, half-hoping that the beast will take him now and give him the strength to crush the glass. That fire is nowhere to be found though, and Kal realizes bitterly that even if he could shatter his mask, the same curse that gave him the beast's strength would ensure he survived the alien contagions in the air.

…

The sky burns. James tilts his helmeted head back, staring up at a dome of shifting blacks and dark greys. Where the smoke parts angry reds and oranges glare through, belching showers of sparks and tongues of flame through the gaps. It's like someone switched heaven and hell, thinks James. I wonder when this will clear up. I wonder if it will. A hazy, far-away history lesson drifts back to him, the details not quite cementing themselves. "Hey, Anderson," he says, switching over to a private channel.

"Huh?" Anderson grunts, kicking at a rock.

"You any good at Earth history?"

"Yeah."

"You remember the, uh, the something-war. World-war-something. The last big one."

"World war two?

James furrows his brow. "Is that the one with Russia?"

Anderson sighs, exasperated. "They all had Russia. What's your question, James?"

"Well, you remember when the nuke hit the United States?"

Anderson chuckles. "That was a long time after world war two."

James waves a hand at him. "Okay, whatever. The point is, how long did it take to clean up? How long until the fires went out and everything?"

Anderson shrugs. "The fires went out as soon as the fuel was gone. The bomb really fucked everything up though, radiation and all that. They just walled off that whole city and left it alone. It's probably still dangerous."

"What?" James's eyebrows scrunch up further. "Why didn't anyone clean it up? Why just leave a giant hole in your country?"

Anderson sighs again, obviously bored by the conversation. "How should I know? There are a lot of places like that on Earth. There's a city in Russia where a reactor blew up and ruined the whole city. A lot of the desert between Europe and Asia is full of destroyed, radioactive cities. Japan, too, where the first atomic bombs hit. They don't exactly tell you on the travel brochure, but the planet's got some scars."

James looks back up at the sky. It scowls down at him, firelight flashing across the oily smoke. "Well, I wouldn't leave it like that if it were up to me," he says, but Anderson has already shut off his commlink.

"Come on, lads," says McCormick, bouncing up to James and Anderson and clapping them on the backs. "Let's get moving. The carts are ready and the mech is landing in few minutes. Got your drills?"

James pats the tool locked to the back of his suit.

"Good lad," says McCormick. "Now follow my, botha ye. We're goin' in ahead of the mech t' scout out a vein. I'll show you how to use the drill, too, so we can jump right in once the tunnel is ready. Come on!"

James follows McCormick to the jagged wall of the crater. The older man runs his glove along the rock, pacing slowly around the uneven surface. His visor tilts up and down, inspecting the blackened stone carefully. "Sometimes ye can see it, right on th' surface," he mutters, leaning closer to the crater wall. "Ah!" he exclaims suddenly, brushing at the rock with his glove. He wipes away a layer of soot and underneath a few flecks of silvery blue sparkle amidst the brown and grey.

"Here's our money, lads," calls McCormick gleefully. He activates his omni-tool, waving it over the specks. "Bingo! It's a nice, deep one!" He beckons to James and Anderson. "Come on, the real work'll be done by the blast team, but we can get an early start, eh?"

James unclamps the mining tool from its harness on his back, holding it awkwardly. He watches as McCormick does the same with much more speed and finesse. "You'll use the laser to carve out a trench around yer rocks," he says, flicking a switch and adjusting the beam with a small knob hidden on the side of the tool. "Then use the drill to carve 'em out gently. They're not too hard, so be careful! Eezo dust is valuable, but not nearly as much as th' whole stones."

Watching McCormick carefully, James sets his tool to the vein and begins carving into the rock. It's difficult work, and several times the drill bites too deep and nearly pulls itself out of James's hands. Eventually he begins to get the hang of it, and after a few minutes of hacking he's produced two small, jagged, blue pebbles.

McCormick gives him a thumbs-up. "Well done, lads. You've got one too, Anderson? Splendid! They're yours to keep, boys. But don't let us catch you pocketing any more, or it's out the airlock with you!"

James looks at the stones in his hand. They glow a dull blue, barely casting a shadow on the inside of his glove. He slips them into his suit pocket uneasily, somehow feeling as if he's doing something wrong. James looks up at the angry sky, then down at the blackened ground, then at McCormick's turned back. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the two rocks, and throws them as far as he can. They land at the other end of the crater, raising a small puff of ash.

…

The day passes slowly. There is little for James to do, even after Tyler arrives with the mech and the blast team starts their work. He watches interestedly at first as the team drills shaped charges into the edge of the crater and blows out a huge chunk of the rock wall, but eventually as the sounds of the blasting grow more muffled and distant he turns away, returning to his cot and trying to gain a few more hours of sleep. Sleep doesn't come, and instead he tosses listlessly, looking up at the ceiling of the shelter and running his hands through his shaggy hair until it's a giant tangled nest. He remembers how Kal would run his three-fingered hands through it, grinning at the sensation, and how it would make him laugh like a child.

He swings his feet off of the cot, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Peeking out between his fingers he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored surface of his helmet. In the strange artificial light his features look harsh and haggard. The shadow of stubble covers the sides of his face, and the skin under his eyes is dark and lined. He stares at himself, dismayed and empty-feeling. How old am I? Can I really just be in my twenties?

"James?"

James looks up, pulling his eyes away from the helmet visor to look into another, differently shaped one. He shuts his eyes wearily, opening them again and trying to smile. The poor bastard needs to know he has at least one friend. "Hi, Zael," he says, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.

"Hi James," says the quarian. He shifts from one foot to the other, staying in the doorway between the storage room and the barracks.

James drops his hands, letting out a breath and shaking his head, amused despite himself. "Can I help you, Zael?"

"Yes!" says Zael. "Well, maybe. I mean, I hope so!" He takes one hand out from behind his back. In it is a small black box. "It's the haptic modulator from my omni-tool."

"Yes, I see that," says James, smiling at the quarian's strangeness.

"It's not working," Zael elaborates, "And since you're so good with computers I thought you could, ah, you might be able to look at it. To fix it, I mean. Could you?"

"I'll take a look," says James, holding out a hand. Zael passes him the box and drops down on the cot next to James.

"Thanks," says the quarian, leaning in over James's shoulder. "I can't figure out what's wrong with it, but I knew you could."

"Okay," says James, activating his omni-tool and using it to twist the tiny magnetic bolts that hold Zael's box together. He pries up the lid, peering inside and pushing the wires around with his finger. "Uh, are you sure you don't know what's wrong with it?"

"Positive," says Zael, leaning in closer. "Why? Did you figure it out?"

James gives the quarian a careful look. "Well, it's just that the sensor wires are plugged in the wrong way round." He turns back to the modulator. "Somebody would have had to open it up and switch them around."

Next to him Zael gives a little high-pitched laugh. "Oh, ha-ha, I wonder how that happened. Maybe I accidentally did it to myself."

James gives him another look. He is beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable. "Uh, well, I'll just switch them back, and then you're good to go."

"Thank you so much," says Zael. "How did you get to be so good at this kind of thing, anyway?"

"Um, don't mention it …" says James, screwing the modulator back together. "It just comes naturally, I guess. …"

"My dad taught me a lot about tech when I was growing up back on the flotilla," supplies Zael. "Did your parents do a lot of computer work?"

"I didn't have parents," says James. "My brother was my only family when I was growing up."

"Oh," says Zael, subdued for a moment. Then he rallies, inching closer on the cot. "What about now? Was McCormick right, do you … have a wife?"

James hands the modulator back to the quarian, wondering why he's suddenly so eager to be somewhere else. "Well, no," he says, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling. "I don't really go for women that way, to be honest."

"Oh," says Zael, and the delight in his voice sets off alarm bells in James's head. "Well that's alright. I won't tell anyone, I'll keep it between us." James feels the quarian's shoulder very carefully accidentally brush against his.

Oh, shit, thinks James, suddenly horrified at what he may have done. "No, no," he says, backpedaling frantically. "I-"

"It's diggin' time, boyos!" Preceded by his thunderous voice and the tramping of his boots, McCormick comes stomping into the room. "Come on, enough beauty sleep. Grab yer helmet, James, it's off te work with us!"

"Thanks again for the help," says Zael, touching James's arm and holding the contact a second too long. He follows McCormick out of the tent.

God damn it, thinks James, picking up his helmet.