“Seems like it.”
We sit in silence for a while then. It’s strange—in a way, this all almost comes as a relief. Ever since I walked into our room to find Eight in my bed covered in tank goo, I’ve had this knot of visceral dread hanging around in my stomach. I knew we wouldn’t be able to keep this a secret forever, and I was terrified of what would happen when it came out. Now that it has, and I know more or less what’s going to happen and when, I actually feel a little calmer. In fact, I’m almost dozing when Eight speaks again.
“He said he might not pull Nine out of the tank. You don’t think he’d do that, do you? I mean, the colony needs an Expendable.”
I open my eyes, and turn my head to look at him. “Did it look like Marshall cares?”
He starts to reply, hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. I guess not.”
I close my eyes again. “Here’s a better question: Does it matter?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I sigh, sit up, and turn to face him. “You’re not me, Eight. Isn’t that obvious?”
He stares at me for a long five seconds before saying, “What’s your point?”
“My point is that all that stuff Jemma crammed into our head back on Himmel Station—all the bits about immortality, anyway—that was all bullshit. This is it. The past six weeks are the only life I get, and the last few days are the only life you get. We’re fucking mayflies, and when Marshall shoves us down the corpse hole, that’s it for us. I don’t care if he pulls Nine out of the tank or not, because even if he does, Nine won’t be me. He’ll just be some other guy who sleeps in my bed and eats my rations and gets his hands all over my stuff.”
Eight shakes his head. “No. I don’t buy it. Remember that Ship of Theseus thing? Remember Kant? If he thinks he’s me, and everyone around him thinks he’s me, and there’s no way to prove that he’s not me, then he’s me. This stuff you’re doing right now? This is exactly why they don’t allow multiples.”
I roll my eyes. “They don’t allow multiples because Alan Manikova tried to take over the universe.”
“Whatever.”
He slouches down on the bench then, folds his arms across his chest, and closes his eyes.
Time passes. I doze and wake, doze and wake. Eight stays upright on the bench, eyes half-open mostly, hands folded in his lap. It occurs to me at one point that I’m sleeping away my last hours of existence, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Eventually, the lock disengages with a snick, and the door swings open. A goon named Garrison steps inside. He’s short and skinny and not carrying a burner, and for one stupid second I think about jumping him, overpowering him, busting out, and running.
Running where, though? Idiot.
“Hey,” he says. “Which one of you is Seven?”
I glance over at Eight. He shrugs. I groan, sit up, and raise one hand.
“Great,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I stand. Eight gives me a half smile. “See you on the other side, brother.”
“Yeah,” I say. We both know that the other side for us is somebody’s mug of slurry, but at least it seems like he’s forgiven me for pricking his immortality bubble. Garrison steps back and gestures down the corridor. I follow him out.
The cycler is on the bottom level, at the center of the dome. It quickly becomes obvious that’s not where we’re going. By the time we get to Marshall’s office, I’ve started to wonder whether I might live another few hours after all.
It only occurs to me as Garrison is knocking on his door that maybe Marshall just wants to shoot me himself.
“Come,” Marshall says. The door swings open, and Garrison waves me in. I step past him. The door closes behind me.
“Sit,” Marshall says.
I shake my head. “I think I’d rather stand.”
He sighs, lets his bloodshot eyes sag closed in a long blink, then opens them again. “Suit yourself, Barnes.”
He leans back in his chair, drops his hands into his lap, and looks up at me. “I’ve been talking to Gomez. I need you to tell me what you know about those things out there.”
“Things, sir? You mean the creepers?”
“Yes. In his initial report regarding your presumed loss, Gomez said that you’d been killed by them. In his amended report subsequent to our interview three days ago, he said that you were killed in a fall. An hour ago, he amended that explanation further to state that you did in fact fall through the ice into some sort of tunnel or cave system, but that you were still alive and conscious when he left you there. He estimated that you may have been as much as a hundred meters below the surface. He thought you’d died there, but clearly you managed to find your way back out, didn’t you?”
I nod. “That’s what caused this mess, sir. Berto reported me lost, and by the time I made it back to the dome, Eight was already out of the tank.”
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “I don’t care about that right now, Barnes. I care about these tunnels. They shouldn’t be there. Our orbital surveys indicated that this entire area was completely geologically stable. No volcanism, no fault lines, no mountains, no soft rock. There’s nothing here that would explain an extensive cave system.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I thought the same thing.”
“Right. What was your impression when you were down there? Did it appear to be a natural geologic formation? Was there anything about what you saw that seemed artificial?”
I hesitate. How much to tell? How would Marshall react to knowing that there are creepers down there big enough to tear straight through the wall of the dome if they wanted to?
I don’t have to wonder about that, actually. I know how he’d react. He’d kill them all, if he could think of a way to do it.
Marshall controls the output of a starship engine.
He could definitely think of a way to do it.
I wonder if someone on Roanoke had similar thoughts at some point.
“The tunnels did not appear natural to me, sir. They appeared to be deliberately structured.”
His eyebrows come together over the bridge of his nose. “I see. And when, exactly, were you planning on mentioning this to someone?”
I don’t respond. He obviously knows the answer. After an awkward five seconds, he waves the question off.
“Fine. I suppose I understand your hesitance to come forward, given your circumstances. Did you see anything alive down there?”
And this is the moment of truth, isn’t it? I think about the giant creeper pushing me up that tunnel, setting me free in the garden. I think about the visions I’ve been having, about the caterpillar’s Cheshire grin.
I think about Dugan, being pulled under the snow.
I think about Roanoke.
I close my eyes and breathe in, breathe out.
I tell him everything.
021
EIGHT’S HEAD SNAPS up when the door swings open. His jaw sags when he sees it’s me.
“Hey,” I say. “Did you miss me?”
Garrison locks us in again. I sit down on the bed.