“It’s not right,” and that sounded right. “It’s not true,” and I guess that sounded true too. “It’s not what we used to do, and you better than anyone else ought to have known.”
And that was right too and he slammed the door and I hated the sound and winced and caught myself with my fingers in my palms and pressed harder. I couldn’t think of anything and sat down on the gnarled cot. Nothing to do but try. Skin on palm, palm in hand, hand and head, nothing.
Easy to stare at my shoes and think about staring at my shoes.
The crack/crunch breaking ice cracks into the walls. We’re still moving, despite my best efforts. I can feel it in the sway. We’re still going strong.
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Four walls and a door and a cot rot after a while. I can’t put my finger on it. They got me in broad daylight (for as light as it gets out here), caught me red handed, confiscated my tools, grilled me, tossed pitched and caught me in the brig. I know how they feel, but when I know I’ve done wrong, and considering the “wrong” I’ve done, it’s hard not to feel like their commitment to cruelty’s the only motor. They could stop now, come back and tell me what I know: I’m right; I did nothing wrong; they’re very sorry to have mishandled me so close to my birthday and after I’ve been sick for three months of the year.
I’m easy to forgive.
The ice keeps crunching. Everyday. Every minute. And it closes behind us only a little ways off the horizon (when we’re moving this quickly).
I can’t pick my head up from my hands. Shivers. I don’t have anywhere to pee.
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“Look, that’s not how I meant it,” which was true. Harder to think about syntax, parallelisms, idioms, etc. “And you know that. I said it before, at launch, I said Oh, I don’t know, I reckon if something comes crawling out from a fissure or a geyser we ought to haul it up and call it off and get back up and figure something else out and I think that’s pretty clear, no? So–”
“Four years ago.”
“–I can’t imagine what else you’ll find me guilty of.” And I couldn’t. Cold in the bones, eyes fixed on the nothing between me and whatever they’re aimed at. Bad spot. Bad spot. “I can’t imagine.”
“You never called home. You never mailed anything. You didn’t talk to anyone for five months and nearly died for three of those. You could’ve gone back and you wouldn’t.” And that was a really nasty thing to say and showed me he’d never get it. “I don’t get it, Chark. I can’t figure it out.”
And what’s there to say after something like that? I look. I look and I look and I look and I look and I can’t narrow the slit or the margin or cut it off or cast off or crack my jaw or crack my head clean off and cast it off on the ice and shatter when the ship rams me by. I can’t crack it off.
The whole crew’s here.
“You worked hard. We’re the only ones here. You’ve got five minutes, and I’m not asking again.” Fiber crammed into skin, I realize, never felt so uncomfortable unless you don’t know how long it’ll be there or unless you do but don’t know how long that’ll take. I still find the tie down so unnecessary. That’s all I can think.
“I can’t explain,” and that was true. He was right. I knew what we meant to get into and I knew what it meant to terraform an icy ocean world into a, I don’t know, “tropical / commercial” ocean world and I know a biologist knows what signing up for that means and I did. I did. He could’ve told me that but he didn’t he doesn’t give me a break and he won’t and he can’t or else his power knows I’m right and he’s wrong and then there’s a problem not to play by his rules.
All alone. He’s rolled the thermal curtain over the deck. We’re the only ones here. Can’t see Saturn, can’t see our own ring chasing. It feels like everything’s swimming in the current.
“You know I don’t have a choice. I tried to understand, and you wouldn’t even give me a crumb.” I guess that’s true. “Not even a crumb, Chark. I mean, come on.” And the bruisers cut me loose and hold me down so they could re-fasten the rope against my hands without the chair this time and lead me over to the gunwale (covered in curtain, surely to open soon) and you can’t hear boots too well over cracking ice and I could hear enough and I could hear enough enough.
“By the power vested in me by The United Outlands Colonialization Company, their charter of first contact, and the precedent set by the mariners at the touchdown on Ceres, I declare you unfit for duty, in opposition against the mission of our project, openly rebellious against crew and captain, guilty of subversion against crew and captain, guilty of attempt at sabotage, a liability to the wellbeing of the effort, and an enemy of the human race. As per the charter of the marooned’s last rights duly set forth by the precedent of the mariners upon touchdown on Ceres, you are granted final words and the final use of your suit to be presented after your final remarks.”
This will be the last time my skin feels skin.
“This is your last chance.”
Or maybe they’ll graze me when they clamp on my gloves and helmet. Maybe they’ll think about it too. Nimmo and Adams. I don’t like either of you.
“Get him suited” and they did and it took no longer or less than usual and the boots felt heavy and the rope felt good to be gone with and I was right they did graze me when I reached for a glove and they zipped me up and clasped my helmet and made sure it was sealed tight so I only had the air in there with me and they taped down the zipper and clamps and made an oyster of me.
“Ellery Aldus Chark, I, Captain Worley, sentence you to be marooned. May we never hear your sorry spirit weep for us again.” And I couldn’t look anywhere but straight, at the heat shield part and the walk ahead and the drop below and the ice, and the ice everywhere freezing across the horizon and the geysers bursting out so high and the liquid whipped under cracks in the sheet beneath us, wider and wider and narrower the further down I looked, the sooner to swallow me whole. No Saturn in the sky. I’ll never see the sun again.
They dropped me down. The horrible fall gut pit burrow hollow in my gut. I can float and I can panic and sink and I bob up and down and hear the ice crash visor shake heat shielding give so quickly against the coldest thing it’s known this casket safety makes for me. Cracking. This horrible cracking and the wake of the icebreaker cracks coasting cooking solid ice by doesn’t friction make heat of contact? I think it does. Ship’s long gone. My suit will not bend back to show me the stars in the sky it is only the white ice endlessly far away and the whipping black waves colliding into my body I can’t do anything I can’t help but sink and I do I sink the small light on my helmet giving me nothing giving me nothing at all. The fish was so small I saw it squirm in the air, tossed by the prow and squirm on the ice and squirm and cry and call its fish gasp grasping til it couldn’t anymore. Maybe I’ll see one pass me one more time, maybe a better look, maybe contact, maybe contact, maybe
