Liu and Krüger don't emerge until after lunchtime, and then only because Liu makes them come get food. Krüger barely eats, then refills his coffee mug and fiddles with his fork until Kwon takes it with the excuse of washing. His hand migrates towards the salt shaker instead. I clear the table. He drums his fingers on its edge.
When Liu finishes, they both dump their dishes in the sink and groan when I point them back to wash them. You'd think I was chaperoning a pair of teenagers. To their credit, they at least do a thorough job before entirely ignoring the to-do list on the fridge and heading back to the mess of charts, devices, Isoptera bits, pens, and notebooks spreading slowly across the lab like a renegade slime mold. I head for the gym instead.
Running has always helped me keep on top of my emotions. Whether it was a predawn beach in the Middle East or the coastal ice of Antarctica, whenever we were camped near some long, flat space, my Aventureros team knew where to find me when I needed to get things off my chest. Or just when I needed time alone. I run both hands down my face as the rubber tread whines through its endless loop beneath me. I keep half-wondering where Yahvi is, wanting to consult on our next move. Even after nine years of solitude, returning to what's basically my Aventureros job alone leaves a gaping hole beside me where my teammate should be.
If we were back on earth together, Yahvi would give me an hour here and then come to talk. We'd camp out in our tent, along a riverbank, or hell, up a tree if that's what it took to get privacy, and scheme out our approach for the problems we were facing. Something about the discovery in the field today has left me feeling acutely vulnerable, and for the first time, a different thought creeps in.
We're still in communications range. If I sent her a voice message tonight, it would reach her by tomorrow. Assuming she's in the solar system right now.
The reality of the prospect hits me like a fist. I stop the treadmill and step off, fighting the urge to double over as nausea makes my stomach churn. Who am I kidding? Reconnecting after nine years just because I've got something I want from her? After letting myself fall to a rival research team? Yahvi wanted to study Mahaha. After Jenu, at least. She brought it up in an interview the same day Jenu was declared a planetary consciousness suspect, and she's been fighting to get access to Jenu's tunnels ever since. Even now that planetary consciousness has gained a foothold in academic halls, Zuri could still breeze ahead and do what the theory's own progenitor could only hope to, years down the line.
My hand stills on the treadmill's handle. Planetary consciousness. Mahaha's ice—and Jenu's dust storms—move like they're alive. It's a stupid thought, one a scientist would never have, but I'm not a scientist. I never have been. That's Yahvi's academic background.
There's no allowance in the theory for control of things on a conscious planet's surface. I don't see how it would work, either. Planetary "thought" patterns sent through networks of vegetation may change the growth of those plants, but that's the extent of it. And yet there's a persistent, irrational kind of sense in the idea of planet-scale phenomena under the control of an equally large mind.
Would consciousness imply sentience? I don't see why it wouldn't. Could a conscious planet get angry? Scared? Feel pain? If earth was conscious, did she live out her last days aware of the human activity eating like acid through her living systems? The thought makes me shudder. But more thoughts take its place. Jenu's storms assaulted its largest city. Mahaha has wrecked our probes. Krüger said there's no living network here, but what if there is? Buried, like Jenu's tunnels, only deeper below the ground?
What if Mahaha's similarities to Jenu mean they're both conscious—and that the former really does attack of its own free will?
I'm freaking myself out. I abandon the gym and make for the station greenhouse, desperate for anything to help me battle the rising tide of anxiety. I hate being trapped. I've managed well enough as a pilot: at the front of a spacecraft, at least know you're going somewhere. But being here has reminded me just how much I miss the tangible work we did back on earth.
There's nothing to water or dig up in the greenhouse, so I grab a bucket and rag instead and wipe down every surface that looks slightly less than clean. Then I wipe those that look clean already. The water isn't dirty yet, so I turn to the common room next. It's on Liu's cleaning list, but I want her to stay occupied with what she's doing now. I can't get any handle on what to do next until we know more about Mahaha.
I don't know what to do. I don't want to be alone in charge here anymore.
There's a vicious knot in my throat now. I need to stop thinking about Yahvi.
I'll never forgive myself for the way I screamed at her after the Philippines. She didn't realize how deeply it hurt me, or maybe she saw but didn't think I deserved it. I broke off contact. She tried to maintain it. I pretend I want her to move on, but the possibility works its way to the softest parts of my walled-up feelings and threatens to topple the wall. I start to panic at the thought. Of her with another teammate, another partner in crime, starting a new life while I flounder around here in increasing doubt about what the hell I'm doing. I don't want to be a pilot forever, but I don't know where else to go. I've got nobody out here.
I've made sure of that.
I reach the last corner and stare down at the rag in my hand. I'm suddenly possessed by an urge to throw it as hard as I can; to whip it at the wall and watch it splatter. I drop it in the bucket instead and finish with the common room. I've started for the storage closet when Kwon intercepts me. She makes me wash my hands, then drops a cutting board, a knife, and a pile of potatoes in front of me. We've worked together enough times for her to know what I'm like. She keeps me busy until supper is basically ready. Neither of us says a word, and I'm grateful.
Liu and Krüger grab supper and return to the lab with it. Normally I'd make a fuss about food anywhere else in the Pod, but Kwon drops a full bowl in my hands and pushes me out of the kitchen. I'll just make today an exception, then. I don't want to stay at the table, either.
The scientists don't even notice as I slip through the lab to the greenhouse stairs. I have the place to myself, and the clamor of life downstairs fades as I return to the muffling embrace of our little upstairs jungle. I navigate to the middle of it and sit on the floor, leaning back against an unopened bag of vermiculite. I tip my gaze to the sky. It's the middle of the evening, but the brilliance of Mahaha's dusk is sliced off at the edge by the great crescent shadow of Qalupalik, creeping slowly across the sky. We'll be out of sunlight's range by nightfall.
The start of the ecliptic cycle is my one small joy here in the Pod. As darkness marches in sideways like an advancing storm front, Mahaha's clouds turn bright shades of coral and gold, streaked with deep bloodred. It takes several hours for the ecliptic shadow and advancing night to draw their curtains across the sky. I look up at the sound of Kwon's footsteps on the stairs. She sets a bowl at the top and retreats. She's made nurungji with the leftover rice from supper. I return to my spot and nibble the crunchy, sugar-dusted rice crusts as darkness chases the sky's light to a single corner of the horizon, then extinguishes it.
The six-day darkness that lies before us is not absolute. Light reflecting off Qalupalik's rings and refracting around its great bulk lends a faint glow to Mahaha's "daytime" sky at the head and tail ends of the ecliptic cycle, but it's not enough for any outdoor activity away from the Pod. It's my reprieve from the incessant pressure to allow field missions.
It's more than that now. My thoughts from earlier have taken root in my mind as if I already have proof of them. I don't. But instinct won't leave the possibility alone. The wind dies during the ecliptic cycle, though Mahaha's surface keeps moving. I feel safer when it's quiet outside. Am I picking up on something with that, or is it my mind turning circles, searching for safety on a moon that has none? I would float my thoughts to the scientists, but there's no scientific reason for them, and instinct doesn't count.
I used to trust my instincts, but I don't know if I can anymore.
When I'm done eating, I reluctantly haul myself to my feet and follow the soft glow of the floor's guidelights to the brighter glow from downstairs. Liu and Krüger have moved to Krüger's room, cozier seating than the unforgiving lab stools.
I find Kwon in her workshop. She looks up when I lean in the doorway. I can't miss the tinge of worry that creeps into her smile when she sees it's me. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," I say, truthfully. Well, mostly truthfully. "Thank you."
"If you ever need a break, let me know. I can cover for you down here."
It's not the first time she's made the offer. And I do need a break. But we're also facing off to a hostile moon that springs secrets on us like jack-in-the-boxes, and I can't be caught with my guard down. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
I think she sees through the lie. I turn before she can call me out on it. "I'm going to bed. If you're still up at eleven and those two are, too, you can knock on their door if you feel like it. 'Night."
I hear her sigh as I leave and close the door behind me.