Current

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I read the line for the fourth time on the way up expecting to find some hidden meaning, but all I could get out of it were flashes of an old time movie about a space monster with acid in its veins. That’s probably why I expected something much more gruesome when I entered Carl Downing’s quarters; blood soaked bedsheets; furniture smashed to splinters; a hole in the wall; something. Instead, I found order. Nearly every item in it’s place, neat and tidy. If not for that sentence scralled on the wall in what appeared to be mint flavored toothpaste, you’d never know anything was amiss. That and the fact that no one had seen Carl Downing in more than six standard days, a long time for anyone to go unseen anywhere, let alone on the Venture.

When I took this post, I figured the worst of it would be dust-ups between co-workers who had spent too much time, too close together. I never thought I’d be dealing with a missing person. How do you lose a person on a ship in outer space? Even with a ship as big as the Venture it would take real talent to make someone go bye-bye. You’d have to be certifiable to hide yourself. Living space is at a premium in outer space. Finding a hiding spot, well that’d be damn near impossible. And why bother? If you needed alone time you could just shut yourself up in your quarters and bask in the nothingness. I imagine that’s how Carl went six whole days unnoticed. But where the hell was he?

Enemies. No matter where you live in the world, or off of it, there’s always at least one person who can’t stand the look of you. No person is loved universally, anyone who appears to be is probably hated more than most. There were definitely people who didn’t like Carl, he had enemies, I just hadn’t found them yet. Even when I did find them, an enemy isn’t necessarily a killer. There was nothing here to indicate that Carl was actually dead, he was just gone.

After a quick sweep of the living space I took a headcount. An officer from the bridge, looking more than a little annoyed that he was pulled away from whatever button he’s in charge of pushing next to the captain, stood blocking the passage between the quarters and the corridor. A slob of a man hunched over Carl’s open refrigerator door making a mental list of items he wanted to nick if Carl didn’t turn up. His name turned out to be Roger Weathers, he was Carl’s supervisor at the farm. Jovie sat near the kitchette, an already cold cup of coffee between both hands. Her legs were crossed under the chair. She bounced them nervously, not out of guilt at being caught, over concern for a friend. Possibly someone more than a friend.

There was information to be gained from these people to be sure, but nothing that couldn’t wait. Right now I needed the room and these bodies were just in the way. I walked up to the officer, the stitching on his left breast pocket read Ensign Fitzsimmons. I told him I’d appreciate some privacy. Before I could explain further he called out, “Clear quarters.” I watched Weathers, Carl’s reluctant supervisor, close the fridge door and shuffle slowly out to the corridor. Jovie looked at me and then at Fitzsimmons to better understand if she was included in that order. Turns out she was. She figured it out after a beat, collected her coffee, and cooly left the room; probably more than a little insulted that I hadn’t bothered asking her a single question. Her time would come.

I followed the ensign out into the corridor and asked him to collect the necessary information from Mr. Roger Weathers and Ms. Jovie St. Claire. I’d be in touch. Don’t go running off anywhere and so forth.

Finally, Carl Downing’s apartment was empty. I flipped a switch next to the door, shutting myself into the space. A room populated is different from one that’s empty. When people are around they become the focus. Rooms lose their personality to the overpowering presence of life, but when you’re alone details that would otherwise be camouflage suddenly become striking.

This would probably be my only opportunity to learn about who Carl really was before the machinery of the Venture took over. Carl’s personal items would be moved to storage, any food left after scavengers, like Weathers, raided would be distributed among those with the lowest remaining rations, and this apartment would be scrubbed top-to-bottom and offered to the next person on the Lists. There’s never enough room.

The first think I noticed was that Carl’s apartment was quiet, lacking even the hum that generally accompanies the small refrigeration cubes in the kitchenette. My personal fridge hummed, knocked, and shuddered. Carl was either lucky or, perhaps, he had a nack for mechanics on top of a green thumb, a not unusual trait for someone employed at the farm.

Carl’s tablet sat next to a chair in the common space that made up his bedroom, office, and dining area. Unlocking the device would be next to impossible without Carl being physically present. I would have preferred not finding it at all. Everyone aboard had a tablet and relied on them for work, entertainment, hobbies, communication, just about everything. It was a huge piece to be left behind. On the one hand, not being able to get into it’s contents would make it difficult to find out what Carl’s been up to; on the other, it indicated that Carl’s disappearance hadn’t been planned. You’d have to be a real moron to leave it behind if you were up to no good and if you owned it, its functions were essential to life aboard the ship. So the fact that this little rectangular piece of glass and electric was just sitting here made everything more of a puzzle.

The kitchenette was tucked around a corner along with the washroom. In the apartment next door the layout would be identical but reversed. It was all part of the economy of space.

Like every other square inch of Carl’s apartment, the washroom was spotless. I started to wonder if Carl had ever really been aboard the Venture at all. I slid open the cabinet next to the basin and found a toothbrush with bent bristles, Carl brushed too hard, a comb, and a spot where a tube of mint green toothpaste should be, but wasn’t. This guy had left behind his tablet but had taken his toothpaste.

There were small pieces of Carl to be uncovered all over. A silicone photograph hung on a wall. It appeared to be an illustration of Carl kneeling down in front of a small plant. His fingers thrust into the soil and his face beaming up to the lens of the camera. He was surrounded by three others, Jovie St. Clair, and two men I didn’t recognize. This had been a pretty special moment for Carl. Silicone photos weren’t cheap or easy to get ahold of up here. I peeled it off the wall and slid it into my pocket.

The food that interested his supervisor so much, indicated a man who ate mostly healthy, there were even some fresh vegetables. Contraband from work? I’d have to check that out. The half filled bottle of liquor was proof that a drink every now and again wasn’t out of the question. In the garbage I found mostly empty food containers ready for recycling and the cap of that missing toothpaste tube.

Frustration started to set in. I was getting a picture of this guy, but not much. A little physical evidence, no sign of struggle, no threats, no idea what made Carl get out of bed each morning. I slumped down into the chair beside the tablet and rubbed my eyes. The smell of that mint toothpaste filled my nose.

Then I heard it. Carl’s voice. The sound was muffled, unclear. It wasn’t coming from an electronic speaker though. At first I thought it was coming from a nearby room, or the corridor. This was definitely Carl’s voice, loud, live, and in person, I had listed to recordings and watched video of his work. Whatever he was saying it wasn’t coming from the direction of the adjoining rooms or hall. It came from just beyond a small circular hole a few feet from the chair I was sitting in; a window that looked out from the cozy warmth of Carl’s living quarters aboard the exploritory vessel known as the Venture, into the cold, dark, frighteningly beautiful depths of the unknown. There was urgency in his voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My legs followed suit and strode toward the sound.

Carl Downing was out there, screaming something. I dragged my hand through the toothpaste script on the wall, trying to steady myself and remembered, nobody can hear a scream from the vacuum of space, or so they say.