A Word from Ann Christy
I have a confession to make. I’m an accidental author.
As a career naval officer, I became adept at telling myself stories. When it comes to thinking up new worlds or fantastic tales during the dark midnight watches on the bridge of a ship, I’m a champ. But never once did I think I would write them down.
That all changed when I encountered WOOL by Hugh Howey. After reading it, I made up my own story set in the WOOL universe, and felt so excited about it that I asked Hugh if I could write and publish it. To my delight, he approved. And writing the Silo 49 series was such a gratifying experience that I simply couldn’t stop there. That so many people liked my writing amazes me anew each and every day. My writing slate is now full, with many new releases in the works. And that includes short story anthologies like this one, which are turning out to be my favorite things to write—I gladly set aside my novels to do them. To create a new world and tell a full story in short form is outside my comfort zone, but it is a challenge I relish. Leveraging the reader’s imagination with a few words is work of the most enjoyable kind.
I call writing fiction a form of mental zombie-ism in reverse. I get to put a little piece of my brain into yours and stay there with you—safely tucked away inside your gray matter—for as long as you remember the story. It is my hope that you enjoyed the meal. You can contact me and find out about new work at my website, http://www.annchristy.com
THE CARETAKER
by Jason Gurley
Contrary to her expectations, it wasn’t the command center window that had the best views. The windows there were small and narrow, like heavy-lidded eyes, and they were recessed into the shell of the command module. They were designed for the astronauts who sat in the tall white chairs, but they didn’t show much of anything, not even stars. Just slates of blackness.
Alice had been aboard the Argus for three weeks before she happened upon the water filtration system closet. Eve had let her know about a clog in one of the output lines, had told her where to find the system. The closet was startlingly large, almost the size of a luxurious walk-in closet in a nice house below on Earth, but filled with an orderly tangle of slim, clear tubes and winking lights and knobs and dials. But she hardly noticed any of it, because the opposite wall—the station’s hull—was missing entirely, replaced by a wide, tall, triple-paned panel of smooth, clean glass.
Inside the water filtration closet, she could see Earth below her like the top of a giant balloon.
It became her favorite place on the Argus. She is alone, so it isn’t as if someone might come looking for her and never find her, or wonder what she was doing spending all her free time in the water filtration closet.
Alice Quayle is in her second tour as the Argus’s caretaker. She lives aboard the space station between projects—watering the plants and changing the light bulbs, so to speak. Her first tour was short, just three days, and she spent the duration terrified. She barely slept, afraid that a wiring panel might spark and set the oxygen supply on fire, afraid that a meteor might take out the communications array. Afraid that she might break something.
Her second tour is scheduled to last until August, when the biophysicist team from Apex will join the WSA crew on the Argus. That’s two whole months away. When the live-aboard team docks on August fourth, Alice will hand over the keys, board the excursion craft with the transport pilot, then return to her usual day job at the WLA facility in Portland.
But Alice will never see Portland again.
Alice is resting in the water filtration closet when Eve wakes up. Alice hears the familiar soft tone echo throughout the ship, and says, “Good morning, Eve. You’re up early today.”
But Eve has no patience for pleasantries. “There’s traffic on the military band that you should listen to,” she says.
Alice has never quite gotten used to Eve’s voice. It’s lovely and kind and unassuming, which she finds that she quite likes in a shipboard A.I. But Eve’s voice emanates from the walls of the station in an otherworldly, haunting way, as if she speaks from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“The military band isn’t part of my monitoring routines,” Alice says. “Am I actually allowed to listen to it? Isn’t it classified? Do I have clear—”
“I have authorized clearance override,” Eve says.
“Can you do that?”
“In exceptional circumstances,” Eve answers.
Eve does not display anger or urgency when she speaks. The WSA team and contractors who developed her spent years studying A.I.-human interactions, and discovered that an A.I. who embodied too much human emotion simply paralyzed astronauts. Their stress levels would climb to disastrous levels if, during an emergency, the A.I. raised its voice. Eve’s pleasant detachment made it possible for the astronauts themselves to separate their emotions from difficult or dangerous tasks, and actually improved their problem-solving skills.
But when Alice hears those two words—exceptional circumstances—she feels her shoulders knot and her pulse begin to thrum.
“What do you mean by that?” she asks.
Eve notices her changed attitude. “Slow your breath, Alice,” she says. “Count to twelve, and then join me in the communications module.”
Alice obeys, and after the twelve-count she says, “Can’t you just pipe the radio in here?”
“Certainly,” Eve says.
A darker tone sounds, and then the static wash of radio traffic from 1.2 million feet below swells to fill the water filtration closet.
—serious concerns. Who doesn’t have serious concerns, sir?
All I’m authorized to say is that we have the situation under control.
“That’s Mission Control,” Alice says. “What are they talking about?”
Eve says, “The topic of conversation is unclear.”
Alice turns to the window and stares down at the planet below, moving so fast yet so slowly that she can barely detect its spin.
“Extrapolate,” Alice says.
But Mission Control speaks again.
That’s not what we’re hearing over here, sir. Over here it looks pretty goddamn bad.
I assure you, gentlemen, that we have our hands firmly on the ball.
“Nuclear detonation,” Eve suggests. “If I were to hazard a guess.”
“Nuclear—” Alice stops. “The disarmament talks? How certain are you?”
“Very,” Eve answers.
When is he going to raise the threat level? We’ve got—
The transmission from Mission Control is swallowed in a crush of static and feedback, and Eve disables it. The water filtration closet falls into relative silence, the only sound that of the rumbling, churning equipment behind the wall panels. Alice barely notices.
She stares down at North America, where a bright flare, like a single pulse of a strobe, flickers and then vanishes.
A fat cushion of smoke billows out, then seems to rise, and Alice realizes she’s staring at the expanding head of a mushroom cloud.
Six Hours Earlier
Alice squeezes the silver package. The contents—French Toast with Syrup, the label reads—have the strangest texture, but taste quite good. It’s like drinking dinner through a straw, she thought the very first time. She has a difficult time selecting her meals, entranced by the broad selection and the novelty of their state. Salisbury Steak with Mushroom Gravy. Spinach and Feta Cheese Wrap. Chicken and Dumplings. All of them liquefied, most prepared warm. She enjoys the sensation of eating this way—of tasting all the different components of the meal at the same time, as a unified flavor. There are even special holiday-themed meals. Roast Turkey with Cranberry Sauce.