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The day starts as countless others have: artificial sunlight switches on at 7am. The glare bounces off the pure white walls. The phone rings.
“What would you like for breakfast, Commander Low?”
He thinks about all the food he thought he was going to eat when he got home. Fresh fruit, pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries, eggs benedict, more bacon than any human should justifiably eat in a lifetime.
“Poached eggs on toast, please. And coffee. Cream and two sugars.”
“Multigrain toast?”
“Multigrain toast. Please. Thank you.”
The phone clicks off. Boston stretches, yawns, and throws off the coverlet. Everything is white. Do they think that white deters disease? That it can turn aside any alien infections they might be carrying? Who knows. Actually, maybe Brink knows. He should ask. But Brink sleeps late these days. Let the old man get his sleep.
The artificial sunlight switches on at 7:30 am. Maggie has been staring at the ceiling for at least the last three hours, so the sudden glare blinds her. She puts her hand over her eyes, stars twinkling behind her eyelids. The phone rings.
“What would you like for breakfast this morning, Ms. Robbins?”
“Yogurt. Multigrain toast. A bowl of fresh fruit. And mint tea.”
She hangs up first.
The day stretches out in front of her. Maybe today they’d get the call that they were going to be released. But she didn’t think so. They’d said two weeks four weeks ago. They said that she’d have plenty of time to work on her story. On the official release. She hasn’t written a word.
The artificial sunlight switches on at 9am, despite Ludger’s instructions that they should switch it back to 6am. He grumbles to himself, stretches, feels his joints creak. They treat him like a doddering old man, which is unacceptable. His mind is still the same, is it not? It’s only his body that is protesting that it actually likes sleeping late. That it enjoys the naps he takes in the afternoon. The phone rings.
“What would you like for breakfast this morning, Dr. Ludger?”
“The same as I had yesterday. But keep the milk in a separate jug, and use a ceramic teapot. If you insist on keeping up this ridiculous quarantine, despite the assurances of myself AND advanced civilisation, at least treat us with a modicum of civility.”
“...Yes, Dr. Brink.”
“And make sure you have the time on my alarm reset. I have work to catch up on.”
“Yes, Dr. Brink.”
He slams the phone down, and goes to have a shower. Then he dresses in the government-issue t-shirt and pants- not entirely different from the ones he actually wears to bed- and stomps off to the common area.
Low and Robbins have already finished their breakfast - there are crumbs on the table (Low) and on Robbins’ work space. Low is sitting on the couch, staring into space, and Robbins is doing the same at her desk. There are already a few crumpled balls of paper in the waste basket, and she’s pushed the keyboard away. The monitor displays a white screen. The only thing that any of them have managed to write in weeks is the condolence letter to Toshi Olema’s family. The reply they got back was...polite. They were believed, at least. About that. Ludger closed his eyes and saw the man screaming as he dissolved. He doesn’t believe in the grace of god, and he’s always hated that particular english idiom, but he is thankful. Breaking his own neck was simply awareness then nothingness. Olema had lifted his hands to his face and watched them melt-
“Morning, Doc.”
Brink opens his eyes.
“When do you think they will let us wear our own clothes again?” he grumbles. “I am sick of this. Surely they realise that our own clothes will not be contaminated.”
“Good morning to you too,” says Robbins from her desk.
“I fail to see what’s so good about it,” Brink mutters.
“No disagreement there,” says Low.
Boston keeps his eyes shut a lot these days. He feels like if he opens them, the relentless pure white will drive the memories from his brain. It’s irrational, he knows it, but he wants to keep them...untainted. Sure, in the fullness of time he might get to go back, but it won’t be the same. He’ll know every twisting pathway, each hidden nook, each strange device...and all the wonder will be gone. That beautiful place, that wondrous place has been explained. An obliging Cocytan will show him around and tell him what everything does and why. If he asks. Strange, how reluctant he is to let go of that sense of wonder. He’d never been one of those kids who’d dreamed of being an explorer. After all, he’d reasoned, everything had been discovered and explored. There were no more maps with “here there be dragons” marked to show distant, unknown lands.
So what happened when you went off the map and found the dragons?
Every step was brilliant and terrifying. He never knew whether touching this or moving that would kill him or help him. Every moment was met with baited breath. He always expected the ground to give out under his feet, or to be eaten by some strange beast. But then he’d catch sight of the strange sky or walk across the light bridges and see the ocean below, and often he’d sit down, suddenly overcome by the beauty of it. He remembers the sheer bliss of diving into the ocean, the clear water washing over his face and skin.
He realised later that he’d been the first to do that in millions of years. It’s almost incomprehensible. He wonders if Maggie feels the same way. Maybe Brink does, too - but he can’t find the right words. He’s a resourceful man, quick on his feet, but not...eloquent like the others are.
“You know,” he says, after an hour’s worth of quiet, “The first thing I’m going to do when I get out of here is put that shovel on a plaque. Or donate it to a museum. Or something.”
“Or they could cover it in gold and give it out as an award,” says Maggie. She balls up another piece of paper and throws it in the litter basket. “The Boston Low award for creative thinking in extreme circumstances.”
“Against overwhelming odds,” Boston says.
“And despite his enormous ego,” Brink says, and grins.
“You’re the one to talk about an enormous ego,” he replies.
They laugh. It’s almost normal.
Maggie has been staring at a blank screen for exactly 20 minutes. She knows that because at 2:30 pm. she got up to make herself a cup of tea, and that took her exactly four minutes. It is now 3:04 pm. Brink is snoring on the couch, his book dropped on the floor. Boston has gone to lift weights or something equally manly and strenuous and time consuming. She sips her tea. It’s the story of a lifetime and she can’t think of where to start. She’s been offered millions. A special advisory role to the inevitable committee that’s been set up to deal with the Cocytans. There’s been hints of an honorary doctorate. They’ve offered Boston one too. He greeted this with a certain amount of bafflement. Brink was scathing.
“Do they offer PHDs in jury-rigging alien artifacts now?” he sniffed. “Some of us worked years to earn ours.”
“I did translate an entire alien language,” says Maggie.
“That’s different. That’s a PHD in linguistics.”
“How about engineering, then?” Boston asks. He grinned at Maggie.
Brink had snorted.
“I don’t know, can you build a bridge using only an alien ribcage, a rock and a glowing metal rod?”
“I could try,” Boston said.
The man himself wanders back into the living room, towelling his hair dry.
“How’s it going, Maggie?”
“Same as before. Zilch. Nothing. Nada.”
Brink awakes with a snort. Maggie stifles a giggle, and looks over to Boston, who rolls his eyes.
“What were we discussing again?”
“My writer’s block,” Maggie says.
“Still playing up, hm?” Brinks yawns, scrubs his eyes with one wrinkled fist. “Perhaps start with a title? The trick I use is ‘pithy phrase, colon, subject matter.”
“Um-”
“As an example: Buffon in a space suit: Boston Low, Commander, tinkerer and the unlikely savior of an alien race.”
“Sorted,” Maggie grins and begins scribbling it down on her piece of paper. Brink chuckles and picks up his book.
“See? Easy.”
Boston mutters something to himself and goes to the small kitchenette to make himself a coffee. He pointedly does not offer to make one for either of them. He goes back to sit down on the couch, narrowly avoiding another ball of scrawled up paper that Maggie throws over her shoulder in frustration.
“How about, ‘Enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in beefcake: Boston Low saves everybody’s asses.”
Maggie looks at him. His eyes are closed, but he’s sitting up, drinking his coffee, and engaging in the conversation as it happens. It’s an odd habit of his. He just sits there, for hours, with his eyes shut. Even if they’re not talking.
“Mm, I’m not so fond of that one,” says Brink. “But see? The formula works.”
“Even a buffoon can use it,” Boston’s voice is tense. Brink sighs and shuts his book. Maggie goes back to staring at the white screen.
“It seems unfair that you have to do all the work, Maggie,” says Brink. He’s watching Boston carefully.
“I am a reporter,” she says. “Writing is what I do.”
“I write too,” Brink says. “Although I wouldn’t say that my written work was particularly interesting to those outside a very select group of academics.”
“I can just about hold a pen without breaking it,” Boston mutters. “So it’s up to you, Maggie.”
“Maybe I could interview you both? Get different perspectives on it. We all saw such different parts of it, after all.”
“I’ve got a title for mine,” Brink says, “From respected archaeologist to homicidal maniac: uses and abuses of alien technology.”
There’s a pause. Boston opens his eyes.
“You weren’t exactly homicidal,” says Boston. “I mean, I don’t think you tried to kill anyone. Apart from me, sort of. You were pretty helpful with the spider monster, all things considered.”
“Things being my monomaniacal focus on the life crystals.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, doc.”
“And I’ve never been called pulchritudinous before,” says Maggie. “And I probably won’t again.”
“Because there is only one person in the world who knows what that word means,” Boston says. He takes a swig of coffee and shuts his eyes.
“Following that logic,” Brink says, “There’s three. ”
Someone is shaking Ludger by the shoulder. He bats their hand away, irritably. He wasn’t asleep, he was just resting his eyes. Fools.
“Hey, Brink,” Low says, “We’ve just got word. They let us out next week.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Ludger mutters, and picks up his book, which is inexplicably on the floor. He takes a moment to look at his hands - old hands, weathered hands. An old man’s hands. Sometimes they cramp unexpectedly, or ache. He hadn’t thought about that side of being old. Not at all. The Cocytans had been vague about how long he would actually live - perhaps he’d have another thirty years, perhaps another ten. He wasn’t too worried. Cheating death twice had been enough. He couldn’t ask for more. His thoughts drift back to Olema - a man with no second chances. The Cocytans had said that it was beyond their power to bring him back, even with the crystals, because the acid had taken everything. He wasn’t in Spacetime six. Wherever Olema had gone, there was no following him.
“Hey. Hey. Brink.” Low’s hand is on his back and he realises his face it wet. He’s not crying, surely?
Robbins is kneeling before him, a tissue in her hand.
“It’s ridiculous,” he says, hating the shake in his voice, “It wasn’t if I knew the man.”
“Horrible way for anyone to go,” Low says quietly. “But it’s over now. It happened. They’re letting us out.”
“To what?” Ludger asks. “To what?”
Brink recovers fairly quickly, muttering something about being tired. They all look at what - where- they’re being let out to. It’s a small island, somewhere off the coast of Scotland. It’s figured that it’ll be remote enough for them to get some respite from the media storm that’s only intensified as the weeks have gone past. They also have a briefing: stay quiet on the aliens. The Cocytans. It’s all so Area 51 that Boston wants to laugh. But then the unearthly voice rings in his head: we’ll mash them like bugs. And he thinks that maybe humans aren’t really ready at all. After all, he wasn’t.
This new place is beautiful - not Coctytus beautiful, obviously - but he likes the look of the cliffs and the hills and the rocky fields. Long grass waves in the wind. The little bit of information sent with the pictures informs him that there are many interesting caves to explore, and interesting walks to be had.
“I doubt it’ll be as interesting as the walks you took on Coctytus,” Maggie says, reading over his shoulder.
“I’m looking forward to going on walks where I don’t have to worry about sudden death.”
“I don’t know - I’ve heard the haggis is pretty vicious this time of year.”
They both laugh, and it feels good.
“I wish I had my books,” says Brink. “I’m starting to miss them.”
He looks at them defensively.
“It feels...comforting. To have all those books around me.”
“You could probably get them shipped over,” Maggie says. “Anything for the heroes who saved the world, right?”
“I’m not really any sort of hero,” Brink says. “But thank you for the sentiment.”
While Maggie makes soothing noises, Boston sits down on the couch and closes his eyes. He pictures the bright sky, the massive stone spires, those opaque balls that he will forever associate with hamster wheels. And the feeling of stepping on to the light bridges, shimmering under his cautious steps above a dizzying drop to the water below. The tiny little rat things, the massive caverns, the chamber with the glass walls where he saw himself swim through the water. A world he never even dreamed of - never could have dreamed of. That places like that could have existed at all was beyond his petty imaginings. But he knew it existed now, in all its strange, unknowable majesty. How could Earth compare?
Then he realises he doesn’t know. He hasn’t been on fresh grass or in the clean air for a month. He hasn’t been under the night sky, hasn’t seen the stars from Earth...and then the other thought comes, a thought that makes everything seem much better.
He will discover the world anew.
It never occurred to Maggie that Coctytus had been a place of horror for any of them. Of course, there was Olema, but she realises she’s barely thought of him since they wrote the condolence letter. No, she’s been caught up in the trivial business of writing down what had happened to them. The wonderful things. Or rather, she’d been trying to, and ignoring everything else. She feels guilty now, looking at Brink, suddenly old. What was his life going to be now? How long would it be? Whatever the answers to that question, he was going to spend the rest of his life trying to deal with what happened on that distant planet. All of them were.
She wishes it was as ‘easy’ as deciphering the alien language. The words, once they came, flowed as easily as water. There was that thrill of the Creator rising up and looking at her, opening its mouth and speaking. And her understanding what it was saying. Not what it meant, a lot of the time, but what it was saying. They’ll want her to write a paper on that. A book. A “Coctytan for dummies” for the diplomats. And that will be fine.
The hand on her shoulder startles her. It’s Brink, looking fairly haggard. More than usual. Even despite what Boston has come to call his “nana naps.”
“You know,” he says, “You don’t have to get it right the first time.”
“What do you mean?”
Brink smiles, but his eyes are sad.
“You’ll spend the rest of your life telling this story, Maggie. You can tell it as many different ways as you want. Tell it new every time. But...it will always be about this, really. Always.”
It shouldn’t make her feel better but it does. This is her story. Their story. No matter how it’s told, she -they- will have some control. There is no telling it wrong. Where should she begin? Wherever she likes.
Brink looks over the pictures. It’s a beautiful place, this island: wild and remote. He thinks back to excavations he did in Iceland, back in his undergraduate days. It has the same sort of look about it, something he can’t quite name. He thinks of Coctytus, which will probably never be far from his mind: the empty deserts, the rocky outcrops, the red stone. He thinks he remembers the beautiful oceans, the fathomless stars of Deep Space four. But he wonders if he’s just imagining these things, that these are simply comforting flashes that drown out the endless sense of hunger that crowded out almost everything else.
He finds himself crying again, not simply tears, but sobs. He turns off the light and sits alone in his dark room and cries like a child. He doesn’t feel weak. He doesn’t feel anything. No, that’s not right. He feels shame. He feels like he’s been caught. And once he leaves this immaculate white place, he’ll have to go into the real world and live with what he did. Everyone will know what sort of man he is. He lost out on the biggest archeological discovery...ever. Because he was greedy. Because he was bad. He lost his mind on an alien planet and everyone will know. But the truth must be known, because the truth is more important than anything.
There’s a knock at the door. Why won’t they let him be miserable in peace? And of course they don’t wait for him to answer. Americans have no sense of privacy. He turns away, because he doesn’t want to look at their caring faces. He doesn’t want to be soothed. He wants to be with his books again, or on one of his excavations. Iceland, again. Immaculate ice and rock instead of the rough sand he swears he’s still washing out of his hair.
“...They have become as beautiful or as terrible, as clever or as stupid as it was in them to be..” he says, by way of explanation. The Creator’s words. Maggie had mentioned them the first night they were stuck in this white hell.
Boston found adventure. Maggie found her words. What did he find?
“You know,” says Boston, “ I never did get around to telling you it wasn’t your fault.”
“You didn’t choose to die,” Maggie murmurs. “No more than Olema did.”
“I was a fool,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around himself.
“No one’s arguing with that,” Boston says. He sits on the bed. “You were a fool. You did stupid things.”
“But you made it right, in the end?” Ludger snorts and reaches for the tissue box. Maggie passes it to him, and sits down on the bed too.
“No,” says Boston, “I broke it to begin with. I was the one who brought you back in the first place, remember?”
There’s a pause.
“You are using logic on me. That’s not fair,” Ludger says, and blows his nose.
“It’s Boston’s fault, really,” Maggie says. Her hand finds Ludger’s in the darkness. He squeezes it, feels her young, strong grip. He’s dimly aware that Boston has his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. The three of them. Together. Sitting in the darkness. Separate. But not alone.
They have been living something that has never been lived in all of human history. Tomorrow they go out into the world again. After that, they will have to face the rest of humanity and say: this is what happened. Then they will have learn how to live again in the world, knowing what they know, living with what they have done. Three of them.
At 7am the artificial lights will turn on. Boston will pick the pancakes.