New writer Kelly Robson is a graduate of the Taos Toolbox writing workshop. Her first fiction appeared in 2015 at Tor.com, Clarkesworld, and Asimov’s Science Fiction, and in the anthologies New Canadian Noir, In the Shadow of the Towers, and Licence Expired. She lives in Toronto with her wife, science fiction writer A. M. Dellamonica.
Ricci slipped in and out of consciousness as we carried her to the anterior sinus and strapped her into her hammock. Her eyelids drooped but she kept forcing them wide. After we finished tucking her in, she pulled an handheld media appliance out of her pocket and called her friend Jane.
“You’re late,” Jane said. The speakers flattened her voice slightly. “Are you okay?”
Ricci was too groggy to speak. She poked her hand through the hammock’s electrostatic membrane and panned the appliance around the sinus. Eddy and Chara both waved as the lens passed over them, but Jane was only interested in one thing.
“Show me your face, Ricci. Talk to me. What’s it like in there?”
Ricci coughed, clearing her throat. “I dunno. It’s weird. I can’t really think.” Her voice slurred from the anesthetic.
I could have answered Jane, if she’d asked me. The first thing newbies notice is how strange it smells. Human olfaction is primal; scents color our perceptions even when they’re too faint to describe. Down belowground, the population crush makes it impossible to get away from human funk. Out here, it’s the opposite, with no scents our brains recognize. That’s why most of us fill our habs with stinky things—pheromone misters, scented fabrics, ablative aromatic gels.
Eventually, Ricci would get around to customizing the scentscape in her big new hab, but right then she was too busy trying to stay awake. Apparently she’d promised Jane she’d check in as soon as she arrived, and not just a quick ping. She was definitely hurting but the call was duty.
“There’s people. They’re taking care of me.” Ricci gazed blearily at our orang. “I was carried in by a porter bot. It’s orange and furry. Long arms.”
“I don’t care about the bot. Tell me about you.”
“I’m fine, but my ears aren’t working right. It’s too noisy.”
We live with a constant circulatory thrum, gassy gurgles and fizzes, whumps, snaps, pops, and booms. Sound waves pulse through every surface, a deep hum you feel in your bones.
Jane took a deep breath, let it out with a whoosh. “Okay. Go to sleep. Call me when you wake up, okay?”
Ricci’s head lolled back, then she jerked herself awake.
“You should have come with me.”
Jane laughed. “I can’t leave my clients. And anyway, I’d be bored.”
Ricci squeezed her eyes shut, blinked a few times, then forced them wide.
“No you wouldn’t. There’s seven other people here, and they’re all nuts. You’d already be trying to fix them.”
Vula snorted and stalked out of the sinus, her long black braids slapping her back. The rest of us just smiled and shook our heads. You can’t hold people responsible for what they say when they’re half-unconscious. And anyway, it’s true—we’re not your standard moles. We don’t want to be.
Only a mole would think we’d be bored out here. We have to take care of every necessity of life personally—nobody’s going to do it for us. Tapping water is one example. Equipment testing and maintenance is another. Someone has to manage the hygiene and maintenance bots. And we all share responsibility for health and safety. Making sure we can breathe is high on everyone’s priority list, so we don’t leave it up to chance. Finally, there’s atmospheric and geographical data gathering. Mama’s got to pay the bills. We’re a sovereign sociopolitical entity, population: eight, and we negotiate our own service contracts for everything.
But other than that, sure, we have all the free time in the world. Otherwise what’s the point? We came out here to get some breathing room—mental and physical. Unlike the moles, we’ve got plenty of both.
Have you ever seen a tulip? It’s a flowering plant. No nutritional value, short bloom. Down belowground, they’re grown in decorative troughs for special occasions—ambassadorial visits, arts festivals, sporting events, that sort of thing.
Anyway. Take a tulip flower and stick an ovoid bladder where the stem was and you’ve got the idea. Except big. Really big. And the petals move. Some of us call it Mama. I just call it home.
The outer skin is a transparent, flexible organic membrane. You can see right through to the central organ systems. The surrounding bladders and sinuses provide structure and protection. Balloons inside a bigger balloon, filled with helium and hydrogen. The whole organism ripples with iridescence.
We live in the helium-filled sinuses. If you get close enough, you can see us moving around inside. We’re the dark spots.
While Ricci slept, I called everyone to the rumpus room for a quick status check. All seven of us lounged in the netting, enjoying the free flowing oxygen/hydrogen mix, goggles and breathers dangling around our necks.
I led the discussion, as usual. Nobody else can ever be bothered.
“Thoughts?” I asked.
“Ricci seems okay,” said Eddy. “And I like what’s-her-name. The mole on the comm.”
“Jane. Yeah, pretty smile,” said Bouche. “Ricci’s fine. Right Vula?”
Vula frowned and crossed her arms. She’d hooked into the netting right next to the hatch and looked about ready to stomp out.
“I guess,” she said. “Rude, though.”
“She was just trying to be funny,” said Treasure. “I can never predict who’ll stick and who’ll bounce. I thought Chara would claw her way back down belowground. Right through the skin and nose-dive home.”
Chara grinned. “I still might.”
We laughed, but the camaraderie felt forced. Vula had everyone on edge.
“We’ll all keep an eye on Ricci until she settles in,” Eleanora said. “Are we good here? I need to get back to training. I got a chess tournament, you know.”
“You always have a tournament.” I surveyed the faces around me, but it didn’t look like anyone wanted to chat.
“As long as nobody hogs the uplink, I never have any problems,” said Bouche. “Who’s training Ricci?”
“Who do you think?” I said. We have a rule. Whoever scared off the last one has to train the replacement.
We all looked at Vula.
“Shit,” she said. “I hate training newbies.”
“Stop running them off then,” said Chara. “Be nice.”
Vula scowled, fierce frown lines scoring her forehead. “I’ve got important work to do.”
No use arguing with Vula. She was deep in a creative tangle, and had been for a while..
“I’ll do it,” I said. “We better train Ricci right if we want her to stick.”
When Ricci woke up, I helped her out of the hammock and showed her how to operate the hygiene station. As soon as she’d hosed off the funk, she called Jane on her appliance.
“Take off your breather for a moment,” Jane said. “Goggles too. I need to see your face.”
Ricci wedged her fingernails under the seal and pried off her breather. She lifted her goggles. When she grinned, deep dimples appeared on each cheek.
Jane squinted at her through the screen. She nodded, and Ricci replaced the breather. It attached to her skin with a slurp.
“How do I look?” Ricci asked. “Normal enough for you?”
“What’s the failure rate on that thing?”