Michael Siemsen: Exigency

“You’re right. They avoid those due to the floods. If we can—”

“Yeah, if you can pull that up, I’ll access Ish’s language DB and see if I can’t find something we can tell these things through the PA.”

John felt the pain behind his fone begin to throb and intensify. He established a direct connection to the EV’s computer and accessed the backups—always synced in real-time from the station’s data storage—and located Zisa’s maps. He just needed their coordinates to—

Minerva spoke up, as if reading his mind. “You can get our coordinates from the EV console on your left.”

“I know, just work on the language.” He knew it sounded snippy as soon as it came out. If they were still alive later, he’d apologize.

“I am working on the language,” Minerva barked, then muttered, “‘Optimal suicide.’ Just wow…. Okay, I found Ish’s main file, dated last week. What? Empty! Ugh! Her! Note says ‘full update in progress.’ Eff me, if she’s not already dead—”

“Why the hell would she wipe the old file for an update? That makes no sense. Where’s the update? Offline? On her fone?”

“I know. Ish is weird, but not this weird.” Minerva turned back to him. “Wasn’t she controlling the supply pod that struck the station?”

“I know. It’s in the back of my head. Higher priorities right now. So you have nothing for us to say to them?”

“Don’t you know something of the language? Always figured you micromanaged her like you do me.”

The sounds at the hatch had elevated to a single, cacophonous jumble, as though eight or more creatures were working on it. Their claws were too thick and blunt. They were using some sort of tools. He’d been right: they would never give up.

John ignored Minerva’s ill-timed jab. “I know some, a few basics. Yes, no, stop, go, us, them. But there’re different dialects, inflections. Our vocal folds are so different, it might just be gibberish.”

“So what, don’t try? If you sound even remotely Hynka-like, hell, they might think we’re gods or something. How do you say ‘stop’?”

John searched his jumbled brain. “Yeah, I got it. Sort of a hocking. Like clearing mucous in the throat.”

Minerva raised her eyebrows, pressed her lips together, and lifted the EV’s PA mic to his face. “Just pinch the little clip.”

They both turned to observe the Hynka staring at them in the portholes. A terrifying intelligence appeared to be at work there. That gaze, fixated on his own eyes, curious but knowing, assessing, imagining. Predators typically focused on grab or kill spots, hobbling opportunities—the neck, the legs to trip up, where to dig in the talons, where to sink the first bite. Or, when significantly larger than their prey, they took in the whole picture, the mass that they’d consume—shark and fish, snake and mouse. Often, they only saw the moving parts. With everything these Hynka could observe through the glass, the creatures appeared acutely focused on Minerva and him—and only their eyes.

John practiced the hocking sound, but found his throat dry.

Minerva said, “The tube by your shoulder.”

He reached back and pulled it into his helmet. “I know.” He sucked in several gulps.

“You don’t have to tell me you know every time.”

John attempted the word twice more, then activated the mic.

“Khoh!”

All sounds at the hatch ceased. The Hynka at the portholes looked around outside.

“It worked!” Minerva whispered.

“Maybe. Might just be the first sound they heard come from the EV. They’ve never heard amplified sound at all.”

“Thunder…” Minerva was thinking out loud.

“Something bigger than them…” John had the first inklings of an idea.

“They’ve no natural predators.”

The silence outside continued, even after 30 seconds. John and Minerva leaned to face each other. John said, “How would they respond to that? Being at the top of the food chain, then a new predator is introduced? Do you know of any examples?”

Minerva nodded, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Hundreds. Apex predators. They adapt quickly, but clueless at first encounter.”

The scritching prying sound at the hatch resumed. The Hynka at the portholes began screaming silently and pounding on the glass, smearing the sprayed saliva from their drooling mouths.

“Again,” Minerva went on, closing her eyes as if it shut out the noise. “Doesn’t matter unless we have a destination. Just a guess, but greater than five hundred meters, less than two-K is probably ideal, assuming passable terrain.”

“Right,” John said as he continued scrolling through the maps. “Numerous sinkholes around—”

“Probably faster to search on it instead. ‘Subterranean, habitable.’”

She was right, of course. He’d normally have thought of it, but the pandemonium had clouded his thoughts. It was one of her documented assets: clarity under pressure. While stabilized by meds, though. Just how long would she remain lucid down here?

“We have flare projectiles,” Minerva said as she continued rooting through her SSK. “Red and green.”

Before John’s face, a subterranean cave rotated between x and y axes. “I think I’ve got a destination. Sending it to you.”

“Awesome. Can you find a secondary while I look at this?”

“Already on it.”

The first cavern, 2.2 kilometers away, appeared to be accessible from the bottom of a 15-meter-wide sinkhole. Orbital imaging showed the site during three different seasons. Twice the sinkhole was imaged half-full of rainwater and runoff, and during the dry season, it was entirely evaporated. They’d have to descend 13m into the hole to access the small entrance. If they weren’t observed entering, they should be safe, though getting back out would be a different matter.

Minerva asked without any noticeable skepticism, “You’re thinking we run to this?”

“As opposed to what?”

“As opposed to rolling the EV halfway there, like a scurry ball, before the uphill grade begins. I don’t think either of us have any illusions about getting the skimmers out, set up, and in the air. I assumed you were defaulting to a foot run for our transportation.”

“Well, I hadn’t thought of the rolling thing. And wouldn’t they just follow us?”

“Just voicing thoughts. Didn’t say it made any sense. What’s our backup?”

John sent her the second site the computer found, and yelled over the growing clamor in front and behind. “Six-K east, and we would have to dig a little through soft humus to access it. A long way, and I don’t know if we’d have that kind of time. There’s nothing else closer.”

Banging, grinding, smashing, shaking…

The Hynka were attacking any groove or crevice. An exterior panel tore off. Cables and instruments could be heard ripping from inside the shell. They’d finally gotten something. It fed the creatures’ resolve. John’s fone began throbbing again, in rhythm with his pounding pulse.

Minerva leaned closer and yelled over the noise, startling him. “You think that sinkhole will be full?”

John flipped back to the imagery and checked the dates. “Right time of year.”

“We’d save time if we didn’t have to rappel down.”

“You’re saying run and dive straight in? Swim down to the cavern entrance?”

She nodded.

The lights and consoles on her side went black as another panel was breached. Snapping and grinding, flexing metal sheets, constant twangs of severed cables. It sounded as if they were right on the other side of Minerva’s console, a screen or panel yank away from a giant pair of fingers reaching in and plucking her from her seat.