The Trap

They put Jin's fist through the viewing slit of the door before anyone could stop him.

It did nothing, of course. The door was a slab of steel two hands thick, and Jin's fist was a coder's, white-knuckled and narrow. He hit it three times, and the third time something in his hand gave a small, wet crack, and he sat down on the deck with his teeth clenched and his hand pressed between his knees.

"Don't," said Zoe. "Jin, don't."

"I'm all right."

"You've broken it."

"It's a finger. It's one finger. I have nine more." He said it flatly, rocking a little. "I was so stupid. I saw the box. I saw it, and I thought, it's only a relay, it's only a monitor, and I should have said—"

"It wasn't your fault," said Archie.

"Of course it was."

"It was mine."

Nobody answered him. It was the worst thing, he thought: that nobody tried.

…

The cell was a supply bay at the back of the command deck.

Gregor had shepherded them in himself, almost gently, with one big hand on each of their shoulders and a courtesy that never wavered. He had not threatened them. He had said, Mind your heads, and Watch the step, and I'm sorry, I truly am. Then he had gone out and the hatch had closed behind him and the lock had engaged with a soft deep clunk.

It was a narrow steel room about twelve feet long. Shelves of spare parts and sealed crates lined the walls. There was a single caged bulb in the ceiling, a floor grating, and a wall-mounted intercom with a cracked grille. There was a vent, high up, with a rusted louver, much too small for a man. And there was a gauge on the wall beside the door, a plain dial, black and white, with a red needle that was falling.

The wrist-clock read 61:14:38.

"That's not what the gauge says," said Zoe.

"No."

"The gauge says—"

"I know what it says." Jin had got to his feet. He was cradling his hand against his chest, and sweat stood out on his forehead. "He's venting the compartment. Not the station. Just this room. He's pulling the air out through the vents and sending it somewhere else. The wrist-clocks measure the whole station, and the whole station has seventy hours. But this room—"

"How long?"

"Twenty-four. Perhaps less."

Venn, who had been standing in the corner with his back against a crate, slid slowly down the wall.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. So that's. That's not a lot."

"No."

"I just had legs, man. I just got them." His voice shook. "I haven't even done the rowing machine."

…

They worked for six hours. Or what felt like six hours.

Jin pried the cover off the intercom and went at its wiring with a screwdriver found on a shelf, swearing in a low continuous murmur in three languages. The intercom was dead. The wall panel behind it was dead. The vent was welded shut. He tried the door's lock mechanism, but there was no mechanism on the inside: only a flat plate of unbroken steel, smooth as an egg, with a thin line of green light running along the seam. He tried the shelves. He tried the crates.

"It's all locked out," he said at last. His voice was gray with fatigue. "He's wired the compartment into the command bus. Every circuit routes through the one chair. I could get through the encryption in a week. I haven't got a week. I haven't got a day."

"What about the vent?"

"Ask Zoe."

Zoe had already climbed the shelves. She stood on the topmost rack, with her cap in her teeth and a flashlight in her fist, peering into the louver. When she came down, she was pale, and a little breathless.

"It runs," she said. "It goes along the ceiling about thirty feet and drops into the main air duct. I could see light at the far end. It's a shaft about—" She held her hands apart. "That. Eighteen inches."

"Can you fit?"

"I think so. Barely."

"What about the rest of us?"

Zoe looked at them one by one: at Jin, narrow-shouldered and bandaged; at Venn, who stood six feet three in his socks; at Archie. She didn't answer, and the silence told them.

"No," said Jin quietly. "You go. You, only you. You're the smallest. You get out, you go for the hydroponics ring, you flood the system with whatever you can. It's the only chance. We stay here and wait."

"No."

"Zoe—"

"I said no." She flung the cap down. Her voice cracked, high and furious. "I'm not going. I'm not leaving you in here to suffocate. I'm not going to do that. I came in together, I'm going out together. Together, or not at all!"

"That's not an option," said Jin. "That's a speech."

"Then it's a speech, damn it! I mean it!"

"Zoe." That was Archie. He had not spoken for a long time. He had been sitting on the floor with his back to the wall and his arms around his knees, looking at nothing, and his voice came out of him rough and flat. "Jin's right."

She stared at him.

"You should go. One of us should live. It might as well be you."

"That is the stupidest thing you have ever said to me."

"I know."

"You don't get to say that. You don't get to decide that. You—" She stopped. Her chest was heaving. "I'm not going without you. If you try to make me, I'll sit down on this floor and I will not move. I don't care what it costs. I will not do it."

He lifted his eyes to hers.

He had not realized, until that moment, how very much he had wanted her to say it. It frightened him. It shamed him more than anything else that day, that even now, with the air failing and his friends in danger, a small selfish part of him could still feel its heart lifting at the sound of her voice.

"Zoe," he said. "Please."

"No."

…

Gregor came back at the thirtieth hour.

The intercom crackled. Jin had thought he'd killed it, but there it was, spitting and hissing, and then a voice came out of the grille, rough and tired and very near.

"You all right in there?"

Nobody answered.

"Thought I'd check. Air's running a bit thin. I'm sorry about that." There was a pause. They could hear him breathing. "I want you to know I didn't want to do this."

"Then don't," said Archie. He had dragged himself to the wall beside the intercom. He pressed his forehead against the cold plate. "Gregor. Please. You don't have to do this. We can fix it."

"You can't."

"We could try."

"I've been trying." The voice cracked. "Fifteen years, son. Fifteen years. You think I didn't try?"

"I think—"

"I'd a wife. Did you know that?" Gregor said, abruptly. "Carol. Thirty years of it. We'd a house in Norfolk with a porch. She died the week they brought me to this place." He was crying, Archie realized with a start. His voice was thick and slow. "She died, and I was in a tin can in the sky, and nobody could tell me. I found out from a man on a screen. I found out later."

"I'm so sorry."

"They promised I'd go home." The voice rose. "They promised. And then I was here, and there was no door, and nobody came. Not once. Not once. And now this man tells me I can go. Tells me I just have to do one thing. One small thing. Keep a few people in a room, till the clock runs out." He drew a ragged breath. "Is that so much? After fifteen years? Is that so very much to ask?"

"It is," said Archie. "It's four lives."

"You're not real."

"We are—"

"You are his," said Gregor. "You're part of the experiment. You're all a part of it." He sounded exhausted. "I know that. I've known it for years. They put you here to test us, and it doesn't matter what happens to you, because none of it is real, and I want to go home."

The intercom clicked, and a second voice joined it.

…

It was calm. It was low. It was pleasant as warm water.

"Mr. Moran."

Archie's blood froze.

"I do hope you're comfortable," said the voice. It was distorted a little by the speaker, but the courteous, unhurried cadence was unmistakable. "I won't keep you. I only wanted to say, without any unkindness, that I appreciate your cooperation. You've been enormously useful."

"William," said Archie.

"I'm afraid I can't confirm that. It wouldn't be prudent." There was a faint pleasant laugh. "I will say that the Gate is a remarkable machine. And the data you are all generating, at this moment, is of extraordinary value. I'd like to thank you. Particularly you, Mr. Moran. You've been a most accommodating subject."

"You're killing us."

"Not at all. I'm collecting you. There's a difference." The voice grew gentle. "Your biometrics in extremis are remarkably instructive. I'd hate for any of it to be wasted."

"You bastard," whispered Venn.

"Ah. Mr. Adebayo. How is the leg?"

Venn made a noise in his throat.

"I'll leave you now," said the voice. "Please don't be distressed. I'll see that your families are well compensated." A click. "Goodbye."

The intercom hissed and died.

In the long silence that followed, Archie slid down the wall to the floor and sat with his hands over his face, listening to the red needle fall.

…

In the lab, beside the sleeping pods, Otis Brennan was standing at the main console with a mug of coffee in each hand.

He had been about to bring one to Luca, who had finally fallen asleep with his head on the desk. He had been, in fact, in rather a good mood. But now he set the mugs down very slowly on the edge of the console, because the monitor in front of him had begun to chirp, and then to flash, and then to scream.

Subject 4: oxygen saturation 71%.

Subject 2: oxygen saturation 68%.

Subject 3: oxygen saturation 66%.

"No," said Otis. "No, no. That's not right. That's a sim, they're simulated stresses, they can't—" He stabbed at the keys. "Luca. Luca. Luca, wake up!"

"What—?"

"The readings. They're dropping! The Gate's running a stress profile we didn't authorize—"

A hand fell lightly on Otis's shoulder.

"It's all right," said William. He had come up behind them, soundless as a cat. He was smiling, mildly, sympathetically, the smile of a man calming a nervous horse. "It's a standard load test. I should have mentioned. I authorized it this morning. Dr. Ferrara will recall."

"I do not recall—" Luca was on his feet, blinking, gray-faced. "William, what in God's name—"

"Luca, please. Do sit down. You haven't slept." William's hand moved from Otis's shoulder to the dial on the console. His fingers hovered over it, white and neat. "It's a stress test. It's meant to look like this. Everything is within tolerance." He turned the dial, gently, a quarter turn. "There. You see? Better already."

The numbers on the screen steadied. They did not rise.

"Thank you, Otis," said William. "You've been very helpful."

He walked away, unhurried.

Otis stared after him. His hands were shaking. He turned to Luca, and Luca's face was white, and neither of them spoke, because neither of them yet knew what it was they had seen.

…

The needle on the gauge stood at a quarter.

Archie sat on the steel grating in the dark, with the caged bulb flickering overhead, and thought, with a terrible plainness: If I had listened.

If he had listened to Thomas. If he had taken the six hours, and gone through the logs, and found the black box before it found him. If he had been willing to be afraid. If he had let Jin say what Jin was clearly longing to say: Wait. Look first. He had been so proud of what he'd learned. He had mistaken it for wisdom. It had been, all along, only habit, the habit of a man who has been lucky twice and calls it skill.

A hand, small and warm, slid into his in the dark.

He did not look up. He could not. He only held on.