One of the labs had been converted into a workshop, with several large tables surrounded by racks of tools. There were broken pieces of furniture and fragments of walls and ceilings arranged on racks, many made of the same material as the armor. At one table a man in protective goggles was using a primitive torch to burn his way through the back of a chair, rectangular strips from his earlier harvests laid out before him. The smell of charred plastic wafted over to Micah, making his nostrils burn. At another table was a dark-skinned man dumping out the contents of cleaning bots, studying each pile closely as he did so. Clearly something in the dirt was of great importance.
There were a dozen men and women visible, with the sounds of a few more coming from parts of the haven that Micah couldn’t see. They all looked like Terrans, which was no big surprise. Several were wearing armor like Jamal’s, while others wore mismatched garments that looked like they’d been salvaged from a dozen different labs. Some wore brightly colored T-shirts emblazoned with advertising logos that Micah recognized from the food court. Clothing was where you found it, apparently.
Everybody stared at him as he entered, of course. It wasn’t just curiosity. There was an alertness to them, a fearful energy, as if they expected he might grab a weapon and start shooting people at any moment. Indeed, one of the women positioned herself between him and the weapons rack, perhaps fearful that he would rush toward it. But though their expressions were hard, the souls that peered out through their eyes looked more weary than hostile.
“This is Micah Bello,” Jamal announced. “I found him in sector five. Also found this.” He held up the broken arrow. “There seems to have been some kind of fight there. None of our people are reporting any confrontations, so if someone died, it wasn’t one of ours.”
“Maybe the mors are fighting each other,” one woman muttered.
A man in a purple t-shirt with Happy Cakes scrawled across the front laughed harshly. “We should be so lucky.”
A tall man in black armor walked up to Micah, studying him from top to bottom like he was a slab of meat. There was a long, nasty-looking machete hanging from his belt.
“This is Serjit,” Jamal said. “He’s in charge of the haven.”
Quietly Serjit said, “How did you get here, Bello?”
All the way here, Micah had been thinking about how he was going to explain that. Telling them that he was a fugitive from the same corporation that probably paid their salaries—back when they got salaries—seemed like a uniquely bad idea. “I was on my way to Harmony when my navigator malfunctioned. I didn’t want to risk going any further without repairs, so I headed for the nearest station. Turned out to be Shenshido. Only the docks were too damaged to use, and my navigation was barely functional. So I had a choice between crashing into the station, riding my ship into the depths of space, or evacuating. I went for option C.”
“An impressive feat, if true.” Serjit looked at Jamal. “Have you confirmed any of this?”
“With what equipment? Look, he’s obviously not exo. Who else is on this station, besides them and us?”
Serjit peered at Micah. Then he reached out a hand toward his face. Micah instinctively backed away.
“He wants to confirm you’re not exo,” Jamal said.
And it would be nice if you told me what the procedure for that was. But it wasn’t like he had much of a choice at this point. He stood still while Serjit felt his cheeks, kneading them with his fingertips. Finally Serjit nodded. “He’s clean.”
“May I ask what that was about?” Micah asked.
“The exos suffer from a parasitic infection that gives their skin a bark-like texture,” Jamal told him. “Normally you can see it on the face, but he’s checking to see if maybe something is developing that isn’t visible yet. Apparently you’re good.”
Mutated humans with bark faces. How would bark faces even move? It sounded like something from a badly designed fantasy epic. “You talked about mors. What are those?”
“Same as exos. It’s short for morlocks. A somewhat obscure reference—”
“From Old Earth literature,” Micah said. “H. G. Wells. I used them in one of my games, The End of Time.” The fact that I was born on a space station doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of Terran literary traditions.
“The End of Time?” The speaker was a young woman in a pink T-shirt that said SHIDO CAFE. “Oh my God, did you design that?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “I was lead developer for it.”
Serjit sharply looked at her. “You know him?”
“I know of him. One of the best game designers in the business.” She sighed. “His virts are amazing. Like stepping into another world.”
“So.” Serjit’s mouth twitched. “We have a celebrity in our midst.”
Micah shrugged. “I’m just a guy looking for a way home, like everyone else here.”
“Well,” Jamal said, “you’re welcome to shelter with us. And given what’s out there, I recommend you accept the offer.” He nodded to the woman in the SHIDO CAFÉ shirt. “Rose, why don’t you help him get settled in? Introduce him to everyone, get him some food, show him where he can clean up.”
“Thank you so much,” Micah said.
“Don’t thank us,” Serjit snapped. “It’s not a favor. You’ll be expected to contribute your skills to the group, same as everyone else.” He shook his head. “Though I’m afraid we’re not much in need of games.”
No, Micah thought. But if I ever get out of here, this crazy place may wind up in one.
* * *
Rose introduced him to everyone, but there were too many names and faces to remember, or maybe he was just too tired to memorize anything. He instructed his headset to record everything he saw, to go over later. They offered him food, but he found that the events of the last day had unsettled his stomach enough that it was hard to eat. He nibbled just enough to realize that their replicator must be running low on ingredients, because everything tasted the same.
“You’ll get used to it,” one of the women whispered to him, and he shuddered. He didn’t want to be here long enough to get used to anything.
Then Rose showed him the bath stall, and he said yes, he’d like to clean up. And that part was bliss. As he peeled off his sweat-soaked clothing, he felt like he was shedding a skin, allowing a new, fresher Micah to emerge. The bath itself was a bit challenging, as the sonic cleaner wasn’t working and water was being rationed, but he managed to scrub enough sweat off his body to feel human again, and—more important—to smell human. No doubt the people in the haven would be grateful for that.