Tyler Hillis

A dome of inflated glass stretched high over the rice fields of Hab 15b. Dargin walked along an elevated catwalk, staring at the data feed scrolling down the inner side of his vac suit’s face shield.

Current Crop: Rice – Seed Generation 3483 Variation 45
Current Exposure Duration: 19:55:00
Next Scheduled Shielding: 00:05:00
Rice Nutrient Efficiency: 94.7%
Time Since Last Sample: 20:55:00
Projected Crop Harvest: 2.5py
Next Scheduled Crop Rotation: Wheat – Seed Generation 278 Variation 14

Dargin sighed as he refreshed and read the data feed again.

“ReTOK, run analysis on Rice Nutrient Efficiency in field seven,” he said.

“Affirm. Running Analysis,” a voice said through Dargin’s earpiece. A text transcription of the voice scrolled on his display as it spoke. “Analysis complete. Field seven reports a ninety-four-point-seven-percent Nutrient Efficiency rating. This result is lower than the expected minimum ninety-eight-percent Nutrient Efficiency rating as documented in the Proxima Colony Master Plan, Food Production subsection.”

“I know,” Dargin said under his breath, “why do you think I asked you to run an analysis?” He knew the AI wouldn’t consider this a real prompt. It was too well trained on common human behavior to know when a question wasn’t really a question.

“This lower-than-normal rating has three possible causes that will require human inspection and verification.”

“Of course they will,” Dargin said, again, not expecting a response, nor getting one.

“Possibility one: Water pH and nutrient mix abnormalities. Current readings report all levels in nominal range. Human sampling required to verify results.”

Using a series of facial expressions to control his face shield’s display, Dargin highlighted the data feed and created a list of action items.

“Possibility two:,” the voice continued, “Exposure time or quality from Centauri has been disrupted. All accessible data reports time and radiation levels in nominal range. Human observation required to verify results.”

Dargin sighed heavily as he added to his action item list. Star observations meant the next two ProxYears would be busy.

“Possibility Three: Rice Seed Generation three-four-eight-three variation forty-six has undocumented mutation and should be removed from seed pool. All previous generations report above ninety-eight-percent Efficiency Rating. Human sampling required to verify results.”

Dargin stopped walking and looked back over the last possibility. He brought up the field’s data again, comparing the possibility with the results. He furrowed his brow, and very soon after, small spots of moisture appeared on the rolls of skin. His breathing quickened.

He flicked his eyes up to the comms panel and patched in.

“Uh, Yalma, I could use a second set of eyes on this if you can spare the time,” he said.

Her voiced fuzzed in through his ear. “Sure, just finished field two. What’s up?”

Dargin’s mind lurched. It had been flying, flicking from one scenario to the next, thinking of all the consequences and outcomes and pain and suffering and…and as soon as Yalma asked ‘what’s up?’ it all stopped. It was disorientating. He grabbed the railing of the catwalk to stop himself from forgetting how to stand.

And in that lurch, something vanished. Something important.

A phrase. The most important phrase. Passed down to every colonist verbally (and only verbally) since the first colonizers left earth bound for Poxima on the Remedy colony ship. And it was gone from his mind.

He ached against the paralysis. His breath quickened even more. His mask momentarily clouded before the venting system increased and cleared it away.

“Dargin, you there?” Yalma’s voice fuzzed in.

He took a long deep breath, and finally, it came to him.

“I was stripes and I hit the eightball in.”

Silence hung in the air of his vac suit. He held his breath waiting for a response. The rice stalks stood in eerie stillness all around him.

“Oh fuck, I’m coming.”

He let out a long breath, knowing he was no longer in this alone. He let go of the catwalk railing and found strength in his legs again. As he began to walk toward the field’s entrance, a new notification appeared in his datafeed.

Field Seven Alert: Shielding In Progress

The inflated glass of the dome began to darken. Subtle at first, but in less than a minute, the clear window letting in the light from Centauri went completely opaque and black. The field, and Dargin, were cast in absolute shadow.

“Please repeat last request,” the voice of ReTOK said in his ear. It’s suddenness made him jump and ice shot through his veins.

He turned on his headlamp, illuminating the catwalk in front of him in a narrow cone, and he tried to keep his voice steady as he talked.

“Disregard, ReTOK. It’s an inside joke between Yalma and I.”

His headlamp flickered a bit.

“…Affirm.”