On the Fence
By Gregory Ballinger
There was a deafness all around, a silence so complete, that very often, thoughts sounded as loud as any noise. “Bush pig,” Cuthbert mumbled as he surveyed some damage to the fence. Looking up, he raised a gloved hand as a soundless apology to his companion further along the line. Between them, they had conjured up the term as an expletive, whenever they found any damage, but lately it seemed to be the only words they ever really exchanged.
In the beginning of their two-year stint, they’d talked and joked, telling each other their stories, but now nearing the end of their tour, the dullness of repetition and time had worn them down into silence. Memories seemed hazy, vague and easily forgotten. Words became unimportant, and the idea of a ship retuning to collect them for a changeover seemed somehow alien and unfamiliar.
Cuthbert reached into his toolbox and noticed the shadows lengthening upon the ground like fingers reaching out to touch him. It was time to take a break, and think about resupplying the gear for the next crew. He set to work fixing the damage to the fence, brushing dust away and twisting the damaged metal back into place. Once satisfied, Cuthbert stepped back, creating oversized footprints in the dust with his hulking boots. He turned to glance at the empty launchpad, one of the few discernible features in their barren, crater-pitted world. He scanned the star-studded sky for any sign of a ship, but there was none, only the wind tugging at his suit as if to signal it was time to step back over the fence, and through the dome, onto the other side.
Once through, Cuthbert opened his visor and there was always a moment where he thought perhaps the fence hadn’t been repaired properly and the air would be sucked from his lungs, but it never happened, not on his watch. He removed his gloves and began to make a mental note of what would be needed to replenish the gear. Inside the dome, a curved electrical beam rose up from the fence line like a curtain of blue and arched over like an artificial sky, keeping the atmosphere inside. The sound of static was audible and through the haze, Cuthbert eyed the supply station about a kilometre away, exactly halfway between their dome and the central base.
Further along, Cuthbert observed his fellow companion Rupert walk through the dome, then begin to remove his helmet. He didn’t look over, but instead trudged over towards the buggy and parked in a dip of a crater inside. Cuthbert eventually made his way over, and by the time he got there, Rupert had already conjured up lunch and silently handed it over. They both stood leaning on the back of the buggy in silence, sipping the warm, but tasteless soup. “Supply station,” Cuthbert mumbled, and the sound of his own voice seemed to come out of nowhere. “We’ll need to stock up for the next crew.”
Rupert drew in a deep breath, as if it pained him, “Any fence damage?”
“Pretty bad in one part, reckon a meteorite must’ve hit it.”
“Bush pig,” Rupert grunted with a hint of a smile, and Cuthbert nodded as way of affirmation.
“I’ll head down the supply station now, get it done,” Cuthbert downed his soup and started packing up the back of the buggy. “Anything you need?” Cuthbert asked, but Rupert just shook his head and made his way back out to the fence.
Cuthbert watched his companion disappear through the semi-transparent haze, continuing to check one of the many thousand connection points. Cuthbert hauled himself up into the buggy, scrambling through the makeshift sleeping compartment in the back before settling down into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and spun the buggy around until the supply station was in the centre of the windscreen, nothing more than a black cube on the horizon, then slowly passed through the dome and set out across the plain.
In the beginning, he’d enjoyed these little trips every few months to break up the monotony of the fence, now he hated them. He hated leaving the fence, not being near it, cursing it, obsessing over it. It had become a part of him, and the thought of the ship coming to take them away from it filled him with dread. The road to the supply station was bumpy, some of the craters had been flattened down over time, but every now and again there would be one that would jolt the entire buggy, sending it almost airborne. He looked beyond the dome cloaking the supply station to the even larger dome covering the central base and it reminded him of a giant game of Russian dolls, with their dome being the smallest one.
The shadows continued to move and stretch. “Bush pig,” Cuthbert thought and almost laughed at Rupert and himself, for coming up with such an obscure term for anything unusual disturbing their peace. Cuthbert pondered how the phrase had come about as he passed through the dome and pulled up next to the supply station, parking in his usual crater.
Turning the engine off, Cuthbert waited for the kicked-up dust to settle back down before scrambling back through the buggy and jumping down off the back. Nothing stirred, because no one came out this far from the central base, and why would they. There was nothing out here except a reserve landing-field. Cuthbert often thought about why it was so important to go to all this effort of setting up out here. What decisions were being made in the central base to warrant all this effort. Lifting his visor, the only noise was the occasional crackle from the dome and for a moment, Cuthbert considered, what would happen if he were to drive up to the central base right now? Would he even be allowed to enter?
He squashed that thought and entered the supply station instead. Instantly the lights pinged on and the dormant droid behind the counter hummed to life. “How may I help you today?”
“Just the usual,” Cuthbert grunted, scanning the shelves stocked with everything he could ever need to fix the fence over ten lifetimes.
The droid observed Cuthbert with glowing eyes while it processed the information. “How is the fence holding up?” the droid queried conversationally, but Cuthbert didn’t answer and continued to silently gather what he needed. He knew the droid had no real interest in the fence, it was only what he’d been programmed to ask. Every time Cuthbert came here the droid’s questions had become more burdensome and irritating.
Cuthbert put what he needed for himself and the next crew upon the counter and the droid started to tally it up. “That’s four thousand bolts, two hundred metres of wire, six thousand connectors…” the droid continued listing and Cuthbert took a walk. Glancing past the open door into another room, he saw the sleeping quarter beds, stripped and laid bare. Sure, Cuthbert and Rupert could’ve slept in here if they wanted to, and yes it would probably be comfier than the back of the buggy, but what with the droid and its incessant nattering, it was too much to even consider. “That’s everything,” the droid chimed, and Cuthbert walked back over. “Would you like me to help you load it up?” the droid asked with a tinny smile.
“No,” Cuthbert grated, gathering his things and taking them out. It took three trips to get everything onto the buggy, and each time the droid tried to make conversation, just like it had been programmed to do.
“Would you like any soup sachets? How’s the weather outside the dome? Seen any bush pigs today?”
Cuthbert stopped in the doorway. “What did you say?” Cuthbert asked, looking back at the droid that was now silent and staring.
“How’s the weather outside the dome?” the droid whirred.
“After that.”
“Seen any bush pigs today?”
Cuthbert stared at the droid. “You listening to us?” Cuthbert hissed, pointing to his suit microphone. “You listening to our personal feed?”
“I cannot listen to your personal feed,” the droid stated.
Cuthbert made a noise in his throat. “Seems strange for you to mention bush pigs,” Cuthbert grumbled, surprised by how annoyed he was that this droid was listening into their private channel, not that there was much to listen to in the recent weeks. “Are they listening too?” Cuthbert pointed in the direction of the base.
Suddenly his suit radio crackled to life, “Cuthbert,” Rupert called out. “Come quick.”
Cuthbert turned away from the droid and spoke in a hushed whisper, “What is it?”
“Bush pig,” Rupert rasped, and then the line went dead.
Cuthbert ran to the buggy and the droid called out, “Do you need any help?” Cuthbert didn’t answer and tried to talk over the radio several times on the way back, but there was no response. He raced towards the spot where he’d last seen Rupert and found him lying on the ground inside the dome, suited up and not moving. Cuthbert rushed over and discovered his visor had melted slightly and his face seemed burnt, sizzling with what looked like a metal plate just visible under the skin.
“Rupert, what happened?”
Rupert’s eyes flickered for a moment towards the dome. “Bush pig,” he repeated, and then took one long deep breath before twitching a few times and becoming very still. Cuthbert picked him up in the low gravity and put him on the back of the buggy. He was torn for a moment between going to investigate outside the dome, but instead decided that he would have to take Rupert to the central base for help.
He sped across the landscape towards the largest dome and in no time, passed by the supply station at the hallway point and kept on going. Cuthbert pushed the radio control button; all contact with the base was for emergencies only. “Central base, this is outer crew, reporting,” Cuthbert began, but there was no reply. “Central base, this is outer crew, reporting.”
“What is your status?” came a robotic reply.
“There’s been an accident, crew member down.”
“Not cleared for entry.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, we have a man down out here.”
“Not cleared for entry,” the tinny voice repeated. “Medical supplies can be found at the supply station.”
Cuthbert approached the central base and jumped down off the buggy. The dome’s colour was much deeper up close and when Cuthbert approached, he could feel the heat coming off it and pulled back. Something moved in his peripheral vision, but when he turned, there was nothing there. Then it moved again, something quick and nimble, darting from shadow to shadow, but always outside his field of vision.
Cuthbert twitched and started to think all this talk of bush pigs had set one loose in his mind. He reached for the buggy, but the sound of a low growl in his ears made him back away. Something was underneath the buggy. He turned to run, skirting the large dome, always looking over his shoulder, but never really seeing anything. Then he tripped and lost his balance, tumbling to the ground and part of his arm brushed against the dome, melting away. Cuthbert screamed, trying to rectify his leaking suit, but then noticing, too, his burnt arm resembled scorched metal. He spasmed in horror and just about managed to rasp the words, “Bush pig,” before everything went black.
By the time the rocket arrived and landed on the reserve launchpad to drop off the new fence crew, the droid from the supply station had tidied away the malfunctioning worker droids that always went a little twitchy towards the end of their cycle.
The buggy pulled into the supply station to pick up some gear, and one of the new crew remarked, “It’s completely dead out here.”
“Almost,” the droid replied. “Keep an eye out for those bush pigs.”
THE END
Author Bio: Gregory Ballinger is an avid reader, writer and time traveller. When Gregory is not reading or writing, he often travels back to the 1800’s, where he likes to spend his time in country gardens as an ornamental hermit, contemplating life in the cosmos. Gregory also likes cats.