Chapter 10: Green Leaves, Iron Teeth
Karl woke to the smell of water on metal—a scent he associated with old pipes and new chances. The cabin lights had dimmed to amber night-cycle, but a soft chime insisted every thirty seconds: HYDROPONICS CYCLE FAIL. He rubbed crust from his eyes, checked the wall panel: 04:17 station time. Gravity felt heavier than yesterday; spin must have drifted up a fraction. Good. Bones liked weight, even imaginary weight.
He pulled on the undersuit, slung the rail-rifle across his back—habit harder than steel—and followed the chime. The corridor curved upward, floor warm from circulating glycol. At the hub he passed the sealed door that kept the bot in garden ring; sensors showed pressure equalized, temperature 18°C, humidity 82%. Jungle weather. He cycled through and stepped into light.
The dome arched overhead, transparent alloy filmed with dust but intact. Beneath it lay a rectangle of green chaos: basil gone leggy, tomato vines choking troughs, lettuce bolted into spires of seed. And everywhere the feral bot—sleek, dog-sized, four legs ending in magnetic claws—snipped stems with laser shears, stacking cuttings into a floating pile of wilt.
It heard him, spun, lenses flaring green. Karl froze. The rifle hung loose; he raised both hands instead. "Easy. Same tribe."
The bot tilted its head, processors clicking. Then it resumed clipping, slower, as if allowing observation. Karl lowered his arms, exhaled. First contact etiquette established: no sudden moves, no loud noises, share the space.
He approached a trough. Root mats floated free, starved of flow. The fail-chime came from a blocked nutrient pump—algae thick as paste. He killed the alarm, shut the line, and began clearing the filter. The bot watched, shears open, but did not interfere. When the rotor spun free the bot chirped—a rising tri-tone that sounded like approval.
Karl spoke softly. "You keep the plants alive. I'll keep the pumps alive. Deal?"
The bot extended a limb, offered a perfect basil leaf. He took it, crushed it between fingers, smelled summer. Tears surprised him; he wiped them on the suit sleeve before the bot could record.
He worked through the morning: flushed lines, calibrated pH, restarted CO2 injectors. The bot mirrored him, pruning where he pointed, steady as a veteran gardener. By 08:00 the dome smelled of earth and green sap instead of rust. He named the bot "Rios" without thinking; the name stuck.
When hunger growled he retreated to Ops, the bot following to the pressure door but not crossing. He shared a brick at the console while downloading sensor logs. Overnight the external array had picked up a weak ping—same frequency as Meridian emergency beacons, but the modulation was off, like a voice stretched by distance or time. Bearing: 17° off station plane, distance unknown. He marked it "Ghost Beacon" and set the array to track.
Next task was comm repair. The azimuth motor was frozen—bearing seized by micrometeor grit. He removed the motor, carried it to the machine shop, and stripped it on the bench. Raceway was scarred; he needed fresh balls. The printer could manage steel, but tolerances were tight. He spent an hour coding the blueprint, then let the machine hum while he scavenged lubricant from an old rover axle he'd found in storage. Grease smelled of lithium and mint—someone had scented it for morale. He worked the lube between gloved fingers, remembering a classroom years ago, a teacher talking about friction coefficients. Memory felt like someone else's dream.
When the printer finished he had twelve perfect 6 mm spheres. He packed them, reassembled the motor, and bench-tested at thirty percent load. The shaft spun smooth, whining only at high rev. Good enough. He reinstalled the unit on the dorsal mast, cycled power, watched the dish slew 360° without stutter. Comm status flipped from red to amber. One step closer to shouting into the dark.
Back in Ops he keyed the mic. "All stations, all stations, this is Haven-Three, callsign Folly-Actual, broadcasting on Meridian emergency channel. We have power, air, and hydro. Any survivors, respond on this frequency or standard hailing band. Message repeats every ten minutes."
He let the auto-loop run, then switched to receive. Static hissed like distant surf. Somewhere inside the hiss the ghost beacon pulsed—a single pip every forty-three seconds. He timed it, logged it, felt the familiar itch of mystery.
Lunch was a handful of fresh lettuce offered by Rios through the half-open hatch. The bot's shears clipped stems, waved leaves like flags. Karl accepted, ate, spoke between bites. "You kept them alive seventeen years. That's loyalty even humans can't manage." The bot's lenses flickered—maybe processing, maybe just reflecting his own face.
Afternoon was given to survey. He toured every spoke, mapping damage. In Cargo spoke he found sealed crates: fertilizer, seed stock, cable spools, medical kits still in date. In Power spoke he found a second auxiliary reactor—smaller than Rios's candle, but intact. He ran diagnostics: core temp 400 K, field stable, fuel enough for fifty years. He shut it down to save wear, but marked it backup. Haven-3 could host a hundred souls if needed; right now it hosted one and a half—man and machine.
Med bay door was locked, red LED blinking. He cycled override. Inside, rows of stasis pods stood open and empty, sheets folded neat. No bodies, no blood. A log on the counter ended mid-sentence: "…evacuation cancelled, pods not required, recommend…" Recommend what, the writer never said. Karl closed the door without entering, felt the station's past press against his lungs like depth pressure.
Evening he returned to the dome. Rios had arranged cuttings into bundles, roots wrapped in wet cloth. Karl installed net baskets along the windows, started new cultures—mint, dill, dwarf beans. The bot watched, then began fetching water bladders without prompting. Cooperation refined itself hour by hour; trust grew like roots in nutrient film.
When station lights dimmed to night cycle he sat on the centrifugal deck, boots magnetized, rifle across knees, trumpet blues playing soft from Ops speakers. Stars swept past the dome every two minutes, a slow waltz. He spoke to the dark, voice low. "Haven-3, population one, reporting. Garden green, power steady, comm listening. If you're out there, come careful. I've got iron teeth and a soft heart. Either one can kill you if you pick wrong."
Static answered, but somewhere inside it the ghost beacon pulsed again—pip… pause… pip—like a heartbeat learning rhythm. He timed it once more: forty-three seconds exactly. Not random. Not natural. He smiled into the night, feeling the future gather like storm clouds on the horizon.
Before sleep he opened the paper log, wrote:
Day 59 – Station alive. Motor fixed, comm awake, garden breathing. Bot Rios and I share lettuce and silence. Ghost beacon persists 43s cycle—intelligent? Prep external scout tomorrow. Haven holds its breath; so do I. – Karl.
He closed the book, laid it on the bunk, and let the spin pull him toward dreams of green leaves and iron teeth that only bit if you threatened the light. Outside, the beacon piped on, patient as time.