‘They say no one can hear a scream in the vacuum of space.’ 

The kneeling Transient’s voice tremored, betraying his desperation. Karim didn’t look at him. Neither did he look at his fellow warder but knew there would be a sneering smirk of delight lurking behind an assumed veneer of compassion. He’d seen it seven times before. Witnessed Bonnar’s insistence on this ridiculous, pointless ritual designed to drag out the inevitable suffering. Karim hated the squirming sensation his bowels made when, before, he’d watched the alternating flashes of terror and hope cross inmates’ faces. He’d learned to look away, to look at a point just above their heads, to study the deep space sky outside, with its flickering remnants of beginnings and endings. He’d learned to keep his gaze at such a discrete angle Bonnar would never guess he wasn’t watching. Karim knew what would happen if Bonnar even suspected he was giving in to any kind of lily-livered response. But still, the whimper in the inmate’s voice reminded him of the times when he had watched and found himself almost admiring Bonnar’s tremendous sense of sadistic timing. 

‘Close, but no cigar. Time’s ticking.’ Bonnar trilled the last word. Tiiii…kiiing.

‘Please, forgive me. I had so little time to spend in the Archives. Work, family, I barely had time to sleep some days. And the Archives are so vast.’ 

‘You know what they say, knowledge is currency. Trust me, it’s a well-known…’ Bonnar snapped his fingers in Karim’s direction. ‘What’s the word I’m wanting here?’ 

‘Aphorism?’ Karim offered. 

‘Exactly. It’s a well-known one of those. And the quote is, like, well famous. From one of the great William Shakespeare’s most famous movies.’ 

Karim closed his eyes for a nano-second longer than a blink, desperate to shut out the staggering depth of Bonnar’s ignorance. If knowledge was currency, Bonnar was bankrupt. His gaze returned to the spot just above the inmate’s freshly shaven head, with its nicks from a too sharp razor and its Cho Ku Rei tattoo, the latter a power symbol believed to help its wearer face great challenges. Karim didn’t need to ask what this man’s challenge had been. He could guess. 

The Transient’s eyes darted left to right, up and down, as if their searching might reveal the answer to Bonnar’s question, written on the gleaming titanium inner walls of the airlock. His tongue flicked, trying to moisten lips that were so dry they stuck together. 

‘In space…’ 

‘That’s good. Keep it coming.’ 

The Transient’s breath came quicker, his bony chest rising and falling beneath the thin, torn calico shirt. 

‘In space, they say, no one can hear a scream.’ 

‘Nearly there! Nearly there!’ 

Bonnar’s huge frame bounced up and down in an almost childish delight, but at the same time, one meaty hand moved closer to the console left of the outer airlock door. He knew the answer would be in the Archive. It wasn’t his fault if the Transient had been too lazy to learn. 

The Archive had been created to give Transients a genuine opportunity to progress. It had instantaneous translation into every known language in existence, the highest-grade search facility yet developed, and a phenomenal bank of subject matter updated on an hourly basis. The goal had been to enable every Transient to become a valued, equal member of society. It had taken generations to finally accept there was never going to be a Final Solution to put an end to the perpetual global migration; to stem the insistent drive to find a better life. A radical new vision was needed. For too long, people had been economically segregated, categorised in terms of consumer groups, with Transients at the bottom of the heap, particularly those considered to be illegals. They’d been labelled parasites, outcasts punished by a cat’s cradle of bureaucratic legislation preventing them becoming valuable, contributing members of their chosen society, all in the vain hope this would, in some magical way, discourage the people trade by undermining the business model of the traffickers. Years wasted in the fruitless pursuit of genuine human progress based on profit and loss accounts. Years wasted in the dehumanising belief that every problem could be solved if enough money was thrown at it, a facile attempt by the ruling elite to be seen to tackle a human crisis. Those who devised the Vision had seen past the blinkered, mercenary relationships that had come to dominate all areas of existence. The aim of the Vision was to move forward to a world where compassion, empathy, and the value of all human knowledge were placed on a pedestal adjacent and equal to profit. Environmental, social and governance departments were no longer poor governing bedfellows, but guiding lights. It was to meet corporate ESG requirements that had led to the development of the deep space stations, new worlds devoted to promoting the well-being of Transients. In the beginning there had been fertile opposition. It was argued the Stations replicated the lunatic asylums of the 19th century, which had only further undermined well-being by creating a trapped and institutionalised populace. Others saw it as a back door attempt to reprise the creation of brave new worlds that, in reality, were nothing more than penal colonies. But early fears had proved to be unfounded. The Stations had seen Transients receive the input they needed to genuinely progress. To go on to the safer, better lives they had craved. If they were prepared to learn. 

Yes, knowledge is currency, mused Karim, but what happened to those who wouldn’t, or couldn’t, learn. Or share that learning. 

‘Okay, last chance.’ Bonnar was in his element. He’d grasped the gist of allowing all to progress through the Elevation of Knowledge, but somehow the ethos behind it – and the compassion – had completely eluded him. 

Karim heard the Transient start muttering and then emit a guttural sound more animal than human. Against his better instincts, he glanced down. 

The Transient’s hands were locked together in a gesture of prayer. Was that instinctive? Genetic memory? It was certainly no longer taught. Hadn’t been since the Vision was implemented. The man’s lips trembled, his head shaking from side to side, eyes locked on Bonnar. 

Despite himself, Karim began to will the man to give Bonnar the right answer. He pictured the words travelling across space from his mind to the Transient’s. He saw large black letters penetrate the airlock door and swirl around the Transient’s head. 

Look around you, Karim exhorted silently. See the words. In your mind’s eye. See them. 

The Transient tore his gaze from Bonnar and looked toward Karim. His babbling stopped. His lips began to move purposefully. 

‘In space…’ he began, ‘In space, no one can hear you…’ 

Bonnar slammed his fist against the console. The outer airlock door flew open, and the Transient was gone. 

‘Did you hear that? On the comms?’ Bonnar beamed triumphantly. ‘I swear he screamed. Right as the airlock opened. Did you hear it? I heard it. Swear I did. Right, my friend, I think we’ve earned ourselves a right royal breakfast.’ Bonnar turned sharply on his heel and headed for the linking corridor that led to his breakfast. After a guilt-tinged glance at the airlock that had just ejected Transient Vasily 03, Karim followed.

All the eating facilities on the Station were excellent–progress marches on its stomach—and the one thing Karim and Bonnar agreed upon was that the canteen on D deck was without doubt the best. The head chef, Mo, a Transient woman in her 80s originally from the Far-Lands, had been a total knowledge freak most of her life, and catering excellence had followed. There was always a theme, usually a celebration with a dark or humorous twist, built around historical events found on the Archive. 

Today was no exception. 

A banner hung from the ceiling with the tongue-in-cheek declaration: EARTH: REFERENDUM VOTES TO LEAVE SOLAR SYSTEM. Menus graced the tables, laid out like news reports referencing the beginning of the Great Break Up and the Third War to End All Wars. Karim got the reference, smiled, and silently applauded the irony. The joke, like the banner, went over Bonnar’s head. 

‘What’s good today?’ 

‘All is good.’ Mo was sensitive to any suggestion her food was ever anything other than top notch. She was a Transient who’d decided to progress as far as she could. She had found her new life and took pride in it.

‘He means what’s special.’ 

Karim winked gently at Mo as he spoke. He’d always had a way of diffusing tension, of pouring oil on troubled waters. Once, his way of keeping the peace had helped in the Mid-Lands, but the Third War to End All Wars had changed everything and now, on the Station, it was seen as unnecessary. Nothing seriously interrupted the peace, so there was no need for peacekeepers. It had taken a long time for Karim to adjust. By the time he progressed to the status of Warder, a cushy number given the lack of any meaningful conflict, he had gained much knowledge but had struggled to find his identity in this new world. Six months working with Bonnar had done the rest. After fourteen months on Deep Space Station Kappa, Karim felt emasculated. 

‘Then he should say that. Special? The mushrooms. A medley. Three varieties. Fresh picked. Tomatoes. Silken tofu. Seeded bread straight from the oven. Heaven on a plate. And nothing needed to die in the process.’ 

Karim squirmed as the face of the Transient in the airlock pushed its unwelcome way into his mind. 

‘I eat what I want. Alive or dead. I’m not squeamish.’ 

Mo regarded Bonnar with contempt. 

‘That’s because you were never a Transient. You wear your privilege like a close-fitting coat. What can I get you, my friend?’ Mo’s face softened as she looked at the younger man whom she had seen progress so well, though not necessarily in a direction she approved of. 

Karim’s stomach churned at the thought of food, even food as good as Mo’s, but he was too polite to say. 

‘Mushrooms sound great.’ 

‘I’ll have the works.’ Bonnar grunted. 

‘Of course you will.’ 

Mo left the sarcasm hanging in the air, turned on her heel, and headed back to the sanctuary of her kitchen. Bonnar gave her back a sour look. 

‘These Transients are getting above themselves if you ask me.’ 

It never ceased to amaze Karim how Bonnar would talk about Transients as if Karim wasn’t one of them. At first, he thought it was a sign of acceptance and felt reassured. Later though he came to frame it as a refusal to acknowledge him on any significant level at all, unless Bonnar needed a whipping boy. But they’d never discussed it because Bonnar never mentioned it and Karim never brought it up. He just assumed it was likely the latter in the same way as he assumed his progress would continue if he kept up his visits to the Archive, logging his hours like deep sea divers log their time at depth. 

‘Cat got your tongue?’ At the table, Bonnar was starting in on him, out of boredom perhaps, or to release some pent-up tension, but before Karim could answer, a plate of food was waved in front of their faces. 

‘Mushrooms?’ 

‘Mine.’ said Karim, sitting back in his chair as a second plate descended swiftly and landed neatly in front of Bonnar. The server gave a theatrical flourish, like a magician might after successfully tricking a member of the audience, then lent forward, floppy fringe falling across her face, an impish look dancing behind her mock serious expression.

‘Cat got your tongue! Did you know that saying goes back over 5000 years? The ancient Egyptians liked to cut out the tongues of blasphemers and feed them to their cats. Cats were worshipped in Egypt. Did you know cats don’t have a sweet tooth and a cat’s hairball is called a bezoar? They usually vomit these up, but there are any number of methods to help a cat rid themselves of a hairball. I love cats and there is just so much information about them in the Archives. Do you have a cat? Having a pet can be very therapeutic for your health. A number of medical research trials show that patients in terminal care medical facilities reported far less pain when they had an animal to pet. Particularly a cat. Before I became a Transient—I was still only seven years old—I would visit my grandmother who had a dozen cats. I read of an old lady once who had dozens of cats and when she died, they fed on her body. I learned on the Archive that it was their way of showing love and saying goodbye. Isn’t that lovely? Things to consider: do cats really have nine lives, is curiosity lethal, and can cats really be alive and dead at the same time? According to one 20th century physicist, that is entirely possible. Enjoy your meal.’ 

Karim smiled inside at the outpouring of acquired knowledge. Once, he’d had to work that hard at the Archives. Now he didn’t need to, and he was grateful. He still kept up his hours, logging them diligently, but he’d achieved. He could relax. A little.

The young server left, but before either Karim or Bonnar could raise fork to mouth, the internal comms systems coughed into life: 

‘T Vasily 03. Log in please.’ 

Karim frowned and looked at Bonnar, who barely hesitated before plunging his knife and fork into his eggs. 

‘Did you hear that?’.

Bonner didn’t stop chewing. ‘Eat your breakfast.’ 

‘The Transient we just … processed. The system just called for him.’

‘So what? Eat up!’

Karim stared at his plate; an uncomfortable lump had formed in his throat. 

‘I’m not hungry.’ 

Bonnar lunged at Karim’s plate and loaded his fork with a healthy measure of his colleague’s mushrooms.

‘Relax. Come on. It’s just a job. Let it go. Eat your breakfast.’

‘But why did they order it?’ 

‘Why did they order what?’ 

‘Why did they order us to take them. To lose them. What makes them different? There have been eight now. Eight in as many days. Why? And why us?’ 

‘Why us? Well, as an old army captain of mine used to say: ours is not to reason why. He said it was good advice he’d received from a Transient who learned it through the Archives but, sadly, failed to act on it.’ Bonnar gave a slight snigger. ‘Anyway, I like to work on a need-to-know basis. And I don’t need to know more than I already told you and that was what they told me.’

‘Have they asked other warders to do the same?’ 

‘No one’s said anything.’ 

‘It just doesn’t fit with everything else they do. Don’t you ever ask yourself what’s changed?’ 

‘Nothing’s changed. They know what they’re doing.’

The comms system wheezed again. 

‘T Vasily 03. Log in please.’ 

Karim’s face paled, then reddened, betraying the fact that he was both unsettled at the insistence the deceased Transient should log in, and irritated by the fact they had on board all the wonders of early 23rd century technology, yet the intercom still sounded like an old man with a respiratory disease. But now the insistent croaking seemed to take on a sinister tone. He felt increasingly nervous.

‘But if they asked you, I mean, us, to see to it, why are they now asking him to log in? They never asked the others to log in after…you know. I mean why would they? They’ve processed hundreds, thousands of Transients. It’s always the same. The shuttle arrives. They’re deplaned. Processed. Then the learning begins. They start their new lives. End of. Then, out of the wide blue yonder, eight are brought to us, one after the other to…you know. And we do that, no questions asked and no follow up. Then this. They broadcast to the whole Station that they want’… Karim lowered his voice to a whisper … ‘a dead man to log in. It doesn’t make sense. What’s changed?’ 

‘What does it matter? And why do you care anyway?’ 

Karim’s throat tightened.

‘Because it could be me.’ 

‘How could it be you? You’re here. You’re a Warder enjoying your privileges. Like eating your breakfast.’

Bonnar’s cognitive processes were resolutely concrete.

’Okay then, it could be like family. Or a friend.’ 

Bonnar stopped chewing. 

‘You have friends who are Transients?’ 

‘Of course.’ 

‘Really? Why?’

The truth struck Karim like a stone: Bonnar doesn’t know. Is that possible? And if Bonnar doesn’t know, how would be react if he found out? From someone else. Would he think Karim had been deliberately holding out on him? And would he then suspect Karim might be holding out on other things. Maybe Bonnar would look at Karim a little more closely. With suspicion even. That was the last thing Karim wanted. His breath came faster. Should he tell, or not tell? As he sat there, his breakfast chilling on its plate, the Archive’s choices and voices churned round in his mind: I’m between a rock and a hard place. Scilla and Charybdis. The hammer and the anvil. The Devil and the deep blue sea. It’s a predicament. A bind. A dilemma. Hobson’s choice. A no-win…

‘Because I’m a Transient.’ Karim blurted it out.

Bonnar’s lower jaw dropped so fast and so low it would have seemed comical under other circumstances.

‘You are? 

Karim gave the merest of nods, his eyes never leaving Bonnar’s face.

‘Do they know?’  

‘Do they know what?’ Karim’s wary brow furrowed.

‘Do they know you’re a Transient?’

‘Of course they know. They placed me.’ 

‘They placed you with me?’ 

‘You know they did.’ 

‘Did they tell me?’ 

‘I don’t know. Did you ask?’ 

‘I already told you…’ 

‘Yes. Yours is not to reason why.’ Karim exhaled what was almost a breath of relief and disbelief. 

Then Bonnar threw his arms in the air, knife and fork still clutched in his pudgy fingers.

‘A Transient. They expected me to work with a Transient. Not a word or by your leave. How long were you going to hide it?’

‘I didn’t hide it. I thought you already knew.’

Red-faced, Bonnar looked like he was going to choke on his breakfast. He swallowed hard and was about to spit back a reply when the comms coughed into life again.

‘T Vasily 03, log in please.’

For a second Bonnar was distracted. Karim clutched at the opportunity.

‘So what do we do?’ I mean, do we tell them what’s happened? In case it’s a mistake, like an admin error.’ 

‘They don’t make mistakes.’ 

‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ 

‘Not them. They don’t. They don’t.’ 

Bonnar was now clenching his fists white-knuckled round his cutlery. Like many not blessed with the ability to articulate well, he expressed his inner conflict much more physically, like a child having a tantrum. Karim could see the tension building in the big man’s frame. His shoulders were hunched, his fingers clenching and unclenching. The heel of one foot was tapping repeatedly on the ceramic flooring. Bonnar was starting to draw attention to himself. So Karim did what he did best. He pacified.

‘No, you’re right. Of course. They don’t make mistakes. We probably misread the manifest sheet. Maybe it was T Vasily 01 in that airlock. Or 02. Forget it. Finish your breakfast. Do you want coffee? Maybe some juice? You relax and enjoy. I’ll be straight back.’ 

At the self-serve drinks counter, Karim pretended to stare at the options, thankful to be away from Bonnar’s rising fury. He would no doubt have to face the fallout from his revelation in the not-too-distant future, but what troubled him more was the repeated request that had come over the comms. In his mind, he replayed the morning and pictured the manifest. He would stake a month’s pay on it reading the name T Vasily 03 under the heading ‘For Transit’. 

When they had received their first Transit order, Bonnar, as a senior warder, had been told that the person to be moved on presented a severe risk to all those on DSS Kappa. But no explanation was given as to the nature of the risk. There were over 3000 people aboard the Station, so it was hard to envisage what risk one sole individual could pose. When they were presented with a second person the next day, Karim thought perhaps a pair of Transients had begun to share some poisonous discontent—there were always mumblings amongst some, usually about trivial matters that were swiftly dealt with in a sensitive, diplomatic manner, with a post-incident focus group discussion ensuring everything had been resolved to the satisfaction of all. Discontent rarely rumbled on for long. And even if it did, ejection would have been an extreme, and out of proportion response. A punishment, if that’s what it was, that did not fit a relatively minor infringement such as dissent. Had they refused to learn? Did that explain their exit? But the ethos decreed that given the right environment, all people would flourish. Daily affirmations received over the comms reinforced the value of working at individual, and therefore community, progress. Of valuing the distance travelled instead of despairing at the distance still to go. Of never giving up. None of that fit with the Transit orders of the past eight days. And T Vasily 03. 

Karim forced himself to picture the little man, seemingly inoffensive in every way. He’d never noticed him around the Station, but then, he’d not seemed the type who would stand out. Just an ordinary Joe. Except for the tattoo. The power symbol. That would have attracted attention if it hadn’t been hidden by his hair. So, had his head been shaved and the tattoo discovered? If so, what led to the shaving. Or were the authorities already alerted and the tattoo discovered afterwards? Maybe the tattoo was just a harmless adornment mistakenly perceived as … what? Karim didn’t know, and not knowing was a problem, a side effect of the thousands of hours put in at the Archive. Others had suffered it too. It was never the intention of the Vision, but not knowing was increasingly seen as a mark of shame. 

‘Kappa is the 10th letter of the Greek alphabet, used to represent the voiceless velar plosive.’ 

Karim started and turned toward the speaker. It was the same floppy fringed server who had brought their breakfast and regaled them with everything she knew about cats. Except this time her voice was hushed and her words pregnant with meaning. 

‘Kappa is Finnish for pelmet. Also, Kappa is a Japanese water spirit. Its form is that of a cross between human, duck, and turtle. Kappas live in ponds and rivers. They drag people in and drown them. If a Kappa gets hold of you it will pull your intestines out through your arsehole. I’ve no idea why it would do such a thing. But then, why was T Vasily 03 designated for Transit? Does it have something to do with the Quantum Experiments? I say it again: can a cat really be alive and dead at the same time? How many times must they test a theory before it becomes a fact? I recommend the passion juice. The fruit was picked from the farm on Deck H and freshly squeezed this morning.’ 

Then she was gone. 

For a full minute, Karim remained motionless, one hand lifting a cup to the fresh drinks machine. It was as if someone had been listening in on his thoughts, the intrusive ones that shouldered their way through the cognitive flotsam that had cluttered his mind since he was brought to the Station, assessed, and placed on the Archive programme. Was it all too good to be true? 

It had been his heart’s desire to escape to a safe place. He’d known the risks that came with trusting the traffickers. He’d taken the glorious promise of a golden future with a large pinch of salt but an even larger pitcher of hope. He’d seen how incomers had been treated in his own country. He’d witnessed how those who’d been incomers a generation before went on to look down on the new wave of the desperate and displaced. Instead of experiencing compassion born out of empathy, the new waves were treated with contempt. Those who had felt the same vulnerability, the same fragility, those who had once been in the very same situation, now clutched at a pitiful sense of superiority and were the first to complain about incomers. They had assimilated, aligned themselves with those who had welcomed them in, but then eaten from the tree of the lemon, spitting at those who came to line the streets to merely exist in detention centres and filthy hostels, waiting for their hope of a new life to be realised. 

There is a choice in life, Karim knew, between offering a helping hand or a down treading foot. There was also a third way. Karim had chosen that third way: to stay neutral. Throughout the journey from his home, across the vast stretches of barren landscapes and dried up waterways, he had kept himself to himself, promising that when he reached the safety he was seeking he would go back to being his old self: Karim with the smiling eyes. Karim of the kind word. Karim the peacekeeper. 

‘What’s the hold up?’ 

Bonnar’s growl jerked Karim back to the present. 

‘I was trying to decide. Passionfruit or elder.’

‘Neither.’ 

Bonnar reached for a coffee mug, knocking Karim to one side. 

‘You know your problem, Transient? You think too much.’ 

Karim couldn’t argue with that. He ignored Bonnar’s relish at the new-found way to acknowledge him and lifted a glass to the elderflower dispenser. He  watched as the light caught the pale, golden liquid as it flowed into his glass. It seemed to him it was almost the colour of the honey his grandmother had drizzled across her fresh baked bread back in the old country. Honey from the hives on their own land. A land lost years before. He knew this place would never be home, but it was a life. A life his family did not have. Karim choked back the sting of survivor’s guilt and set his jaw.  The past is past. This is now. The old Karim is not dead, but the new Karim is alive and well. Maybe ignorance is bliss, he thought. Maybe his was not to reason why. Maybe he should just be grateful he had survived. If those Transients had to be designated for annihilation, maybe there was a good reason for it. And if the system had made a mistake, well, it was beyond his pay grade to fret. 

Karim cradled his drink in both hands, rolling the cool glass back and forth over his fingers. As he sipped, then heartily gulped, he thought of the old country, and his heart felt almost at peace. Then the antiquated comms sputtered back into life, announcing with an almost imperceptible note of satisfaction:

‘T Vasily 03 has logged in.’