Breaking the Ice

Nobody can hear a scream in space, or so they say.

“But what the Hell do I know? I work in sales.”

The man in the black suit standing on the other side of the table gave me no response. The dark, antique fedora overhung the black sunglasses which denied our eyes from making contact, and his pale, sunken-in cheeks fell into a seemingly perpetual frown. He was not amused.

“You seem to think this is a game, Mr. McGrath,” his deep voice spoke dryly.

“Well, I've heard of the men in black before, I just never thought someone would actually have gall to dress up like one for a legitimate investigation,” I responded honestly. “So forgive me if I find the getup a little on the nose.” Realizing how combative I sounded, I went on to add, “Plus, nerves, I guess.”

“Do you have reason to be nervous, Mr. McGrath?” he asked.

I took a breath, glancing around. The room was small; I thought it might have been a squeeze to fit more than about six or seven people in here, especially with the plain, metal table in the center. The size made it a bit claustrophobic, as if the already limited air supply of the station was stifled even further in this room, in its own little pocket. The walls were a dark grey, and there was only the single lamp in the center hanging above the table. It was the most generic interrogation room I could have imagined, like something out of an old movie. “Only that I am being interrogated by a man I've never seen before, and I don't even know why I am here.”

“You don't?”

“Should I?”

“Should you?”

I straightened up, lowering my chin and putting on the most customer-service voice I could muster, “Okay, this is getting old. The whole," I waived my hand around briefly, "answering a question with a question thing. That's getting old.”

His expression didn't change, but he tilted his head just slightly. “Where were you yesterday between the hours of about 0500 and 1300?” he asked, ignoring my complaint.

Oh. This was a work thing. Should have known that the company I worked for would have some kind of shady shit come up some day. What was this, money laundering or tax evasion or something? I calmly answered, slightly more relaxed now that I knew that whatever it was, it wasn't my problem. “I was at my job. That's my usual shift.”

“And where do you work, Mr. McGrath.”

“I work for Hybernational Crysospace Insurance.”

“And what do you do at HCI?”

I made an incredulous face, I'm sure. “I'm in sales.” I didn't know what else he wanted me to say.

“Ah yes. That's right. What exactly do you sell, Mr. McGrath?” he continued.

“Well,” I started, “Basically, I sell insurance plans for those who would like to freeze their bodies when they expect they are nearing the end of their life, so that they may have the chance to prolong their life in the future when the technology becomes available. We also offer plans for those who have been diagnosed with terminal illnesses, though we usually only accept those who are in early stages of an illness, in the hopes that if a cure is discovered, their body is in it's best condition to reverse whatever it is that's ailing them.”

“And do you enjoy the type of work that you do?” He moved from a standing position, first leaning into the table, and then slid over and sat back into the chair across from me.

Again, I was honest. “Enjoy might be a strong word for it. But I'm good at it, so it's fine. Pays the bills. Decent hours.” I nod lightly, “It's fine.”

“Would you say that you'd be looking to move up to another position soon, then?” He lifted his hands up onto the table and locked his fingers together. He was actually a pretty tall man. This only dawned on me by how silly he looked like that. His torso was so long that it looked like he barely bent his arms in this position.

Casually, I answered, “No, I'm not interested in moving up.”

“No?” he asked.

“No. I'm good,” I said confidently.

He, again just slightly, tilted his head. “I see. You don't really like your company all that much, do you?”

I considered the question, glancing off to the distance momentarily. I got paid well, I got along with everyone, it had good benefits. I really couldn't find any hard feelings for it. I shrugged and shook my head, looking back to him. “No, it's fine. They've never done me wrong.”

“I see,” he spoke. “So, what, maybe spend a few years there and then look outside for another, perhaps better paying position?” He seemed to now speak as if he were trying to relate to me. This guy literally dressed like the 1960s space-alien police. He was wearing a literal fedora. This guy was never going to relate to me, let's be honest. I was surprised he didn't park a dark brown Cadillac DeVille right outside the door, in the middle of the hallway of a damn space station.

Plus, I was pretty tired of this conversation. People usually tried to pigeon-hole me here. “Nope,” I said, trying not to sound impatient, “I make enough. I'm fine where I am.” I didn't know why, but this always seemed to offend people, like they took it personally how I wanted to live my life.

“Really,” he said, not as a question. “Interesting.”

“Yep,” I said bluntly.

I was pretty done with this conversation. I had nothing against whatever the investigation was, but so far, this was just asking personal questions about me, probably to get me to feel more comfortable or open up or something. I knew these tactics. I read a lot of books. I also played a lot of video games.

Speaking of interrogation tactics, it felt as though they might have turned the heat up a few degrees in the central temperature regulation system, at least in the time since I'd gotten here. I could feel a few beads of sweat on my forehead. I knew this to be a strategy, too. He'd either let me sit here and let my body get stressed in order break me down, or he would offer a drink to build trust. Man, you'd think this wasn't my first rodeo. It was though, funny enough. I'd never actually been interrogated before.

I tried to stay polite, but it was difficult. “Listen, Mister, uh...” I looked for some kind of name badge or something.

“Smith,” he interjected.

I furrowed my brow. Generic. “Right...Mr. Smith.” I inhaled and leaned forward a bit. “I want to fully cooperate with you and your investigation. I really do. If there is anything I can do to help, I will. But I don't see how any of my personal life is relevant. I honest to God don't know why I'm here or what this is about.”

He calmly took a breath this time, leaning a bit further back above the chair. “You seem a bit agitated, Mr. McGrath.”

“A bit, yeah.” I shrugged again. “I mean, pretty much for the reasons I just said. Plus anyone would be stressed in this kind of setting.”

“Would you like a glass of water?” he pivoted.

Ah, there it was. My throat was dry. I decided to take him up on the offer. “Sure, that would be nice. Thank you.” Didn't mean I had to start trusting him.

He nodded and pushed himself forward as he stood up. Swiftly, and almost as if to glide, Mr. Smith walked to the door on my right. The door had a small square window of what was likely triple-pane glass, but otherwise had nothing on it. It slid to the left, making a minor sound of released air compression as it did so, which made me wonder if I was right about the temperature thing. Then again, different sectors required different pressurization at times, so it was a toss up to me.

It was my guess that he would leave me here for an uncomfortably long period of time now, again to add to stress, and to get under my skin by making me stew in my own thoughts. And I did start to think about yesterday. I wondered what on Earth could have possibly happened yesterday while I was at work.

Then I thought about the phrase what on Earth and how I was not on Earth, and I chuckled.

Right, but I needed to stay focused. Based off of what security cameras I was sure they were viewing me from, I knew I would look like a maniac if I started laughing to myself unprompted.

I was never really good with personal interaction with others, but people fascinated me sometimes. It made me good at sales work. Once I could break the interaction down to predictable parts, or a check list of sorts, I could say my pre-scripted responses and make money. And that was nice. Or I could see when the interaction was pointless and stop wasting everyone's time. Also nice.

Those interactions felt more like playing a role-playing game on my HoloLife VR. It was all a strategy of figuring out which response was the correct one in order to progress the game towards a certain goal, depending on what I felt like accomplishing. Maybe I wanted to find the location of a boss to gain XP and level up to a certain point, or maybe I just wanted to sleep with the waitress. Either way, it was like a branching of options, and I just needed to pick the right ones. Sales was a lot like that. Regular interactions were not.

There was actually a new simulation game set to come out the following night that was supposed to flesh out the interactions between the player and the AI even further, in what was being called "technology that was more advanced than what had previously been made available to the public." And the customization of the characters was supposed to be insanely detailed. I had pre-ordered this game months ago, and was so ready to pick it up and pop it in tomorrow night. The pre-order bonus was a soft pillow in the shape of the game's icon. Stellar.

I was thinking about what sort of environment I would simulate in the game when the pressure of the door startled me, and Mr. Smith came gliding back through the door. Shit. I hadn't figured anything out.

He came around to my side and put one hand on my shoulder, handing the glass to me with the other. “How are you doing, Mr. McGrath?” he feigned concern.

My natural inclination to hide my daydreaming would have been to say I'm good! but that didn't feel right. I needed to look like I was taking this more seriously. Which wasn't to say I didn't. “I'm hanging in there,” I said. “It's a bit hot in here, so, thanks, this'll be great.” I took the glass and I carefully tilted it against my lips and fished out a piece of ice. I didn't need to feel like I was going to piss myself at any point in this, and my throat was just dry.

Mr. Smith watched me do so as he moved back around and sat at his chair. “My apologies for the long wait, Mr. McGrath. There was some other business that I needed to attend to.

How long was he even gone? I honestly had no idea. I acted like it was a long wait. “No, problem. I'm sure there are a lot of important things going on behind the scenes that I don't know about.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Would you say you have a pretty good memory, Mr. McGrath?”

I thought about it. “Pretty average I guess. I guess it just depends on how engaged I am in something.”

“How about at work?”

More confidently, I nodded, “Oh, at work I try to pay attention to important details. Or at least what seems important, y'know?”

“I see,” he said, “and do you recall a Mrs. Scarlett White? Who would have come into your office yesterday?”

“That does sound familiar,” I said. “I believe that she did come in to purchase a plan yesterday. Maybe around 1200, so near the end of my shift.”

Mr. Smith seemed something akin to pleased, as he nodded and continued, “Would you be able to describe her for me?”

“Oh, boy,” I looked aimlessly around the room. “I doubt it.”

I returned my gaze to him. The look of being pleased was fleeting. That wasn't the answer he was looking for. “Really?” he asked suspiciously. “Nothing at all?”

I let out a breath through puckered lips as I tried to think about it. “Not really...” I searched my brain. “I think she had...brown hair? Maybe?” I was pretty stumped. I remembered the interaction more than her looks, to be honest. I was not good at paying attention to people, especially at work.

“You're telling me that you do not remember anything about what Mrs. White looked like yesterday?”

I shrugged. “I'm sorry. She was literally any other customer to me.” I was shaking my head. “I mainly remember the name from filling out paperwork and making her an account with us.” I wracked my brain, curious now. I was not great with remembering people, but was there something about her that I should have noticed? Surely I would have if it were something grossly out of the ordinary. Was she missing a limb? Had a massive scar across her face? Was she in duress or beaten and bloody? What should have been different about her from anyone else?

Mr. Smith seemed tense. He pursed his frowny lips before saying, “I find that hard to believe.”

Trying to find words, I started shaking my head slightly, shrugged again, and moved my hands in the air for a moment. “Look, I will tell you everything I know, but if I don't know it, I'm not gonna lie and make something up. What was so special about Scarlett White?”

He paused for a moment, clearly considering what information to give me that wouldn't have affected my bias. “Well, she is known to be quite a...” he looked for the word, “...voluptuous woman, one could say.”

“Oh,” I said flatly, mildly annoyed. I could not have cared less how “attractive” this lady was. I wasn't looking at her that way. “Sorry, but I don't really notice women that way.”

“Oh?” he said with interest. “I see.” I could already hear it in his voice.

So before he could ask the question, I went ahead and jumped to it. “I don't notice men that way either. I'm really just not into people like that.”

“Oh,” he said, in an again more suspicious tone this time. “Is that so?”

“Yes. That is so,” I was so tired of having this conversation with people. My mom pestered me about it often enough already. So, I just thought I'd finish the line of questioning myself. “No, I do not want a significant other. No, I don't want to get married and start a life with someone. No I don't want children. No, I don't worry about who will take care of me when I'm old; I got insurance to cover that. I'm just generally not interested in people.”

“Again, I find that hard to believe,” he said.

I tried not to cut him off when I responded, “Most people do.”

“Hmm,” he thought, “So, how would you say your home life is, Mr. McGrath?”

Oh, more personal questions. What does this have to do with work? I didn't know, but if I argued, I would seem uncooperative, and that wouldn't look good. It would also make things take longer. So I resolved to just answer his stupid questions. I was still honest. “Pretty good. Nothing I can complain about, really.”

“Do you have a significant other?” he asked.

“Nope, like I said. Just me,” I answered.

“Any pets?”

“Nope. Just me,” I confirmed.

Mr. Smith reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small tablet. He swiped around a little bit, setting it down as a hologram projected out of it. “We can see by your analytics that you spend most of your time at home when you're not at work. You don't eat out often, but you do regularly order the same dish from a local restaurant for delivery.” The analytics didn't surprise me; having everything we did tracked at nearly all times was pretty standard. He casually shrugged, which didn't feel casual at all coming from him. “What do you do for fun?”

Still invasive. But I answered. “I like to play video games, mostly, but I also read. Sometimes I stream movies. Not really into TV shows though.”

He motioned to the tablet, swiping around the hologram once more. “This shows here that you spend quite a bit of time gaming, don't you, Mr. McGrath?”

“Yes, I do,” I answered, not the least bit ashamed of myself. “I game most of the evening after work, and most of the day on my days off.”

“Must be pretty lonely. Do you have any friends you like to keep in touch with?” he asked, rather condescendingly, I felt.

“Not really lonely, no. I do have friends and we'll talk in VR sometimes, when I feel like it. But most of the time it's just me and myself. Couple of cold-ones and my favorite eats from Dinny's.” I was prepared for where this was going. It was really annoying.

“Would you say you use gaming as escapism?”

“Yes,” I said blankly.

“So you would agree that you might want more out of life, deep down.”

There it is. “No. My life is exactly how I want it. It's perfect for me.” I was serious. People didn't get it. They never did.

“But you wouldn't want life to always be this way, would you?” he pressed.

“Actually, that would be perfect. That is all I've ever wanted.”

I thought for a moment that a bit of puzzlement flashed across his face, but it was very subtle. “Why then, would you spend so much time in a fantasy world engaging in escapism?”

“Because I love stories?” I answered.

“You would love to experience those kinds of adventures, wouldn't you?”

I tried to repress a scoff. “You think I want my life to be in constant danger and to be injured all the time, and to never be settled down anywhere?” I asked incredulously. People always thought that I didn't want to separate reality from fantasy, or worse, that I couldn't.

He paused, but then spoke again, “Everyone wants something more out of life-”

“Nope. I'm good,” I interrupted.

He took a sharp breath in through his nose, and shifted his tone a little. “The same mundane job every day, the same meals, the same routine every day, with no close friends or even a companion to keep you company,” he rambled. “The same thing day after day, week in and week out, indefinitely. With no dreams or aspirations.” He raised his brows above his sunglasses. “Some people would call that depression.”

I leaned in a bit, confident in my answer. “Many people mistake contentment for depression,” I said.

He lowered one brow, the rest of him didn't move. “Why would you think that is?” he asked.

“Because it's far more common,” I answered.

We both sat there awkwardly in silence for a minute or two, before he spoke again. “You do make a point, most people find it difficult to find contentment momentarily or at all, much less live in a prolonged state of it. Why should I believe that you would be any different?” he asked.

I tried to repress my attitude again, and re-adopt my customer service smile, “You're the one passing judgment. Not me.” I continued, that service voice failing already, “Everyone tries to shame me into feeling bad about my life, but it sure seems like everyone else is just so unhappy with theirs, that they cannot fathom someone else just being fine, possibly even happy with theirs. Especially when what I want out of life isn't what anyone else seems to want. I'm sorry that I don't hate my life. I don't know what to tell you.”

Mr. Smith's demeanor changed somewhat, and he relaxed his face it seemed. He considered my words.

I, however, was still a bit heated, and added, “You're welcome to ask me anymore questions that you like and I will try my best to answer. But the personal questions feel invasive and unnecessary. I could ask you personal questions, if you want, and it would still be unnecessary. Like why do you wear sunglasses in doors, in a dimly lit room in space, when our orbit is currently out of the view of the Sun?” I roughly tilted my head this time. “Probably pointless to ask, am I wrong?”

And his demeanor changed again. “Well, when I don't...” he took a deep breath in and stood slowly, leaning across the table as he moved. Inching closer to my face, he put one hand on the table, and used the spider-like fingers on his other hand to gently grab the rim of his sunglasses. He lifted them upward to reveal smooth, unblemished skin that was as sunken-in as his cheeks, seamlessly blended in with the rest of the skin on his face. My stomach sank against my will. He spoke calmly, “...some people find it intimidating.”

He put them down back over the blank would-be-sockets, and stood back up. Suddenly he felt a lot larger than I gave him credit for, towering over me and the table. He pushed his seat backward to make room for his long leg to cross over the other, leaning back and putting his hands in his lap. He tilted his head.

I must have had the same expression as a dead fish. I did not have words. I didn't know if that was a birth defect or something else that was easily explainable, but it did add a bit more weight to the way he came off. It definitely made him seem other-worldly in some way.

And suddenly, I could have been crazy, but his perpetual frown seemed to turned to a smirk. He bent his head forward a bit, looking downward. “I'm going to level with you, Mr. McGrath.” Then he looked back up at me. “This is a very high level investigation, and I need you to be truly honest with me, with the upmost cooperation.”

I was still in a bit of shock, but this shouldn't have changed much. I found my voice again. “And that's what I want to do.”

“So when I ask you, 'Can you describe Mrs. Scarlett White to me?' Your answer is...” he trailed off, waiting for it.

“I really don't remember her that well,” I really was serious, my answer almost pleading. Though it would be a lie to say that he didn't make me doubt myself, just a little bit. But I couldn't recall hardly anything about the way she looked.

“And I believe you,” he said, much to my surprise. “I'm going to tell you what this is really about.” He spoke with more authority than my father. “But I need you to promise me that you are going to tell me any and everything that you can remember when I ask.”

My eyebrows raised as I looked downward and nodded, “Of course. Everything I can!” And I looked back up at him.

“Good,” he said firmly. “The truth is,” he continued, “Mrs. White was last scene yesterday around 1330, and it is our understanding that she was in possession of a storage drive that contained sensitive information about your company on it. When searched, the information had been deleted, but the signature was still traced back to a login from a company computer.”

I didn't like where this was going. I felt my breathing become a bit quicker, though I tried not to make myself light-headed.

He paused, and then focused on my face. “Your computer, Mr. McGrath.”

I didn't know what to say, my heart racing. I just slowly nodded, and all I could get out was, “And that's why I'm here.”

“Yes,” he affirmed. “That's why you're here.”

I looked down at the table, my mind racing now, trying to remember anything out of the ordinary yesterday. But nothing came to mind. “I don't know how that could be,” I said nervously, shaking my head. I started minimally talking with my hands, “I mean, I am more than willing to help, I promise to do my best, but I think I'm just as in the dark about this as you are. I never leave my desk at work.” I gave a big shrug this time. “I don't even leave for lunch!”

“I understand,” he said.

“I mean,” I continued, trying not to be too defensive, but I couldn't really help it, “I'm sure you could check your security footage! It's gotta show me doing really nothing special!”

“You would be correct, Mr. McGrath,” he said, easing my nerves momentarily. “Until about 1200.” I waited for him to continue. “That's when security throughout the entire Space Station Infinitas lost its feed. In fact, there is no security footage of any kind from anywhere on the station between the hours of 1200 and 1330.”

I tried to put it all together. “Which was when you found the drive? And now she's missing, and you need me to help find her?”

He uncrossed and recrossed his legs in the other direction. “Oh, no, Mr. McGrath,” he said with certainty. “Her headless body was found with the storage device around that time, floating outside of an airlock on the Red Sector, with her ankle attached to the door by an oxygen cord, which appeared to be pulled from an oxygen tank.” Again, I was speechless. “So, what we need to find out is: What was Mrs. White looking for in your companies data, what happened between that time frame, how she ended up tied to the Infinitas on the outside of the station without so much as a space suit and without any documentation of departure, and who killed her.” I hung on his every word. Then he casually added, “And, of course, what happened to her head.”

This was an absolute nightmare. I didn't want to be here. My heart pounding and my eyes wide, I'm sure, I asked, “And I was the last person to see her, huh?” I didn't want the answer.

“Yes,” he said. He leaned forward again, not too far, but far enough to make me feel like a small child being scolded by my father. “So,” he began, “let's start from the beginning, shall we?”