JUSTICE

By Sarah Wisseman

A beeper shattered the morning calm.

Mark Gillespie dropped the humidity gauge he was using in the rainforest biome and picked up the phone hidden on the wall behind the banana tree.

“Steve? What's up?” he asked as his stomach growled. Breakfast had been skimpy and late.

“Water tank seven temperature gauge is on the fritz. Could you come down?”

“Yeah, but you know I'm no engineer.” Mark specialized in tropical plants, which was why he had been chosen to help maintain the largest closed ecological system in the world.

“It won't take long. I just need to run a couple of tests, and it's easier with two people.”

Sure, sure. The Biosphere team was accustomed to Steve's laziness and his inability to work alone. Steve was in charge of maintaining the complex environmental and mechanical systems that would keep the eight of them alive for two whole years. A responsible position in the hands of a five-year old, Mark thought, as he hustled along the gray metal corridor. Hard to see how Steve Farris had passed the rigorous screening all the scientists had gone through before being accepted on the team.

Mark exited the elevator and passed a cavernous space housing the membrane they called The Lung. A major feat of engineering, this enormous sheet of rubber was all that stood between the team and total disaster—The Lung equalized the air pressure inside Biosphere's sealed system. Without it, the build-up of gases when the temperature rose would cause the glass around them to shatter and the multi-million dollar experiment would fail. The membrane vibrated as he passed and hot air whooshed through the adjoining tunnel.

Steve leaned casually against a tank, smoking a cigarette. A squat little man with too much body hair, he seemed better suited to a Texas ranch than a scientific laboratory.

“Hey, Gillespie, how's it hangin'?”

“Okay, what are we doing here? I need to get back to the jungle room.” Mark's voice dripped irritation.

“Oh, well, it's not so bad after all. See? This gauge is a little finicky. I found I could shake it a little and the indicator popped right back to seventy—just where it should be.” He smiled his usual shit-eating grin. Steve had time to kill because he always found excuses to avoid overtime in the kitchen or the gardens. The others were sick of asking for his help so they just split up the extra shifts.

Mark swore. “You could have called me back, saved me the trip.” His empty stomach made him feel lightheaded.

“A little distraction is good for you. You work too hard.”

Mark glared at Steve, noting his thick, glossy hair and well-padded body. “Aren't you hungry, man? I can hardly concentrate. I keep thinking about Big Macs and chocolate milkshakes.”

“No, I don't eat very much.” Steve's placid tone implied that other people were gluttons.

Mark shrugged angrily and turned away, wishing he could sublimate the desire for food. Wasn't Steve at all affected by the food rationing since the bean crop had failed? He and the others were dropping weight at an alarming rate despite their nutrient-rich diet. Seven people sweating out thousands of calories daily, weeding and planting, grinding grain and harvesting corn—it was no wonder they were all ravenous at mealtimes.

All because the planners had screwed up. Their estimates on how long it would take to grow each crop and the best rotation of vegetables for maximum yield were dead wrong. No problem, as long as you had other sources of food.

The Biosphere team had no options. Everything they ate was grown and processed by their own sweaty hands—part of the great experiment that resulted in their being locked away in a glass dome in the Arizona desert for twenty-four months. The miscalculation wasn't life threatening—not yet—but it meant leaner and definitely meaner people in a confined space.

Sighing, Mark returned to work, measuring humidity levels at each of the seven stations before downing a meager lunch of rice and crushed tomatoes.

By four o'clock, he was ready for a swim in Biosphere's mini-ocean with its mechanical waves. No substitute for a real beach with real surf, but not bad for a manmade environment. He envisioned marine biologist Sheila Grady in her turquoise bikini, diving with him to the lower shelf to check on her sea urchins. A long-haired brunette with sparkling blue eyes, Sheila was Mark's idea of the ideal mermaid. She'd look really good draped in nothing but a little seaweed.

He was still on call, so he slipped his beeper into his pocket and climbed through the narrow opening leading to the ocean.

Sheila, sleek in her bikini, perched on a simulated granite boulder.

“Guess what's for dinner?” She pushed her wet hair back from her face.

“Rice and veggies?”

“Yup. Rice and corn—with tofu cheese, if we're lucky. I'd do anything for a solid piece of meat.”

“I hate tofu.” He grimaced in disgust, deciding to focus his energy on the cool water and Sheila's slim, well-toned body. Getting a little too skinny, he noticed—you could almost count her ribs. They could both use a steak dinner: ribeye, medium rare, with twice-baked potatoes and Caesar salad, a good Merlot, some Boston cream pie. His mouth watered.

Mark shed his shorts, revealing skimpy swimming trunks. Just before he entered the water, his beeper shrilled.

“Not Steve again!” Sheila flipped onto her back, paddling as if she were at the beach in Cancun instead of marooned in a glass and steel dome.

Mark picked up the phone nestled in another artificial boulder. “What is it now, Steve?”

“Choking—I'm choking…” Words faded to gurgling.

Choking? On what? “Where are you?”

“Lung room. Can't…breathe.” Steve's voice broke and Mark heard a thud.

“Steve!” Mark yelled, even as he wondered if this was one of Steve's notorious practical jokes. When he wasn't devising ways to make more work for his teammates, Steve liked to spice things up with gum on the toilet seat and salt in the sugar bowl.

No answer.

“Be right back,” he called to Sheila. “It's probably a false alarm or one of Steve's asinine pranks.” Mark trotted down the gray metal corridor to the narrow spiral staircase.

He entered The Lung maintenance hangar.

One of the ten storage lockers gaped open, spilling out cans of corned beef, paté, sardines, Triscuits, Twinkies, granola bars, and Ghiardelli chocolate. Steve lay on a bed of goodies, choking on a half-eaten salami.

Mark gazed in fascination at the food. How the hell had Steve arranged this? He must have paid someone to stock his private stash before the team was sealed in.

Steve's face was turning blue. If Mark didn't do something fast, it would be too late.

Mark didn't budge. His mind churned, remembering weeks of hunger endured only for the $20,000 bonus each man would receive if he stayed inside the full twenty-four months. No way was Mark lifting a finger for this guy. Why, Steve was actually fatter than when they'd started this experiment!

Steve's eyes bulged and he stopped breathing.

Mark gazed down at the body, considering his options. He hadn't touched a thing, so no one would blame him for Steve's untimely death. He'd tell the others that he had arrived too late and no one could prove otherwise.

Mark's only concern now was the stash of food.

Should he share it with the others?

Would Sheila be grateful for a few snacks? How grateful?