We Have Always Been Here

by Lena Nguyen

  Taban: See what?

  Daley: I saw it—I was sleeping, but I woke up and saw it through the window—

  Taban: Saw what?

  Daley: Some kind of quadruped. Looked like a fox or a canine of some kind. It was small and white. I followed . . .

  Taban: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Daley: You listening? I saw something living out here!

  [He struggles to sit up.]

  Taban: How’s your oxygen?

  Daley: Fin, you listening?

  Taban: I heard you. You must have been—dreaming, or something, Daley. Fuck. I don’t know. Let’s go back.

  Daley: No. Not until I show you.

  Taban: Show me what? There’s nothing out here, Daley! Nothing! No crystal mountains, no ships, no shards, no ferroxes—

  Daley: No. There is. I found it. It’s not far . . .

  Taban: No. No fucking way. We’re going home.

  Daley: Fin. Please.

  Taban: No.

  HARE: USER Daley’s oxygen is at 90%.

  Taban: No one asked you.

  Daley: Fin. I swear. It’ll take—five minutes. Less. I was coming back to get you when I tripped—but it’s right there! (He points to something presumably a few meters away) Or at least let me take the HARE to look at it. It needs to record it. This is important.

  Taban: How important could it be?

  Daley: It’s the most important thing in the world.

  Taban: . . . (rubs his visor in a circular motion, as if rubbing his face) No.

  Daley: Please. After this, I’ll never ask anything of you again. You can go back to the ship after. I’ll leave you out of it. I just need to know if you can see it, too.

  Taban: I’m counting down from five minutes. If we don’t see anything by then, I’m going back. With the HARE. And I’ll leave you here. I don’t need you anymore, Daley.

  Daley: I know. Thank you. I know, Fin.

  [The two men rise to their feet, Taban pulling up Daley by the hand with an effort. The HARE scuttles up to Taban and seems to lean against his leg, perhaps to lend support. It stares off in the direction that Daley indicated, while the two men push their helmets close to speak.]

  Taban: Tell me the truth, Daley. We came outside to look for you, and we couldn’t see the distress beacon on the ship flashing at all. The light’s still broken. It hasn’t been fixed in all the time we’ve been here. So how did you really know we fixed the comm system?

  Daley: . . .

  Taban: Daley?

  Daley: I don’t know. I can’t remember. I guess I dreamed it.

  15.

  Park seized Fulbreech’s arm. “There’s a stranger,” she hissed.

  He looked at her, startled. “What?”

  “A stranger,” Park repeated, her voice low and urgent. “Aboard the ship. Someone I’ve never seen before.”

  His brow furrowed; he put his hand on her elbow, even though Park knew she wasn’t shaking. “Where?”

  “Over by the door. He’s gone now. But I saw him.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just a trick of the light?” Fulbreech asked. He tried to smile. “Maybe your eyes deceived you for a second—mine do all of the time—hell, sometimes I don’t even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Could you have imagined it?”

  He was looking at her with that face again, that expression of open and genuine concern for her wellbeing, like a puppy not quite knowing what was wrong with its master, and despite herself Park felt a surge of irritation towards him, even hatred. No need for that look, Fulbreech, she thought. I hardly know ye. But more than that—no need to imply that she’d simply been foolish. She’d examined every person on this ship on a daily basis, for God’s sake, something even Chanur didn’t do. She couldn’t have just imagined a stranger.

  But of course she knew she was being unfair. If he said something like this to her, she would have a similar reaction, or at least ask him to do a perfunctory psych eval. Because it was impossible, that someone had managed to stow away on the ship. Impossible for him to have lived on the Deucalion for the last several months. What would he have done for food, for bathing? What would have happened during the radiation storms, so bad that they penetrated even the titanium shell of the ship, and the crew had to take shelter in the storm bunker at the Deucalion’s core? A stowaway would have died, surely, or at least contracted severe radiation sickness. And yet the man had looked well-fed, clean. It was impossible, Park knew it was, and yet—she’d seen it.

  “I have to go,” she said, her voice strangely distant and muffled, as if she were underwater. She stood, letting go of Fulbreech’s arm. From the corner of her eye she saw Sagara stalking across the room with that trademark look on his face—an expression that made his eyes snap dark lightning. He strode up to Natalya and Hunter and pulled them apart as easily as if he were separating two children, speaking to them in low, vicious tones. Although he never raised his voice, everyone in his field of concentration instinctively mimicked him, went quiet and grim. The room crackled with silent intensity, as if preluding the outbreak of a storm.

  Park turned away from the scene, which was still arresting the others in the mess hall. It felt incredibly insignificant now, almost unreal, images flickering on a media stream—even though she knew that this fell under her domain. An incident like a physical brawl was sure to impact the psychological conditions of the crew—or what was left of it. But following the stranger was more important. There was either some renegade loose on the ship without anyone knowing . . . or Park was seeing things. She didn’t know which one was worse.

  Fulbreech was looking at her with concern. “Where are you going?”

  Behind him, someone called out his name. Said they needed his help. Neither Park nor Fulbreech looked at the speaker.

  “I need to lie down,” Park said, feeling as if her facial muscles were frozen, locked into place. “I’m—tired.”

  “I’ll go with you.” He looked as if he didn’t believe her; no, as if he were afraid she would do something rash.

  Park shook her arm slightly, and Fulbreech’s hand fell away from it like a dead thing. “No,” she said. She felt as if she were sleepwalking. “I’ll be fine. The others need you. I’m just going to sleep.”

  Then she left. She couldn’t remember if he said anything else: only that he didn’t follow her out of the canteen.

  There were three decks to the Deucalion in all, with over a hundred different partitioned rooms spread throughout each of them. Park eliminated the idea of searching the crewmembers’ cabins entirely: it was impossible for anyone not to notice a stranger living in their twelve-foot-long cubicle, and anyway the only ones with the authority to unlock the crewmates’ quarters were Wick, Sagara, and Boone, along with any androids who were acting as their delegates. She thought briefly to go find Jimex and requisition him for her search—but when she stopped by the medical bay, he was nowhere to be found. Neither were Ellenex or the security android Dylanex. So Park decided to comb the obscurest parts of the ship alone.

  She had to be sure, she thought as she hunted around tall crates and lumpy shapes in the murky gray light. She could not have a repeat of the utility rooms, not in front of Fulbreech—which was why she hadn’t let him come. She had to be sure. She could not scrabble madly, desperately for answers again, with him looking on with pity and bewilderment. She would rather have a hidden assailant jump out at her and force her to use her measly, one-day self-defense training than have to face that.

  And she could not have her sanity being called into question. Not with everything else going on, everyone else acting irrationally. Holt, Ma, Keller, Hunter—fighting, violence in the mess hall—the androids failing the simplest commands, behaving strangely. How long would it be before this mental wildfire claimed the rest of the ship?

  And who’s
to say it hasn’t already? a little voice clicked and chattered in the back of her brain. The insane did not know they were insane.

  She felt sick, queasy with lack of sleep and sour paranoia. She was looking in the ship’s least-used corners, starting with Deck B: the cargo bays, the storage facilities, the supply closets. If there was a stranger—and there was, she told herself adamantly—then he would be here. Here in the uninhabited spaces of the ship.

  But the more she searched, the more her inner panic rose. She began to question herself. Surely a stowaway would have blankets, stolen food. The man couldn’t have lasted so long without leaving a trace. And yet there was nothing. Crates and shelves loomed over her like shadowy cairns, as if she had stepped onto some strange, ancient trail, edged by indecipherable markers—or a burial ground. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Had she merely glimpsed someone unremarkable, and imposed an imagined unfamiliarity onto them? It couldn’t be—could it?

  She peered around the boxes of preserved fruits, squinting at the floor for signs of disturbance. She wished there were dust in space: handprints or scuffs in dirt would really help her case right about now. But the ship’s filtration and purging systems took care of all that. And if it didn’t, then Jimex did, cleaning the ship with laser focus every day.

  “Damn it,” Park muttered, straightening. She closed her eyes and tried to think of what the man had looked like. It couldn’t have been any of the other male members of the crew: none of them were blond, except Fulbreech. Or could someone have been wearing a wig? How ludicrous—but no more ludicrous than the idea that some stranger had snuck aboard the ship.

  As she stood there in the chamber that served as their pantry, thinking, her inlays gave the briefest flash: a warning that went by so quickly Park didn’t have time to interpret it. Then there was a sputtering, some faraway churning and gasping deep in the ship’s walls. Before she could move, every light on the Deucalion went out.

  Park heard distant exclamations and screams, somewhere above her. She fumbled for a moment with her inlays: METIS told her that it was experiencing an unknown electrical failure. Oh, shit, Park thought, biting her lip. Had Hunter tampered with the controls? Or was this something else? At least the life support and gravity systems were still working—so far. She stood still for a while, listening in the dark. The communication system between inlays was down, too. And she didn’t have a flashlight.

  Suddenly her gut knotted. What if this was all the work of the stranger?

  What if he was trying to cut Park off from the others—and leave her blind?

  Park suddenly felt as if someone were watching her, even though she knew the pantry had been empty just a few moments before. She began to fumble her way towards the entrance, reluctant to reach out and feel around for her surroundings—afraid of touching something she didn’t recognize. Something warm or alive. Her breath sounded too-loud and raspy, like a machine on the verge of breakdown. Her eyes could not adjust to the lack of light.

  Finally she bumped into what she thought was the pantry door and slapped her palm against its lock. The door sprang open—at least that was still working, too—but now Park was left standing uncertainly at the mouth of an immense black corridor. She hesitated, feeling with her toes as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice. Where to go from here? She thought she’d committed most of the ship to memory, muscle memory—but everything was so different in the dark.

  She stood there for a while, breathing loudly. She could feel her heartbeat throbbing in her fingertips. Why hadn’t she brought a weapon? And why wasn’t METIS responding to her requests for guidance, some kind of map?

  “Shit,” she said again, and it sounded as if her voice came from someone else: she did not recognize it.

  After a moment she began to shuffle forward, balling her fists. She would run into someone eventually, she thought. They had to be looking for her.

  But no, Park thought then. I told Fulbreech that I went to bed.

  There was a shuffling noise in front of her. Someone moving around. Park stopped, closed her mouth, and strained to listen.

  Suddenly a shape resolved itself before her in the darkness. A human shape, tall and still, assessing her. Park had to choke down a scream. She came to a dead stop, waiting, unsure if it was an android or a crewmember—or something else.

  Then: “Park.” A familiar voice, to Park’s short-lived relief. Sagara’s voice.

  “Captain Sagara?” She hated that she used his official title. It was a fear reflex, she told herself. She wanted an authority figure.

  He clicked on a small utility light. Park closed her eyes against the sudden glare, but before she did she caught a glimpse of his dark hair, his fine-boned face looking damply unimpressed. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I—” She cleared her throat. “I got turned around. Lost. My inlays seem to be malfunctioning.”

  “So are everybody’s.” He frowned at her. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask her why. “Are you? Why did you come down here?”

  “Fulbreech said you went off somewhere.” Sagara sounded annoyed. “Everyone else is accounted for. You weren’t in your bunk, so I went looking for you. Why did you leave the medical bay?”

  “I was hungry,” she told him, biting back a defensive tone. The exchange calmed her, somewhat; it was familiar, almost comforting. It made her forget to be afraid. “Is that a crime? To need food?”

  “You should have told me. You left Hunter unguarded.”

  “I left three androids with her.”

  “They weren’t there when I checked.”

  “I assumed as much. I don’t know where they’ve gone. Hunter—?”

  “Sedated, for now,” he said darkly, switching his light to his other hand. “I’ve left her in Chanur’s care.”

  She made an exclamation, shielding her eyes against the beam. “She’s as good as frozen, then!”

  “Maybe,” he snapped. “But it’s not as if I had a choice. Who else was going to go looking for you?”

  “Oh,” Park said. She cleared her throat and tried to bank the sudden ember of shame in her stomach. “I see. That is . . . unfortunate.”

  Sagara was silent for a moment, gazing at her. Finally he turned his back on her, and for a horrible moment Park thought he was going to leave her there. “Hold onto my belt,” he said, his voice now stiff and toneless.

  She didn’t want to touch him. But he had the light, and seemed to know his way back to the others; what other choice did she have? So she reached out and slipped her fingers under his belt, following him as he walked back into the dark. There was surprising heat trapped there, rather than the chill she had been expecting. So he was human, after all.

  “Thank you,” she said as they walked along. She tried to calm her heart’s clamoring—afraid that he might pick up on it, like some kind of night-hunting predator.

  Sagara didn’t turn his head. “For?”

  “Coming to get me. And . . . supporting me, last night. I know we haven’t—seen eye to eye.” This had to seem ultra-suspicious to him, Park thought. This and the bridge, and the utility rooms. And everything he’d overheard with ARGUS. She cringed internally as she recalled all the jabs she’d thrown at him, knowing he would eventually hear it; all the furtive talk she’d had with Jimex and Fulbreech and Wick. And yet he’d chosen to put all that aside and lead her back.

  The security officer didn’t answer her for a moment. Finally he said, “You don’t need to thank me, Park. Whatever you may think, my loyalty lies with the ISF. That extends to every member of its crew.”

  So he was rebuffing her olive branch. She couldn’t help but challenge him on that. “So personal feelings never enter into the equation, for you?” She tried to gauge his body language. “What if you had to protect someone you hated?”

  His postur
e didn’t change. “I don’t hate anybody.”

  “And love?”

  A pause. “Nor that.”

  “The perfect soldier.”

  “I have been called that.”

  She could see it: years of dutifully serving the ISF, of never questioning orders, carrying out his tasks with a cool and efficient gravity. In some ways he reminded her of herself—and that frightened her a little. Was Sagara simply a mirror-image of Park, had she been space-born? What if she had been selected because ISF thought she seemed like the perfect spy, as he was the perfect soldier? A matching set.

  But that was before I learned about all of the ISF’s secrets, Park thought. Its inequities. The divide between the conscripted and the non-conscripted. And the mad, eldritch gauntlet they’d sent their people into—knowingly or not.

  Her fingers felt cramped around his belt; he was towing her along like a boat dragging someone on a lifesaver in its wake. To break up the silence Park said, “Do we know what caused the blackout?”

  Sagara didn’t answer. For a moment she thought that he meant to ignore her entirely until they made it back to the upper deck. But finally he said: “I thought you might know.”

  Indignation sparked in her gut. “How would I know anything? I’ve been down here for the past hour.”

  “Exactly. For what purpose?”

  “I was—looking for something.”

  Sagara didn’t prompt her: Park recognized the tactic. He thought that silence would pressure her into volunteering information, if she felt guilty. So she said, out of spite, “I’m wondering if ARGUS overtaxed the system. Maybe that’s what caused the blackout.”

  She felt Sagara stiffen slightly. “Maybe,” he answered, his voice carefully disinterested. “Or maybe someone sabotaged it themselves.”

  “You mean me, of course.”

  “I mean anyone. Nothing would surprise me after what happened in the bridge.”

  “You can prove someone tampered with it?”

  His head rotated hawkishly to glare at her. “You were in the room with the proof.”