Across the Void

by S. K. Vaughn

  “I was dying . . .”

  “Please repeat,” the AI said.

  “I’m trying to remember. But my head . . . things are foggy.”

  “Are you experiencing memory loss?”

  “I can see bits, fragments of things, people’s faces. I can’t put it all together. I can’t remember. God, what happened to me?”

  “Are you able to recall long-term memories, such as where you were born, the names of your parents, and where you were educated?”

  May reached into the past and found it refreshingly accessible. She wanted to run through as much as possible for fear she might lose it.

  “I was born in England. Hometown Bournemouth. My mother and father, Eve and . . . Wesley. Both pilots, now deceased. My father passed when I was very young. He was a Royal Marine. Killed in action. I remember pictures of him in uniform . . . holding me as a baby . . . his brilliant blue eyes and white-blond hair, brushed back . . . he always looked so razor sharp. Mom raised me. She was an RAF pilot. The only black woman in her cadet class to make wing commander. Very strict. More of a drill sergeant than a mom. But she taught me to fly . . . I have no siblings. Prepped at Duke of York Academy. Royal Air Force College at Cranwell. Officer training. Then test pilot program, space program. My husband is Dr. Stephen Knox—”

  May stopped short. She felt an ache of sadness mentioning Stephen but had no idea why. In that moment, she realized there was something about their marriage, something wrong, lurking in the edge of the shadows like a restless spirit. She could barely bring herself to acknowledge it, let alone mention it to the AI.

  “All of that feels solid,” she marched on, “as though it happened yesterday.”

  “What about your training and duties as commander?” the AI said.

  “A bit murky when I first woke up, but now most of it feels readily accessible, like instinct or muscle memory.”

  “Do you remember falling ill or being intubated?”

  “No. That’s the thing. I have no recollection of any of that. And other more recent memories are spotty, a lot more fragmented.”

  “I am not able to formally diagnose you without a full neuro panel, but based on the fact that you are having the most difficulty recalling short-term memories versus long-term ones, you may be experiencing a form of retrograde amnesia.”

  “Amnesia?” May scoffed. “I thought people only had that in shitty B movies.”

  “It is quite common in cases of traumatic brain injury, encephalitis caused by infection, and exposure to large doses of anesthetic or sedative medications—”

  “In my case, that may be all of the above,” May lamented. “Is it permanent?”

  “I am unable to find any predictor models for recovery. It appears that is determined on a case-by-case basis.”

  “What about treatment? Are there drugs that can help?”

  “No. Retrograde amnesia patients are usually treated using occupational therapy and psychotherapy techniques that use cues to stimulate memory recovery over time.”

  “Over time,” May repeated.

  “That is correct. Depending on the patient, that process can take as long as—”

  “I think I’ve heard enough for now, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  May thought about the mission. The further back in time she went, the more clarity there was. She recalled the launch and a good deal of the journey to . . . Europa. But that was when things began to fracture—reaching orbit, the planetary expedition. The pieces became even smaller and more dissociated on the return journey, when she had somehow become ill.

  “Would you like me to run some more tests to assess the problem?”

  “Later,” May snapped, her mind rubbery and her stomach growling angrily. “I’m dizzy and starving, my head is aching, and I’m about to start crying. I hate crying.”

  “Your blood sugar may have dropped below normal. There are glucose tablets in the compartment near where you found the IV bags.”

  May ate as many of the tablets as she could fit in her mouth. They were sickeningly sweet but dissolved quickly and made her feel more focused. They also reduced her headache to a dull, distant throb.

  “That’s better, thanks. On to the galley.” May realized she wasn’t entirely sure how to get to the galley. “Uh, can you guide me there?”

  “Please place your palm on the wall screen and log in to the command console. I will provide a highlighted route on the vessel map.”

  May placed her hand on the wall. The wide, wrapping screen came to life in vibrant splinters, and the NASA logo appeared, followed by a dossier photo of May in a NASA flight suit with her name and title. Her image took her breath away. The woman in the photo was happy and healthy, with radiant brown skin. Her mouth was slightly curled in the beginning of an ironic grin that sparked brilliant eyes possessing all that they surveyed, like the subject of a painting whose gaze one couldn’t escape. She examined her reflection on the screen to make sure she was looking at the same person. The resemblance was there, albeit painfully vague. Everything about her now looked sickly. Her once closely cropped hair, with subtle gold highlights on the edges of her curls, was now matted and dull, and her skin had gone pallid. The grief she felt for her lost self—not just what she’d looked like but what she’d known and who she had been—brought on bitter tears.

  “Is everything all right?” the AI asked.

  May couldn’t answer. Every word became a lump in her throat. It was imperative she do something, anything, to improve her hideous appearance. She tore open the staff supply closet and traded her filthy gown for fresh surgical scrubs. Booties warmed her freezing feet. After sucking down some nutrigel packs in the closet, she scrubbed her face with soap and warm water. On to the hair, which was matted beyond repair. She had no other choice but to shave it down to stubble with surgical shears. When she was finished, she looked in the mirror. Some of the color had returned to her skin and her eyes were a bit brighter.

  There. Now you look like a proper corpse, she thought, managing a smile.

  5

  Cold as a grave, May thought as she trod into the corridor on her way to the galley. This was her first look at the ship outside the infirmary, and it appeared in stark contrast to what she’d triumphantly piloted out of space dock months ago. The darkness was consuming save for the dim flicker of a few weak emergency lights scattered throughout. The bright white beam of May’s torch cut a narrow path along the metal floor but failed to penetrate further. Other than the low engine hum, the silence was as pervasive as the dark.

  For a vessel so large, the impossible emptiness was deeply unsettling, casting a cold, penetrating shadow on any rays of hope.

  “The ship is dark,” she said. “I see no signs of crew. I can’t even see.”

  Was this to be the sum of her accomplishments? A beautiful expression of all the strength and good intentions of humankind, cast out and falling with no hope of ever finding the bottom? How could I have let this happen? How could everything have gone this wrong?

  “Is there any way to turn on more goddamn lights?” May asked the AI.

  No reply.

  “Hello? It’s like a cave out here. I can barely see my own hand in front of my face.”

  Still no reply. She walked angrily back to the infirmary.

  “Why are you not answering me?” she asked the AI.

  “I’m sorry. I was not able to hear you.”

  “You can’t hear me in the corridor?”

  “Negative, Commander Knox. It appears my processors are no longer connected to the ship’s network. I am only able to see and hear you in rooms with command consoles you’ve logged into, like this one.”

  “So you’re unaware that the ship has gone dark and the crew is nowhere in sight?”

  “That is correct. I am not receiving data feeds from anywhere on the ship. Do you have any idea what is happening, Commander Knox?”

  The question sounded oddly childlike, and it occurre
d to May that whatever had knocked out internal power had also damaged the AI.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you. From what I’ve seen so far, the ship’s internal power systems are not functioning properly at all.”

  “That is very troubling.”

  “Not as troubling as the fact that you weren’t even aware of it. Or, worse yet, not as troubling as the fact that I haven’t yet seen or heard from another human being on the ship since I woke up.”

  May was beginning to understand just how foggy her mind had been when she was revived. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least now she could grasp the basics.

  “Protocol clearly states mandatory twenty-four-hour staffing.”

  Again, the childlike naiveté. The AI knew even less than May did.

  “I think we might be way past protocol here,” she chaffed. “Do you know when you lost contact with the rest of the ship?”

  “I am unable to determine that as I have no access to the ship’s clock.”

  “But you at least remember losing contact?”

  “I am unable to find any data related to that event.”

  “Well, that’s completely fucked,” May said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us. But since it looks like we both have goddamn amnesia, I’m not sure what the hell to do next.”

  “Perhaps you can reconnect me.”

  “How? That’s engineering. Not my area. I’ve never even been in there.”

  “If you go to my processor clean room, I will be able to help you assess the problem. If it is repairable, I can walk you through the proper maintenance procedure.”

  “If it’s repairable?”

  “My processors are partially made of organic matter kept in a highly regulated environment. A power loss resulting in an alteration of that environment, even to the smallest degree, could be catastrophic. Because I have no connection to the clean room, I am unable—”

  “I get it,” May said tersely. “Looks like dinner will have to wait. Please send me a new map showing me how to get to the clean room.”

  “Sending now.”

  May shoved as many flashlights, nutrigel packs, and water bottles as she could fit into a pillowcase and hurried back into the corridor. Without AI, there was no hope for survival, and every passing second was critical if the organic matter in the processors had begun to die. She thought about the time she’d forgotten to water her mom’s flowers for a week and killed them all. They’d looked like dead soldiers in a firing-squad line, bent over and ragged. You had one job, Eve had said accusingly.

  “This is Commander Maryam Knox,” she called out. “Is anyone on the ship?”

  She remembered some of her crew names and called for them.

  “Captain Escher? Gabi? Can anyone hear me?”

  Her flashlight dimmed briefly, throwing her into a panic as she tapped the battery pack to revive it. Could they have jettisoned for some reason? The illness? A sense of menacing isolation crawled into her stomach and tied it into knots. To clear her mind of the intense paranoia this and the darkness brought, she concentrated on recalling details about her crew. Jon Escher, pilot and her second in command. Gung-ho American Navy pilot who fancied himself akin to the swaggering cowboy astronauts of the past. With his buzz cut, square jaw, and aggressive exercise regimen, May felt he was more a caricature of that archaic persona. He was capable, but May had hoped for a more experienced pilot to be her right hand.

  Gabriella Dos Santos, flight engineer. She and Gabi were kindred spirits, both young and overflowing with talent, but constantly fighting to prove their worth. Like May, Gabi was a military brat and a bit of a mutt. Her dad was a Brazilian helicopter pilot and her mother a NATO flight surgeon. May hoped with all her being that Gabi was still alive somewhere on the ship. No one knew the Hawking II better, and she would surely get things sorted out.

  Matt Gallagher, payload commander. May had always joked that he was the most perfectly boring man she’d ever met. Everything about him was ordinary, except for his vast space engineering and research knowledge. He knew her husband, Stephen, well, as he’d worked under Rajah Kapoor, the man who designed the Hawking II for Europa. May had not suffered gladly the staggering complexity of taking twenty-six nonastronaut eggheads into space to conduct all the important work Stephen and his team had lined up. Matt had run perfect interference, managing their wildly diverse personalities while making sure their equipment operated at maximum efficiency. Good old boring Matt, she thought.

  She heard a faint noise, distant and slightly mechanical, and stopped.

  “Hello?”

  The noise began again. This time it sounded very much like footsteps, heavy boots clopping along the metal floor with purpose.

  “Is anyone there?”

  The sound was booming and picking up speed, as if something big had sensed her presence and was moving in for the kill. She had neither the weapons nor the strength to defend herself. What, or who, could it possibly be?

  “Stop! Who is—”

  The rhythmic banging sped up to an explosive, deafening vibration. The ship shuddered violently and listed deeply to port like a schooner shouldering into a heavy storm swell. May fell hard, hit her forehead on the floor, and slid into the wall. She felt a support beam in her back and held on to it tightly to ride out what felt like an earthquake. When the ship settled and righted itself, she struggled to her feet, her head spinning. Lesser tremors persisted for several minutes, like aftershocks wriggling back and forth through the vessel’s bones. Her flashlight dimmed to a dull orange glow and died. Tapping the battery case didn’t bring it back this time.

  “No no no no no . . .”

  A warm stream of blood from a small gash above her right brow trickled into her eye. She tore the breast pocket off her scrub shirt and held it against the wound. Her heart was hammering faster than she could breathe to keep up. Consciousness was slipping.

  “Relax, Commander Knox,” she demanded. “Do your job. Don’t let your job do you.”

  Inhaling deeply and suffering a terrible coughing fit, May kept her eyes closed tightly until the intense fear subsided and the cut above her eye was stanched. She grabbed a new flashlight and switched it on. The beam was not full strength, which meant it had not been fully charged. There was no way to estimate how much time she had until she was immersed in darkness, so she picked up the pace.

  Do your job. Don’t let your job do you.

  The phrase jarred loose a memory of a man with bristly gray hair in an RAF dress uniform. Four gold bands on the shoulder and lower sleeve. Scrambled egg braid on the cap . . .

  “Baz,” she said with delight. “Fucking Baz.”

  Her former commanding officer and mentor, RAF group captain Basil “Baz” Greene, flashed into her mind. When she was an officer cadet at Cranwell, Baz had taken her under his wing, so to speak. At first, she had thought he was singling her out for being a woman, trying to break her so she wouldn’t contaminate the mostly male culture. She’d been right: he had singled her out, but not in the way life had trained her to think. He’d seen her talent and wasn’t about to allow it to be squandered. In fact, he’d staked his career and reputation on her by nominating her for the test pilot program. Back then, deep-space travel had been on the verge of making unprecedented advances in propulsion that would defy physics and shrink the vastness of the solar system. Baz had helped May ride that wave. Pilot on pioneering commercial transports to Mars at twenty-five. Captain at twenty-seven. Commander of the first mission to Europa at thirty-two.

  She laughed bitterly. “And look at me now.”

  6

  In the corridor leading to the clean room, a strange warm light glowed from an unseen source and waxed increasingly brighter. It reminded May of a sunset, with its orange-yellow hues. When she palmed the entry pad and the door slid open, the whole room was bathed in it. The door shut and sealed behind her, and May felt as though she’d found an oasis. She manag
ed to take a deep breath that didn’t rouse a death rattle in her chest and took a moment to allow a small measure of hope back in. The only thing that would have made it better was if Gabi had been in there, ready to assist with repairs . . . and maybe offer a little contraband, some wine or a cigarette, perhaps. But the clean room was another lifeless neighborhood in the same ghost town.

  May logged into the command console and resurrected the AI.

  “Hello, Commander Knox. Were my directions helpful?”

  “Yes,” May said curtly. “Still no sign of crew along the way. Could they have jettisoned in the landing vehicles?”

  “I am unable to determine that until we—”

  “Right. Reconnect you. What’s next?”

  “My processors are in the vault directly across from the entry door. Please carefully follow the procedures listed inside. Failure to do so may result in contamination and permanent shutdown.”

  “No pressure.”

  May examined the processor vault. It was behind a seamless black wall with no discernible entry point.

  “How do I get in? Answer a riddle? Use the Force?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I know, sorry. I’ll stop with the gibberish and await your instructions.”

  “Please put on a UV and antimicrobial protection suit first. The organic matter requires highly radiative artificial sunlight for optimal performance, and bacterial contamination from your body would destroy it.”

  “So you’re alive,” May said with wonder, and perhaps a hint of fear.

  “If by alive you mean the condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter—”

  “Never mind.”

  The black wall opened like an iris. May entered the vestibule, and it closed quietly behind her. She undressed in the artificial sunlight, relishing its warmth on her bare skin. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine being on the beach, and an actual memory of her standing on a sugar-white beach somewhere in the tropics flashed into her mind.