Obscura

by Joe Hart

  By the crew’s reactions, this was the first they’d heard about the death. All except Tinsel, whose expression remained unchanged.

  “What happened?” Lien asked.

  “He was found dead in his study on the station. A NASA biologist named Henry Diver killed him.”

  “Diver confessed?”

  Carson paused. “He was found in the doctor’s study with the body and attacked the person who opened the door.”

  “Why did he do it?” Leo asked.

  “No apparent motive.”

  “No one’s interrogated him?”

  “Diver has been in a constant psychotic and incoherent state since the murder. He hasn’t said anything relating to Pendrake’s death.”

  Gillian wiped her sweat-slicked palms against the knees of her jumpsuit. She should’ve taken a pill before the meeting. “Diver was one of the severely affected patients, wasn’t he?” she said.

  Carson sighed. “Yes. He was.”

  “So you think the effects of teleportation drove him to kill Pendrake?” Leo asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” Carson said. “We have no clue about what’s causing the symptoms. It could be any number of things from environmental to a pathogen.”

  “But not everyone on the station is reporting symptoms, right?” Lien asked. “If it were a communicable disease, wouldn’t they all be exposed in such a contained area?”

  “Yes. And as of now, there hasn’t been a quarantine established for the crew except for Diver and the other person who’s in a critical state. You’ve all been briefed about the situation, but I’d like Dr. Ryan to say a few words about what we’re dealing with concerning the possible side effects or disease.” He looked at her. “If you would?”

  Her first impulse was to refuse, to give him nothing, but that wouldn’t turn the ship around or get her to Carrie any faster. She rose, facing the crew.

  “From the reports I’ve studied, the two main physical complaints from the affected personnel are mild muscle tremors and general fatigue. The neurological symptoms are much more concerning. Fugues or extended trances, memory lapses, and occasional outbreaks of unprovoked anger have been recorded.”

  “Sounds a lot like Losian’s,” Leo said.

  “It does.”

  “Do you think the teleportation, this shifting, could be somehow causing the neurofibrillary tangles that are associated with the disease?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no way to tell for sure since the tangles are typically only diagnosed postmortem in an autopsy.”

  “We believe Gillian’s research with bioluminescent neural scanning could be the key to correctly identifying what type of damage might be causing these symptoms,” Carson said.

  She ignored the comment. “The research isn’t conclusive yet, so I really can’t say anything one way or another.”

  “Does anyone have questions for Dr. Ryan?” Carson asked.

  “I do,” said Easton, who had been quiet up to this point. “Easton Sinclair, mission specialist, by the way. Didn’t get a proper introduction before you were drugged and locked in your room.” Gillian saw Carson and Lien shift uncomfortably, and in that moment, she liked Easton very much. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t everyone who travels through the mad scientist’s machine essentially die the first time, and each time after?”

  “We’ve gone over this,” Carson said. “Extensively.”

  “I want to hear what Dr. Ryan has to say.”

  Gillian frowned. “In a sense, you’re correct. Ander’s technology causes the atoms that make up an individual to first freeze solid before being vaporized by radiation. They essentially cease to be. But to be fair, we aren’t the atoms and cells we were born with; they’re constantly being replaced by new and healthy material. By that logic, a person technically dies dozens of times over their lifespan.”

  “Fair enough,” Easton said, leaning back against his seat. “If you don’t believe in a soul.” Carson made an exasperated sound, but Easton held her gaze.

  “If you are reconstructed exactly as you were down to the last atom, then you are the same person,” she said. “And I’d guess if a person has a soul, it gets rebuilt as well. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  Easton placed the toothpick in the corner of his mouth and smiled, all the while continuing to watch her. “If you believe in that sort of thing,” he echoed.

  “Okay, any other questions relevant to the mission?” Carson asked.

  “Yes,” Gillian said. “Why is the space station orbiting Mars and not Earth? It can’t just be for secrecy.”

  “It’s classified.”

  “Just like kidnapping Birk and me was classified?”

  “Gillian—”

  “No, that’s great. I’m torn away from my daughter, my life, to come help you with your little experiment, and now you won’t even tell me the whole story.”

  “What a fucking mess,” Easton said, flicking his toothpick across the kitchenette and into a waste bin.

  The sentiment seemed to sum up the collective mood because Carson didn’t say anything further. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked at the floor. “All I can say is you’re all the very best. That’s why you were handpicked for this mission.” He let his gaze drift to Gillian. “Everyone should get some food and rest. In twelve hours we prep for stasis.”

  With that, everyone began to move. As Leo started to rise, Gillian put her hand on his arm. “Is stasis what I think it is?”

  “Probably. It’s basically a suspended state. Two and a half months until we rendezvous with the UNSS, so we’ll be sleeping our way through the time.”

  She felt her brow crinkle as she glanced at Carson across the room pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Listen, I want to trust you, but you need to give me a reason.”

  Leo straightened and lowered his voice. “I promise to back up your story against Carson and Lien when we get back to Earth.”

  “Lien? So she knew I was being lied to?”

  Leo hesitated. “Yes.”

  “That’s why she was so standoffish. Makes sense.” She considered his offer. “Not good enough.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you could change your mind at the last minute. I’m sure you didn’t get this far without jumping through some hoops. What keeps you from jumping through one more once we get back home?”

  “I understand. What do you want?”

  “Get me communication with Houston.”

  “I can do that, but like I said—”

  “I know, it won’t do me any good. But it might. And it will pave the way for charges if I record the transmissions.”

  He studied her for a minute before nodding. “Okay.” Gillian relaxed, not aware until that point that she’d been holding her entire body tense. She could feel the tug of withdrawal on her system. An itchy craving that fluttered through her center as if a caged bird were trapped there. “When can you get me access to communication?”

  “It’s my shift in control in an hour.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Leo exited the room, but as she began to follow, Carson headed toward her and grasped her elbow as she tried to step through the doorway. She jerked her arm free and shoved him backward a step. “Did you think I was joking about touching me again?”

  “Gillian, I’m sorry. I am. About everything. You have to understand I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You had a choice. You chose wrong.”

  “I don’t think I did. I could have picked other neural radiologists for this that were less qualified, but I didn’t. I chose you because you’re the best, and despite what you think, I wanted to help you.”

  She stepped closer to him, their faces inches away. “I’m going to be millions of miles away from my daughter. Anything could happen to her, and there’d be nothing I could do about it. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “If you help us get to the bottom of what’s causing these symptoms, you’ll have stea
dy funding, and possibly a way to actually cure Losian’s altogether. You can save her.”

  “I’ve been trying to save her for three years. I didn’t need a gun pointed at my fucking head,” she said, striding away from him before he could respond.

  FIFTEEN

  The halls were caustically silent as Gillian made her way to Birk’s berth.

  This time when she knocked, there was a murmur from within, and a few seconds later, the door slid away to reveal the postgrad standing on the other side, a blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders. He was no longer simply pale; a greenish cast had sprouted around the edges of his face and neck like mold.

  “I’m dying,” he said, turning away from her and returning to his bed.

  “You’re not dying.” She followed him inside as the door hissed shut behind her.

  He eased himself to the mattress, which groaned with his weight. There was a faint earthy smell in the room, and she noticed the open door to the bathroom.

  “I’m sorry for the odor. The toilet and I have become . . . intimate. I can’t keep anything down.”

  Birk’s room was a clone of her own, and she settled herself into the stool by the desk. “Are you having any other symptoms besides nausea?”

  “Vomiting.”

  “Besides that.”

  “Dying.”

  “You’re not going to die, you’re just not acclimating.”

  He gave her a look from beneath swollen eyelids. “And now it seems we will be acclimating on the way.”

  She sighed. “So you found out too, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The medical officer.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Went looking for you. When your door was locked and you didn’t answer, I searched for Carson.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. He wouldn’t open his door either. I think it had something to do with me stating I was going to remove his head from his shoulders.”

  She smiled weakly. “I don’t blame him for not opening up.”

  “All this aside, Doctor, why did you agree?”

  “Agree to what?”

  “This trip. It is so far away.”

  “I didn’t agree.” She paused. “They drugged me when I found out. That’s why I didn’t answer when you knocked.”

  “What?” In the next instant, Birk was striding past her toward the hall, the blanket falling to the floor. She stood up and grasped his arm almost as Carson had done to her only minutes ago.

  “Stop,” she said, but was pulled along for another two steps before Birk slowed.

  “I’m going to make things right.”

  “No, you’re going to hurt someone.”

  “That is what I meant.”

  “Birk, we’re almost a million miles away from Earth already. They’re not going to turn back.”

  A cold detachment entered his eyes. “I could . . . make them turn back.”

  “You could, but you might end up really hurting someone, and then you’d be facing charges when we got back instead of them.”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  “Well, I’m not. And I’m pretty sure Justin wouldn’t be either.”

  “He would understand. This isn’t right, Doctor.”

  “I know. But there really isn’t another choice right now.”

  A shiver ran through him, muscles quivering as if it was taking everything in him to simply stand there.

  “Here, you need to sit down before you fall down,” she said, guiding him back to the bed.

  “Nonsense. I’m fine.” But when they reached the bed, Birk almost collapsed onto it and rolled to his back. His breathing came in shallow pants as he closed his eyes and moaned.

  “What have you been eating?”

  “Space crackers. Water. Some kind of protein mixture. Never been this ill before. I can feel the ship’s rotation. Here,” he said, bringing a hand to his temple. “I can feel the entire universe falling around me. Everything falling away.” He was quiet for a time before licking his dry lips. “And something else.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been . . . hearing things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Things that should not be heard on this ship. Laughter.”

  Gillian felt her brow furrow. “Laughter? You mean like one of the other crew?”

  “No. It came . . . came from the closet,” he said.

  She looked at the sliding door involuntarily, half expecting it to move as she watched.

  “I know it’s not possible, but I heard it. Also, I saw something,” Birk said.

  “What? What did you see?”

  “A face.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside,” he said, gesturing at the shuttered window at the foot of the bed.

  A rash of goose bumps spread across the back of Gillian’s shoulders and down her arms. She tried to find something comforting to say, but what did you tell someone who was hallucinating?

  “I think you’re very tired,” she finally managed.

  “Yes. I’ve told myself that as well. But I wonder, Doctor, is it . . . could it be Losian’s?” When he looked at her, there was a flicker of fear in his gaze.

  “No. The onset isn’t this sudden. You know that. Besides, hallucinations aren’t a symptom. You’re dehydrated and sleep deprived. That would make anyone see and hear things. Just rest. Would you like something to drink?”

  “God no.”

  “Okay. Try to sleep.”

  “Can’t. Too sick.” But his voice was growing weaker.

  Gillian placed a hand on his forehead and stroked back his hair. “I am sorry. It’s my fault you’re here.”

  His eyes opened to slits. “We have an old saying in Sweden. Av skadan blir man vis. It means, ‘Injury makes you wise.’ You did not do this, but we can learn from it, Doctor.”

  She tried to respond, but his breathing had already evened out, and a soft snore floated up to her as she stroked his hair back one last time.

  Gillian sat at the foot of his bed for the better part of an hour, staring at a spot on the surgically clean floor, eyes unfocused, mind floating.

  Guilt battered her, followed by anger before sharp-edged panic began to set in. She could feel it tearing at her, peeling away her defenses. The air was close in the room, and her hands tingled unpleasantly.

  Before she knew it, she was opening the door to the hall, every thought centered on the pills waiting for her in her bathroom. She took less than two steps and bumped into someone walking the opposite way.

  Tinsel.

  He let out a grunt, and she held back a surprised cry, instead feeling heated anger return instantly at the sight of him. They were standing in almost the exact place where he had drugged her, shoved a needle in her arm, and watched her go out like a light.

  “Pardon me, Dr. Ryan. Is your associate feeling any better?”

  “Yes, much.”

  Tinsel smiled. “Good to hear.”

  All at once looking at the man was too much to bear. As much blame as Carson deserved, Tinsel had also known what was being done to her. And there was no remorse in his eyes whatsoever.

  Without another glance at her, he walked away, stopping at the door to his berth before disappearing inside. She stared after him and finally turned toward her own room, a subtle unease slithering through her. Gillian fought down the slight tremors in her hands as she hurried to her berth and shook two of the small pills into her palm, and before another thought could give her pause, they were in her mouth and swallowed.

  She stood, hands braced on the sink, breathing heavy. When she looked up at her reflection, an addict stared back.

  She wanted to break the mirror, shatter her image. There was a strong urge to go back to Birk’s room and wake him, tell him she’d changed her mind. Yes, go hurt Carson and Tinsel and Lien, force whoever had the ability to turn this ship around to do so. Because her
baby was so far away and a little bit of her was disappearing even now, and if something happened . . .

  She’d be gone like Kent.

  The last thought was enough to send her to the floor, face held in both hands as it all came out of her.

  The last few days. The pressure of training, of her decision to leave. But it went beyond that. All eight years of Kent’s absence coursed free as she wept and a memory came unbidden. Their first day in the house, she and Kent carrying in box after box of their belongings, stopping to kiss every time they met each other in the hall until they’d succumbed and christened their new home right there on the hardwood floor. They’d lain there in the afterglow, blissfully unaware of the heartache barreling toward them. The pain of remembering now was so sharp, she was afraid it would cut her wide open. She’d never known that something as beautiful as what they’d had could hurt so much once it was gone.

  “I’m so sorry, honey. So sorry,” she whispered.

  It was a long time before she could bring herself to stand. When she stepped out of the bathroom, the narco-glow was in full effect around her—everything made of knives, edges crisp and clear. She took a deep cleansing breath and settled her mind back into the groove the drug always provided.

  I’m in a seriously bad place. What can I do?

  Concentration and will.

  The real question was, What was being asked of her?

  Gillian sat on the edge of the bed and laced her fingers together. As much as she hated to admit it, Carson was right. If she could find out what was causing the station crew’s symptoms and eliminate the possibility that shifting was the source, she could send Carrie through Ander’s machine. The images of the rats Ander had first tested on returned to her, and she grimaced. The technology had come a long way since then, but the possibility of Carrie ending up like one of the twisted masses of bloody matter was horrifying. But the alternative was watching her slip away like Kent had.

  She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, instinctively reached for her phone in her pocket, and nearly laughed. Her phone was on the nightstand in Kat’s house. In any case, it would be a fancy paperweight here since she was pretty sure there wasn’t coverage in this area.