Obscura

by Joe Hart

  “Coming?” Leo asked.

  Gillian nodded, eyeing the sealed doorway before following him.

  Tinsel’s and Lien’s units were already closed, their names in neat block letters on a digital display at the foot of each pod. Easton was just climbing into his own, an IV trailing out from his left arm as he settled into place. He nodded at Gillian, his expression unreadable.

  “The chemical compound introduced in the pods slows the metabolism, heart rate, breathing, everything to a fraction of normal levels,” Leo said from beside her. “The next seventy-four days will be biologically equivalent to five for us.”

  “That’s pretty amazing.”

  “Not the same as shifting, of course, but it will feel instantaneous.”

  “Do you dream?” she asked, pausing by the next waiting unit with Birk’s name at its foot.

  “Dream? Yes, many people report dreams and have higher recorded brain activity during stasis. Why?”

  “It just seems like it would be eternity without dreaming.”

  A strange look crossed Leo’s features before he smiled. “Let’s get the necessities over with,” he said, nodding toward Carson, who waited beside Birk in the middle of the room.

  “I’d like to ask you to reconsider one more time,” Carson said as she approached. “You should go into stasis. It’s for the best.”

  “I’ll be fine, thanks,” she said, turning to Birk. The big man gave her such a miserable look, she nearly did reconsider. But she couldn’t. She’d never be able to live with herself if she squandered the time and resources that were available to her just because she didn’t want to be alone.

  “Doctor. I’m sorry,” Birk said.

  “Sorry that you’re sick? Stop it. This will make the trip go a little faster for you.”

  He dropped his eyes, looking as if he wanted to say something more, but if he did, she thought it would be the last straw that would break her tenuous will. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. His skin was chilly and rough with stubble.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said, stepping back.

  Birk dipped his head once and turned away, then climbed into the pod with some effort. When he relaxed into the leaning position, he barely fit, his shoulders brushing the sides of the unit as Leo inserted an IV into one of his arms. A minute later the pod’s lid lowered, and she lost sight of him behind the opaque shield.

  Carson stood with his hands on his hips, eyes unfocused for several seconds before saying, “Leo, can you give us a minute?”

  “Sure. I’ll get my unit prepped.”

  When the older man had retreated to the far end of the room, Carson glanced at her. “I was hoping to have most of this cleared up by now, but there’s a lot I can’t tell you yet.”

  “You really haven’t told me anything.”

  “No.”

  “Yet you’re the reason I’m here.”

  “You’re more right than you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He worked his jaw. “I wasn’t being gracious when I said you’re the most brilliant in your field. There was another reason I chose you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Carrie. I wanted to call you thousands of times after your husband passed away, but I could never get the courage to actually dial the number. And when I found out about Carrie’s diagnosis, I came to see you at your lab but stopped outside the door and left before you saw me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I chose you for the mission not only because you’re the best in your field, but because I thought maybe it could help Carrie.” He paused. “Help you.”

  Carson opened his mouth to say more but then closed it. With a last look, he turned and climbed into his waiting stasis unit. Leo inserted the IV, and a moment later the pod sealed with a short hiss, and Leo motioned her to follow him. They walked to his unit, and he settled himself inside and placed his own IV in his left arm with practiced ease.

  “Remember what I said: take a break every once in a while. Relax and recharge your batteries. And if you need to, wake one of us. There’s no shame in needing help,” he said.

  No shame in needing help. That was the slogan of every rehab clinic she’d ever considered checking in to before abandoning the idea. But shame was the cage that kept her from reaching out for help. Shame at not being strong enough to deal with what life had handed her. I got news for you, Doc: when you’re an addict, there’s always shame.

  “I will,” she said.

  “And remember not to get lost in here.” He tapped his temple once and pressed a button on the inner wall of the pod. “Godspeed,” he said as the lid closed.

  There was the familiar hiss of air, then silence.

  She was alone.

  EIGHTEEN

  Alone.

  Some words never fully encompass the true depth of their meaning. Some are so small, so insignificant, that what they represent dwarfs them into meaningless and trivial utterances.

  “Death” is one.

  “Alone” is another.

  Gillian caught herself thinking this as she gazed out the window at the passing stars. She stood in the lab she’d spent almost every waking hour in since watching the crew go into stasis. How long had it been? Two days? Three? She’d already lost count. So many more to go. She nudged the thought away.

  She sighed, facing into the room again. It had taken the better part of a day to get acclimated to the lab itself: finding where all the instruments were, bringing up her data on one of the many tablets, and organizing everything she would need to continue trials for the neural highlighting. There hadn’t been much progress. For what seemed like the millionth time, she found herself wishing Birk was with her. Not only because his assistance was indispensable, but also to break the silence that surrounded her like a cocoon. She almost never talked to herself, but she had begun doing so every few hours just to brush back the quiet.

  “Better get to it.” Gillian moved to the nearest worktable and sat down before one of the digital displays holding data for the most recent trials she and Birk had completed on Earth. She read through the numbers three times, having to repeat the process because her eyes kept traveling to the entrance of the lab.

  The doors to this part of the ship were different: they contained windows set halfway up their length. She supposed they were for people to assess whether any sensitive tests were taking place before entering.

  Gillian brought her focus back to the chart and the notes Birk had made concerning the time lapse between pyramidal and inhibiting neuron activity, but slowly her gaze slid to the doors once again, almost anticipating the lurching fear that had gripped her the day before.

  She had been sitting almost exactly where she was now, organizing vials needed for the bioluminescent trials, when a strange sensation invaded her.

  All at once she’d registered what was wrong.

  Someone was standing outside the lab doors.

  She’d jerked her head up, a butterfly’s wings in her heart. But there was no one there. For nearly a minute, she’d sat unmoving, watching the windows while letting the rational part of her mind coax the rest of it down off the ledge of panic.

  You imagined it.

  You’re tense. Remember what Leo said about the mind.

  Rationalizing it hadn’t stopped her from moving carefully to the door and peering out, sure she would see someone standing there. The hall had been empty, of course, motionless, white, the same as when she’d walked there from her room. She’d tried to stop herself then; she really had, but no matter how much she reassured herself she was being absolutely foolish, her feet had carried her to stasis, where she verified through everyone’s display that each pod was still occupied.

  Afterward, she’d taken a hydro, brewed a strong cup of coffee, and sat at the table in the lounge sipping it and staring at the nearest wall. She hadn’t actually seen anything. But her lizard brain strongly disagreed. Perhaps it was
nerves or maybe some kind of delayed reaction to the environment—maybe it was a delayed onset of motion sickness like Birk had.

  “Or maybe you’re really losing it,” she said to herself, coming back from the memory. Gillian stared at the doors for another moment before dismissing them, dismissing the incident. She had been stressed, still was, to be completely honest. And seeing something out of the corner of one’s eye wasn’t a rare event. It happened all the time.

  “Happens all the time,” she murmured, bringing her full attention back to the notes.

  Audio file transcript—#179084. June 6, 2028.

  I counted the remaining pills today.

  Twice. I was having a hard time focusing in the lab, and I’d brought them there from my room, so I counted them to relax. I took two yesterday to concentrate and managed to get ready for a trial on one of the fifteen rats that were brought along in their little self-cleaning cages. Their food is also dispensed automatically into their bowls. When they hear the pellets fall, they come scurrying. Just like me and my pill bottle. Rattle, rattle.

  I went a day without having anything and started to get the shakes by the end. Not good. Got a feeling I’m in for a pretty terrible ride when they’re gone.

  [Brief pause.]

  There’s this lie drugs or booze tells the person that’s using them . . . or that they’re using, if you want to be honest. It’s the idea you can’t function without them. A guy with terrible anxiety drinks Scotch at his desk all morning and manages to seal a deal with a big corporation? It was because he was relaxed. Then he gets thinking that it was the only reason he was able to do it. That it was all the booze and none of his talent. Life’s a big flat-faced mountain we have to climb, and the wonderful substances are our climbing gear.

  [Long sigh.]

  Where was I going with this? Sleep maybe. I haven’t been sleeping well. My room feels too small, and I wake up almost hyperventilating every time I’m in there. I tried napping on the couch in the lounge but kept jolting awake every few minutes. I thought . . . I thought I kept hearing something. A banging or thumping. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the ship functioning, but I never heard it before. Although I can’t be sure I actually heard it or not.

  I thought I’d be used to the isolation by now, but I’m not. I considered using comms, even went so far as to look for Leo’s instructions on how to do it before remembering John’s face and voice. I’d rather go the rest of my life without speaking to another human being than hear one word from him again.

  [Long pause. Muffled laugh.]

  Leo. I had to laugh when I found where he’d left the instructions for communications. They were written on a folded piece of paper tucked inside his copy of Skeleton Crew. I’ve forgotten a lot of the stories. Probably wasn’t the best choice of reading material given my state of mind, but it passes the time. Got to the one about teleportation last night. “The Jaunt,” it’s called. Spoiler alert if I’m dead and anyone listening to this hasn’t read it. It’s in the distant future, where teleportation is commonplace, and follows a man and his family getting ready for a trip across the universe. The father’s relating the history behind how the technology came to be, how it was absolutely necessary for people to be unconscious when they did it because everyone who had been awake went insane and died immediately afterwards. The part that stuck with me besides the ending, which I remembered enough of that I decided not to read it again, was where a convicted murderer is given the chance of a full pardon if he agrees to teleport awake. He does, and comes out looking absolutely ancient on the other side and dies immediately afterward. Like an eternity passed for him in a matter of seconds.

  [Clears throat.]

  Yeah, I know—wonderful subject matter given what we’re going to be dealing with in a couple months. Regardless, it got me thinking. What would it be like to stay awake while shifting? I know it’s never been attempted—the vacuum causes unconsciousness within a few seconds—but how would it feel as every atom in your body slowed down and froze? What would it be like for time to stop?

  [Recording pauses. Resumes.]

  I’m rambling. Need to be sleeping instead of talking to a recorder. Big day tomorrow, first neural bioluminescent trial in space! Congratulations to me! I’ll celebrate with some shitty coffee and that caramel pudding stuff I’m sure isn’t supposed to be pudding.

  [Short pause.]

  Carrie loves pudding.

  [End of recording.]

  Audio file transcript—#179085. June 15, 2028.

  I made a huge mistake coming here.

  Not just because of the obvious reasons. Nine days and zero progress on the trials. I don’t know what to do. I keep going back over and over the data, all of our notes, reading through every paper that’s come out of the neurological community in the last three years.

  Nothing. Nothing works.

  It’s the inhibiting neurons that are the problem, and it seems relegated to the hippocampus for some reason. They’re shutting down the bioluminescent triggers before there’s a clear picture. Without all of the neurons firing, we’ll never be able to see where the neurofibrillary tangles are located. And if I can’t find them . . .

  [Indistinct.]

  [Recording pauses. Resumes.]

  I managed to get a few nights of good sleep. Had to take a pill beforehand, though. I get really edgy right before I drift off. It’s beyond quiet. Haven’t heard the sounds anymore. Maybe I imagined them too. Think I’m still anxious about what I thought I saw the other day. I know there wasn’t someone watching me from outside the lab, but I’ve caught myself looking over my shoulder when I walk down the hallways. I half expect someone to be there, two steps behind me.

  I’m starting to wonder if everything will fall apart. If I can’t figure out how to fire the neurons, what will happen when we reach the space station? What use will I be? And even if I still get the funding once we get home, will it be any different? Right now I’ve got a fully equipped lab and all the time in the world, and I can’t make any progress.

  [Soft crying.]

  I miss her. I miss Carrie. I miss our house, and I miss our walks and how she always pointed out things I would have never noticed.

  I miss my life.

  [End of recording.]

  Audio file transcript—#179086. June 27, 2028.

  I saw someone today.

  I was rounding the curve in the hallway near Quad Two and heard something. It was a shushing noise, and at the same time, I saw the door to the quad slide closed. I stopped so quickly, I nearly fell, and my heart felt like it was going to climb out from between my ribs.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there for a few seconds before realizing someone must have woken up early from stasis.

  I jogged down the hall and scanned in through the door, completely expecting to find Carson or maybe Easton sitting at one of the pedestals when I went inside.

  But there was no one.

  I went into medical, sure that they’d gone in there, maybe for some water or aspirin or something, but it was empty. I half ran to stasis and started checking all the units. Everyone was asleep and accounted for.

  [Ragged breathing.]

  So I guess I didn’t actually see anyone. Just . . . saw the door closing. It could’ve been a malfunction. I went in and out of the quad a dozen times to check it.

  Worked perfectly.

  I went and sat in the lab after that for a couple hours, but I couldn’t concentrate. Not even with the pills. I’ve been taking more of them than I should. Up to four a day now.

  We’ll be at the space station in less than seven weeks.

  Still no progress.

  One of the rats died. It looked natural. It wasn’t even one I’d been using for trials. It was just lying on its side when I went into the lab. Maybe space didn’t suit it. Maybe space doesn’t suit anyone. We don’t belong this far away from Earth.

  I keep going back to what I know about the mind. The hippocampus. Memory, emotion, how
we interpret our experiences and how we store them. What makes us who we are, and how delicate that is.

  How it can just fade away and we become nothing. A shell. Something that eats and breathes until even that stops too.

  [Rustling sound. Indistinct.]

  There was something else. When I went into medical after seeing the door close, there was a smell. Something I couldn’t name.

  But I know I’ve smelled it before because for some reason it terrified me.

  [End of recording.]

  Audio file transcript—#179087. July 4, 2028.

  I dreamed about Kent last night.

  We were on Mars. I can only assume it was Mars since I’ve never been there, but everything was red and desolate. I was following him across this horrible dead landscape. He was in a space suit, and I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was him. And I . . . I wasn’t wearing one, but I could breathe. He led me to this huge depression, this enormous valley that was like a gaping wound, and he stood there on the edge before he looked back. And his face . . . it was . . . it . . . [Slurring. Indistinct.] I couldn’t stop him. He fell.

  No. He jumped.

  [Indistinct.]

  [Recording pauses. Resumes.]

  Fuck you, Tinsel. And fuck you, Carson. I don’t care what you were thinking when you brought me here.

  [Long silence.]

  I haven’t slept in days. Can’t work. I’m in a cage every time I try to turn around and go in a different direction. Like the rats. Dead ends, everywhere. Feels like someone’s watching. Eyes on me wherever I go in this ship.

  [Soft crying.]

  Today’s the Fourth of July. I hope . . . I hope Kat brought Carrie to see the fireworks. She loves the fireworks. [Slurring. Indistinct.] . . . she thinking? Does she think I’m gone? Gone like her daddy? Or does she not remember at all?

  [End of recording.]

  NINETEEN

  Gillian brought the morning’s third cup of coffee to her lips.