This Splintered Silence

by Kayla Olson

  The lab door slides shut behind me. Portside, we call this one—even when our station was new and running smoothly, full of brilliant, vibrant minds, Portside was the more heavily trafficked of the two. It was where active experimentation happened, where 90 percent of the equipment was installed, since we often ran tests for Nautilus before they received their equipment upgrade. SSL, on the other hand, occupies twice the space for a tenth of the science. Which isn’t to say it’s small—Portside itself is quite expansive, taking up half of this deck. It’s just that SSL takes up the entire starboard side of its deck.

  For the life of me, I can’t imagine why Yuki and Grace would go to SSL. Not for anything useful, not that I can think of. Maybe for its beauty? Its mystery? SSL houses rows and rows of glowing pillars, so ethereal and white like starlight. It takes two people to wrap arms around each pillar, that’s how thick they are—but for their expanse, they’re mostly just filled with chilled, transparent gel. Tiny sprigs of plant life dot each pillar with green, floating embryos put on pause, waiting for the day when Radix is ready to be fully terraformed.

  As I enter my universal access code to get into SSL, that brings up another question: How did Yuki and Grace get in here in the first place?

  I weave in and out between pillars, find Heath and the girls in the dimly lit lab station in the middle of the room. The station is a wide white oval rimmed with thick countertop ledges, all storing a limited range of equipment—Yuki and Grace sit cross-legged on top of the counter, quietly staring at their hands. Nothing seems out of place, so at least there’s that.

  “What exactly is happening here?” I let my question dangle, resist the urge to fill the silence when it goes unanswered.

  Heath stands, his back against the oval’s curved inner wall, his arms crossed. I join him, mimic his pose. We’re like a set of twin statues.

  It’s so quiet, so still, we might as well be caught up in the cold storage pillars with the countless sprigs of plants. Life, put on hold.

  Do I break them with questions? Pile on the guilt until they splinter beneath it? Either of those would be effective, I think, for this single moment. But what about tomorrow? What about pulling this problem up at its roots rather than simply tearing off dead leaves?

  I uncross my arms, hope it makes me look approachable rather than like some sort of commanderly force. “You’re not in trouble, okay?” It takes effort to soften the edges in my voice, especially after this day. Yuki glances up at me—progress. “We were just worried when we couldn’t find you. And we didn’t think to look . . . here.”

  “How did you—” Heath starts, but I hold up a hand to cut him off. His tone is too sharp.

  “Heath and I know you were at the pool earlier—”

  “We didn’t know about the check-in until we were already at the pool!” Grace cuts me off, finally emerging from the silent pose she’s maintained since we arrived. “We would’ve come, but we were dripping wet.”

  So they did hear the announcement? And they still didn’t come? I could absolutely give them an earful for this. Could, possibly should. I’m torn—but they obviously already know it was wrong to skip it, otherwise they wouldn’t be acting so weird. Is that the only reason they’re acting weird, though?

  “Forget about the check-in for now,” I say. “Heath found blood near the steps. Did one of you fall or something?”

  I found no trace of the virus when I studied the blood sample, so I definitely don’t want to ask any leading questions to give away that I studied it in the first place—we’d only end up on a slippery slope ending in questions about why I studied it. I’m not about to discuss Mila with anyone who can’t even be bothered with mandatory check-ins. I’m not about to discuss Mila, period.

  “I got a nosebleed,” Yuki says shyly.

  “She gets them a lot,” Grace adds. “Always has.”

  Yuki nods, the more soft-spoken of the two. “My dad was—did you know my dad?”

  “Her dad was a nurse,” Grace says, making Yuki blush. “He let her do this all the time.”

  “Let her do what all the time?” Heath asks, adopting my purposefully patient tone. “This isn’t Medical, so what does your father have to do with it?”

  Yuki’s cheeks are cherry-blossom pink now. “Pillar Ninety-Seven,” she says. “It’s full of witch hazel. Well, half full now. He’d extract a sample here and there, whenever supplies were low, and mix it with some other things to help my nose stop bleeding.”

  I try to stifle the surprise on my face—all of this is news to me, and wow, so many rules broken all at once. Like, so many major rules broken, and not just by these girls. “He taught you how to do it, too? And gave you the access code?”

  “I’m sorry!” Yuki says, burying her face in her hands. “I know it’s wrong, I just—they don’t stop, sometimes, the nosebleeds, and he was worried I might bleed too much, or that I’d have an emergency while he was working, and—I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, Commander, I won’t do it again, I promise I won’t—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, even though it really, really isn’t. “It stopped bleeding this time, though?”

  Grace is notably quiet now. Trying to absorb as little attention as possible, I’m sure. As little blame as possible.

  Yuki nods. “On its own, this time. We only stayed because it’s so peaceful in here.” Her face twists, and she stares at her hands. “It reminds me of him.” Her voice is so quiet, I barely make out the words. “My dad.”

  I’m overcome with the sudden urge to hug her, because I know that feeling. I know it so, so well. But I keep my distance: if there’s one thing I’ve learned in these weeks, it’s that grief doesn’t always want a hug.

  “Don’t disappear on us again,” I say, making sure to meet Grace’s eyes, not just Yuki’s. “It’s imperative that you attend every check-in, dripping wet or not, and in the future, please buzz me if you need more witch hazel.” We’ve had enough blood on this ship—if it takes breaking the rules to stop more from spilling, so be it. Better to know what’s happening on the station, better to not have people scurrying around in the dark trying to hide things. “And a word of advice—be careful at Mikko’s parties? Things have been hard lately for everyone, I know. Make your choices with a clear head, not with a broken heart, okay?” I overheard my mother say that to someone once, and it’s stuck with me ever since. Only recently did those words take on true power—I’d never known brokenness before she died, not really.

  Now it’s Grace whose cheeks are pink. “Yes, Commander,” she mumbles.

  That’s twice now with the Commander—both times dig, like hairpins to the heart. I resist the urge to correct them. I downplay my authority, usually, but in this case it’s more reinforcement than burden.

  “Now go find Siena,” I say. “She’s been worried sick.”

  The girls slide down from the lab ledge without a word, leaving Heath alone with me in the wide white oval.

  “Well,” Heath says. “This is not good.”

  “Not good at all,” I agree.

  Because, really, when it comes down to it, we should be celebrating. That we found them—that they’re alive.

  In truth, it’s unnerving. I thought I had a pretty good handle on station-wide activity, on the secret things people think they’re so good at hiding. Between the six of us, I thought we knew everything.

  Today proves me wrong. In so many ways, I’m starting to feel like I’m in over my head.

  “Good work today,” I say, meeting Heath’s eyes.

  He doesn’t look away, not for a long time. “You, too, Linds.”

  His Linds hits both of us at once, brings back in vivid color how quickly things are shifting between us. We stay still for a minute, steadied by the hum of the pillars, their ethereal glow. Yuki was right, it really is peaceful in here.

  “I, um,” I say, my store of eloquence depleted for the day. “We should go. Rest while we can, right?”

  He cl
ears his throat. “Right. Yes, you’re right.”

  We leave the room as empty as it should be, no trace we were ever there.

  18

  TURN UP THE BLAZE

  I WAKE FROM another short stretch of uncomfortable sleep just after midnight. My legs are sweaty, stuck to the arm of my mother’s leather chair, fire still blazing at an eleven. I should know by now that eleven’s much too high—it’s just so beautiful, the rhythm of the flames. Mesmerizing. I’ve come to rely on them lately, when my mind is too full and I can’t sleep. I turn up the blaze, then let myself get lost. Sleep, sweat, wake, repeat.

  My buzz screen lights up, though, and now I see it isn’t just the heat that’s pulled me from sleep. It’s Zesi: Meet in Control ASAP.

  I straighten, throw off the blanket I love but can’t quit. The blur of sleep falls instantly away.

  Be there in ten, I reply. I slip into a clean pair of pants, zip my favorite hoodie on over my camisole. Zesi wouldn’t wake me unless he’s had a breakthrough—ten minutes is generous in light of how fast I plan to move.

  There are a surprising number of people still awake, clustered inside one of the enclaves I pass. They’re very into themselves, listening to Sailor Salvato sing as he plays his acoustic guitar. Good for me: no one asks a single question. I’m pretty sure no one even sees me slip by.

  Control looks almost exactly the same as it did when I left earlier, except like an older, more haggard version of itself. Coffee mugs outnumber people two to one, varying degrees of full, varying degrees of fresh. One look at Haven, Leo, and Zesi explains it: they’ve been busy, more than a bit distracted. They’re running on fumes.

  “Someone want to start talking?” I ask. I can’t shake commander mode, not even in the middle of the night. When I doubt myself, this sort of thing always affirms that I’m not the worst person they could’ve chosen. As much as the pressure gets to me, the role comes more naturally than I like to admit.

  Leo glances at Haven, then back at me. “Good news is, there’s no asteroid,” Leo says. “We’ve been running scans for hours now—each vector scan takes a while, since it’s calling out so far into the galaxy, and each one pinged a number of potential problems. I ran the scans, and Haven zeroed in on the pings, trying to track velocity, direction, all that. Long story short, we haven’t found anything to be concerned about, nothing on a collision path.”

  It’s a lot to take in—no wonder they look exhausted. “Good,” I say. “That is good news. So what’s the bad news?” Surely Zesi wouldn’t have called me all the way here in the middle of the night if there were only good news. He could’ve just messaged no asteroid instead of sending out an ASAP summons.

  My eyes drift to where Zesi sits, near the message-system light. It’s no longer blinking and angry, no longer bright at all. I feel my heartbeat in my throat—a wave of anxiety rushes into the void left by my asteroid panic.

  “You did it?” I ask. “You broke into the message system? What did it say?”

  Zesi glances at Haven and Leo, bites absently at his lip.

  “What?” It comes out more demanding than I mean it to, but I’m not exactly sorry. “What’s going on?”

  Zesi takes a deep breath, meets my eyes. Barely. “Not it. Not what did it say,” he says. “A more accurate question would be what did they say. They, as in the seventeen messages we missed.”

  Seventeen.

  I can only imagine what this means—what they’re thinking down in Nashville. Seventeen messages with no answer: it’s a problem, and not just because there could be critical, time-sensitive information there.

  Seventeen messages with no answer could mean they think we’re all dead. It could mean we won’t see another shipment for a good long while, since those things take time to prepare, time to launch.

  “Let’s hear them,” I say.

  Zesi nods, wordless. I brace myself, rest my elbows against the silver ledge with all the coffee mugs, stare out the window into the endless sea of stars.

  Shapiro here, for Hamilton, the message begins. Hamilton meaning my mother, I’m sure, definitely not her seventeen-year-old daughter. In all the years I’ve heard my mother speak of her monthly check-in calls with Shapiro, this is the first time I’ve ever heard his voice. It’s deeper than I expected.

  Please report back with your status ASAP, the message goes on. I’m sorry to leave this information on a recording, but it’s urgent, so better here than not at all. Just got word of the report you sent down about two isolated instances of contagion—I hope that’s all it’s come to, two isolated instances. I trust you’ve put the patients under quarantine already, but if not, you are under strict orders to do so immediately. We’ve taken a hard hit down here, to say the least—Roberts is dead, and similar symptoms have begun to manifest in another delivery pilot from the same division. I need to know your status—head count, supply levels. We’re locking down the base, putting ourselves under quarantine so this thing doesn’t spread. We can’t promise any future deliveries until we’re sure our pilots are in the clear, until we know more about the incubation time. It’d be bad for you to ration food, but it’d be worse for a dead pilot to crash his bird into your station. Okay. Report back immediately, Hamilton. Stars and sun—Shapiro out.

  “How old was that message?” I stare at my reflection in the window, half here and half not. It’s as faded as I feel.

  “February twentieth,” Zesi says. “Looks like the commander put in a call less than a minute later, so my best guess is that she never actually listened to his message.”

  February 20: the day after the first symptoms began to manifest, nearly seven weeks ago. I remember it clearly, because my mother died the very next day. I can hardly believe it was only seven weeks ago—so much has happened since then—and yet the sting of loss is as raw as ever, like we lost her just yesterday and have been living in one long nightmare ever since.

  “Ready for the next?” Zesi asks, pulling me out of my head. “This one’s only five days old.” He presses a button and another message begins to roll.

  Hamilton, this is Shapiro—things have been hell down here, and I regret that I haven’t reached out in a while. Quarantine knocked out Mission Control for weeks, along with both sectors where our backup systems are located. Lesson learned for the future, right? He laughs, but it is tight and strained with stress. Anyway, I was expecting to find a full inbox waiting for me, and the board’s pressing me for updates—you know how they get—but there’s nothing there. I know you’ve got everything under control, but it isn’t like you to just go dark, so I’m worried. Report back at once.

  The messages pile on top of themselves: We’re concerned about your utter silence! and Is anyone left alive? and Please, Linsey, let me know you’re okay.

  Only my mother’s closest friends called her Linsey. Shapiro’s voice is more strained with every message, like he’s been up all night, every night, for days. He sounds exhausted. He sounds like me.

  Sixteen messages roll from over three straight days of panic, according to the timestamps—but then there’s a gap afterward, two days of silence. The final message is a long one, dated yesterday morning at nine sharp, and it’s the only one where Shapiro doesn’t start with some form of my mother’s name:

  If you’re hearing this message, he begins, it means I’m wrong and you’re not all dead. Hell, I hope I’m wrong. If you’re hearing this, you’re alive, and your systems have been down, or something else is preventing you from getting in touch.

  The board has spent the last forty-eight hours in strategy; we’ve lost a lot of sleep over you, and for the sake of closure, we need to know your status. Since our attempts at contact have been met with silence, and our pilot division is still under quarantine, we’ve made contact with Sergeant Vonn at the exca site on Radix. He’s making preparations to send a supply crew over, but we’ve told him to hold off until we’re sure the station hasn’t been occupied, that this isn’t some hostage situation or an act of war.
I’ve flagged this message as urgent—if I don’t hear back from you within the next twenty-four hours, Vonn will launch his crew in preparation to attack, rather than aid.

  He pauses, clears his throat.

  If you’re all dead, he says finally, this won’t be an issue. Shapiro out.

  I run some fast math in my head: it’s one in the morning now, so we have just under eight hours to deal with this. Just under eight hours to figure out how to tell Shapiro about all of our dead—that if anything’s holding us hostage or declaring war, it’s grief.

  It would be a simple call, if not for the Vonn piece of it—or if Shapiro were able to make decisions on his own without first getting board approval. Vonn’s system of ethics is abysmal at best, and the board’s willingness to turn a blind eye in the name of advancing the mission is equally odious. Well, the board minus Shapiro—Shapiro and my mother were consistently like-minded, always the minority no matter the vote. Shapiro, I trust.

  It’s everyone else who makes me wary.

  Several years back, Vonn tried to steal some of my mother’s team when he got into a bind, but she ultimately won that fight because of her team’s invaluable expertise. She needed them here, she told him. Her people were not expendable.

  I have no doubt Vonn would help us only so long as it helps him: feed us, harvest us, use us for slave labor on Radix until we have nothing left to give. It’s how he’s always operated, pushing workers to their limits for the sake of getting the job done quickly—and the board spins it so the workers believe they’re sacrificing to save humanity. How desperate are they, now that Vonn doesn’t have ready access to a refresher crew from Earth? Even if a new crew was willing to give everything for the mission—new crews always are, what with the incentives they offer for families left behind—how would those crews get to Radix, if they can’t even manage to launch a simple supply delivery?