But The Stars Read online

  Dante glances sideways at Benson. He doesn’t need any more cues. He cranks the handle, widening the gap. Dante turns, breathing in as she slips inside the narrow opening.

  “No,” Vichy whispers a little too loud, not wanting her to venture into the cabin.

  A low fog hugs the floor. As she moves, the mist swirls around her ankles.

  Dante presses her back against the door, not feeling confident about stepping beyond what feels like a lifeline with reality—only that particular form of reality is an artificial construct. Although she knows that, she feels safe back there with Vichy and Benson. In here, she’s in another world. With her hands beside her, she backs up slightly. Dante can feel the soft squelch of organic matter on the backside of the door. To her, it’s like moss growing on a log and her fingers pull away as she fights a sense of revulsion.

  “Dee,” is whispered from the doorway.

  She holds up her hand, signaling for Vichy to stay where he is. The walls are alive. To her, it’s as though thousands of snakes are entwined with each other, seething and writhing, each moving with conflicting purpose, rolling under and over each other in constant motion.

  “I see her,” she whispers.

  Zoe is lying naked on the floor, only she isn’t. Dante can also see her distinct, smooth black body hanging from the ceiling near the back of medical. Tree roots enclose her head, twisting around her shoulders. Which one is the real Zoe? They’re all suspended from roots on the ceiling. It’s crazy to think they’re the avatars and those are the real versions hanging there, spasming occasionally, locked inside a nightmare, observing themselves.

  Although Dante should be afraid, she’s not. There’s an entire ecosystem around her, something that arouses the astrobiologist in her. Whatever these aliens are, they’re unlike humans with their pretense of sterility, pretending to keep everything crisp and clean. Homo sapiens are microbial factories, with trillions of foreign cells inhabiting the mouth, gut and bowel, clinging to the skin and hair. As the size of cells varies so much, any one person carries around far more tiny non-human cells than their own. Their captors, though, whoever they are, seem unabashed in replicating their native environment, converting the interior of the Acheron into what for them is probably paradise.

  From what Dante can tell, the spikes brushing against the door come from a sedentary creature similar to a clam. Its open shell appears to be cemented to the wall much like a barnacle. There are no legs as such. The creature seems to sample the air in the same way a sea anemone might filter nutrients from water. Far from being threatening, it appears oblivious to her intrusion.

  The writhing snake nest on the walls appears to defy gravity, which is just fine by Dante. She keeps a wary eye on them, but like the clam, the twisting, turning creatures ignore her.

  Dante creeps forward, crushing shells beneath her bare feet. Goo squishes between her toes, causing her to pause, close her eyes, and wish she was wearing shoes. The air is cool and still. There’s no circulation coming from the vents buried beneath the snake-like creatures and she wonders about air quality and how these creatures prevent the buildup of noxious gasses. As it is, the temperature and atmosphere are tolerable. It’s cold, but above freezing. Dante has to remind herself she’s inside an illusion—or is she?

  Where are their captors? This has the trappings of an alien infestation, but where are the creatures themselves? Dante would rather not know, but she feels exposed. Whatever this breach is, it seems to be an overlap between reality and a dream. How can she exist in two places at once? And yet there she is, hanging from the ceiling not more than ten meters away. Each step, or just the slightest movement of her arms and there’s a corresponding twitch from her naked body. Where does she actually reside? Is all this unfolding inside her head up there on the ceiling? Is she even here? Is this all an illusion?

  Dante steps through the fog, watching as it swirls around her feet. Behind her, Vichy’s silhouette blocks most of the starlight. There’s some light coming from the vast, curved window within this version of medical, but something outside the spacecraft is casting a shadow, blocking most of the stars, leaving the module in darkness.

  “Zoe?” Dante whispers, crouching and touching at the woman’s legs.

  Zoe groans.

  “Hey, Zoe. Come with me,” she says, taking her hand and tugging gently.

  Zoe wakes with a start. Her eyes go wide, revealing the whites. It’s as though she’s seen a ghost. She goes to scream but Dante holds a finger over Zoe’s lips, appealing for quiet.

  “Wh—Who—What are you?” she asks.

  “It’s me, Zoe. Dante.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “We need to get you out of here.”

  “Mac,” Zoe says with a look of horror on her face.

  “It’s okay. He’s outside.”

  Zoe shakes her head softly as though she’s trying to free herself from a dream, only she’s awakening to a nightmare. “I—I attacked him. I didn’t mean to. I thought he was—”

  Dante cuts her off. “We can’t stay here.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Back there,” Dante replies, pointing at the naked bodies hanging from the ceiling, with the closest no more than a few meters away. “Somehow, we’ve crossed the bounds. I don’t know how, but we’re on the other side.” Zoe looks at a pair of male legs dangling beside her, responding to nerve impulses.

  Dante says, “I think this is us—the real us.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  Zoe crouches, taking Dante’s hand.

  “How is this possible?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They creep to the doorway. Dante can’t bring herself to turn her back on what to her seems to be corpses hanging from the ceiling. She backs up, feeling behind her with her hands. Vichy stands by the opening with his arm outstretched, reaching for them as though he were on a pier trying to grab someone flailing in the water. His fingers grasp at the air, touching at Dante’s neck and startling her for a moment. The spines from inside the gigantic alien clam brush against her legs, unsettling her, but she doesn’t want to rush. Sudden movements feel wrong. Dante pushes Zoe on, wanting her to exit first as she takes one last look at the alien world thriving on the Acheron.

  Beds lie on their sides, overturned and pushed haphazardly around the curving deck. Mattresses have been strewn across the floor. Fungus grows from them, reaching toward the window, desperate for light. What were once clean, almost sterile sheets are muddy and grey.

  Eyes glisten at the back of medical. Like nocturnal predators on Earth, their pupils open wide, gathering what little light there is, reflecting their presence. At first, Dante’s not sure what she’s looking at as she can’t see a body, just four sets of four tiny eyes, evenly spaced as though on a sphere, projecting in slightly different directions. It’s the movement that causes her heart to race and she reaches back, pushing Zoe on.

  “We need to leave.”

  A low rumbling echoes through the module, although it’s not a growl, more like the thumping bass of a speaker at a rock concert. As it fades, Dante speaks softly.

  “Shut the door.”

  Vichy is helping Zoe through the narrow gap. “But—”

  Through gritted teeth, Dante says, “Do it.”

  “On it,” Benson replies as Dante backs up, wanting to avoid the appearance of movement. She can feel the door behind her. Her fingers touch at the grooved edge as she inches backwards. Her eyes, though, are locked on the creature creeping through medical.

  Dante reaches with her back foot, edging out into the corridor as the gap closes.

  Large padded paws work their way over the beds and mattresses without a sound. Eyes sway in the shadows.

  With the door closing, Dante’s forced to turn sideways to squeeze out of medical. As soon as she does, the creature charges, pounding on the floor, thundering toward her. Vichy grabs her, pulling her back. Her arm trails behind her, hanging in
the air as Benson madly winds the crank, closing the gap. In the darkness, the massive creature leaps, launching itself at the door. Dante’s fingers clear the edge of the panel as claws slice through the air, curling around the edge of the steel panel, digging into the metal.

  Vichy has the fire extinguisher in one hand. As he pulls Dante away, he raises it and squeezes the trigger, but in the fear of the moment, he’s too far from the door. Clouds of CO2 and fine white powder shoot out of the nozzle, billowing as they buffet the door, but dissipating in the corridor. He steps forward, pushing the nozzle against one of the claws and fires again. This time, the discharge vanishes into the gap. Immediately, the claws retract, probably not for any other reason than that predators the universe over need time to assess the nature of a threat, and in that fraction of a second, Benson closes the door entirely. There’s thumping and banging on the far side of the metal panel, but the cabin door is thick, being designed to withstand raging fires, violent explosions and rapid decompression without losing its integrity.

  Dante is on the verge of collapsing. Vichy drops the fire extinguisher. He grabs her, supporting her weight as he takes her by the arm.

  “I’m alright,” she says, but it’s a lie even her own body doesn’t believe. Try as she may, she can’t help but tremble. To say Vichy notices is an understatement. His head is bowed, looking intently at her hands as he holds her tenderly. He squeezes her fingers softly. Typical Vee. He could say something. He wants to say something. She knows that from the way he rubs his thumb over the back of her hand, trying to reassure her. They know each other so well. She’s said her piece. Just two words. Vichy doesn’t agree but he won’t argue. He forces a smile. She returns the favor. Neither is convincing.

  Benson locks the crank in place, ensuring the door remains closed, leaving them with the faint sound of scratching echoing in the darkness.

  “What the hell was that?” Benson asks, oblivious to the interplay between Dante and Vichy.

  “Big,” is all Dante can manage in response, turning away from Vichy. She needs the illusion of control, even within this nightmare onboard the Acheron. Perhaps it’s her medical training, perhaps it’s her upbringing, but she feels as though she needs to project confidence.

  “Dee,” Vichy says. It seems he’s struggling to articulate what just happened. Dante ignores him. For her, the only way to think clearly is to focus on helping someone else.

  “Zoe,” she says, crouching beside the shaking woman. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”

  Two sentences. Both lies. But it’s all Dante’s got. Benson removes his jacket, draping it over Zoe as she huddles against the wall beside Mac. Zoe has her knees up and her arms wrapped around her legs, but not so much because she’s naked as frightened.

  “Hey babe,” Mac whispers, taking her hand. She squeezes his fingers. Her lips tremble. She’s on the verge of crying, pulling the jacket up over her shoulders.

  Vichy asks, “Are we going to talk about what just happened?”

  “Not now,” Dante says, trying to hide her fear, still struggling with trembling fingers, desperate to move on. “There will be time for that later.”

  She crouches, shining a penlight in Zoe’s eyes, looking for both a direct response, with the pupil contracting, and a contra-lateral response, where the other eye also contracts as that will tell her a lot about Zoe’s mental state. It’s a trick that’s as old as medicine itself. Sometimes, the simplest bio-mechanical responses are the most revealing. As nice as it would be to run a psych scan, she can already see Zoe’s lucid, which means she wasn’t unconscious or incapacitated in there. Whatever spell they cast over her, it wasn’t traumatic.

  “Squeeze my fingers,” Dante says, holding both of her hands and noting the strength of Zoe’s response. Nice and equal.

  “I’m okay,” Zoe says, trying to deflect attention.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Dante replies, pulling a bio-monitor out of the medi-pack and clipping it to her wrist. Immediately, biometrics are transmitted to the thin flex computer Dante’s rested against the backpack. Although on the surface it seems like Mac has more serious injuries, Dante considers his head wound a classic injury. With Zoe, she’s concerned about hidden wounds. She doesn’t want to miss anything critical in the temptation to rush.

  On close examination, she notices a series of tiny symmetrical contusions on Zoe’s neck. Given Zoe’s skin is a deep black, the reddish marks are concerning. Had they occurred on either her or Vichy, Dante’s sure they’d be more pronounced.

  “What happened in there?” Benson asks, joining them.

  Inadvertently, Vichy cuts off the opportunity for a reply by commenting on Zoe’s bruising, seeing it in the thin penlight. “What is that?”

  “Suction marks,” Dante replies, moving the light around, wanting a better look. “The skin hasn’t broken, but there’s definitely blistering. Look at the way the area has been engorged with blood.”

  “How is that possible?” Vichy asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Benson says, “I’ll bring up the lights.”

  “Yes. That would help.”

  “I’m okay,” Zoe says. “Honestly.”

  “She’s fine,” Mac says, which Dante finds absurd to the point of comical. It’s all she can do not to laugh.

  “None of us are fine.”

  Dante searches with her fingers, gently gliding them around the back of Zoe’s head, working to move her dense hair apart, noting a string of tiny blisters in a line reaching to the base of her skull.

  “What do you remember?” Dante asks.

  “We were asleep. I thought I was dreaming. They were all over me.”

  “She started punching me,” Mac says, cradling the back of his head with his hand. “At first, it was light. I thought she was having a nightmare—that she’d snap out of it, but then she started screaming.”

  “Their legs caught in my hair,” Zoe says. “The bugs.”

  “She hit me with a stool,” Mac says. “I thought she was mad, but then I saw them.”

  “The room,” Zoe says. “It changed. There were things on the walls. The ceiling. They were moving, crawling over each other.”

  “What did they want?” Vichy asks as the lights within the carousel come back on. Dante could kick him for interrupting. He’s breaking Zoe’s train of thought. She would rather Zoe arrived at her own conclusions.

  “They wanted to know about the submersible.”

  “I don’t understand,” Vichy says. Dante’s on the verge of asking him to be quiet and let Zoe speak when he adds, “None of that shit was from beneath the ice, right? I mean, we all saw in there. None of that is aquatic or adapted to arctic conditions. If anything, it looks subtropical.”

  “We have a bigger problem,” Benson says in his soft, southern drawl, but he gets Dante’s attention. She cannot imagine anything more alarming than seeing Zoe being dragged into some kind of breach in the illusion.

  Mac ignores him, focusing on his own concerns. “We’ve got to tell Cap and the others about this.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Benson is tightlipped, shaking his head slightly. He’s not happy. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell anyone about what we saw.”

  “Why?” Dante asks.

  “That was us in there, right?”

  Dante nods but remains silent, wanting to hear him out.

  “I didn’t count nine bodies, doc. Did you?”

  “What do you mean?” Vichy asks.

  Benson says, “I saw six or seven bodies hanging from the ceiling. Maybe eight. It was hard to tell with all the shadows. But there definitely weren’t nine of us in there.”

  “I don’t get it,” Vichy says, but Dante does.

  She looks him in the eye and says, “At least one of us is fake.”

  “What?”

  “One of us is lying.”

  Benson nods, speaking slowly so no one misses his point. “One of us… is one of them.”
<
br />   Arrows

  “Who do you think it is?” Vichy asks as they walk toward the bridge.

  “I don’t know,” Dante replies. “But I damn sure intend to find out.”

  “So we’re just going to keep quiet about this?” Mac asks. “We’re not going to say anything about what the fuck just happened back there?”

  “Not yet,” Dante replies.

  “Who did you see?” Vichy asks. Dante shakes her head, unsure, wishing she’d paid more attention. Other than what she thought of as herself, the only person she recognized was Zoe because of her deep, dark skin.

  Benson says, “We need to be careful. We’re not the only ones that can lie.”

  Walking onto the bridge of the Acheron, Dante is acutely aware of the difficulty in spotting an imposter. She’s lived with this crew for over a decade and, up until moments ago, she had no reason to doubt anyone. If Benson hadn’t thought to count the bodies hanging there inside the breach she still wouldn’t, and that frightens her. Her mind casts back to that final psych session with Dr. Romero. His words are seared in her mind—You need to be better. But even that recollection causes confusion. Her memory of that interaction is so vivid it seems as though it happened yesterday and she wonders if that’s a legitimate memory or yet another implant. Regardless, she agrees with the sentiment—she’s not sharp enough to unravel these threads. Not yet. She has to do better.

  “You guys took your time,” Cap says, smiling as they enter the bridge.

  Something in her eyes gives away her concern and he asks, “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Vichy says, to which Zoe laughs, shaking her head and looking at the floor, unable to make eye contact with anyone.

  Cap is silent. They all know Vichy’s lying, but those already on the bridge don’t understand why.

  Cap, Angel, Mags and Naz are huddled around the nav desk, looking at a three-dimensional topographical map of P4 floating in the air, rotating slowly before them. Various overlays reveal details such as ice, bedrock, sediment, subsurface volcanic vents and melt water forming vast networks of rivers and lakes buried beneath a five-mile thick glacial sheet. Over eons, the compressed ice field has carved deep valleys out of the bedrock, keeping them hidden beneath the ice.