But The Stars Page 22

  Mac is leaning against the narrow bench that doubles as a windowsill. He’s tense. His arms are straight while his shoulders are hunched. His clenched jaw speaks of the stress he feels. Across from him, Naz is somewhat dejected, sitting on the edge of Dante’s desk. He’s pushed her equipment aside and is sitting with his feet dangling just inches off the floor. Unlike Mac, his shoulders have slouched, having lost the bluster that surged through them less than ten minutes ago. Vichy, though, looks fresh. He’s not bothered at all.

  “Oh, Vee,” she says as the realization hits. “Not you. No. Please.”

  Betrayal strikes at her like a dagger plunging through her chest and sinking deep into her heart. Dante should have seen this long ago. All the clues were there. From the start, Vee was unusually curious, asking her what she saw in the stars. When she confronted Cap on the bridge, he cut her off, sowing doubts about what was actually happening during those first few reboots.

  Vichy had a clear view from the corridor outside Zoe’s cabin, but he never backed up her account of what she saw. Oh, he made his doubts sound plausible, but she never got the support she needed. He did just enough to keep her close, but not enough to strengthen her, always leaving her feeling alone.

  Cap was the fall guy. Vichy was playing the long game. Get close. Stay quiet. Apply a soft touch, just a gentle push on the rudder to steer them in the wrong direction.

  Dante feels like a fool. She completely misread what happened in the first few tests. The arrows. Vichy chose left, but what she should have considered more deeply is why Cap copied him. Cap felt he had to support Vichy, to help him blend in. She picked up on Cap being disingenuous, but never understood why. She never suspected Vee because he’s left handed. Only he probably guessed at the answer, not wanting to parrot everyone else. It was a 50/50 choice between options both of the aliens knew were entirely bogus. She caught Cap’s reaction but missed Vee’s. They both chose the same direction because they were conspiring together. That explains the look Cap gave him back then. He thought that together they’d outplayed her.

  Later, Vichy convinced Mags they should leave Angel to tend to Dante in medical. Why would her Vee do that? The only reason this Vee did that was to break her, only he didn’t count on Angel showing compassion. After all, Angel’s only human. No, he was hoping the two of them would turn on each other and tear each other apart. Angel, though, refused to play his little game.

  Then there were the key points where Vichy was conspicuously quiet, like when Benson exposed Cap with the color yellow. Apparently, Vichy couldn’t see it either as it took them both by surprise. Although the others were boisterous, he was subdued, thinking about his next play. While Mags, Mac and Naz were keen to exploit that weakness, Vichy stayed quiet. Only now Cap’s given away the game. Why? That can only mean one thing. It’s over. They’re done with the interrogation. There’s no point in keeping up the façade any longer. They’re looking for one last reaction from which to learn.

  The lights on the Acheron flicker, stuttering, plunging the craft into darkness several times a second. As the staggered failures increase in length, Dante becomes aware this isn’t a power outage. It’s not simply that the lights are going out. No, for those brief moments in time, nothing exists beyond the darkness. No spaceship. No planet. No stars.

  Cap and Vichy remain motionless, but no one else does. They all seem to sense it—the end has come.

  Benson rushes to the door, madly tearing at the control panel, only there’s nothing to be done as there are no short circuits to override. Naz hunts through the cabinets by the window, knowing where the emergency kit is stored within medical. He fires up a survival beacon. Even though it paints the module in a brilliant, blue glow, shining like a mini-star in his outstretch hand as it casts deep shadows across the deck, it too fails to pierce the flickering darkness. With each second that passes they fall in and out of the illusion. Slowly, the Acheron recedes, being replaced only with a dark, empty void.

  Zoe and Mags join Dante, reaching out and holding each other’s hands, determined not to be alone when the end comes. Instinctively, Dante keeps waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness around her, only there’s no light at all. She can’t see anything. It’s as though she’s blind. Rather than being anchored by the artificial gravity imparted by the Acheron, she’s standing lightly, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, but she still has hold of Zoe and Mags.

  “Is this it?” Mags asks. “Is this the end?”

  Dante has to say something. She wants to lie but she can’t. In that moment, her mind casts back to her last psych session and her determination to be honest in the midst of a catastrophe. Begrudgingly, Dante says the only thing she can.

  “Yes.”

  Death Row

  “What the hell is happening?” Mac asks from somewhere deep within the pitch black darkness. “Where is everyone?”

  “Over here,” Dante yells, gripping Zoe with one hand and Mags with the other, not wanting to let them go. It’s mutual. Their fingers interlock, squeezing tight, determined not to be torn apart.

  “I can’t see anything,” Angel says, only like Mac, her voice echoes around Dante. Instead of being directional, with the sound giving Dante some idea where Angel actually is, echoes bounce around her. Angel’s voice seems to come from everywhere at once, which isn’t possible. Dante could swear Angel’s behind her, but Dante’s back was against the wall of medical just moments ago.

  Oh, how she longs for the illusion. Even though she knew it was fake, back on the Acheron she felt grounded. In here, in whatever this void actually is, she feels disembodied. Is this reality? Is this all that’s left of their lives when the illusion is stripped away? Dante can feel her arms and legs, but she can’t see anything. It’s as though there’s nothing beyond the black void and that terrifies her.

  “Over here,” Mags says, leaning forward. Dante can feel Mags stepping out away from her. She must be swinging her other hand from side to side, reaching for the others in the darkness.

  “What is this place?” Benson asks. Even though he’s nowhere near her, his voice is akin to someone whispering in her ear and it takes her a moment to realize it’s incredibly distant, as though he were standing at the far end of an old gym, with his voice echoing off an empty wooden floor.

  Zoe mumbles, “Death row.”

  To Dante’s surprise, fingers touch at her chest, padding softly at her skin, gently reaching up toward her shoulders and neck.

  A familiar voice asks, “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me,” Dante replies as Angel’s hand runs down her arm, touching at her wrist and then her hand, feeling how her fingers are interlocked with Zoe’s.

  “And that’s me,” Zoe says. Dante can hear Angel shuffling between the two of them, inching her way in the middle of them in the darkness. It’s a curious choice. Rather than stepping around Zoe, she’s stepped between them, turning to join them. Seems she feels more comfortable in between the two of them. Isn’t that what they’re all seeking? Comfort? Some assurance where none is to be found?

  “Keep talking,” Benson says, only it sounds as though he’s becoming more distant.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” Dante calls out.

  “Are we blind?” Mac asks.

  “God, I hope not,” Angel says.

  “I’ve got you,” Mags calls out, apparently reaching out and grabbing one of the men.

  “That’s me,” Mac says.

  “Okay. Okay,” Mags replies. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Okay?”

  She’s nervous, like the rest of the crew. Seems Mags is trying to talk herself into being brave. Dante’s not sure she can do that. She can’t fight the sense of grief welling up within her. They’ve lost Cap and Vichy—not moments ago—days, weeks, perhaps even months ago. And it seems they’re next.

  “What are we going to do?” Zoe asks.

  “What can we do?” Angel replies. “Nothing beyond stay together. Right now, all we have is ea
ch other. We’ve got to stick together.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mac says. “We’re missing someone.”

  “Who?” Angel asks. Like Dante, she’s probably already eliminated the alien imposters from the crew. Taking Cap and Vichy out of the equation leaves them unbalanced. It’s no longer easy to gauge the crew composition. Everything’s off-kilter. Dante runs a roll call in her head.

  “Naz,” Mac calls out in alarm. “Where the hell is Naz?”

  Zoe yells, “Naz? Where are you?” But there’s no reply.

  “Oh, no,” Angel says from the darkness, only there’s trepidation in her voice. “She’s gone.”

  “She?” Mags asks, confused by Angel’s choice of pronoun. “Don’t you mean, he?”

  “Who’s gone?” Dante asks, feeling panicked. “Where’s Benson?”

  “I thought we were talking about Naz?” Mags says.

  “No, Zoe,” Angel replies.

  Dante’s palms go sweaty. “Zoe’s gone?”

  “Haven’t you got her?” Mags asks.

  Dante’s unsure whether Mag is addressing her or Angel. “I—ah.”

  “She was here,” Angel says. “She was right here beside me—holding my hand.”

  “And?” Dante asks.

  “And then she was gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?” Dante says, trying not to let the panic show in her voice. “Gone where?”

  “I don’t know. Just gone. I could feel her hand in mine one moment, then nothing the next, just my own fingers grabbing at my empty palm.”

  “Did she let go?” Mags asks. “Mac. Is Zoe with you?”

  Although Dante appreciates Mags’ sentiment, if Zoe was with Mac, she would have said something. “What is going on?” she asks.

  “I haven’t got her,” Mac says. “I thought—”

  The sudden silence mid-sentence is painful. All Dante can hear is her own breathing and her madly beating heart thumping within the darkness.

  “Mac?” Mags asks, only her voice wavers with uncertainty. She’s not expecting an answer. “He—He disappeared.”

  As Dante’s holding her hand, she can feel Mags moving around, searching in the darkness, batting at it with her other hand. As much as Mags may want to search for Mac, shuffling around in the darkness, Dante is determined to stay still, keeping her feet firm. She holds her ground, not wanting to move. Datne tugs, pulling on Mags’ arm, drawing her back. It seems, like Angel holding onto Zoe, Mags had a good hold on Mac’s hand and then he too was just gone.

  Dante hyperventilates. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, leaving her feeling lightheaded. It takes all her focus to slow herself down.

  “Wh—” Dante begins to say, but Angel cuts her off.

  “What the hell. Zoe? Mac? Where are you guys?”

  “What about Benson?” Dante asks, realizing he’s been forgotten amidst all the drama involving Zoe and Mac. She calls out, “Benson, can you hear us?”

  “They’re gone. They’re all gone,” Mags says, retreating beside Dante and squeezing her hand tight. “I—I had his hand. And then.”

  “Then what?”

  There’s no reply.

  “Mags?” Dante calls out.

  “She’s gone,” Angel says, only how does Angel know? Angel’s holding Dante’s hand, while Dante’s holding, or was holding…

  “Oh, no,” Dante says, grabbing at the air in front of her. “No, no, no. Not Mags! Please, no.”

  “They’re all dead,” Angel says, turning and grabbing Dante. She wraps her arms around her neck and holds tight. Dante reacts immediately, clinging to Angel’s waist.

  “I’m sorry,” Dante blurts out. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Angel says, sobbing into her shoulder. “Not like this. Not without a fight. Not without any warning. Not—”

  And with that she too is gone, leaving Dante grasping at the darkness.

  Dante sinks to her knees, waiting for the inevitable, knowing there’s no hope—not this time. Far from being a reboot, this is an extermination. One by one, each of the crew has winked out of existence.

  Do they even know?

  Is there enough time for the realization to hit?

  What lies beyond this moment?

  Dante knows. She rather she didn’t but she can’t lie to herself. Not this time. Outside of this moment, there’s nothing—nothing at all. Her arms tremble, while her fingers shake uncontrollably. Instinctively, she grabs at them, trying to steady herself—as though anything she does actually matters. Her breaths come in short bursts. It’s the loss of control, the frailty, the sense of being exposed and vulnerable that unsettles her. She’s helpless.

  Dante’s never felt this way before, even when she sheltered from that tornado in a dirty, smelly, concrete bathroom a quadrillion miles away back in Alabama. She feels utterly defeated and without hope. Dante sniffs. Her nose is running. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, only they’re not real either. For a fucking illusion, all this feels pretty goddamn real.

  Dante wonders how long she’ll have to wait and then she wonders no more.

  Dreadnought

  A hand holds Dante’s shoulder, dragging her roughly to one side, grabbing more at bone than muscle or sinew. Dante blinks but she can’t see anything beyond a dark, fuzzy blob moving within a blinding white blur. Thick mucus clings to her arms, her legs, her face and neck. She chokes, unable to breathe, gagging, coughing, spluttering. Words are spoken, but to her, they’re muffled. Whoever this is, they’ve got a firm grip on her, not allowing her to pull away. The vague form of a man kneeling before her scrapes away the sticky mucus, scratching at the skin on her face. He pushes his hands into the corner of her eyes and down over her nose, flicking away the sludge.

  A tube is shoved into one of her nostrils, which horrifies her, causing a feeling of repulsion to wash over her. She tries to pull away but the stranger shifts his hand around behind the back of her head, forcing her to hold still. There’s suction. One nostril is cleared and then the other.

  Dante can’t see anything distinct. Colors blend together, swirling before her. Shadows hint at people crouching nearby or creeping past, ignoring her. She feels overwhelmed and lashes out, wanting to push the stranger away. As determined as she is to tear herself away, the man before her has even more resolve. His hand grips the back of her neck, forcing her to face him.

  “—be easier if you weren’t fighting me.”

  He’s firm but caring, which is a strange sensation for Dante after all she’s been through on the Acheron. As much as she doesn’t want to, she surrenders, sitting crumpled on the floor.

  “Gotta get that shit out of your lungs.”

  He tilts her head back so he can see the rear of her mouth as he vacuums the inside of her cheeks. As soon as he hits the skin and muscle at the back of her throat she gags and lurches forward.

  “That’s it,” he says. “It’s okay.”

  Dante vomits. Her stomach heaves and a deep, black, sticky, tar-like sputum comes up mixed with spew and bile. She leans forward on all fours, hacking as she coughs. Stomach acid sprays across the deck, splattering against her outstretched arms. Convulsions seize her body and she arches her spine, bringing up more bile.

  “Yeah, you got it,” he says, patting her back and encouraging her to keep going. “Get it out.”

  “Wh—What the?” she says, spitting gunk from her mouth. Stringy threads of saliva and sick hang from her open lips.

  “You’ve been under a long time,” he says, hitting her quite forcibly on the back and rattling her ribcage. “Keep going. You’ve got to get it all out.”

  “I—”

  She starts to panic.

  “Hey, easy. Slow things down.”

  Dante’s naked.

  She’s cold, sticky and wet, only the cold seems to come from within her aching bones. Her arms are unnaturally thin. There’s little to no muscle texture, just sinew and bones. Skin clings to the withered outline of her left hand, wr
apping around grotesquely swollen knuckles. To her horror, she’s missing the fingers on her right hand. She still has her thumb, but a series of stubs lead down from the first knuckle on her index finger, cutting back to where her pinky should be, but by then there’s nothing beyond the scarred back of her hand. She flexes, wanting to stretch her fingers, unable to comprehend what she’s seeing, but they’re gone.

  Stringy hair hangs down on either side of her head, only it’s sickly and thin. As it’s soaked in mucus, it takes her a moment to notice the color—grey. She runs her good hand through her hair, wanting to clear out the mucus, only the hair she pulls at comes away in clumps.

  “That’s it. Breathe,” the man beside her says. Dante turns to face him. He’s wearing a full body spacesuit with the helmet down. At first, she thought he might be wearing some kind of slick hazmat suit, but she can see a heads-up display projected on the inside of the glass helmet.

  “Wh—What is happening to me,” she begins, but her words come with a slur. She reaches up with her left hand, touching at her lips, feeling her empty gums. A lone tooth wobbles in its socket and she cries, unable to process all that’s happening to her physically. What for her felt like days has been decades.

  “Where are you from?” he asks.

  In the haze of her mind, Dante’s unsure how to respond. The Acheron? Earth? America? New York? Alabama?

  Dante mumbles incoherently. Even she’s not quite sure what she’s saying.

  Her eyes cast around at the rest of her crew. She squints. They’re in some kind of sterile, white room. Floodlights on the ceiling make it difficult to focus. Shattered glass lies strewn across the floor, covered in thick, gooey mucus. Most of the fragments are quite large, curving like the cockpit of a mining craft. A dozen life-size vials stretch along the wall, evenly spaced against the pipes and tubes winding in and out of the room. Most of the life-size tubes are broken. A few of them are empty, with thick fluids swirling slowly within them.