Unknown Horizons

by CJ Birch

  “Will I just instantly remember everything?” I wonder if it would be similar to waking up with foggy bits of memory after too much drinking the night before.

  He pops out the now-full vial and slips it into a syringe. “To be honest, I’m not sure how this will work exactly. But I’m reasonably sure it won’t kill you.”

  Oh, joy.

  I pull my tunic on because it’s suddenly freezing in here.

  The doctor reaches out to pull my collar down, and I back up. “Wait. You want to do this now?”

  “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

  My stomach grumbles in response to that. I’m really wishing I hadn’t skipped dinner before coming. But more importantly, what if I never wake up? What if this makes the effects of the mind knot worse? But instead of protesting, I shake my head. I need to know what happened on Europa.

  “I didn’t think so.” He sticks the needle deep into my skin and presses the plunger. It takes a second to kick in, but when it does, my vision goes white, then red, then dark.

  When I wake, I’m standing in the lab on the Europa Science Station, staring out at the stars. It’s weird because everything is hyper-real, as if I’m actually standing looking out the window as we orbit Jupiter’s moon Europa and beyond that, Jupiter itself. I have no control over my movements at all. I know this because I pick up a mug and drink from it. From its chips and cracks and faded slogan—“World’s Worst Cousin” printed in bold capital letters—I recognize it as the mug Edward gave me for my twenty-first birthday.

  And then the world explodes.

  My head and neck slam forward and the rest of me crashes backward. When I’ve stopped moving, I look down at my hands—which are covered in blood—and I feel something digging into me from behind. I remember, but it’s an odd out-of-body memory because I’ve seen it before on the security camera. I want to look around for the camera, but all I can do is stare at my hands, confused by the blood and glass and how it got there.

  Smoke billows in through the door, and I pull myself free after three or four good heaves. I collapse on the floor, coughing and retching from smoke. It’s not smoke from the explosion. They’ve released tiny canisters throughout the deck, spewing foul, black smoke. But this revelation comes too late, as one sails toward me, bounces off my knee, and whirls away into the darkness before popping. Everything goes black.

  I wake up groggy. For a second I think I’m back in the med center with one hell of a hangover, but when I try to move, I am still stuck inside myself, experiencing what must be my lost memories.

  My wrists are strapped tight to a chair. The cord cuts into my skin. My ankles are also bound, and for some terrifying reason, the Burrs have removed my boots and socks.

  This doesn’t look like any part of the station. The floors are caked in so much grease that they’re black, even though I can tell from the corners that the tiles were once white. I’m aboard one of their ships.

  I can see and feel everything but have no guard against it, no mechanism to escape. As if being paralyzed while Pomeranians lunch on my innards. I feel tired and weak. The drug they gave me must not have worn off yet. Too heavy to hold up any longer, my head lolls onto my chest, and every few seconds I hear a sound. Pit, pat, pit, pat. After a few minutes, I notice it’s me making that sound, or rather the blood dripping off my face onto my pants.

  Boots stop a foot from my bare feet. They’re so worn that I can see the metal tips poking through the material on top. This close, I can smell him. It’s a mixture of fish and dung and soil. I still don’t raise my head. It’ll take too much energy, and I know I don’t have any to spare if I’m going to survive this. I’m scared. No, scared isn’t the right word, neither is terrified. It’s an equal mixture of morbid fascination—to see what they’re going to do—and fatalistic anticipation—because I know something is coming. I’m just not sure what.

  I feel fingers dig and twist into my hair and wrench my head up. I’m staring into the face of my enemy. It’s pocked with craters, and the skin around his eyes looks like it’s slipped out of place, revealing too much of his eyeball and socket. But he’s human, not monster. Then again, I’ve seen a Burr before, just not this close. Monster is a relative term. He grins. It’s mostly gums, with the odd tooth poking through. I guess they don’t have much of a dental plan.

  Thanks to the shift in gravity, blood from my nose begins to dribble down my lips. I choke as it slips into my mouth and down my throat. It splatters across his face. He slams my head back into the headrest. I feel it in my teeth.

  While my teeth settle back into their sockets, someone new enters the room. This one is different. His black hair—which I can tell is dyed because it’s so uniform—is slicked back. It’s stark against his pale skin, and his eyes are so blue, it’s like someone painted globs of blue paint on either side of his nose. His skin isn’t smooth, but it’s not wrinkled either, as if it was pulled taut and tucked around his hairline. It’s unsettling because he was once handsome but now looks as if he’s been repaired too often.

  This is the guy in charge. Four-Teeth drops my head, but I manage to keep it up and continue to stare. I hope my expression says go fuck yourself, although I suspect, because of the bloody nose and general dishevelment, it says If I don’t sleep soon, I’ll pass out.

  He opens a panel beside the door and enters a sequence of commands. The chair begins to tilt back. The armrests shift to pull my arms down flat beside me, and the bottom of the chair swings up so that my legs are flat with the rest of my body.

  “Go wash up,” Stretched-Face says to Four-Teeth, who scurries off, which I don’t see because I’m now lying on my back facing the ceiling. “Alison…” His voice is deep and gravelly, like it’s an engine starting deep in his throat before it barrels out of his mouth. He steps over to a cabinet hidden in the wall and pulls out a long, thin rod. My eyes follow it, and not him, as he moves to stand over me at the head of the bed.

  He holds the crop up to the light, examining it, almost as if he’s forgotten that I’m lying on the table. “It’s interesting, don’t you think? Of all the things we’ve invented, we always come back to the basics.” He swishes the rod downward. It makes a whooshing sound as it moves through the air. “For instance, I could use a variety of advanced technologies to get what I need from you, Alison, but instead I’m going to use this.” He holds the rod closer to my face. “A riding crop used to discipline horses.” The skin on his face has barely moved as he’s said this. “I sometimes think we as a species don’t appreciate the simple. We complicate things. Take you, for example.” He places the rod on the side of my face and turns it toward him. His blue eyes bore into mine. “You know something I want to know.”

  I try to shake my head, but the rod stays firm. My chest is tight, and I just want the pain to start so it can be over that much sooner.

  “This station is working on a plasma pulse, is that correct?”

  I don’t say anything. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but that doesn’t mean the me who experienced this didn’t. He lifts the rod, and before I even have time to brace for it, he whips the table next to my head. I flinch at the sharp slap next to my ear. I clench my fists and teeth. There’s something very much like panic building inside me. The longer he holds off, the worse I feel.

  “The plasma pulse is a device used to disrupt the engines and electrical current of a ship,” he says, playfully bending the rod back and forth. My lips are squeezed tight. My teeth dig in, but it’s a pain I can endure. He strikes the table again. Harder. This time near my right ear. This isn’t panic I’m feeling any longer, it’s pure anger. I want him to stop stalling; it’s almost worse than if he were actually whipping me.

  “It’s very simple, Lieutenant. You know the passcodes to get me this device, and I have food and water and a nice cot when you do.”

  I stare up at him and smile. “You’re right. It is simple. I’d rather the rod than tell you anything.”

  His jaw clen
ches. It’s the first expression I’ve seen him make. Fury. His brows climb while the rest of his face tightens toward the center.

  He pulls his arm back and this time whips my left arch so hard it feels like a hot knife has sliced through the soft skin of my foot.

  Chapter Twelve

  I wake screaming. My body is throbbing as if I’ve had a dream I couldn’t wake from. My stomach curls, and I dry heave, retching over the side of the bed. Dr. Prashad is at my side in a second, rubbing my back. He watches me with concern. The skin between his eyebrows bulges. I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but bile rises, and I spit green slime into the kidney-shaped container he’s shoved under my face.

  After a minute or two, I lean back on the bed. The muscles in my stomach have settled, and I feel a little better.

  “What?” I ask.

  It’s an intense stare now. “I was worried. Your heart rate was…”

  We both look over at the monitor and see the peak, a Mount Everest next to a series of hills.

  “Did the serum work?”

  I nod. “It worked.” A little too well, I think. I wonder if he knows that by giving me back those memories, he’s triggered others. I can remember the plasma pulse. It’s why I was assigned there in the first place, to oversee the final stages of its development. I need to know if I gave them any information, if the Burrs now have the plasma pulse, and if they do, what they’re planning on doing with it. I need more answers, more of my memories back.

  I grab the doctor’s sleeve. “I need to go again.”

  He laughs and unfolds my hand from his sleeve. “Not tonight. You need sleep and a decent meal.”

  I want to argue. I need to know more right now, but the doctor is almost as stubborn as me. It’s an argument I’ll lose.

  My first thought is of the captain. I know it’s irrational to be so drawn to her. Yet just being in her presence calms me. I should tell her what’s happened, and I jump off the bed with that in mind. Before I’ve buttoned my tunic, I stop, my mind changed. What do I tell her? That I might have given those assholes technology that can cripple us? Because what do I really know? The rational side of me wins, and I decide to wait until I find out more. But it doesn’t stop the ache that’s begun building in my chest. The longing.

  Later, as I sit in the middle of my duvet in bed clothes, I pull first one foot up, then the other. I can’t see any marks. But then, there wouldn’t be. He probably couldn’t risk any suspicion that I’d experienced more than an explosion. I run my fingers over the smooth, pinkish skin. I was right. It wasn’t such a bad thing, not remembering what had been done.

  I was told the Burrs had attacked for food and medical supplies. But they hadn’t. They were there to steal the schematics for the plasma pulse, and if they got them, they probably erased any evidence of the theft.

  I lie back, hands laced behind my head, and for the fourth night in a row, I don’t sleep well. When I do, my dreams are full of Burrs, and blue eyes, and horses with large black rods, and for some reason, bright green pears.

  The next afternoon, I’m in the bow of the ship. The tight compartment houses the ship’s sails for matter collection and several banks of filters. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor with tools and filters scattered around me in a semicircle, and for the first time in days, I’m happy, lost in busywork that allows me to think. As first officer, there are more important things I should be doing, but I hate officers who refuse to get their hands dirty, and there’s something comforting about being holed up with a labor-intensive task ahead of me.

  All four hundred and ninety filters have to be fitted with sensors, ones that detect photons with short wavelengths. Anything with a kinetic energy greater than one multiplied by ten to the power of eighteen eV could be lethal over time. When the filters detect harmful wavelengths, an alarm is tripped, and our artificial electromagnetic field is activated to protect the crew and ship from the adverse effects. The way the Persephone is set up now, the ship’s artificial electromagnetic field is always activated, but that’s a huge drain on resources. It’s important when we’re in our solar system, so close to the sun and its devastating solar wind, but as we move farther away, we won’t need it to be on constantly. Our biggest worry, as we move farther from the Milky Way, is gamma ray bursts from supernovas, exploding stars, or the fusion of two neutron stars. The amount of kinetic energy produced by gamma rays puts the energy output of our sun to shame. Without this protection, we would be subjected to lethal doses of radiation.

  Much like the Earth’s magnetospheres, our shield separates out the protons and electrons from the solar wind, which in turn generates a separation of charge in space and deflects the particles from space. Basically, it’s a generator that creates static electricity to push harmful rays away from us.

  I begin my task thinking how simple life must have been on Earth—it naturally produces its own electromagnetic field to shield the planet from harmful space radiation—when I hear a whoosh, and the locking clamp on the compartment door slides into place. I rush to the door, but it’s locked from the outside. I crane to see through the glass, to see who is on the other side. No one. I turn around to search for what, I’m not sure. Nothing will pry these doors open. They’re designed to be airtight in case of a breach in the hull. And then I hear another sound, much more dangerous than the first.

  I rush to one of the sealed airways and place my ear against it. There’s a faint sound, like sucking air through your nose, and when I put my hand next to the flue, I can feel the draw. Someone is decompressing this compartment. I have at most five minutes before all the oxygen is siphoned and this room will be a vacuum—no air, just space.

  I search the room for another panel with an override command to reinitialize compression. I notice one near the door, but when I try to open it, the damn thing won’t budge. I run my fingers along the edge looking for any give, but it’s been soldered shut. I grab a hammer and screwdriver from my pile of tools in the middle of the room and begin to beat the screwdriver into the edge of the panel, to use it as a crowbar to pry the door open. Nothing. It’s not even making a dent in the solder. I throw the screwdriver on the ground and chuck the hammer at the door in frustration.

  Is it my imagination? Or is the air getting thinner? I undo the first three buttons on the collar of my tunic. The air has become humid, and I’m finding it harder to keep my focus. I stare out of the tiny porthole at the very bow of the ship. Beyond, I can see a mass of stars. Usually, the only thing you see is the back of the sails, but they’re currently furled. I focus on the stars, calming my mind. If I panic, I’ll die. I need to use my brain. Every situation has a solution.

  I take a closer look at the panel. I run my finger down the side and realize it hasn’t been soldered. It was welded. We don’t even allow welding tools to be used on board; the only place they’re allowed is outside the ship, during spacewalks. Welding requires sparks, and that’s too dangerous to have in such an oxygen-rich environment. Too many things could go wrong. Two things pop into my mind. One, someone with access to the welding gear did this, and two, whoever it was went to a lot of trouble.

  There must be another way into that panel. I take stock of the tools I have with me: four hundred and ninety sensors, a hammer, screwdriver, pliers, and an Allen wrench. Excellent! Everything I need to die a slow painful death of oxygen deprivation. I scan the room for anything that might be useful. It’s only two and a half meters wide, and one and a half long, and besides the filter banks, there isn’t anything else in the room.

  I search the walls, running my hands up and down. My fingers skim over a slight seam, and that’s when I notice the strips of paneling. I grab the screwdriver and begin to inch it along the seam, prying it up. When I have enough of it up to slip the screwdriver in, I take the hammer and strike the back of the screwdriver, then place it behind to use as a lever. After a minute, I have enough of a section to get my hand inside and pull it out. I grip tight and wrench.

&n
bsp; It’s not until I have enough of a section exposed that I realize my hands are covered in blood. My palms have been sliced open from the sharp metal of the paneling. I wipe them on my pants and squeeze my shoulder and arm into the opening, trying to reach the compression control panel from behind.

  I wish I’d brought a flashlight. I feel my way to the back of the panel, searching for the wire that connects to the override switch. Something bites into my skin. I pull my hand out and suck on my finger. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. It’s getting harder to think. I can do this. I have to be careful where I touch, or I’ll get another shock. It’s just like the animal pens back on Alpha. I see Edward’s mocking face, egging me on. I can do this.

  I worm my hand through the wires and cables, using memory to trace which wire does what. I lean my head against the wall. It’s easier to hold myself up this way. My muscles ache from the effort of standing. I breathe in through my nose and hold it for a second. I think I have it. Another piercing shock runs through my hand, and I pull it out.

  Panic wells up inside me. It’s so fierce, my vision blurs, and a thought comes into my head. I remember this feeling. I’ve experienced this before. My breathing speeds up. I’m terrified and hyperventilating, and even as I can rationally put a name to what’s happening to me, I’m unable to use that same rationale to stop it. I sink to the floor on all fours, trying to pull air into my lungs, but it’s too fast. Without even realizing how or when, I’m curled up on the floor with my knees tucked into my chest. I need to get up. I need to pull air into my lungs, but don’t feel I can do both at once. My eyes close, and the last thing I see is dark blue eyes.