Biome

by Ryan Galloway

  I don’t feel like talking anyway, not even to Chloe like I promised. Instead, I decide to take some time for me—to distract myself from First Expedition, from Terra, from the déjà vu and whatever it is that I can’t remember. I decide to go for a run.

  In my sleeping pod, I wiggle out of my jumpsuit, pull an eco-latex tank over my head, cinch up my shorts, and step into weighted running shoes. The soles are relatively new but already beginning to show wear. I’m glad the 3D printers can manage fresh tread. It’ll be a dark day indeed if we ever run out of rubber filament.

  Run out, I think to myself as I triple-knot my laces. Ha.

  Responsive lights bloom when I step into the Fitness Center, the eco-bulb system taking a moment to warm up. Around me, various exercise machines rest like dormant robotic insects. Most of these function on resistance rather than weight because of the gravity variance from Earth. With only a third of the pull we’re used to, cadets would need to lift several hundred pounds just to get a workout.

  It’s the same reason we all wear heavy shoes. Without them, the energy we use to take a normal step would send us leaping down the halls.

  Anyway, I’m not here for weight training. There’s only one type of machine I ever use.

  It’s called a holotrek.

  I step onto the platform and clip the safety tab to my shorts. The holographic display appears around me. As I thumb down the list, I pick one of my favorite paths: Wildwood, a trail from back on Earth.

  Gel treads shuffle under my feet and begin to move, molding and tumbling to give the sensation of running on packed dirt and stone. At the same time, trees bearded in moss sprout up on either side, the mountain path unfolding as if I’ve stepped off the colony and into a North American park. Iridescent birds flit through the branches, their twittering vibrant and free. Running in their illusory presence, I feel free too.

  One kilometer becomes two, then three, then five. I try not to think about my parents and how they must have changed during my absence. How everything must have changed.

  Is it strange that I chose to leave? I don’t even remember the moment I made the decision. NASA was looking for the best and the brightest, and I was one of them. It just didn’t seem like something to miss.

  With each kilometer, I outpace my feelings until my breath is coming in short gasps. But I grit my teeth, unwilling to give in, unable to quit until I’ve pushed myself as far as I can go.

  Finally, I allow myself to press the stop button. The tread returns to a smooth sheet beneath my feet, and I step down, legs wobbly.

  It was stupid to go that far after already running this morning. I’ll regret it tomorrow.

  “Good run?”

  I almost cry out as the voice breaks my feeling of solitude. A cadet sits on a weight machine two rows over. His name is Noah. One of the medical cadets.

  Tall and lanky, Noah is the only red-haired boy on the planet. Possibly because his hair and height are so conspicuous, he hardly ever speaks. I think his quietness makes the other cadets think he’s mature. It also makes it easy to forget he’s even around until he finally does say something—and then everyone is kind of surprised, as if a piece of furniture joined the conversation.

  In general, he makes me uncomfortable.

  “Why are you in here so late?” I ask. It comes out like a demand.

  “I missed fitness hour earlier,” he explains, his face flushing. He acts as if he’s embarrassed to be talking to me or something.

  “Oh. Were you sick?”

  “No.”

  Silence.

  “Okay. Well, I’ve got to go talk to Doctor Shiffrin.”

  “I’m seeing Doctor Brink,” he says quickly. He leans forward on the arms of the weight machine conspiratorially. “Are you… nervous?”

  “About First Expedition?”

  He nods.

  “No,” I lie. “Are you?”

  “A little,” he admits. “I’ve just been thinking all week… what if we get out there and it’s not what we think?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “What if it isn’t like Earth at all?”

  I can’t help but wonder what he expects. From what I’ve seen, it’s nothing but rocks and dust and the sad yellow sprouts that’ve been growing as a result of Aster, the terraformer. That, and the storms.

  Every few days we get a fresh downpour of hail rattling along the dome roofs, complete with flashes of eerily silent lightning. The doctors keep saying we’re on the edge of a breakthrough. As if once we get one tree going, the rest of the plants will fall in line.

  I think they’re being optimistic.

  “It won’t be,” I say. “Look out the portholes, Noah. It hasn’t changed much. And even after it terraforms, it still won’t be Earth. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

  He doesn’t have an answer. I suddenly realize how cold I’m being. What is wrong with me? Why am I so harsh with him?

  But I know the answer to that question. Because I have the same fear he does: that we left our home behind and nothing will be like it again. Ever. We’ll learn that the terraforming is impossible. And so is a return trip.

  As irrational as it may be, I’m not scared of what I will find, but of what I won’t.

  “I’ve got to talk to Shiffrin.”

  Before he can reply, I step through the sliding door.

  My shower is brief, as always. Even with advanced water reclamation, there isn’t a lot to go around. But I savor every second, letting the hot liquid run into my mouth, down my back, and over my ears, closing my eyes as I block out anything but the cleansing flow.

  After showering as long as I dare, I towel off and zip into my jumpsuit, then pad down to the Wellness Suites, untangling my wet hair with my fingers as I go. It’s kind of odd that, on a space colony, we brought along more psychologists than chemists. I guess they were really worried about us going stir-crazy out here all alone.

  When I arrive for my time slot, Doctor Shiffrin is waiting.

  “Elizabeth,” she says warmly, standing. She’s only middle-aged, but her hair is mostly grey as it hangs to her rounded shoulders, framing soft features and an aquiline nose. Reading glasses are tangled in her dull, wavy locks. In certain, ways she reminds me of my grandmother. “How are you feeling?”

  There’s that question again.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Have a seat.”

  The Wellness Suites are among the best-furnished rooms on Mars. Music drifts in from the ceiling, a soothing cello playing something classic. A diffuser puffs citrus-scented oil into the air. And here and there are holographic accents, such as a fireplace burning with crackling logs and a window looking out onto a beach. I can even hear the tranquil roll of the ocean.

  Dropping into one of the overstuffed armchairs, I feel like I’ve stumbled upon a tiny piece of Earth.

  Also, it’s nice to sit after a five-mile run. That’s putting it mildly.

  “So,” Shiffrin says. “Tell me about your week.”

  “Not much to tell,” I reply. “Normal cadet stuff.”

  “Was any of this stuff… troublesome?”

  “The plants have been growing since I trimmed them. They keep doing that. Sometimes I feel like I’m just reliving the same day over and over, chopping the same dumb bushes.”

  “Life can be that way,” she replies.

  “Boring?”

  “Driven by habit.”

  I pick at the frayed armrest. Therapy is not something I enjoy. It almost never helps me. I guess. Mostly, I just don’t like talking about myself. In a normal situation, I’d simply say as little as possible and then slip away once it was socially acceptable. Here, I have to sit and squirm while I’m examined like a baffling strain of bacteria.

  Anyway, I never seem to remember what we talk about. The time evaporates, and we haven’t solved anything. I still can’t remember wha
t I’m missing.

  “So, what are we talking about today?” I finally ask.

  “You.”

  “But there’s nothing to talk about. I feel fine.”

  “Do you?” asks the doctor. “I’d say you seem tired.”

  “I did run twenty kilometers today. Ten this morning, ten tonight.”

  “Sounds like overtraining. A coping mechanism, maybe?”

  “Why don’t we just talk about First Expedition?” I suggest impatiently. “You’re supposed to make sure I’m fit for duty tomorrow, right?”

  “In time,” the doctor replies. “First, I’d like to explore what’s going on inside that brain of yours, if you don’t mind.”

  She’s trying to loosen me up. In spite of my annoyance,I smile.

  “You’re getting a-head of yourself, doctor,” I reply.

  Shiffrin laughs.

  “I had a visitor today,” she says casually. “She informed me that you’ve been having hallucinations.”

  “Terra.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought if someone confided in you, you had to keep it secret,” I say in surprise. I’m a little impressed. “Aren’t you, like, breaking the law?”

  “We’re not on Earth, Elizabeth,” she chides. “And anyway, that law only applies to my children. I don’t owe anything to a stranger. And you’re changing the subject. Would you like to talk about what happened?”

  “No.”

  We just stare at each other for a few moments. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a security camera watching us. Black and unfeeling, the size of a softball. Like a giant doll’s eye. Time stretches until I’m convinced that Shiffrin won’t speak again until I do.

  “Okay,” I finally give in. “I had déjà vu today. In the kitchen with Chloe. I’ve had it four other times this week. Gathering tomatoes, brushing my teeth, sitting in one of Meng’s talks, and entering the code to my sleeping pod. It happens again and again, and I don’t know why. I don’t remember dreaming about this stuff. But somehow it feels connected. Like, somehow it’s all reminding me of a single, bigger thing. I just… I can’t put my finger on what it is.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “Like it’s crazy. Like I’m crazy.”

  “I see.” Shiffrin reaches for a plastic cup on the table beside her. As she blows on it, the tab of her tea packet flutters like a moth. “And you believe these… experiences are a kind of hallucination?”

  “I never said that,” I say defensively. “Terra said that.”

  “Ah. So what do you believe?”

  “I don’t know,” I pause, growing frustrated. “Nothing.”

  “We all believe something, Lizzy,” the doctor replies.

  A part of me wants to tell her exactly what I’m thinking. That it’s no one’s business what goes on inside my head—not hers, not anyone’s. And by the way, how is this meant to help me? Comments like that only make me angry.

  “Can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Of course,” says Shiffrin soothingly, as if sensing that she’s hit a wall. “Are you anxious about First Expedition?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “No.”

  “And nothing else is wrong? Nightmares, depression, lack of appetite?” I shake my head through the list. “Fights with other crew members? Dizziness? Trouble sleeping?”

  “Just impatience with therapy, I guess.”

  The doctor smiles again.

  “Fair enough.”

  She stands and steps toward a series of cabinets. From within one, she takes a small white case with a latch. Pulling a chair close to my seat, Shiffrin cradles the box in her hands like a collection of mementos.

  “Taking my vitals?” I ask.

  “Not quite. I need to inoculate you for the mission, to boost your oxygen capacity and regulate capillary pressure. Wouldn’t want you passing out on the edge of a crater, would we?” She clicks the latch.

  “Is it a shot?”

  “Just a cap.”

  Shiffrin opens the box and produces a thumb-sized plastic tube. It looks like an inhaler, with wings on one end. Holding my forearm, she pushes the inoculator into my skin. I hardly even feel the dozens of tiny nano-needles. The tube is released as the dose readout transitions from green to red. Then a tingling sensation flows backward up my arm, like warm honey.

  “Nothing else happened this week?” Shiffrin clicks a penlight, shining it into my eyes and blinding me. “Nothing that made you uncomfortable?”

  Though I’m still sitting, I suddenly feel off-balance, as if the whole planet has suddenly pitched to the left. Instinctually, I grab the armrests.

  “This is making me pretty uncomfortable.”

  She clicks off the light.

  “And you didn’t have any memory lapses? Difficulty remembering names or where you put a personal item?”

  “Not that I r-remember,” I stammer. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, my head now heavy and swollen. “You sure… that was a… booster?”

  Shiffrin doesn’t answer. She swims before my eyes as she stands and glides toward the cabinets, punching a code. I’m woozy, as if I’ve suddenly entered a dream world. My head sags against the headrest, and then Shiffrin is beside me again, holding a sort of latticed, glimmering device. I can’t seem to focus on it.

  “Just relax, Elizabeth,” says Shiffrin’s voice.

  My eyes flutter. I feel a dull pinch as something tight slides around my head. The lights in the ceiling warble and start to spin; shadowy fingers blot out my vision. I mean to say something, but I don’t.

  The next thing I know, it’s morning.

  Chapter Two

  My head is going to explode.

  That’s my fist thought when my sleeping pod blooms to life, LED fixtures stabbing my eyes like needles. I pull the sheets over my head and groan.

  “Lizzy, are you in here?” a voice whispers.

  “Go away.”

  The door snicks shut and I hear padded, hesitant footfalls.

  “You should’ve been up an hour ago,” Chloe’s voice says. “You’re really late.”

  “Late for—?”

  My stomach lurches. First Expedition is today. We’ll be suiting up right after breakfast. I’m abruptly nervous—and grateful I don’t feel well.

  “I can’t go on First Expedition. I think… I’m sick.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chloe asks, now closer. “First Expedition is next week. What doesn’t feel good?”

  “Huh?” I clutch my blanket more firmly and roll over. “No, it’s not. It’s today.”

  A hesitation, and then—

  “Should I get a doctor?” Chloe asks.

  I try to breathe slowly. All I have to do is convince her I’m unwell, and she’ll leave me alone. But that’s the easy thing to do—the cowardly thing to do. I ball the blanket into my fists, disgusted with myself. No matter what waits on the other side of the airlock, I’m not going to hide from it. Especially not just because of a stupid headache. That’s not the kind of person I am.

  And anyway, like Terra said, the alternative is getting quarantined.

  Forcing myself to sit up, I shake off the covers, squinting into the flood of light. When did I even get in bed? I can vaguely recall being inoculated and getting drowsy… was I drugged?

  “Turn off the overheads, will you?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  Chloe flips the switch. Instantly the room goes dark, save for the small green emergency diodes in the baseboards. I gingerly swing my aching legs out of bed and stand. In the shadows, Chloe’s face is a mask of concern.

  “Do you want me to get Doctor Zonogal?” she asks again.

  “No.” Faltering, I clutch her shoulder for support. “I’m fine.”

  “But you said—”

  “It’s just a headache,” I say. “Trust me, I’m okay. I just need some aspirin or something.”

  I dress in dark
ness and then step into the blinding hall, awash in light from the glowing ceiling tiles. Chloe stays close, as if scared I’m going to collapse. I try to rub the sleep out of my eyes but just end up making myself dizzy.

  “How ironic is it that I’m seeing stars in space?”

  Pressing her lips into a thin line, Chloe hands me a granola packet from the kitchen.

  “Eat this,” she instructs. “The Sick Bay is right up here.”

  The Sick Bay is like a pharmacy from the hospitals back on Earth, a few stubby aisles stocked with anything you’d need to patch a cut or treat a burn. In the back, behind frosted glass, is an operating room. As far as I can remember it’s never been used. But then as we step up to the counter, I smell antiseptic and it happens again—déjà vu, the feeling that I’ve done all this before.

  But it doesn’t end there. The dripping in my brain becomes a flood rushing in, and my subconscious is overwhelmed by a full-on memory.

  It was my first week on Mars.

  I was harvesting the already-thick stalks of rhubarb, which were rapidly growing behind the lupines. The shears slipped, cutting through my glove, right into the artery in my wrist. For a second it didn’t hurt. I just saw the blood pulsing out of my body, shooting in a ruby arc that stained a half-meter line in the soil.

  Then the pain lit my wrist like fire, white hot, and I knew I was in trouble. Stumbling down the dirt path, I nearly vomited.

  When I reached the Sick Bay, I was pouring sweat and barely on my feet. Doctor Zonogal saw me first. Face pallid, she barked orders at the medics. One of them was Noah. He led me over to a chair, telling me I’d be okay. An oxygen mask was slipped over my ears. I looked up into his eyes, honey brown and filled with concern, and I wondered if I was going to—

  “Lizzy?”

  Behind the counter, Noah stares at me with an expression hauntingly similar to the one I was just remembering.

  “Huh?” I return his gaze, confused, rubbing my wrist. But when I look down, there’s no cut. Not even a scar.