“Anyone else see that?”
There’s no reply.
Is it the pressure of the moment? Am I hallucinating? I wonder if I’m delusional, and yet it feels as though I’ve never been more lucid in my life.
I make my way back to the main airlock. My gloves are stiff. My fingers are sore. The effort is exhausting, and yet I felt surprisingly fresh just moments ago.
As I wait by the airlock, I close my eyes, wanting to shut out distractions. I’ve got to figure out what the hell is going on.
Darkness descends, but there’s an eerie glow in the shadows.
Thousands of eyes stare at me, each with an individual pupil set within a pure white eyeball. I’m naked. Tentacles reach for me, peeling back the skin on my chest. They dissect my innards. My intestines drift in the weightless environment, floating above my open stomach. Blobs of deep red blood sail past like tiny planets. Two of them collide, forming a larger sphere. The sea of eyes watches me, shifting as they examine different parts of my body. My arms drift in front of me. One of the thin tentacles pulls my left hand to one side, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. I try to speak. My lips won’t move. I scream within the confines of my own skull but no sound comes out.
The field of eyes looks up, locking with mine. They’re alarmed, panicked by what they can see beyond my dissected body. The tentacles pull away. They retreat like a sea anemone being touched by a diver. My internal organs float in front of my open rib cage. Stringy blood vessels, bits of sinew, a slightly fatty liver—this is me, or it was.
A rush of panic washes over me. My heart should be pounding with adrenalin, but there’s no heartbeat at all. My cold body drifts lifeless before the alien. I’m unable to interact with the creature. I’m paralyzed. No. Dead. And yet, somehow, this thing can see through into the machinations of my mind.
“Jess? Are you asleep?”
“W—What?”
I open my eyes. MacArthur is in front of me. His head is tiny within his vast helmet with its crystal clear glass dome, white protective backing, and spotlights. Although he’s five foot eight inches and barely 180 pounds, his padded spacesuit gives him the appearance of a linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys.
“Is everything okay?”
I have to be honest. “No.”
“Come on, let’s get inside.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Say again,” is the call from Jansen in the control room, listening in on our conversation.
“You don’t get it, do you? There’s no inside. There’s no Intrepid.”
MacArthur rests his hand on the shoulder of my suit, squeezing to provide some reassurance.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Feeling?” I’m lost in the moment. “Yes. Yes. That’s it. Can’t you feel it? We’ve been here before. Dozens. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands of times before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The things we’ve done. The words we’ve spoken. We’ve lived through this moment so many times.”
I can see the realization in his eyes. He’s reaching for a deep, distant memory, struggling to recall a moment lost in time. He knows there’s something important he’s missed.
“The Proc.”
“Yes.”
Jansen interrupts us.
“Sit-rep.”
“We’re already here—in orbit.”
I gesture to the rings surrounding the massive gas giant. MacArthur follows my gaze. He can see them. I’m sure he can. The vast planet looms deep below us. Cloud banks twist and swirl in conflicting layers, forming intricate bands that curl over the horizon.
He mumbles, “Procyon Alpha.”
“Yes,” but the dream is fragile, a fleeting vision.
I blink.
Earth drifts lazily beneath us yet again. Lights dot the shore of some distant city on the coast of Indonesia. Clouds hide an inland forest, curling around the mountains.
“I don’t understand.”
“Sit-rep.” Jansen is annoying. I ignore her.
“Don’t you get it?” I reach out and touch at Mac’s arm, feeling his pressurized suit flex beneath my gloved fingers. “We’re here. We’re already here in the Procyon Alpha A system.”
“But how?” I can see the turmoil in his mind. “We haven’t left Earth’s orbit.”
“We’ve already made the jump,” I say, “but something’s wrong—horribly wrong.”
In the distance, down by the engines, there’s a flash of light. Gas plumes escape in fiery blasts that are instantly doused by the vacuum of space. A cascade of explosions ripple through the superstructure of the Intrepid.
“Don’t you see?” I watch with fascination rather than horror as a chain of explosions breaks the back of the Intrepid. “We’re dead. We’re already dead.”
The hull of the Intrepid flexes, buckling beneath us. Explosions race toward us in silence, threatening to consume us. There’s no time to act. There’s barely time to utter one last sentence before we’re caught in the inferno.
“We’ve probably been dead for centuries.”
Heaven & Hell
My gloved hand slides across the hull of the Intrepid as she glides through space in a low Earth orbit.
“Coming up on the terminator,” a voice says over my headset, reminding me that a day in orbit isn’t even an hour long. Night falls fast—within seconds. I’ve been working with a power wrench and have my glare visor partially lowered to lessen the brilliance of the Sun reflecting off the crystal clear waters of the ocean.
Wait.
I’ve been here before, and not just on previous orbits.
Dark memories come flickering into my conscious awareness. I’m trapped. I need to escape. That thought is fleeting and not based on anything tangible. It persists in the back of my mind. I’m not one for paranoia or nerves. I fell asleep while sitting on the launchpad at Kennedy during a two-hour countdown hold, much to the amusement of the rest of the crew. The heart rate of most astronauts is around 130 beats per minute during launch. Mine was 80, only slightly above my resting pulse, and why shouldn’t it be? I was lying on my back doing nothing. The thought of a stuck valve causing a catastrophic failure is too much for most people, and so the adrenaline flows. Me? I don’t worry about things beyond my control. If she’s going to blow, I hope it’s quick and painless.
The thought of a disaster on the launchpad conjures up images of explosions in space. I remember flashes of light. I’ve seen fireballs erupting from the engines, being extinguished in the dark vacuum of space. Violent shudders reverberated through the superstructure of the Intrepid. Wait. This is no premonition. As confusing as it is, it’s a memory. How can I remember something that hasn’t happened? Is this déjà vu?
“In four, three, two.”
Night collapses around me. The spotlights on my helmet come on automatically. Although I feel compelled to complete my tasks, I have a longing to get the hell out of here. I’ve got to get to safety. As crazy as it sounds, my life is unfolding according to a script. I have to break the cycle.
“She’s going to blow,” I mumble to myself. If anyone hears me over the radio, they don’t reply. A feeling of dread swells within me like a storm on the ocean.
Instead of continuing along the side of the hull, I unclip one tether line and then the other. This isn’t exactly standard operating procedure.
There’s no up in space. Up is wherever I want it to be. I decide that up is parallel to Earth. That’ll do for now. My tether lines float freely around me. The metal buckles bump into each other without making any noise.
I bring my legs up, crouching against the hull of the spacecraft as I hold onto a guide rail. Legs are useless in space, but not today. Although there’s considerable resistance from the stiff material in my suit, I squat, pressing my boots against the hull of the Intrepid. By doing this while holding onto the thin metal rail, I’m generating an opposing force. To anyone watching, I look like an Olympic weightlifter
about to perform a snatch-and-grab at a barbell. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing. I only know I have to do something. I can’t keep going on as I have countless times before. Something has to change. If I’m destined to die, it’ll be on my own terms.
“Hey, commander. Look out the window.”
I spring out, determined to break the cycle, letting go with my hands and pushing hard with my thighs. Although my relative motion is probably only around four or five miles an hour, I soar away from the Intrepid, drifting out into space.
“Jess, I’m getting notification of a proximity failure. Can you confirm your location?”
“Woohoo!”
I’m overcome with madness. I yell into the microphone, surprising myself with how loud I sound within my helmet.
“I’m out of here. I’m free.”
“Jess, confirm your last transmission.”
“I’m leaving. I’m gone. I’m not waiting around for this baby to explode again.”
Jansen echoes my comment with, “Explode?”
While MacArthur latches onto the last word, “Again?”
I was waiting for MacArthur to chime in. He saw it. I know he did. He saw the alien world on our last cycle. If he remembers the rings, if my words stir some vague recollection of a gas giant, he’ll probably dismiss the notion as crazy. For him, it’ll be nothing more than a dream. I get it. I understand. Reality is overwhelming. He’s not dumb. He won’t hold to a vague memory when his five senses persuade him he’s prepping the Intrepid for interstellar travel. Five senses—hah! Science has identified at least twenty, most of which we barely recognize in daily life. I can’t help but wonder if a bunch of wires have short-circuited within my brain.
Have I gone space-mad? Has something snapped inside my head? Has a cosmic ray struck my neurons like the white ball hitting a carefully racked triangle of snooker balls? Are they rushing around the table, bouncing off the cushions inside my head? Perhaps that’s it. I’m delusional. No. I saw it. Memories be damned. This is more than some recollection of a summer holiday. I remember the future—as crazy as that seems. I know what’s about to happen.
“I’m as free as a bird.”
I can just make out what I presume is Commander Jansen’s silhouette blotting out one of the windows on the side of the cockpit as I soar into space.
“What the hell, Jess?”
Jansen switches to the emergency channel, which is coarser than our regular intercom. It’s intended for long-range communication with other ships. Her transmission now overrides all other channels. “Lost astronaut. I repeat. We have an astronaut untethered, adrift off our port side, approximately one hundred meters out from the shuttle bay. This is not a drill.”
I laugh. “Don’t you get it? We’re already dead.”
As I sail further from the Intrepid, I get a spectacular view of the starship. Its long, thin body is comprised of scaffold-like structures to keep the crew compartment away from the radiation spewing out of our engines.
“Intrepid, Houston.”
Jansen is terse. “Houston, stay off comms. We have a class one emergency—lost astronaut. Initiating recovery protocols. MacArthur, get to a pod. I’ve got a visual on her, but she’s going out of range. I’ll lose her in less than a minute.”
“Copy that.”
I’m delirious. If I didn’t know better, I’d be checking my oxygen flow to see if I was becoming hypoxic, but there’s nothing wrong with my life-support system.
“Come and enjoy the view, Mac. I’ve got front row seats for the fireworks.”
They must think I’m mad. I am. Insanity is all I have, but I’m convinced I know what’s about to happen. I have no doubt the reality I’m presented with is a fabrication. But how? Why? Who is doing this to us? I don’t know what’s happening, but I’ve been here before—too many times. I refuse to die again.
I want answers.
“Who are you?” I ask, speaking to no one in particular. I can’t see anything beyond the faint reflection of my own face in the smooth, curved glass dome of my helmet. I have a slight twist in my motion, causing me to tumble. I must have pushed off with a little more strength on one side, imparting some torque. The stars are visible. Earth swings past. Finally, the tail section of the Intrepid comes into view. MacArthur’s prepping a flight pod.
“She’s delirious.”
“Am I? Look at the planet. Look at it! Look closely... Can you see it?”
It takes a few more seconds before I’m facing Earth again, only it’s not Earth.
A massive gas giant sits below us. Dark clouds twist in fascinating patterns, folding in on themselves and spreading like oil on water. Cloud bands mark the various latitudes on the planet. Turbulence causes them to swirl. There are storms down there that have raged for centuries, forming standing waves and eddies trailing behind them. At least one of the cyclones is bigger than Earth itself.
“What the hell?” Finally, Jansen sees it.
“Look at the rings.” I’m at peace, which is a strange sensation when adrift in space so far from safety. “The rings—they’re beautiful.”
“Your thrusters,” Jansen says, ignoring me. “Activate your orientation jets. You should have enough fuel to get back.”
“Back?” I say. “Why would I want to go back there? You’re all going to die.”
“Jess!”
My suit is equipped with micro-thrusters designed to help me negotiate tight spots. They’re not exactly a jetpack, but they allow me to stabilize my tumble. I use them to push further away from the Intrepid.
Mac says, “Hang in there, Jess. It’s going to take me a few minutes to power up the pod, but I’m coming for you. Don’t panic.”
“Panic? Hah. You’re the one fooling around with five hundred metric tons of liquid tritium and an experimental fusion drive—and you think there’s no reason to panic? Have you looked at the drive inverter? Look at the engine plates, Mac. Check the seals. You’ve got five minutes before that thing fails.”
The gas giant is gone. Night has fallen on Earth. Cities glow in the darkness. Lightning ripples through thunderheads looming over Asia. The Northern Territory of Australia is dark and devoid of clouds. Indonesia is a patchwork of lights.
MacArthur starts to say something but Jansen interrupts. “What the hell are you talking about, Jess?”
“She’s going to blow. She blows every time.”
They think I’m insane. They must. They don’t have any other choice. That’s the only conclusion they can reach. Reality is too real for them to believe anything else, but I know. I’ve seen it all before. Earth may have reappeared beneath us yet again, but it’s a lie. Jansen’s ignoring her own eyes. She saw that dark Saturn, I know she did, but she’s dismissing it as a quirk arising under pressure. I know something she doesn’t. All of this is an illusion.
“Uh, commander.” The tone of MacArthur’s voice has changed. “You need to get Phelps or Sanders to go out there after Jess. She’s right. We’ve got containment problems down here. It’s bad. Real bad.”
There’s silence for a few seconds, but I’m sure that doesn’t equate to inaction. At a guess, Jansen’s scrambling to get someone else to effect a rescue, but it’s too late. They’ll never clear the airlock in time—not if Mac can’t plug that leak.
But does it matter?
Could there ever be any other outcome?
Life seems real to me, but it’s not. I’m breathing. My heart is beating. My eyelids flicker. My arms move, bound by the confines of my spacesuit. Thermal insulation and water-cooled fabric cling to my body. I can feel the internal pressure of my suit fighting the muscles in my arms and legs, resisting their motion. I feel as though I’m wading through waves at the beach, but all of this has happened before. MacArthur, Jensen, the drive inverter, ‘Deaf two awe who mons.’ How is any of this possible? If my life isn’t real, what the hell is it?
Is Jansen right? Have I gone mad? Of course I have. Why else would I detach both tethers and laun
ch myself out into space with no hope of return? And yet the sense of déjà vu I feel is overwhelming. ‘Already seen,’ right? Isn’t that what déjà vu means? But ‘already seen’ doesn’t do this justice. It’s not simply that I’ve seen something before. I’m convinced I’ve lived this moment a thousand times over—which is madness.
The Intrepid continues to shrink as I drift away. We’re in a quasi-polar orbit, rising high above the planet, still in the shadow but destined to return to the light. The rings stretch out around the gas giant below me, providing a spectacular view. I feel small, dwarfed by the magnificence of the universe. It’s crazy to think those rings are barely my height, perhaps reaching to twenty feet in places, but no more, and yet they extend for hundreds of thousands of miles into space. They frame the planet with a fragile, icy halo.
Black clouds swirl within the gas giant, forming intricate patterns. If only van Gogh could see them. There’s a serene beauty to what is deadly. The pressure and speed in those clouds would shred my suit in a matter of seconds. Is that what awaits me? Will I run out of oxygen? Am I doomed to die out here and circle the planet for tens of thousands of years before making a fiery entry into the frigid, turbulent atmosphere? Will I become a brief spark in the sky on one dark, cold, lonely night?
A flash of light appears near the engines on the Intrepid, but this isn’t an explosion. Mac is working with an arc welder.
“How did you know?”
The stress in MacArthur’s voice is intense. He’s talking through clenched teeth. Whatever he’s doing, it’s taking considerable effort.
Commander Jansen echoes MacArthur’s question. “How did you know?”
She sounds far more relaxed than I’d be after losing an astronaut. Hearing there’s a containment breach and seeing an alien gas giant should freak her out, but she’s calm.
I say, “We’ve lived this moment a thousand times.”
There’s no reply.
“None of this is real. Not you. Not me. Not the Intrepid. Not even this planet. It can’t be. None of it.”
Déjà Vu (First Contact) Page 3
