A thin belt reaches around the waist of the mythical figure of Orion—three stars that appear close together even though they’re actually hundreds of light years apart. Dante’s eyes trace the sword hanging from the hunter’s waist just as she did that night on the beach with her family. She remembers pointing out across the sand, directing Jules to turn her telescope toward the ocean, wanting to show her the Orion Nebula in all its glory.
This is wrong. It simply cannot be. Orion’s shape is an illusion, one that exists only from Earth. Like telephone poles overlapping each other in the distance, drive to one side and the illusion is shattered. In her mind, Dante can hear someone warning her about the stars. Benson. But Benson’s not on the bridge. He’s asleep in his quarters. Memories drift in and out of focus. Whereas moments ago, Dante was confident, now doubts cloud her mind, weakening her resolve.
“How is this possible?” Mags asks.
“I—I don’t know,” Dante says, once again locking eyes with her. “But it’s not a dream. It can’t be. All I know is, I’m real.”
Dante doesn’t sound convincing.
Mags speaks slowly, measuring her words.
“You’re not real. You can’t be.”
At this point, Dante feels conflicted. Damn those stars. She’s got to talk Mags down before someone gets hurt.
“Come on, Mags. You know me. I wouldn’t lie to you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
Mags speaks with cold deliberation.
“I don’t know any of you zombies.”
Her eyes dart from side to side, seeking out both Angel and Vichy. “I will shoot. You know that, right? I will pull this fucking trigger if either of you take another goddamn step!”
Dante signals with her hands, wanting Angel and Vichy to back away, but by holding out both hands she inadvertently reveals the injector tucked away in her palm.
“What is that? What the fuck is that?” Mags demands.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” Dante says. “It’s a sedative, that’s all. Something to help you relax.”
“You don’t get it, do you? It’s not me that needs help. It’s you. You don’t remember, but I do. You think this is real. It’s not. We’re trapped.”
“Where do you want to go?” Cap asks, taking control of the conversation, wanting to distract Mags. “You want us to leave orbit and go where?”
He makes as though he’s ready to enter coordinates into the drive pane.
“Just tell me where and I’ll punch it in. Whatever you want, Mags.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mags replies. “Any deviation will break the spell. Anything out of the norm.”
“Mags, I want you to lower the gun,” Dante says, seeing it tremble in her hand. In that moment, Dante’s more worried about the damage it’ll do to the bridge than being hit. Deep down, she doesn’t believe Mags will pull the trigger, not while pointing it at anyone.
“You need to remember,” Mags says, turning toward Angel and aiming squarely at the petite woman. “You need to understand what’s real and what’s not. And Angel—she’s not real.”
“Nooooo!” Dante cries, rushing toward her troubled friend. Dante has her arms stretched out before her, with the injector raised, but she can’t move fast enough.
In that instant, time seems to slow.
Dante has the injector clenched in a fist, held high as though she were about to hit a nail with a hammer. She runs at Mags, aiming for her neck, but Mags squeezes the trigger. Angel drops, turning and twisting, trying to fall out of the way. Her long, blonde hair swirls through the air, trailing behind her. The electromagnetic charge fires, launching a rivet bigger than a soda can—a blur traveling at several thousand feet per second and with enough energy to puncture a quarter-inch steel plate. Within the confines of the bridge, the rivet strikes its target inside a millisecond.
The recoil flings the gun up. Vichy dives at Mags, crash-tackling her and sending her into the nav desk. He knocks the gun from her grasp.
Dante stabs at Mags, plunging the injector hard against her friend’s jugular, falling with her. Dante has hold of her head. She cradles her jaw, making sure the injector empties into a vein. Mags squirms, trying to break free, mumbling, “Remember. Remember, goddamn it.” Within seconds, her eyes roll into the back of her head and her body falls limp.
In the silence that follows the industrial construction gun crashing to the floor, Dante hears a whimper. Cap has Angel. He’s holding her in his arms, weeping as thick, rich, dark blood stains his clothes.
Dante’s heart sinks.
Angel gasps. Her eyes have a hollow, empty look, staring blinding at the ceiling. She’s dying if not dead. Her arms twitch. The rivet caught her on the side of the head, just above the right eye, shattering her skull and sending blood, bone and a smattering of white brain matter across the bridge. The normally pristine walls are speckled with deep red drops slowly dripping to the floor.
Cap sobs, shaking with grief. He’s down on his knees holding Angel, bowed over her crumpled body, trembling.
“No,” Dante whispers, releasing Mags and rushing to his side, but she never gets there. With each step, she’s fighting through what feels like a forcefield. The harder she tries, the slower she moves. It’s as though she’s pushing through waist-deep water.
Darkness descends, shrouding the bridge in shadows, causing the walls to dissolve. Tentacles reach for her, coming out of the floor, wrapping themselves around her legs, but the stars—the ever-distant stars remain the same. Scattered across the endless night, they defy the cold, bitter darkness, refusing to relent, reaching across a void spanning billions of years to fall on her eyes once more.
Vichy
Vichy kisses Dante’s cheek and then her lips, lingering on them in the darkness. His breath is heavy, warming her ear.
Dante’s confused, unsure how Vichy came to be on top of her. She blinks, trying to figure out how she got here. They’ve made love plenty of times over the years, but she’s disoriented. She feels as though she’s been dropped into the moment, but that’s impossible. He smiles, leaning back in the half light of her bedroom before surging forward again, pressing his body hard against her, biting gently at her bottom lip. The sheets shift in response to his motion, sliding over his firm buttocks.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, resting his hand behind her neck, rubbing her jaw tenderly with his thumb as he kisses her again and again. Dante responds, running her fingers up through his hair, but not because she feels enamored, rather it seems like the appropriate thing to do. She’s always felt safe in Vichy’s embrace. He might not be musclebound, but there’s not an inch of fat on him. The texture of his arms, the strength in his chest, his firm abdomen and strong legs leave her feeling assured. When she’s with him, reality seems to dissolve, being replaced, even if only briefly, with a sense of belonging. For a moment, it’s as though they’re the only two beings in all of creation.
Dante’s head rests on the pillow, with her hair spreading out on the smooth cotton. Vichy groans. He nudges the side of her face affectionately, leaning in and rubbing the stubble on his cheek gently against her skin, kissing her earlobe and then her neck.
“Oh,” she says, unsure of herself, caught in the swell of emotion and yet still feeling unsettled. How did she get here? Something’s wrong, horribly wrong, but not him. This feels so right, and yet her heart is heavy—as though she’s in mourning and struggling to move on, but why? No one’s died, have they?
Vichy shifts his body, flexing his legs and pressing against her hips, riding gently upon her, moving slowly, tenderly. His body is familiar, inviting her to surrender. Seconds ago, something bothered her, but what? That moment has passed. Passion radiates through her, pulsating within her.
Vichy flexes, rocking upon Dante. His calloused hand reaches down, touching gently at her soft breasts, skimming over her skin and setting her soul alight. A surge of emotion washes over her, but it’s not right. She shouldn�
�t be feeling like this. Not after what just happened.
Her eyes go wide as she remembers.
“No. Please.”
He stops, not immediately, but over the course of a few seconds, responding to the shudder in her body. Dante pushes on his chest, but not violently, using just enough strength to reinforce her intention. Vichy rolls away. Dante feels conflicted.
“I’m sorry.”
He looks surprised, unsure what he did wrong.
Dante struggles to explain what she’s feeling. “It’s just—”
“It’s not me, huh?”
“No,” she says, flicking her long hair behind her ears as she tries to focus, but his eyes tell her he’s not convinced.
Dante rests her hand in the center of his chest and leans forward, pulling gently at the handful of wispy hair there. She kisses him briefly on the lips, hoping that conveys more than the words she’s struggling to find.
“Dee?” he asks, longing for an explanation.
“It’s not… It’s really not you.”
He looks confused. Hurt.
“Can’t you feel it?” she asks, pulling the sheets around her, wanting to be clothed.
Vichy was born in Bari in southern Italy. From the age of two, he was raised in the US, so his accent suggests he’s from California, but he spent his late teens in Naples. His Italian blood demands hand gestures accompany words spoken with passion.
“You? Me?” he says with his fingers flickering between the two of them. “You don’t want this?”
“Yes and no,” she says, still trying to grasp a memory dancing at the edge of her reason. “It’s—something’s wrong.”
“Between us?” he asks, looking alarmed.
“No. Here. On the Acheron.”
His brow furrows.
“Mags,” she says. “Angel.”
That only confuses him further.
“I don’t understand.”
Dante gets out of bed. She slips on some underwear and a t-shirt before bringing up the comms channel. In that instant, the wall of her bedroom transforms into a screen. Vichy sits up with his back against the far wall and pulls a sheet over himself. He has his knees up, hiding his loins.
A tired looking Cap appears on the screen, haggard and unshaven.
“Dante? Is everything alright?” He scratches his hair. “What’s wrong?”
“Is Angel there with you?” she asks.
From behind him, Angel peers out of the darkness, ruffling her hair, not feeling comfortable on the video call. She scrambles in the shadows, hurriedly slipping on a negligee.
“Are you okay?” Cap asks, pulling up a pair of pants as he speaks.
“No. None of us are.”
“What’s going on?” Angel asks, looking bewildered.
“We need to meet.”
“Can it wait till morning?” Cap asks. His eyes dart down and slightly to the side. Dante knows what he’s doing. He’s checking diagnostics, looking at metrics coming in from the bridge. Benson’s on the night shift. How does she know that? Dante’s not sure, but she does, and that leaves her even more unsettled.
“What is this about, Dante?”
“The health of the crew,” she says, lying, still trying to draw in distant memories and make sense of them.
“And it really can’t wait till morning?”
“There won’t be a morning,” she says, unsure how she can be so confident but knowing within herself it’s true.
“What?” Cap asks, screwing up his face. “Are you serious?” He turns to look at Angel, wanting to see her response as he adds, “She’s not serious, right?”
Dante says, “Please. Trust me on this—it’s important.”
“Okay. Hit me,” he says. “What’s happening?”
“When we’re all together. Everyone needs to hear this.”
“And not just me, the commander? You don’t think I should hear whatever it is that’s got my physician spooked so I can make a decision on it first?”
“Cap,” Dante says, gritting her teeth, unsure what to say to convince him, unable to articulate what she feels rather than thinks.
“It’s Dante, baby,” Angel says, reaching from behind Cap and resting her arms around his waist. “If she says, it’s important, it’s important.”
“Alright,” Cap doesn’t look impressed, but he’s not one to take safety lightly. He brings up a console window with Benson sitting on the bridge, slouching in his chair. “Are you detecting any anomalies within the Acheron or down on the surface?”
Benson raises an eyebrow, surprised to see into two bedrooms. “What? No. Nothing, Cap. The robotic team is still processing raw materials. The core drill is going well, but we won’t be able to start the habitat build for a few days yet. As for us, it’s all quiet up here. What’s going on?”
Dante cuts him off. “Get everyone up. We need to meet on the bridge.”
If anything, it looks like Benson’s the one that’s half asleep as she has to add, “Now!”
“Do it,” Cap says, killing the transmission. The screen fades, leaving the bedroom in the half light.
“What’s going on, Dee?” Vichy asks.
“That’s what I intend to find out,” she replies, bringing up the lights and getting dressed.
Vichy shakes his head, but he gets dressed as well, saying, “Might as well look the part.”
As they walk to the elevator, they pass a maintenance hatch hiding a ladder that climbs the inside of one of the vast spokes of the Acheron. It provides direct access to the bridge, but it’s impractical, and yet Dante longs to go that way. Again. There’s something about the metal rungs. In her mind’s eye, she can see her hands on them, she can feel the weight of a medical pack she’s not carrying. Memories are surfacing.
Up on the bridge, the crew slowly assembles.
Benson is running scans of the dark matter fuel stores and the highly sensitive interstellar engine, looking for a problem Dante’s pretty sure doesn’t exist. She suspects he’ll find everything’s perfect—too perfect.
Another woman marches onto the bridge. “Just what the fuck is going on?”
“It’s good to see you too, Zoe,” Dante says, aware that, in the chaotic memories she has of the past few days, Zoe’s been absent.
MacInnes stands behind Zoe. Being of Scottish descent, his wild, unkempt locks are a brilliant orange/red. It’s as though his hair has been set on fire by the gods. Mac’s skin is pale, so much so that to Dante he looks unnaturally white under the neon lights.
Zoe’s from Ethiopia, with skin as dark as the night—ordinarily Jeeves quietly adjusts the lights around her to produce a little extra UVB, encouraging her body to generate vitamin D, but Mac throws that algorithm into chaos. Mags has affectionately nicknamed them Yin and Yang.
Mac has a full beard and crazy eyes to match his career as an extremophile astrobiologist. He’s built like a linebacker but has the steady hands of a surgeon. Dante’s seen him work with core drill samples, treating tubes of rock and ice with the care some might afford diamonds or fine gold jewelry.
Mac slips his hand over Zoe’s shoulder. Like Dante, she’s dressed in a flight suit, but it’s obvious she’s not wearing anything beneath the thin fabric as her nipples are protruding and the zipper on the front hasn’t been pulled all the way up, revealing her smooth, black skin instead of a standard-issue white singlet. Then there’s Mac’s hand. MacInnes is resting his arm on Zoe’s shoulder, with his fingers lingering above her breast, but not actually touching her clothing or skin in any way, so nothing creepy, but his hand rests in a manner that suggests they’ve been enjoying some intimacy.
“What’s going down, doc?” Mac asks. “Something wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong, Mac.”
Cap and Angel walk onto the bridge.
“Hi guys,” Angel says warmly, apparently not bothered by being called up to the bridge in the middle of the night. Cap, though, looks grumpy.
Benson surrenders the c
ommand console and Cap begins reviewing logs from the past few hours. Dante’s pretty sure he won’t find anything out of the ordinary. She walks along the side of the bridge, running her fingers over the smooth plastic panels that hide the wiring and electronics, remembering the way blood and bits of brain dripped from them seemingly moments ago. Her hand lingers as memories surface, reminding her not only about what she saw, but how she felt—the horror and the heartache.
Voices echo down the far hallway. Mags and Naz are joking with each other. As Mags rounds the corner, the look she gives Dante suggests she’s surprised at being interrupted while fooling around with her toy boy.
“Hey,” she says. “Look. It’s the Vee and Dee late night show, live from orbit around P4.”
A cheeky grin and a subtly raised eyebrow say more than words could convey. Technically, Naz is the same age as Mags, but he looks ten years her junior and normally sleeps with Benson. The three of them are known to get a little loose. Dante finds the timing interesting. Synchronicity. Mags and Naz. Her and Vichy. Mac and Zoe. Cap and Angel weren’t asleep either. That the crew were enjoying sex is no surprise. That they were all enjoying sex at the same time certainly is. Dante’s more convinced now than when she woke beneath Vichy—reality is a lie.
She walks over to the vast window, searching for the constellation Orion. She shouldn’t be able to see it—of that she’s sure—and she’s confused why that compulsion has swept over her, but there’s nothing there beyond the darkness.
Beneath the ship, the alien world shimmers in the light of twin suns. The glare coming off the ice prevents her from seeing anything beyond the two dwarf stars in this binary system. They orbit so closely that from Earth they appear as one. Even now, she can’t visually separate them as anything other than a slightly horizontal smudge. At the speed they’re orbiting each other, it’ll take hundreds of millions of years for the two stars to finish colliding. At first, Angel thought they might be a supernova candidate, but they’re small enough they’ll simply merge and reignite, forming a new star, bathing the system in light and energy, possibly even spurring on life.
But The Stars Page 8
