But The Stars

by Peter Cawdron

  Lies

  “So what do we do?” Vichy asks, looking dejected.

  “Now, we fight back,” Dante says, looking him square in the eye and refusing to flinch.

  “How?” he asks, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “We’re not even—none of this is real. How can we fight back? There’s no one to fight.”

  “We lie.” Dante says, thinking about what Jeeves told her. She knocks back the last of her drink.

  “What?” Mags asks, surprised by the notion.

  “Think about it,” Dante says. “Everything they’ve learned about us has come from us.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes,” Benson says, pointing at Dante. He squeezes into the cabin, pushing past Vichy and Cap, focusing solely on her. “We lie. I like it.”

  “I don’t see how that’s going to help,” Cap says.

  “Wherever we are,” Dante replies. “We’ve been here for a long time. For us, it feels like yesterday. Hell, if we believe the ship’s logs, nothing has actually happened yet and the past still lies in the future.”

  “But?” Cap says.

  “But everything they know about us has to have come from us. Think about how difficult it is for us to communicate with other species on Earth—dolphins, crows, dogs, gorillas, cuttlefish. They’re all intelligent but it takes a helluva lot of observation and experimentation. It takes time to catalog behaviors, to learn about meaning and intent, to understand the subtleties of another sentient being.”

  Benson says, “And they’ve mastered it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Mags says, “So we’ve been crash test dummies for what? Decades?”

  Dante shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

  Benson says, “Damn, I hope not.”

  “So why lie?” Vichy asks.

  Mags knows. “Because lies are weapons. In war, they’re as lethal as any bomb or bullet.”

  Dante nods, drawing her lips tight, desperately wanting to gain some advantage over their captors. “Lies give us leverage. They allow us to define reality for them.”

  “So we play them just as they’ve played us,” Benson says.

  “Exactly.”

  Cap is silent. He looks thoughtful. Like her, he’s probably trying to play the game a few moves ahead. Dante never was any good at chess. Oh, she knew how the various pieces moved about the board. Rook. Knight. Bishop. She could anticipate what her opponent would do, but all she ever did was look at the possibilities. Dante would expect a logical attack, one that used a process of elimination, but as a teen she never understood her opponents were doing the exact same thing to her—trying to get inside her head to look at what seemed logical to her, coaxing and teasing her into making a mistake. In some ways, this is no different and she’s aware the missing piece is motivation.

  “We have to figure out why they’re doing this,” she says. “Until then, we need to stop bleeding information.”

  “Agreed,” Cap says, although he looks weary—worried.

  “I can’t see how lies are going to help,” Vichy says. “First, they’ve already figured out enough to understand this particular conversation, right? So they know we’re going to lie.”

  He taps the wall, drumming his fingers on the sheet metal, leaning against it with his arm raised over his head.

  “Second, if I call this green instead of white—so what? I mean, maybe it creates a little confusion, but it doesn’t change anything. Besides, with a little cross-referencing they could figure out green has become a code word for white.”

  “He’s right,” Cap says.

  “To be effective,” Dante says, “a lie has to be part of the truth. There needs to be a kernel, a grain, a seed of truth in there, but it’s distorted—misleading.”

  “And we want to mislead them,” Cap says. “But how? Why?”

  Dante says, “We need to buy ourselves some breathing space—buy some time so we can figure out what’s happening to us.”

  “You want to escape?” Mags says, apparently reading Dante’s mind and recoiling in surprise. She lets out a solitary laugh. “Dee, I love you and all, but think about how crazy that is—we don’t even know where the hell we are. Nothing around us is real.” She gestures to the walls and ceiling. “Tell me where to go and I’ll go there, but we’re not really here, right?”

  Benson says, “And the walls, they close in.”

  Mags points at the door to the bedroom, saying, “I could walk back into that room and encounter another membrane and this whole shit show resets yet-a-fucking-gain.”

  “Don’t you see?” Dante says. “The membranes. They’re clues. They’re something that’s not part of the Acheron. They’re revealing. They tell us something about how these guys operate.”

  Cap’s eyes narrow. He folds his arms across his hairy chest and stares at her intently, listening carefully as Dante continues.

  “I think I know where we are—where we really are.”

  “Are you serious?” Vichy asks.

  “Where?” Mags says, unable to hide her surprise.

  “We’re in the medical bay on the Acheron.”

  The silence that follows is deafening. Benson and Vichy exchange a glance, unsure what they should believe. Cap looks down at his feet. Mags is stunned.

  “Think about it,” Dante says. “We’re not on the surface. The sustained gravity on P4 would cause too many medical complications, ones I don’t think even they could overcome, not with a limited understanding of our biology. No, they had to get us somewhere we can easily survive. Humans are limited to a tiny, very specific range of temperatures, pressures and atmospheric mix.”

  Vichy says, “Why replicate that when you’ve got a ready-made cage in orbit?”

  “Exactly,” Dante says.

  “So they brought us up here?” Cap asks. “But why medical?”

  “It’s the only place large enough to house all of us together. They could have used the greenhouse but it’s a microbial paradise. Too many unknowns. Too risky. More than likely, they want to study that as well, so they have to choose somewhere practical. Plenty of room. Easy to move equipment out of the way.”

  “Medical, huh?” Vichy says.

  “Makes sense,” Mags says.

  Dante says, “They’ve been experimenting on us, starting with our obvious senses—sight, touch, hearing. Given their initial focus on these, it may well be that we share these senses with them. They probably have some rough equivalent.”

  Benson says, “So by observing how they observe us, we can learn something about them.”

  “Exactly.”

  Mags says, “They didn’t know about all our senses. They had no idea about smell until we gave up that piece of information. They probably didn’t even realize we’d feel the oppressive gravity if we stayed on P4.”

  Benson says, “They got lucky.”

  Dante points at him. “Yes. Had we been on the surface, the pull of gravity would have creeped through the simulation, destroying the illusion of being on the Acheron.”

  Mags says, “There must be other senses they’ve missed.”

  “Like what?” Cap asks.

  Dante says, “We have at least nine senses, perhaps more depending on how you count them. The five most people think of plus thermoception—the ability to perceive hot and cold, nociception—feeling pain, equilibrioception—balance, and proprioception—the spatial awareness of our own bodies—can you touch your nose with your eyes closed, stuff like that.”

  Cap asks, “And you think they might not be aware of some of these other senses?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Benson jiggles up and down, bouncing on the spot a little.

  Mags says, “That’s probably not going to move your actual body. You know that, right?”

  “I know, I know,” he says, jumping a little higher. “No sense of falling.”

  “Interesting,” Dante says. “So no equilibrioception. At the moment, at least, we probably can’t get dizzy.”

  “
Nobody tell them,” Mags says, holding her hands out. “Seriously.”

  “Equilibrioception,” Benson says, winking as he adds, “That’s basically a continuous orgasm, right? I say, they can get right on fixing that one.”

  “That’s all they’re getting out of us,” Vichy says, laughing.

  Benson asks, “So… we’re like lying in pods or something? Have they put us in the hibernation chambers?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dante says. “I think we’re being held upright. I think our actual senses are creeping through the lack of any stimulation of them within the simulation.”

  “Equilibrioception, right?” Benson says.

  “And a little proprioception,” Dante replies. “If we were lying down, we’d have a very different sense of spatial awareness. Lying in bed in here—”

  Mags completes her thought, saying, “Just doesn’t feel right.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Benson says.

  Vichy is fascinated. “So with some of our senses still functioning, we still have a connection of sorts with the outside world.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting,” Cap says, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “If we’re in orbit then we’re still subject to centrifugal-induced artificial gravity, right? That’s what we feel.”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, okay,” Benson says. “I’m thinking all this explains the level of detail we see around us. If they’re up here on the Acheron then they don’t need to probe our memories for information on the craft, they can simply replicate what they’ve found.”

  Mags says, “So when Vichy opened that hatch on the bridge…”

  “They hadn’t looked in there,” he replies. “They had no idea what was behind that panel.”

  “Exactly,” Dante says.

  “And the membranes?” Vichy asks. “What are they?”

  “Dunno,” Dante says. “But they seem to define the limits of the simulation. They’re a reset point.”

  Curious, Mags gets up and walks over to the bedroom.

  “You said these guys are losing control.”

  She rests her hand on the door, pauses, and then slides it open.

  Dante nods, expecting to see nothing but darkness on the other side. She waits for reality to dissolve, being replaced with tentacles slithering around her, but there are crumpled sheets lying strewn on the narrow bed. An overhead light comes on automatically.

  “Nothing,” Vichy says.

  Mags says, “Each time there’s a reset, we understand a little more. I think that’s the point at which they’re losing control. There’s something about the reset. It’s not quite perfect. Memories seep through.”

  “Are they trying to limit them?” Benson asks.

  Dante shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “How can you be sure?” Vichy asks.

  “The resets are getting further apart,” Dante says. “Both in terms of time and space. When I first awoke on the Barton, I was confined to a single room and the whole encounter lasted no more than a few minutes.”

  She gets up and starts opening cabinets, expecting them to be empty but they’re stocked with items—in some cases, overflowing with food pods, canisters and equipment.

  “They’re filling in the blanks,” Benson says.

  Cap hasn’t said much, but the concentration on his face is telling. He’s lost in thought, weighing their options.

  “What are you thinking, boss?” Dante asks.

  “I’m thinking, you’re right,” he says. “I’m thinking—as impossible as it seems—if we have at least some answers, we stand a chance.”

  Dante nods.

  “Have we been hypnotized?” Mags asks.

  “Maybe,” Dante concedes.

  “Do you think that’s how they’re doing all this?” Vichy asks.

  “It’s—I don’t know, but it’s not without precedent.”

  “What do you mean?” Cap asks.

  “When I was studying astrobiology, my professor used terrestrial analogs to show us just how diverse life can be. Things like cuttlefish using light to talk to each other. They change the pigment in their skin to produce waves of color, chatting among themselves. They even use light to hypnotize their prey.

  “Cuttlefish pulsate, undulating between shades of blue, mimicking the way sunlight plays on the surface of the water. Such displays of bioluminescence allow them to creep up on crabs, but it isn’t simply camouflage. It’s not that the crabs don’t see them. The crabs watch spellbound, mesmerized right up until the point tentacles grab them.”

  “Oh, God,” Mags says. “That sounds familiar.”

  “So this is like group hypnosis?”

  Benson asks.

  “I guess,” Dante replies. “Hypnosis is complicated. It’s not easy to define or understand. Wildebeest and antelope go into shock while being eaten alive by lions. Adrenaline masks the pain they feel and often they’ll be quite docile, which doesn’t make sense in any other context.”

  “Oh, it makes sense,” Benson says, nodding in agreement, his eyes wide open. “It makes a helluva lot of sense to me.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Mags says.

  “But what?” Dante asks as even she’s grasping for ideas. They have so little to go on. Just a few brief glimpses of light seems to give the entire group a lift, but there’s no clear course of action.

  “Anything,” Benson says.

  Vichy is adamant. “From this point on—we lie. No longer do we give them what they want.”

  “Hmmm,” Cap says, scratching his hairy belly. “Okay. We need to do something, right? Not just stand around like wildebeest. Well, I’m going to go and get dressed. I need to get Naz up to speed on this.”

  “And Angel,” Mags says with a burst of enthusiasm. “I’ll go with you.”

  Dante says, “We’ll go and get Mac and Zoe.”

  Cap walks out saying, “If there are no resets, we meet on the bridge. Figure things out from there. Work as a team.”

  Vichy replies, “Agreed.”

  Dante nods.

  Vichy joins Cap in the corridor. Both men are wearing boxer shorts. They confer, talking in rushed tones off to one side. Vichy seems worried.

  For Dante, walking out into the corridor is surreal. She can’t help feel as though she’s breaking through a membrane each time she crosses a threshold. In her mind, it’s as though she’s restrained, as though something’s dragging her back, but there’s no darkness this time. Benson seems to pick up on her concern, perhaps from the way her eyes dart around, looking at the door surrounds as she steps through.

  “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Normal feels strange.”

  On either side of them, the corridor curves up away from the two astronauts, following the shape of the Acheron as it turns. Dante marvels at how real everything seems.

  Stars drift past the windows. Tiny pinpricks of light break through the darkness, scattered like diamonds.

  Mintaka, Al Nilam and Al Nitak are there—the three stars that make up the belt of the fabled hunter Orion. To Greek astronomers, these were a string of pearls. To the Arabs, Mintaka was the belt and Al Nitak was the girdle, while Al Nilam was a precious stone, a brilliant sapphire, which is somewhat appropriate as in reality it glows almost a million times brighter than the Sun.

  As majestic as these stars must have been when viewed by nomads staring up into the clear, dark skies of the Middle East over thousands of years, their true wonders lay hidden until the advent of science. These unstable celestial giants are rapidly burning through their fuel, fusing the elements that form the basis for biological life, but they’re destined to become overwhelmed by their own sheer size, collapsing and then exploding with the fury of a trillion suns in an instant, outshining entire galaxies for a brief moment in time.

  Dante’s hand rests on the plexiglass. There’s no sensation of cool seeping through to her fingers. They haven’t figured out thermoception yet.
<
br />   She feels lost. She looks to the stars, wanting to find hope. Mintaka is a binary star system while Al Nilam is a blue supergiant easily fifty times larger than the Sun. With temperatures as high as fifty thousand degrees, it fuses atoms as heavy as iron deep within its core. The last star, Al Nitak doesn’t appear as grand, but it’s all the more remarkable when observed through a telescope. Although it appears as a single star from Earth, Al Nitak is comprised of four stars locked in an intricate orbital dance, with at least two of those stars being brilliant, blue super-giants, rotating so close they appear as one. For all the myths and legends surrounding the gods as depicted in the constellations of Orion, Hercules, Virgo and Cassiopeia, reality is far more intriguing. Oh, if only ancient astronomers knew the truth.

  Benson walks up beside her. His eyes drift up, staring at the fading remnants of Betelgeuse.

  “They’re beautiful,” she says, lying about what she sees.

  “But,” Benson says.

  “But nothing,” Dante says, cutting him off, knowing he already understands, unsure how closely they’re being watched. She turns away from the window, not wanting to surrender her last bastion of sanity.

  The stars are a lie.

  Illusions

  “What are you looking at?” Vichy asks, joining Dante and Benson by the window, staring at the stars. He’s dressed in a jumpsuit. Dante doesn’t ask him where he got it, but it has his name embroidered beneath the mission logo.

  P4 is in shadow. A thin blue sliver curves around the edge of the planet, marking where light from the nearby binary stars is catching the edge of the atmosphere, signaling the coming dawn.

  “Nothing,” Dante says.

  Vichy doesn’t look convinced. His eyes speak of intrigue bordering on jealousy. Benson has only ever been a friend, but to Dante he’s a confidant. Perhaps it’s precisely because there’s never been any physical attraction between them that she can let her guard down with him. Vichy doesn’t understand that connection. It’s not that Dante doesn’t want to open up to Vichy, it’s that she can’t—not in the same way. And now, it’s different. Benson was there. He saw them in medical. He saw these creatures before anyone else. Through each iteration, it’s only ever been Benson who understood.