Obscura

by Joe Hart

  She scanned the key card. The door slid open.

  Empty.

  Gillian stepped into the corridor and stopped as another sound met her.

  Definitely a door closing or opening in the next hall.

  She felt like a mouse in a field, the shadow of a hawk falling over her. She needed to get out of the hallway, but an idea suddenly struck her, pulling her away from the lounge in the opposite direction of the sounds.

  After scanning in to control, she settled in before one of the pedestals and touched the screen, mentally cursing herself for not thinking of this sooner. After stopping several times to ward off bouts of dizziness, she managed to find the camera-option control.

  ACCESS SYSTEM MULTI-VIEW

  She touched the selection, and the screen split into a dozen different viewpoints of the ship.

  There were angles of the lab, the rats scurrying in their cages, various empty hallways in the crew-quarter areas, but the external camera pane was the one that snagged her attention and held it.

  Floating in the dark void of space was Mars.

  The planet was still small and indistinct, but she could make out its definitive reddish hue and what appeared to be darker patches, which she could only assume were impact craters or crevasses.

  The sight transfixed her. Enough so that the vertigo and nausea felt as if they belonged to someone else. Even the unsettling fear of the hallucinations became muted.

  Her destination was in sight. She was going to another planet. Awe settled over her, and she wondered faintly if this was what people had felt the first time they’d understood what those distant points of light were in the night sky.

  Movement in the lower right corner of the screen brought her attention back to the present.

  The view was of the airlock. As she watched, the port leading to the shuttle settled into place.

  There was a plunging in the middle of her stomach that had nothing to do with the withdrawals.

  Someone had just closed the hatch.

  No, you’re seeing things again.

  Slowly her gaze left the screen and fixed on the door to stasis.

  One of them was awake.

  Who was it, and what were they doing?

  Hesitantly she rose and was about to scan her key card when she stopped. If one of the crew was awake, they could have manipulated their pod’s display to make her think they were still in stasis.

  That would explain everything.

  But the same question hounded her even as the explanation settled into place.

  What are they doing?

  She shifted to the left, and her foot nudged something that emitted a quiet clink as it rolled away.

  The pry bar.

  Gillian retrieved it from the floor, hefting its weight.

  They had lied to her, drugged her, whisked her away from the only thing she kept breathing for. Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t good.

  She gripped the bar and headed for the corridor.

  February 5, 2030.

  Eighteen months after Discovery VI disaster.

  Sci-Beat interview with James Conroy, former mission operations program manager for NASA.

  Sci-Beat (SB): Mr. Conroy, thank you so much for sitting down with us.

  James Conroy (JC): My pleasure.

  SB: I know you’ve had a lot on your schedule over the past year with all of the controversy surrounding the Discovery VI mission. You’re no longer with NASA, and you’ve written a book about your tenure there.

  JC: I have. It’s part memoir, but a good portion of it’s dedicated to Discovery VI—I know most people are going to pick it up more because of that than to hear about my career.

  SB: Well, that’s a good jumping-off point: your career. You were an IT specialist in the navy for seven years. You worked briefly in Silicon Valley before accepting a position with NASA. You spent seventeen years there heading up five missions as program manager. My point being, there’s been a lot of criticism of the claims you’ve made in the last year, many people trying to disparage your experience or record even though your career has been free of scandal. What do you make of that?

  JC: Well, it’s like anyone who steps forward with information that goes against the grain of what an establishment has stated: they’re going to get criticized. Someone’s going to yell fraud; the next will say conspiracy theory. It comes with the territory.

  SB: In your book you mentioned the involvement of, and I quote, “several nameless contractors hired by the United Nations who were the direct contact points for the Discovery Mission. Everything ran through them. We were just the picket fencing in front of the suburban house—an official facade that concealed their secrets.” End quote.

  JC: That’s right. I swear to God, every official I met who was a contact liaison for the mission was named John. They were all very cold and businesslike. Not people you’d hang out with for beers after work.

  SB: So you’re saying these men filtered information for the mission before handing it to you to interpret and present to operations?

  JC: Yes. That’s correct.

  SB: Why do you think that was?

  JC: Honestly? Because there was a lot more going on besides what was stated in the mission documents.

  SB: Such as?

  JC: I can only postulate on that because so much was restricted, but I did come across several memos mentioning an advanced transportation system. Some kind of revolutionary process that would change the way humankind moved from one place to another.

  SB: So that was specifically why the UN was involved?

  JC: I can almost bet on it.

  SB: Beyond this possible transportation system, can you shed any light on the other, more shadowy aspects of the mission?

  JC: [Laughs.] You mean the “space sickness” the Russians reported on?

  SB: Yes, among other things.

  JC: I can’t say what actually caused the disaster, but a disease could’ve been a prominent factor. As far as space sickness goes, I’m not aware of any medical diagnosis that fits the observations noted by Dr. Ryan.

  SB: That’s another very interesting topic: Dr. Gillian Ryan. Do you believe the official reports released two weeks ago by the investigative committee formed by deputy administrator of NASA Anderson Jones?

  JC: You mean the insinuations she was partially or directly responsible for the disaster itself?

  SB: Yes.

  JC: [Long pause.] I don’t know. I was present when her distress call came in. It sure as hell didn’t sound like someone who had caused what happened shortly thereafter. She sounded terrified but in control of her mental faculties. But that’s the real question about all this, isn’t it? Who really knows what a person is capable of?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Her footsteps were unbelievably loud in the hall as she approached the airlock.

  Over the last two months, she’d become more accustomed to the quiet of the ship, the sound of her breathing, talking to herself. It had become the norm.

  But now, trying to stealthily sidle up to the airlock door while keeping her balance despite the urge to vomit, each noise made her wince internally.

  Gillian stopped outside the door, risking a glance inside before ducking back out of sight.

  Everything seemed to be in its place, and there was no one standing on the other side of the viewing pane.

  She took a steadying breath, the iron bar cold and slick in her palms. What the hell was she going to do if she caught whoever it was inside? Brain them with the bar? Of course not. Get some answers as to why they were skulking around the ship and scaring the shit out of her? Yes. Most definitely.

  Another look through the window confirmed the airlock was still empty. Whoever it was must still be down in the shuttle. A vague warning bell chimed in the back of her mind. Something was wrong here, beyond the idea that one of the crew was sneaking around when they should be in stasis. When she tried to identify what it was, it slipped away like lyrics to a song heard
only once.

  It could be the fact that there’s no one inside at all. You’re sick and you’ve had a break with reality.

  “I saw it,” she whispered, and scanned her key card.

  The door whisked open.

  Silence. Stillness.

  Gillian forced herself to move forward, eyes fastened on the port leading to the shuttle. Maybe she could simply wait here for them to come back out and confront them then. If they thought she was still asleep in the lounge, they wouldn’t be cautious about their passage throughout the ship.

  A tremor coursed through her, stabbing her stomach with cramps. No, there would be no stakeout for her. She needed to confront whoever it was, find out what they were doing, and get to a bathroom.

  Unlatching the port, she drew back the cover, revealing the ladder leading down into the shuttle.

  It was dark inside. She hadn’t anticipated the darkness. Hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight. But the more uncomfortable notion rose with the blackness eating the ladder just below the third rung: What were they doing down there alone in the dark?

  She licked her cracked lips, readying to call out. Should she say anything? Whoever it was, they were up to something nefarious; that was for certain. But what would their reaction be when they realized they were caught? She couldn’t imagine any of the crew becoming violent, but even as the thought crossed her mind, she recalled Tinsel jabbing the needle into her shoulder. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t know any of these people well except Birk and Carson, and Carson’s actions hadn’t exactly elevated her trust.

  She peered into the darkness, trying to see if anything was moving within it. Had something shifted down there? Gillian leaned over, clutching the bar close. She opened her mouth, finally deciding to call out, but a sound stopped her.

  Her skin prickled with gooseflesh so strong it felt as if she’d stepped into an iron maiden.

  Because the noise hadn’t come from the space below.

  It had come from behind her.

  She turned and looked down the row of space suits hanging neatly on their hooks, and all at once the needling sensation from before snapped into utter clarity.

  When she’d seen the movement on the screen in control, one of the suit hooks had been empty.

  Now they were all full.

  The suit two steps down from her came alive.

  Even as she screamed and stumbled back, barely missing the open port at her feet, she noticed the helmet attached to its top.

  The suit reached toward her, trying to snag the front of her jumpsuit.

  She batted the hand away, feeling the bar sliding in her grip.

  Then the suit was stepping away from the wall and coming toward her, its animation something out of a nightmare.

  But what filled up the helmet’s visor was so much worse.

  Kent’s rotting face stared out at her.

  His eyes were gone, sunken into black holes, the skin a leathery parchment over jutting cheekbones. His lips were blackened worms, shriveled away from yellow teeth. And she knew in the split second before he lunged at her that she was seeing what he looked like in the grave. This was his face after eight years underground.

  Her scream tore free as his hand closed on her wrist.

  Gillian twisted away and fell to the floor, the bar skidding ahead of her as she tried to gain her feet.

  Her mind threatened to unhook then. What would her husband’s corpse do to her once it pinned her down?

  Gloved fingers snagged her ankle.

  Her sanity flickered like a lamp during a lightning storm.

  She pushed forward, breaking his grip, and scooped up the bar.

  With a burst of adrenaline, she turned and swung the steel.

  The heavy handle whistled around and caught him high in the chest.

  He grunted in pain and staggered to the side. A part of her mind chanted to keep swinging. Crack the helmet open and dash whatever was inside it to pieces, because it was an abomination, something evil and unholy broken free of hell.

  But the stronger part forced her to run.

  Gillian fell against the airlock door, fumbling her key card in wooden fingers for an excruciating second before scanning it across the sensor.

  Something grazed her hair, and she screamed as she barreled free of the airlock and down the hallway.

  She was nothing but prey as she ran, panic and terror clouding her senses.

  Where could she go? There was nowhere to hide.

  Gillian pounded around the corner, air like acid each time she breathed in, the old injury in her leg throbbing. Ahead to the left was the entry to Quad One.

  She slid to a stop, fumbling the key card again, and missed the scanner as she looked back the way she’d come.

  The hallway was empty.

  She tried scanning the key card without looking, unable to wrench her gaze away from the nearest corner.

  What if she’d imagined it all? What she’d seen—it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t—

  Kent rounded the corner and ran toward her, arms pumping at his sides, features mercifully lost in the reflection of his visor.

  An animalistic cry came from her, and she scanned the key card, turning to slide through the opening door.

  She fled past Tinsel’s and Birk’s rooms.

  Around the corner to her own.

  She barely slowed as she swiped her key and hurtled through the doorway, almost pausing to try locking her berth, but it required a four-digit code that was blurred now by fear.

  Her feet skidded out from her as she crossed the room, her leg flaring with pain as the bar slipped from her grasp, pinwheeling once before disappearing beneath the bed.

  No time to retrieve it. She could hear him in the hallway. Hear his footsteps coming closer.

  She slung herself up and into the tiny bathroom, slammed the door shut, and scrabbled at the lock. Her fingers were mutinous, unable to turn the mechanism.

  She heard the door to her room open.

  Turn the lock.

  He was right outside.

  Turn the lock!

  There was a small click as her fingers twisted.

  The lock engaged, and half a second later, the door rattled in its frame.

  Gillian plastered herself against the opposite wall, a moan of terror escaping her.

  The door shook again. Could he get through? Would he find the pry bar and force his way in? And, oh God, what would he do when he got inside?

  Oh God, please, please make him go away, please, please, please, please.

  Over the sound of her labored breathing and machine-gun pulse, there was a sliding footstep.

  A long pause.

  At that moment the fear was too much. The urge to reach out and unlock the door and simply end it was so powerful, she found her hand twitching toward the knob.

  Gillian laced her fingers and clenched her palms together in supplication.

  “Please, please, please,” she whispered.

  Another sound came from the room, and her breath fishhooked her lungs.

  The door had opened and closed.

  Was he gone, or just quietly waiting outside?

  She swallowed, gathering the nerve to press her ear against the bathroom door. Listened.

  Nothing.

  No movement.

  She waited for nearly five minutes before easing away. It seemed he was gone.

  But had he really been there at all?

  Yes. She’d seen him, felt the bar connect with his chest. But even now the memory had taken on the melting quality of a dream, the details blurring into one another like paint splattered with turpentine.

  All at once she couldn’t stand anymore and sunk to the floor, then scooted as far away from the door as she could into the shower. She drew up her legs and became as small as possible, rocking back and forth. Maybe it had been another hallucination, like seeing Carrie. Maybe she wasn’t even in the bathroom right now. Maybe she was asleep in stasis like all the others
and the last two months had happened solely in her mind.

  She whimpered, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Pain thudded softly in her right wrist, and she pulled her hands away, glancing down.

  An angry blaze of red encircled her wrist. Kent had grabbed her there in the airlock. It was proof she wasn’t imagining things. But did she actually believe what her eyes had told her? Her husband’s corpse had attacked her, pursued her to her room, tried to break through the bathroom door?

  The room swam around her, and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as she pulled her knees even tighter to her chest, focusing on the one thing she knew was real.

  Sweating and trembling, she pictured Carrie, recalling their last hug, and whispered the final thing she’d said before letting her go.

  “It’ll be okay. Forever. Forever. Forever . . .”

  Audio file transcript—#179088 August 5, 2028.

  I think I saw him again.

  Kent. In the hallway near control. I don’t . . . don’t know.

  Someone was there. I can’t . . . [Heavy breathing.] can’t tell what’s real anymore. Ran all the way back to my room and locked the bathroom door again.

  Been in here for a day at least. Only left because I had to get food, had to eat.

  Shakes are bad. Can’t concentrate. So dizzy. Don’t know if this will ever end.

  I’m . . . [Inaudible.] so sorry, honey. I should’ve never left you. Never left. Miss you so much. I want you to know that if I don’t come back . . .

  I did this for you.

  [End of recording.]

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Gillian stepped out of the shower and dried off, running her fingers loosely through her hair.

  The square mirror above the sink revealed the trauma of the last two weeks, everything told in the dark bags beneath her eyes, the sallow skin of her face. Shame tugged at her again like a riptide. The feeling was nothing new; she assumed most addicts harbored it more or less all the time, but this was a different animal altogether. How messed up had she been to see and feel the things she had?