Obscura

by Joe Hart

  Leo seemed to struggle with something. “Yes, it’s possible. But we’re talking two months of time spent on and off inside the unit as well as evading you when they were outside.”

  “I saw the door to control closing. Thought it was somebody waking up early and followed them inside. There was a smell in medical, like someone had just been there.”

  “Gillian, you’re not making any sense,” Leo said, grimacing. “The blood on the pry bar, it was yours.”

  A wave of unreality washed over her. “No. That’s—” She was about to say “impossible,” but already she was looking down at her hand, at the healing cut, still red and ragged.

  “I think you were having visual and auditory hallucinations due to withdrawals. And . . .”

  She shook her head, vision swimming with tears. “You don’t hallucinate coming off opiates.”

  “Each person is unique. It may have affected you differently.”

  So there it was. While she’d been locked away, everyone had decided she was guilty.

  An emptiness filled her as if everything vital were draining away.

  Leo cleared his throat. “We need to go to control. We’ll be docking with the station shortly.”

  “What will happen to me once we get there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He motioned toward the door, and she rose, half expecting her legs to give out. When they didn’t, she glanced at Birk. He looked crestfallen and pale, but what hurt the most was the angry set of his jaw. He was furious at her.

  They left the room, Leo leading the way with Birk bringing up the rear. As they walked, her mind ran forward, leapfrogging through the next few months until they returned to Earth. What would happen when they landed? She supposed she would be formally charged.

  And Carrie. How would she explain everything to her?

  Gillian’s throat drew shut, and she had to blink rapidly to keep tears from spilling free of her eyes. Even as despair tried to swallow her, the irony of the situation didn’t escape her. She had been brought here to help shed light on a mystery—potentially solve a murder.

  And now she was accused of committing one herself.

  But the cameras . . . she knew she hadn’t shut the recording off. And if she hadn’t shut down the cameras, then it had been someone else. One of the others who had feigned stasis. But why? Why kill Tinsel and frame her?

  The maelstrom of thoughts was swept aside as they neared control and Leo scanned them through.

  The room was alive with movement and sound when they entered. Dozens of screens flickered with data, soft beeps and a robotic voice intoned something from somewhere overhead, and Lien and Carson were seated before two of the nearest pedestals.

  Both of them looked over at her as she stepped into the room. She gazed back, feeling like some dangerous virus beneath a microscope.

  “Everyone can get settled in,” Carson said, bringing his attention back to the screen before him. “We’ll be docking in ten minutes.”

  Leo led her to one of the rearmost seats in the room and told her to buckle the two sets of safety harnesses across her legs and chest as the others did the same. Birk sat to her left, and though she stared at the side of his head, he refused to meet her eyes.

  Easton appeared several minutes later, glancing her way briefly before reporting to Carson. “Airlock is go for attachment, and all external apparatus are prechecked.”

  “Thank you,” Carson said, nodding toward the seat beside him. “We’re two from docking sequence.”

  A bank of screens lit up across the command area, and red light coated the room.

  Mars filled the entire display with its murky glow.

  Despite everything, Gillian was awestruck once more. The planet was so much closer now, vivid and looming in a way that made her feel insignificant, lonely, and mesmerized all at once.

  As Carson and Lien spoke back and forth to each other as well as into the headsets they wore, Gillian noticed something on the planet’s surface.

  No, not on the surface. Above it.

  The object was shaped like a pyramid, its base wide and rounded with two more levels stacked one after the other, each progressively smaller. Four square supportive columns extended upward from the base and met at a blunted point above the third level. As they neared it, the station took on more definition, stabilization struts spanning like a steel spiderweb between the different sections, which were coated with dozens of reflective panels. Gillian assumed they were solar shields that also doubled as collection points for power.

  The station grew and grew until it blotted out the camera’s entire field of view. Carson rattled off a checklist at high speed, which Lien confirmed while the ship began to turn sharply, arcing in gracefully to parallel the station’s nearest angled column.

  “Docking initiated,” Carson said, seeming to be listening to someone through his headset. “Confirmed. Contact in five, four, three, two, one.”

  A slight vibration traveled through the floor, and the camera’s view stuttered once.

  “Attachment couplings secure,” Lien said.

  “Sync airlocks,” Carson replied.

  “Syncing.”

  The ship shuddered and then was still.

  “Secure,” Lien said.

  Carson glanced around, his gaze finding Gillian briefly before he unbuckled himself and stood. “Welcome to Mars.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  They transferred to the station via the airlock she’d watched Carrie get sucked out of.

  Hallucinated, she reminded herself. Gillian glanced at the row of space suits as they passed, an unconscious shiver running through her when her eyes fell on the one that she’d seen Kent’s face in.

  The airlock led to another chamber much like the one they’d left, except larger and with hinged storage cabinets and benches below them lining each wall. The door thunked shut with finality behind them, and after several seconds, the one ahead slid open.

  A wide, curving hallway met them along with two tall men in dark-gray jumpsuits, their hair military short, faces slack as they stood to one side of the entry.

  “Commander LeCroix?” one asked, nodding to Carson.

  “That’s right,” Carson said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Stephen Vasquez.” Vasquez’s gaze found Gillian, pinned her to where she stood. “This her?”

  “Yes,” Carson said, stepping aside as Vasquez and the other man approached.

  “Come with us, ma’am,” Vasquez said, gesturing to the left of the airlock.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “Someplace secure for now,” Carson answered as she passed him. His stony expression was gone, replaced by one of blankness. She could’ve been a piece of furniture being hauled away.

  “Doctor?” Birk asked, taking a step in her direction.

  “It’s okay,” she said as Vasquez placed a hand on his belt where a compact Taser hung. “I’ll be fine.”

  They set off down the hallway, Vasquez on her left and the other man on her right. Neither touched her, but she could almost feel their hands on her arms and knew if she made any sudden moves, the sensation would become real.

  The hallway continued to curve to the right, and she took in its paneled walls, their sections glinting a sterile white. Every so often a window would appear, giving the briefest impression of the void beyond. Her footsteps were light, airy in a way that made her feel like she could fly, and she guessed the gravity on the station was much like that of the ship. When she glanced over her shoulder for a last look at the group, they were already gone.

  Ahead, a solid partition blocked their path, and Vasquez scanned a key card very much like the ones they used on the ship across a reader.

  Part of the barrier slid aside, and they continued another dozen paces before slowing to a stop beside a door set in the left-hand wall. Again Vasquez scanned his key card and opened the door.

  The room inside was narrow—she was sure she couldn’t raise her
arms without brushing her fingertips against the walls—with a low bed set below an expansive window looking out into the depths of space. Below, the red rim of Mars sliced the darkness, a vague aura drifting from its surface like blood diffusing in water, staining the room with its presence.

  “There’s a bathroom in the corner. Knock if you need anything,” Vasquez said as she stepped inside.

  “When will I—” But he was already gone, the door whisking shut like a horizontal guillotine.

  Silence.

  Gillian moved to the bathroom, turned the light on. Off. She stepped to the window and looked down.

  This close, she could see the serrated definition of the canyons and dark yawning holes of impact craters on Mars’s surface. Everything tinged in that blood glow.

  It was hypnotic and unpleasant at the same time.

  With another half turn, she gazed around the room. It was featureless. A prison cell if there ever was one. Maybe this was where she belonged. Tucked safe away where she couldn’t hurt herself or anyone else.

  She slumped to the bed, fatigue drawing her downward. It would’ve pulled her through the bed, the floor, right down to the red planet if it could’ve. But she knew sleep wouldn’t come. That was the cruel reality. What she wanted, needed most, was miles away.

  Instead, her mind spooled out, latching on to and discarding everything that had taken place over the recent months.

  Aside from the lingering cravings for a hydro, the one thought that kept coming back was the cameras.

  Their recording had been turned off. She hadn’t done it. She was sure of that. Everything else, not so much. But it did mean one thing.

  “There was someone else awake,” she whispered to the room, and closed her eyes to the redness of Mars.

  The sound of the door shushing open brought Gillian up from sleep, utterly surprised at having drifted off.

  Carson stood in the hallway, Vasquez’s face hanging over his left shoulder. Carson watched her for a moment before saying, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He stepped inside, and the door shut behind him.

  Gillian blinked away the vestiges of sleep, orienting herself as quickly as possible.

  “How are you feeling?” Carson asked, leaning against the wall beside the door.

  “Cramped,” she said, waving a hand at the tiny room. “But at least the ambience is nice.”

  They were quiet for a time. She waited, not wanting to be the first to speak.

  “You didn’t have to do it,” Carson finally said, his voice barely audible.

  “Carson, I—”

  “I know we misled you, but this . . .”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Your blood was on the bar, Gillian. Come on.”

  She held out her hand. “I have no recollection of this cut.”

  “From what Leo tells me, you don’t remember much of anything.”

  “I remember, it’s just . . . hazy. Indistinct.” She took a breath. “I hallucinated, I know that, but I remember most of it—the luciferin test, trying to get into the medication panel and Leo’s locker. But Tinsel . . .” She shook her head.

  “This is my fault, I know that. I should’ve never brought you here.”

  “You should’ve told me the truth.”

  “And then what? You would have refused and gone back to your lab to run out of money. Then Carrie would’ve died.”

  “You don’t know that,” she said, stomach churning with his words. “And you sure as hell didn’t have the right to bring me here.”

  “It’s my fault,” he repeated. “But that doesn’t change the fact that a man is dead.”

  “I didn’t kill him!”

  “Then who did, Gillian? Who?”

  “One of the crew. Someone else was awake. I saw them.”

  “Who?” Carson pushed away from the wall, not looking at her. “Who did you see?”

  “I don’t know, but there was someone else awake on that ship.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Tinsel because he’s dead,” Carson said, ticking off a finger. “Your giant isn’t a suspect, I’m sure, and I’m guessing you don’t think it’s Leo. So who’s that leave? Lien, Easton, and me.” He faced her. “You think I killed him?”

  “Since I don’t even know why you brought me here, I’d say anything is possible.” She stood from the bed, anger forcing its way into her veins. “What are you getting out of all this?”

  He stared at her. “I was promoted to commanding officer on the station.”

  “Then you probably didn’t want Tinsel shutting this place down.”

  He shook his head. “You haven’t changed, you know that?”

  “Neither have you.”

  They gauged each other, and she held his gaze until he finally looked away.

  “Shit, Gill. Seriously, what the hell?”

  Some of her rancor drained at the defeat in his voice. He sounded exhausted.

  “Look,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know exactly what happened on the ship, but Leo told me the cameras were messed with, and I know I didn’t stop the recording. I don’t even know how.”

  “There’s a half dozen witnesses who saw you hit him.”

  “I know that. I despised the guy, but I didn’t kill him.” She watched him take a step toward the window and look out. “This is all so . . . wrong. Everything is wrong.”

  A beat.

  “What happens now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have any choice but to keep you here.”

  “What about the mission?”

  He half laughed. “What about it?”

  “We came here to solve a problem. I can help.”

  Carson eyed her before returning to the door. “No. That won’t work.”

  “You can have a guard with me at all times. I’m unarmed.”

  “Gillian—”

  “Let me help,” she said. “Please. Lock me up, put me on trial when we get home, whatever, but let me try. Then at least Carrie . . .” Her throat tried to close, but she pushed on. “At least I can help her.”

  Carson stopped at the entryway, his fist hovering in front of the door before he pressed it flat, knuckles whitening. “I’m sorry,” he said, and knocked. The door slid aside, and he stepped out, leaving her alone in the cell.

  The hours passed. Each one stretching longer than the last.

  She watched Mars, part of her registering they weren’t orbiting but seemed to be anchored in place, impossibly unmoving above the planet’s surface. The fact tried to ignite the scientific portion of her mind: Was it some new technology, like the one that had brought them here in the first place? But her thoughts came back to why. Why had all this happened?

  She lowered herself to the bed, twining her fingers, one thumb rubbing against the gash in her palm. Tinsel had been coming here for what? To assess the situation, reexamine the mission and the promise of Ander’s technology. What had his exact words been?

  It’s my job to evaluate whether this whole thing continues to move forward or is shut down and brought back to Earth for further study.

  So there it was. Why?

  Someone didn’t want Tinsel to do his job. She reconsidered everyone on the ship. Who would want him to fail? Who would want the program to continue at all costs?

  Think. Think. Think.

  She didn’t know any of the others enough to make a conclusion. Didn’t know their motivations or standings.

  But she would. She’d learn.

  Hours or minutes later, her thoughts scattered as a sound came from the hallway.

  The door slid away, revealing Carson. He stayed outside, one hand resting on the doorframe. He gazed around the room, then finally focused on her.

  “Come with me. I’ll show you why we’re here.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Elevators. Whole damn place is full of them,” Carson said as he glared at the ceiling of the car they rode in, Vasquez standing in the left corner behind them, a wa
tchful specter.

  “Isn’t that an unneeded risk? More moving parts?” Gillian asked, rubbing her wrist with one hand. Vasquez had snapped on a set of biting handcuffs before Carson could object, and by the time they’d removed them, grooves had already been dug in her flesh.

  “Yeah. But the design of the station required it. Stairs weren’t an option.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way, the upward thrust of the elevator unlike those of Earth with the reduced gravity. It was more like she was floating skyward.

  The car came to a stop without a sound, doors opening onto a corridor with dead ends in either direction. Ahead was an archway, a vestibule occupied by a dark-haired woman behind a utilitarian desk, a touchscreen before her.

  “Commander LeCroix, nice to see you.” Her smile faltered as she glanced at Gillian. “And your guest.”

  “I think Dr. Ander is expecting us,” Carson said.

  “He is. Go right in,” she said, touching her screen. A ping issued from the door, and they went through.

  They were halted almost immediately by the sectional couches.

  There were three of them, cobbled together to make one large lounge that sprawled across the wide space before them. On the farthest wall was an immense flat screen that stretched from floor to ceiling and at least twenty feet across. At the moment, a scrawl of French was displayed there, the phrase somewhat familiar but escaping her at the moment. To the right was a featureless wall, double doors set in the middle, and to the left was an “L” of counter space cluttered with haphazardly stacked papers, a bank of touchscreens, and what appeared to be model airplanes set upon a small dais in neat rows.

  A gray-haired man sat upon a rolling stool facing the closest touchscreen, his back to them. As the door slid closed, he turned, a smile breaking over his long face.

  “Carson! My God, it’s good to see you, son!” Eric Ander rose from the stool quickly, belying the movements of a man his age. He shook Carson’s hand and grasped his forearm. “Apologies for not meeting with you until now.”

  “It’s fine, Doctor, I know how busy you are. This is Dr. Gillian Ryan,” Carson said.

  “Nice to meet you,” Gillian said, holding out her hand.