Noumenon Infinity

by Marina J. Lostetter

  They’d all trained for this—had emergency drills every two weeks. Stone had a job, a station, but his head was still swimming, his ears still ringing. Gradually it came back to him, what he needed to do. He was supposed to help evacuate crew members from unsafe areas.

  “Over here!” Anju had already broken out the first aid kit at the emergency medical station—he remembered his duties—and waved to Stone and Maureen. He was having trouble with the clasp—probably because of the tremors running through his arms. When he popped the lid, everything inside went flying. As Stone and Maureen hobbled over, Anju scooped up the shrink-wrapped bandages and bottles of disinfectant as though worried the gravity would go again and they’d all float away.

  Stone plopped Maureen in a chair near Anju’s nursing station, then turned, scanning the room once more for Dr. Kapoor. After a moment, he began hobbling in the direction of her console.

  Hobbling. He must have tweaked his ankle as well.

  “Hey, where you going?” Anju asked. “I can wrap that.”

  “Did you see where Dr. Kapoor went?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He continued on, helping others to their feet or jostling whoever had a disturbingly placid, far-off look to them. And all the time, his eyes scanned for Dr. Kapoor’s form. He felt inextricably responsible for her well-being. Maybe because they’d become such good friends, or maybe because he’d started to hope for something more . . . or maybe because he had a growing certainty he was the only sorry sonofabitch who’d seen what happened to her.

  If, you know, what I saw actually happened.

  You’ve got a concussion, maybe you just don’t remember right.

  Was that how concussions worked? Could they make you hallucinate disappearing mission heads?

  As he limped closer to the windows, his body screamed at him to halt. The glass appeared intact, but many millennia of evolution had his nervous system mashing the self-preservation button. The glass could shatter at any minute—who knew what that energy fluctuation had done to its integrity?

  But he overrode his instincts. If Dr. Kapoor was hurt or unconscious, he needed to help her.

  Even though he distinctly remembered watching her disappear, his rational side kept dispersing doubts in among the evidence of his own eyes. Concussion was one possible alternate-fact creator, as was the glaring light. He could have lost her in a flare. Maybe he’d blinked and she’d fallen (before the gravity reengaged?) and he’d lost her in the speed of the action.

  There were lots of explanations for what he’d seen. But none of them felt right.

  Sharp bits of ceramic, from where her tea mug had shattered against the floor, marked where she’d stood coordinating their efforts not fifteen minutes before. It was a strange, spooky halo on the raised metal platform where her station resided—like a chalk drawing at a crime scene. And Kapoor was nowhere to be found. Not a hair, not a shoe, not a—

  A quick glimmer of brassy silver caught his eye. It was wedged into the corner of one drawer, as though it had been snagged on its way to the floor.

  Yanking it free, he saw it was a small sundial, one usually hemmed in by a leather strap—like a wristwatch. It was part of the bracelet Kapoor wore every day.

  But it wasn’t just a passive piece of jewelry—he’d heard her talking to it, heard it talk back. It had a little speaker and nano-cam embedded in the side.

  Maybe he wasn’t the only witness to her strange accident.

  “Uh, he-hello? Um, sundial?”

  The archaic timepiece said nothing.

  He looked for a button, a switch, anything that might indicate the thing was on and he wasn’t simply blabbering to himself.

  But, try as he might, the dial remained passive. With a sigh, he pocketed it, ready to obey his body and get away from the potentially dangerous windows as quickly as possible. More importantly, ready to obey his orders. He needed to get people out of the mission control room. Who knew what kind of structural damage the hull had taken? There could be a buckle and breach at any moment.

  One last glance made him pause, though. Outside, the stars were all unfamiliarly aligned. He’d looked out this window every day for months, and he had the view ingrained in his memory.

  No, it makes sense, he told himself. You dove—the ship dove. We’re not in the same place anymore.

  But, how long had they been under? It only seemed like a few moments—and that was saying a lot, since everything had felt like it was moving in slow motion.

  They weren’t under long enough to change their stars that dramatically.

  Right?

  Concussion, concussion, concussion.

  He couldn’t trust his own perceptions, his own mind.

  A field of debris marred the star-filled scape at the leftmost side of the viewing bay. It was slowly drifting across, glittering in the light coming from the ships.

  In among the twisted metal, plastic, and glass, were a chair, workstation fragment, and the like. A few spiky experiment pods rolled into view. How they’d escaped Life’s bay, he didn’t want to speculate.

  It wasn’t until he saw a body that he ripped himself away. It looked like a doll—so still, so stiff. It was too far away to make out. Maybe he’d known them, maybe he hadn’t.

  But it couldn’t have been Kapoor, right? If her body was out there, his would be floating right alongside it.

  “Attention, everyone,” Captain Tan interrupted the automated PSA. His voice was remarkably even, and while his Cantonese accent was strong, he articulated every English syllable with precision. “At nine-thirteen a.m., there was an incident involving one of our experiment pods, resulting in a collision. We—the convoy—were forced to dive in an attempt to avoid that collision. Pulse and Breath both made it. We have lost contact with Life. The accident seems to have knocked out our communications buoy, but we are in the process of trying to regain contact with Earth. Hopefully they will be able to send the recently departed transport ships back to aid in our recovery.

  “We will keep you apprised of all communications and reports as they come to us. For now, I ask that everyone follow evacuation plan B mark Two and move to the innermost levels of your ship. Both remaining ships have had severe outer-hull breaches, and the integrity of the primary inner hulls has not been assessed at this time. Thank you.”

  The recording began again, midmessage.

  A reluctant rustle wafted through the room as the team prepared to abandon the EOL. Tightening his fist around the sundial in his pocket, Stone followed suit, turning over every stray piece of debris as he went, still desperately searching for their mission head.

  He thought back to their morning’s banter, how enthusiastic she’d been—bright-eyed behind her glasses.

  It seemed so long ago now.

  Maybe she’s already left the room, he told himself, stepping through the door.

  Yeah, when she disappeared, you cáscara.

  Though the fire had been officially suppressed, mission control now smelled of scorched plastics and hot metal. It irritated his nose, made his head hurt all the worse. For a moment he thought he might throw up, but the nausea rolled out as quickly as it rolled in.

  Listing to the side, favoring his injured ankle, he took his emergency position and helped guide those in mission control through the designated safety plan.

  Already the halls were flooded with crew members, most of them sitting tight against the walls, using the metal as temporary spines. There was more blood, more grime. Some people looked like they’d had to contend with fires much larger than the one Stone had seen.

  A few people were crying, but the majority of expressions were the same: glassy-eyed. Shell-shocked.

  He waved his hands to and fro, pointing people in the proper direction, making sure they were all filing toward the designated emergency medical station or toward the evacuee meeting spot, where all of the uninjured were counted before being okayed to attend to the secondary emergency positions.

 
Once the control room was emptied, he locked the outer door and directed the emergency airlocks to engage. Large metal shutters rose from the floor to cover both the outer windows and the observation windows which lined the hall.

  He started to move toward the appointed gathering point, but Anju stopped him. “Nope, med station.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re limping, and your eyes . . . You can’t help anyone if you pass out, okay? Med station.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  As he moved along with the other injured, he asked the nearest people—those he didn’t work directly with—if they’d seen Dr. Kapoor. They all told him no, some with weak, croaking voices; others in harsh, irritated barks.

  Maybe it was the chaos. Maybe that was why no one seemed to be able to place—or even find—their easily recognized leader.

  You know what happened, he mentally snapped at himself. You saw it. It was real. Vanhi Kapoor is gone.

  The sundial’s gnomon dug into his palm, as though accusing him of some secret crime.

  “Yep, it’s a concussion,” said the medic. He flicked a penlight back and forth across both of Stone’s pupils, before having him perform a few memory tests. “Mild. I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger. Try not to do anything too strenuous for the next week, physically or mentally.”

  “Ha,” Stone grunted, holding a cold pack against his cheek. He hadn’t realized how hot the impact site was until he’d pressed the icy, gelatinous thing to his face.

  Turned out, the breakroom made a marvelous private exam nook. He sat on the counter, the utilitarian pull on the cupboard behind him digging into his back. On his left, the medic had small white cups of various pills laid out—pain relievers mostly. He refused to give any of them to Stone, though.

  “None of what I’ve got on hand is good for a concussion. Don’t want to risk more swelling.” He was remarkably calm, given the wailing outside.

  “You’ve got a line out the door that will riot when they hear that. I think most people got a bump on the head when gravity reengaged.”

  “Including me,” the doc said, turning around to display the small crisscrossing bandages on the back of his scalp. “Why’d you laugh when I told you not to do anything strenuous?”

  “Have you looked outside?”

  “Can’t say as I have. The infirmary wasn’t allotted any windows, being deep in the bowels and whatnot.”

  “Stars are wrong,” Stone mumbled, hissing as the medic took the cold pack away. “I saw . . . I saw a body. Comms buoy is on the fritz or worse. It’s not like I can hole up in my bunk and take a vacay.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure the consortium already has emergency teams on the way. They wouldn’t leave us to fend for ourselves.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He didn’t feel like arguing, not with the medic, who was just doing his job. People always complained about stiff bedside manner, but Stone could use a dose of realism right about now. Something wasn’t right here. They weren’t just an upturned ship in familiar waters.

  He’d rest if he could.

  He just wasn’t sure that was going to be an option.

  When the doc dismissed him, he almost stopped to ask about seeing things. Almost. But someone was pounding on the door. He was sure hallucinations would get him put on some kind of twenty-four-hour watch, and there were people far worse off.

  You say that now, but wait until they find you in your bunk tomorrow, estirare la pata.

  I’m fine, he groused at himself. I feel fine.

  Yeah, I bet most people who suddenly croak say the same thing.

  A stiff, demanding wall of bodies on the other side of the breakroom door nearly kept it shut. The safety sensors flashed, trying to keep it from snagging fingers in the pocket crease and jamb. He pushed at it and someone yelped. “You have to back up! Let me out or no one else is getting in!”

  He gave the medic one last glance before pushing out—the doc looked momentarily overwhelmed before his pleasant placidity returned.

  The crowd beyond was tight—bodies pressed against one another like canned sardines.

  Something wet smeared across his arms as he passed a woman he didn’t recognize. The skin on one side of her face was blackened, and he looked down to see a glob of puss on his bicep.

  She didn’t smell, though she looked like she should. Fried human.

  For her sake, he tried not to gag, tried not to wipe his arm on the next person in a panic. It wasn’t her fault—it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

  Unless it was his fault.

  Maybe this is all my doing. If I’d just gotten that damned thing to cooperate . . .

  But the self-flagellation could wait. His gag reflex demanded it.

  Arms up, as though he were in a waist-high pool, he waded through the throng and around the corner to the men’s room.

  Inside was a perfectly pressed, seemingly unperturbed woman washing down a toddler in the sink. They surprised him, made him freeze. It was so incongruous with everything happening—the accident, his own mental image of what Convoy Twelve’s population was like. He often forgot there were whole families up here. Children. Babies.

  “I’m almost done,” she said hastily, as though she feared he’d rail about her being in the men’s bathroom.

  “Take your time,” he said, staring at the kid. He couldn’t help it—he needed to know the kid was okay, for some reason. If he’d hurt his colleagues, adults, he could handle it. But if he were somehow responsible for a single scratch on this child—

  Abruptly, he spun into the nearest stall. He’d come in here meaning to take a bath himself, needing to get the burnt woman’s fluids off him.

  But now, throwing up was a priority.

  Nausea. The doc had said to come back if he felt nauseated or vomited.

  Yeah, well, Stone was pretty sure it wasn’t due to a bloated brain.

  As he spilled his belly into the toilet, he heard a sloshing of sink water and the door open and slam again as the woman rushed out with a soaking-wet baby.

  Maybe she’s an empathetic vomiter, he thought.

  After his body had done its thing—and then dryly tried to do its thing a few more times—he went over to the row of sinks. Yep, sure enough, the baby’s bathwater was undrained. It was also relatively clean, which heartened him. No pink tint of blood, no excess dirt or bits of anything.

  He took a deep breath and toweled off his face, before looking at himself in the mirror.

  “Ach!” he shouted, catching the reflection of himself and a looming form behind him. He dove forward, nearly cracking his head on the mirror, before whirling—clutching to the basin for support.

  Behind him was Dr. Kapoor, her eyes closed, hair floating around her in a weightless halo. But more than her hair’s resistance to gravitons was her feet’s—she hovered limply, at least twelve inches off the ground, ankles lax, wrists lax, neck lax.

  It’s a vision. I am hallucinating, he thought.

  Just as he was about to dart out the door and demand the doc perform a CAT scan, reality seemed to return to Vanhi’s body, if not to Stone’s mind.

  As though a switch had been flipped, gravity grabbed her unconscious form, demanding she hit the floor like any normal human mass bound by the laws of physics.

  Stone didn’t have time to think. He slid to his knees beneath her, scooping her into his arms before she could smack her head on the unforgiving tiles.

  His save was graceless, her arms flung out awkwardly from her body, her legs crumpled half in his lap and half on the floor.

  “Hey,” he said softly, shaking her. “Doctor Kapoor? Hey, hey!”

  He brushed her tangled hair away from her face. It was caught in her glasses and skewed her frames. But he felt first for breath and then for a pulse, finding his own air as soon as he was sure she was drawing hers.

  “Okay, you’re alive. You’re real. That’s good. Now . . . wake up!”

  He shook her some more, sure
it was the wrong thing to do, but his overloaded mind couldn’t come up with anything else.

  Luckily, after a few more full-body shudders, she groaned.

  “Hey, yeah!” he said excitedly. “Come on, you can do it. Wake up.” Wake up and tell me what just happened. Wake up and tell me what you remember. Where did you go? What is going on?

  Her eyes opened once, then shut tight, as though they loathed the light. But then her lids slowly cracked again and her pupils focused. “Whe—what . . . ? Mendez Perez?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You’re okay. I think. I dunno—I mean, I have no idea. But you’re awake.”

  “What can . . . how . . . ?” She tried to sit up. He wanted to let her, but as soon as he stopped providing support, she listed to the side. “I need . . .” She looked around, dazed.

  She’s in bad shape, he realized. No way was she going to be capable of confirming or denying the evidence of his eyes. Right now, his top priority had to be getting her to the medic.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  “I think . . .” She put her feet under her and tried. She looked like a newborn foal on his dad’s farm, trying to make legs work that had never had to work before. Eventually, though, he got her up—not to mention himself—and together they hobbled for the door.

  “I’ve got Doctor Kapoor here!” he shouted. “She needs help. Doctor Kapoor needs help!”

  He’d never been so happy to hear the stomp stomp stomp of running feet before.

  Days passed. They held a memorial for those they were certain were dead, and then they started the real cleanup. All seven hundred and two adults on board were engaged in one of three tasks: putting the ships back in normal working order, figuring out exactly where the hell they were, or trying to communicate with someone—anyone.

  More and more people began to notice that the stars weren’t where they should be. Even those with very little astronomical knowledge. Even the children, of which there were only thirty-six still aboard. No one could identify a single familiar constellation or heavenly body. No one.

  Stone tried not to let it panic him. Tried not to let the constant whispers of “where the hell are we?” get to him.