Ghost station, p.30
Ghost Station, page 30
That seems to rouse Suresh from his daze. “No way! We came out here to fix this, and I am not—”
“Because it wants us closer,” Ophelia blurts. “It wants us to give in and—”
The mental image appears in her head without bidding. Ophelia, pressed against the front of the tower, arms out in the parody of a hug, embraced by a bright white light. Fear, terror, worry, all just gone. Like they never existed.
In the visual, her shoulders droop with relaxation and the expression of utter peace glows in the white light. In that moment, she would be okay. She would be fixed. Whole in a way that she hasn’t been since she was eleven.
Her eyes sting with the promise of it, and she has to blink to keep from letting the tears roll free.
“—be part of it,” she finishes thickly. It’s a thoroughly inadequate description. But she can’t find the words to describe the sensation, the completeness the tower seems to be offering.
“That’s good enough reason for me,” Ethan says. He tugs on the cord and pulls Suresh and Liana back, Kate and Ophelia along with them, closer to the old perimeter line.
The emotional effect lessens as they move away. Not a lot, but it’s noticeable.
“The samples,” Suresh says, jerking his head as if to clear it. “We need to give them back. That was the plan.”
“I’ll do it,” Ethan says. He holds the cord out to Kate, gesturing with his free hand for the small sample case she transferred the vials to.
“No,” Kate says sharply, pulling the case tighter against herself as if he might lunge at her and attempt to take it by force. “You’re our only pilot. We can’t get out of here without you.”
“I’ll do it,” Suresh offers.
“Please,” Kate scoffs. “You were already trying to throw yourself into the metaphorical fire.” She takes a deep breath, and Ophelia knows what she’s about to say.
“It should be me,” Ophelia says. A surprising calmness fills her, just at the decision being made. It feels like she’s been waiting for this moment her whole life.
Kate’s brows arch in surprise, and Ethan’s shaking his head.
“No. Absolutely not,” he says. “You did not sign up for this.”
“I did, actually. I signed up for this assignment, whatever it entailed,” she reminds him, using his words against him.
He flinches. “That’s not—”
“Kate is your engineer. You might need her. If we don’t all end up dead, you’re going home. You don’t need me to do that,” Ophelia points out. “Let me do this.”
Ethan steps closer to her, a mimicry of privacy only, because they’re still on the open comm channel. His dark eyes scan her face, searching, the intensity reminding her of that moment in the airlock, when he stood so close, making her wonder exactly what he was feeling. “If this is about sacrificing yourself out of some sense of—”
“It’s not,” she says quickly. “It’s just logical.”
Mostly. I think. Wouldn’t it be nice to save lives instead of taking them or worrying about taking them? The thought of never having to question her own motives ever again makes her feel like she’s been cramped inside a tiny storage crate for decades and someone has just taken the lid off and offered to let her out to stretch her legs.
And the possibility of another taste of that peace, the bright white light … it’s not not a motivation.
It’ll kill you. The tiny portion of herself still dedicated to self-preservation raises its voice to be heard above the noise.
Maybe. Does she care? She’s not sure that she does. Or maybe it’s the alien sludge in her head influencing her, subtly nudging her toward the outcome it/they want. Does it matter?
She’s tired of hiding, tired of running.
“She’s right, Ethan,” Kate says after a moment.
Ethan’s mouth thins to an unhappy line. “Fine. But I’m going with you.”
“No, that’s not—” Ophelia starts to protest.
“I’ll stay back, but I’m going,” he says. “That’s final.” He turns to Kate. “You’ll—
“Keep an eye on the brain-dead duo?” Kate asks. “Yeah. I got it.”
He hands Kate his end of the cord, and Ophelia does the same with hers.
“That’s really not necessary,” Suresh says with a sniff, as Kate grips the lengths of cord tightly in her hand. “I’m not a fucking child.”
“Sure,” Kate says. “That’s why you were running toward it like it was a fucking mirror with your name in blinking lights.”
“That is incredibly offensive,” Suresh says. “You know I don’t ever rely on inconsistent lighting.”
Kate kneels and opens the sample case, pulling one of the vials free. She holds it out to Ophelia. “Start with this, and we’ll see what happens.”
For a fraction of a second, Ophelia sees herself from a distance, as if from a camera far above her. Not like the glowing, peace-filled version of a few moments ago but just her. Standing there, above Kate kneeling down and holding the vial out for her to take.
Am I really going to take it? Am I really going to walk up to this enormous alien edifice and offer it the chunks of itself that we took? It’s such a bizarre idea that looking at it from an outside perspective triggers the momentary urge to laugh.
How the hell did she end up here?
Ophelia steps forward and takes the sample vial from Kate, taking care to grasp it firmly enough not to drop it in the snow.
She can’t see any obvious place where the pieces came from, not from back here. So she just heads for dead center on the wide side closest to them.
Dead center. Great, Phe.
Ethan goes with her, maintaining his distance but swinging in a wide arc to stay in a straight line with her.
A private channel request pings. Ethan. She ignores it.
He won’t try to pull her off course, either, because he knows there’s no other option.
Once Ophelia reaches the center, or close enough, she stops. The tower looms over her, making her feel even smaller and more insignificant.
Tightening her grip on the vial, she breaks the seal, feeling the snap through her gloves rather than hearing it.
Then she edges forward.
29
The tiny slivers of sample tremble in the vial, clinking against the polycarbonate loudly enough that Ophelia’s external mic picks up the sound.
She braces herself, preparing to be yanked off her feet or repelled backward.
But then she realizes it’s just her hand shaking. The pieces aren’t vibrating with the desire to fly forward toward their home. They’re just sitting in there like the bits of inert material that they have been all along.
The towers themselves remain silent and still. No sudden hum or light show or mouth opening up to devour its scattered bits. Not even a faint rumbling of activity.
Ophelia feels the pull again, the temptation to let go and move closer. Little Bird, you don’t have to suffer anymore. Just come to me.
She shudders.
But that’s it, though.
Did they get this completely wrong? Maybe whatever is in them, whatever is causing this, isn’t from the towers at all.
But she saw the shape; it’s the same as the towers. All these little pieces adding up to these huge structures. Millions, billions? What was their purpose?
Her comm channel crackles. “Maybe try getting them closer,” Kate says.
“Don’t,” Ethan responds immediately.
“I’m not suggesting she tackle it,” Kate snaps. “Just maybe get some of the pieces within range for it to recognize them.”
“How?” Ethan demands.
Kate makes an exasperated noise. “I don’t know, try chucking them.”
A gurgle of a laugh escapes Ophelia, the absurdity of the situation again striking her. It would be funnier if her heart weren’t pounding like she was running for her life instead of just standing here with her trembling hand extended. The calm from before is definitely gone, overridden in the moment by her amygdala screeching at her to get out of there.
This isn’t a bear or a saber-toothed tiger or even the sound of rushing footsteps behind her on a darkened street. But that primal part of her brain certainly recognizes it as a danger and wants nothing the fuck to do with it.
With a grimace, Ophelia pours a few of the slivers into her palm. She half expects them to come alive and try to burrow through her glove. But they don’t. They’re just pretty, shiny rocks.
“Do it,” Kate insists.
Ophelia lobs them underhand at the black wall in front of her.
The wind skews them slightly over the few meters between, but they still connect, clicking when they hit the smooth surface.
Right before they fall to the ground and vanish into the new accumulation of snow at the base.
Damn it.
“Did you throw them hard enough?” Kate asks.
Ophelia turns her head to glare at her. “I don’t know, I missed the training on pitching rocks at potential extraterrestrial entities.”
“Just let me do it,” Suresh says. “I can—”
“Ophelia.” Ethan’s voice holds an odd note. Preoccupied, uncertain.
The others must hear it too because they shut up, the comm channel going quiet.
Ophelia twists away from the tower, from the throb of its presence like the pull of leaving gravity for the first time, to find him.
He’s still behind her, about three meters back, but staring at something off to her left, at the far edge of the tower, right where it curves out of sight.
“Do you see that?” he asks, without looking at Ophelia.
She can’t see anything other than the long base of the tower. She’s too close.
Careful to keep the remnants of the vial steady and upright, she moves toward him, turning to follow his gaze as she does.
“There’s something over there,” he says, pointing, as she approaches.
For a moment, she’s certain she’s going to see that shadowy figure from before, the one that she caught a glimpse of when they thought Birch was missing.
But no. Ethan’s gesturing toward the squared, straight-line edge of something not made in nature. Covered in a thin layer of snow and ice, but clearly separate from the tower. Maybe waist high. As Ophelia shifts to get a better look at it, a light flashes on it for a brief second, then disappears. Is someone else out here after all?
She freezes. Nothing happens. But when she moves closer to Ethan, the light reappears. This time it holds steady as she keeps her gaze on it.
“It’s just a reflection,” she says, with relief. “From our helmet lights.”
“No,” he says. “It’s a reflector.”
Ophelia frowns. “What difference does that—”
He starts toward the light and the mystery object.
“Hey, what’s going on? What are you doing?” Kate asks.
“Just stay there,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.
Ophelia follows him, making sure that neither of them is unconsciously being drawn too close to the tower as they go. This doesn’t seem like a trick or a lure, but thus far, nothing about this assignment has been what it seems.
When he reaches the corner of the tower, he stops.
Ophelia joins him a moment later, halting at the sight before them, confused.
It’s the missing rover, parked at the short end of the closest tower. The structure has shielded the rover from the worst of the weather, but it’s still deeply crusted with snow and ice. Just not quite enough to make it an unrecognizable lump.
“I don’t understand,” she says. “Why would they leave this out here?”
“What is it?” Kate asks.
“The rover from hab,” Ophelia answers when Ethan doesn’t.
“Oh, shit,” Kate says.
Ethan doesn’t respond, just strides forward into the too-narrow gap between the rover and the tower.
“Ethan!” Ophelia scrambles after him.
He manages to stay clear of the tower, though she sees the sway in his steps, the magnetic pull of whatever this thing is that wants them to come closer, and she feels it in herself as well, as she trails after him.
Let go. Join us, Little Bird. Aren’t you tired of being alone?
Ethan reaches the approximate location of the front passenger side door and scrapes at the snow and ice with his glove.
“Jesus, careful, please.” Ophelia winces, imagining the tiny slices in the fabric and the slow slip of air from his suit, because from what she’s heard, a lot of small tears are much harder to patch than one big hole.
But he soon unearths a door handle and pulls on it with both hands.
The door remains shut, but the sharp sound of ice cracking ricochets through the air like shots fired. It’s frozen shut.
After carefully setting the open sample vial aside, upright in a clumpy patch of snow, Ophelia moves up to stand next to him. He shuffles over a step to make room, and then they both set their feet and grip the handle.
“On the count of three,” he says.
“Right.” She nods.
“One. Two. Three.”
Her booted feet slip at first as she pulls, but then she manages to find some purchase.
The ice on the door creaks and pops, and then before she can adjust her stance, the door releases with a hideous shriek of cold metal hinges.
Her feet slide in the snow with the sudden change of leverage, ripping her hand off the handle and sending her legs shooting under the rover. They collide with something solid, stopping her forward progress, and she lands hard on the ground, her head banging around inside her helmet.
She tries to pull in a breath, but her lungs feel stuck together on both sides, the air completely knocked out of her. She can’t move.
But she can see. With her head tipped hard to the left, she can make out a familiar shape under the rover with her.
Legs. In a silvery white envirosuit. Booted feet still locked in a half-crawling position, as if they’re scaling a sheer wall.
A body. There’s a body under here with her. That—not a tire or other piece of machinery—stopped her from sliding farther.
Blood rushes to her head, filling her ears with a roaring noise, and her lungs ache with the need to breathe.
“What’s happening, Ophelia? Your vitals are all over the place,” Kate says.
Dimly, Ophelia can hear the alarms signaling inside her suit. Involuntary goose bumps rise all over her body, a shiver running through her. She jerks her legs back and her knees slam into the underside of the rover. Fuck.
Bracing her hands in the snow, she scoots backward to free herself, all the while expecting to hear a harsh skittering noise, followed by a cold, hard hand latching around her ankle.
“Doctor?” Kate presses.
Ophelia manages a tiny sip of air, and then another.
“I slipped,” she croaks. “I fell.” The beeps begin to slow. “I’m okay.”
But whoever is under the rover is most definitely not.
The alarms in her suit stop, and Ophelia gathers herself up, outside the shadow of the rover. Knowing she’ll regret it, she pushes up to her knees, and then, with a deep breath, she bends her head down to look beneath the rover.
A full person in an envirosuit is stretched out beneath, arms flung to either side. A pinnacle patch on the shoulder tells her it’s a member of their team. The helmet is facing the other direction, though. Did they just climb under and freeze to death? When the rover was right here?
Ophelia straightens up. Her head is pounding, and she tastes blood, coppery and fresh in her mouth. She must have bitten her tongue when she hit the ground. She has to work hard against her gag reflex at the taste.
“Ethan.” She stands, breathless, expecting to find him flung in the opposite direction.
But he’s up already, or maybe he managed to hold on to the handle the entire time. He’s leaning over the edge of the door to peer inside through the gap between the door and the frame.
Carefully, Ophelia staggers toward him. She’d slid toward the back end of the rover, farther than she’d thought. “I found. Underneath the rover. There’s a body.”
“Did you say a body?” Suresh demands.
Ethan doesn’t move, just stays behind the rover door, staring in at something she can’t see.
“Did you hear me? I said I—” Ophelia cuts herself off as soon as she reaches the rover’s open door and looks inside.
At first, her brain can’t make sense of it, like letters flipped upside down and backward, turning something as familiar as your own name into gibberish.
More envirosuits, like theirs, but with that familiar, brightly colored logo. Pinnacle. Arms pitched upward from the footwell of the rover, ending in thick, lumpy black gloves over the hands. The faceplates on the helmets, the ones she can see, are blacked out. Legs in a chaotic tangle over the front seats.
There’s two—no, three people jammed into the front. One is behind the wheel, collapsed forward and turned away from Ophelia, as if they’re taking a nap before a long trip. The other two are wedged upside down and sideways on the passenger side, all higgledy-piggledy, as if they threw themselves into the rover without concern for fitting. Or as if someone else shoved them in in a hurry.
Ophelia takes a step back. “What…”
The body closest to her, the one with its arms flung into the footwell, wears a suit with a patch that says VIVIEN MARKELL, though the script is hard to read through the spatters of black on the outside of the suit.
Paint. They used black paint to cover their faceplates and their hands. Why would they—
A gust of wind whips around the corner of the tower, pushing against Ophelia and setting off mini cyclones in the recently disturbed snow at their feet.
One of the cyclones spins past Ophelia and up to the rover, where it dissipates, scattering flakes inside the rover and over its occupants.
And that’s when she sees it—snowflakes floating down inside Vivien’s helmet. The faceplate on Vivien’s helmet isn’t blacked out. It’s gone. Beyond shattered; simply no longer existent.
The face beneath is a thick mask of dried and frozen blood and fluids, the features obliterated. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth, they’re just gone.
