Irena drifts away toward the passenger bay.
Tension coils out of my shoulders and neck. I’m relieved the journey will be over soon. We’ve been cramped on this ship for days. And I don’t know what it is about Irena, but she makes the back of my neck tingle. She’s pleasant enough, and kind, but being around her feels like standing in the cold until all your muscles seize up and start to ache; when you know the chill won’t flee your bones for hours.
I study the display.
What I see there doesn’t register at first. Instead of a grid indicating my location within a span of coordinates, I see a planet. It’s black, a void, moving swiftly toward me.
I want to look away. I want to move away from the dash. But I can’t. Somehow this planet evokes the same wonder, the same want, as the being in my drawings. The planet rushes toward me and my thoughts flee.
My hands, splayed on cold metal, seem bolted in place; my body, frozen. When the black sphere is about to fill the display completely, it halts its approach. Impossibly, an enormous shadowy hand reaches out from the console screen – no, not a hand but claws, curving from monstrous fingers, scraping across the buttons of my dash, leaving blood-red gouges in their wake.
I blink.
The grid glows before me, a flashing circle to indicatemy ship’s location. There is no planet, no clawing hand emerging from the viewscreen.
A chill grips my heart.
A memory fills my mind: The jangle of metal. Bile in my throat. Blood, staining the cockpit. Blood stainingme.
No. This isn’t real. It’s never real.
I exhale slowly. I’m safe now, I remind myself. A memory is just a memory, no matter how immediate it feels. This is what I’ve learned since the incident; I just have to breathe through the recollections when they take me by surprise, when they lodge in my throat waiting to choke me. I repeat the same refrain, hoping one day it might stick for good: It’s not real. It is not happening.
The memory abates, but my breathing is unsteady.
Maybe Idoneed a break.
And maybe I’d take one, except my boss really would kill me. There’s a reason I took this inconvenient job, and it’s not charity. It’s not even for the money, which is good. Normally I’d have turned down the request; this kind of multi-day gig is for more stoic types, the kind who don’t mind being cooped up in a tiny transport with a group of strangers for that long. I took the job because my boss insisted. He said it was the least I could do after … well. He knew I was in no position to refuse. I was told with no room for interpretation that if I didn’t take this job, I’d have no job at all.
But deep down I’m kind of grateful to get out of the most populous part of the system. Everything there is crowded. The air at home has started to taste bitter and stale. I only really stay on New Earth because there’s nowhere else to go, and not enough jobs in the outlying systems. But now, finally, I have a valid excuse to get away for a while, to let myself breathe. To leave it all behind, and hope that what happened never comes back to haunt me.
2
The line crackles on the other end, indicating a connected call.
‘Midonia.’ My boss’s drawl is lazy, underscored by a hint of impatience.
‘We’re approaching the drop-off point. Landing coordinates still good?’
‘All good.’
I hesitate before my next words. ‘Anything new lined up yet?’
‘I said I’d ping you when I get something.’
‘Right.’ I should end the call. There’s nothing else to say. But – ‘I’ll take whatever you’ve got nearby. I’d like to stay on the outskirts. There’s a trading outpost not far, I’m sure there will be clients.’
I canfeelhim chewing on his thoughts before he speaks. ‘You’re on thin ice as it is.’
‘I’m not asking for special treatment.’
‘My ass. I gave you one shit job, and now you think you did your time.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘No. I don’t care how contrite you think you’ve been. The shit you pulled was grounds for arrest. Are you arrested?’
My throat tightens. ‘No.’
