‘No.’ Cause I stuck my neck out. And now, you ask for custom tailored gigs? Don’t play this game with me. This job is just thebeginningof your so-called penance. You’ll take the work I give you and keep your mouth shut otherwise.’
I zip up my jacket to the top, the stand-up collar pushing up against the bottom of my chin, like I’m hunkering down, hiding from whatever remaining shards of shame keep trying to bury themselves in me. ‘Fine.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I said,fine.’
‘Don’t get mouthy with me. You’re smarter than that.’
I prepare to fire back some other weak retort, but the call cuts off before I can. And I’m left there wreathed in the dregs of my mistakes.
I punch in the landing coordinates, my fingers stiff with cold. I could turn up the heat in here, but I’m in a mood, and when I’m in a mood, I get stubborn. Suffering for the sake of it feels like exerting some twisted control over my circumstances. I revel in the tightness in my muscles, the discomfort of near-numb toes, and wait for the automated landing sequence to kick in.
As we descend, a haunting chant drifts in from thepassenger bay. Irena’s voice is low and melodic. I glance at the passenger bay feed and see that she’s strapped in, her eyes closed, her throat moving with song. She’s never done this before, never sung on the ship. The sound has a strange effect on me. It makes my skin dance and crawl. It makes me want to get up and go to her. But I remain where I am, strapped safely into my chair.
I press the comm button.
‘Sister Irena, landing is in seven minutes. There’s turbulence ahead, so double check your seatbelt. I don’t want to scrape your brains off the wall, I’m not paid enough for that.’ It’s supposed to be a joke, but I regret it the second I say it. All it does is dredge up memories I’d rather forget.
Irena never stops singing.
I shiver, pressing the comm again. ‘Got it?’
But she only sings and sings, her head thrown back, eyes still closed. Does she even hear me? Or has she plunged herself into some depth of worship that only the truly devout, or the truly insane, are able to access? I sigh in defeat, trusting that her restraints are fine. She’s a smart woman, and I’m a good pilot.
The sound of her voice rises slowly, almost impossibly loud, reverberating through the ship like a dark veil, until it drapes across my body and I inhale it like smoke. It clings to me, gossamer-thin, insistent. I hunch in my chair and let it surround me. I want the melody tocomfort me as the ship descends, as its decades-old hull crosses the atmospheric boundary in a burst of light and sound, a jostling metal box between me and the cosmos.
And in the moment of weightlessness after we burst through to the side of life, from infinite darkness to a cradle of impossibility – green, and blue water, and heaving breaths and rain dripping from dark leaves – Irena’s song crescendos. Atonal and aching in its beauty, my heart is whipped into a frenzy. I lower the starscreen and stare out at the planet below. I imagine the song is describing what I see as the ship sails down toward a coal-black mountain range, as if Irena marks our progress with this transcendent tune.
I’ve made hundreds of landings just like this. But never was I so moved in the process. Or so unsettled. Irena has managed to take something mundane and mold it with practiced hands, warming the clay and shaping it into a pristine beauty; an incomprehensible horror.
Because this melody embeds itself in my sinews. It furrows into my heart and seems to want to take residence there. More than that, it paints my subconscious with the color ofhim. For a fleeting moment I feel that he’s here with me in the cockpit, embracing me, his infinite hands all over me. I almost want to give in. I feel unmoored, uncontrolled. I feel feral. I feelalive.
Then the ship jolts, and abruptly I come to mysenses. Irena’s voice fades as we near the landing site. I realize her words are in a language I’ve never heard before, something guttural and strange. I wonder if the colonists sing in tongues, like the ancient Earth evangelicals. Nonsensical utterances meant to be messages from God himself.
I suspect that Irena sings to her Anguish, asking for a safe landing. If I were the religious type, that’s what I would sing about, my seatbelt pulled tight, holding me firmly in place, thick straps across my chest, feet nestled in their stirrups as the world rushed up to meet me.
3
The colony isn’t much of a colony at all. It’s barely even a village, just a cluster of small buildings nestled against a sheer black cliff that seems to stretch up for miles. On the village’s south side winds a foamy glacier-fed river. There is forest everywhere else, clambering up the hills that join with the cliff and alongside the river, and thickening alongside the jut of mountains to the northwest. The landscape is raw, ancient, and harsh. I can’t imagine where the sisters do their so-called farming.
The village itself is like no settlement I’ve ever seen. The buildings are made of stone. Blackish in color, like the raw cliff behind them, they’re built as if by the instruction of some historical text. I’ve seen paintings like this, depictions in fairy tale books, or the histories of Old Earth. Adorning these stone homes like caps are thickly thatched roofs. Their doors are all painted in bright, garish orange.
I’ve been to plenty of outlandish colonies, settlements, even criminal hideouts. I’ve seen people living in caves carved out of mountain-sized refuse heaps. I’veseen luxury homes on private planets with thousands of miles of wilderness on all sides, their facades constructed from glass and chrome, their interiors glowing like displaced stars. I’ve seen an entire city in the canopy of an old growth forest, homes nestled among strong branches, swaying bridges leading from tree to tree instead of streets.
But this village, with its black stone huts that seem to come from somewhere out of time itself, strikes me in the heart. A dull gash, a slow bleed. The setting sun glances off the painted doors, vivid and strange.
There’s hardly any room to land my ship. The landing coordinates indicate that I’m to park right in the center of the village, in what appears to be the town square. It feels like I’m committing a violation as I lower the landing gear, reverse thrusters gouging up the grass and dirt with violence.
The landing is smooth nonetheless, and as I power off the ship, I let out a slow breath. It’s all right. I’m all right. What I saw on the display, … it was nothing. Everything feels wrong now, but it will get easier with time.
I stand abruptly, so abruptly that the blood rushes to my head. I close my eyes and press my forehead to the cool leather backrest of my chair, waiting for the dizziness to subside.
‘Midonia?’ A muffled call from the passenger bay.
I jerk to attention.
I reach over and press the comm. ‘Sorry, Irena. The landing sequence is complete. Please feel free to unbuckle your seatbelt and begin disembarking.’ I recite the usual spiel without inflection. ‘Please exercise caution when opening the baggage compartments, as false gravity may have caused your luggage to shift in transit. If you enjoyed your ride today, consider leaving a five-star review. Thank you.’
