Ophelia can’t move, can’t breathe for a second, air locked in her lungs.
It was inevitable. She knew that. Even with patient-doctor confidentiality, a suicide at the Psychological and Behavioral Evaluation offices, especially when emergency services are called, would make the news streams. Even without her name associated.
But her name was associated. Her voice was on the released QuickQ 911 tag.
“This is … Ophelia Bray. PBE for Montrose, Segura Tower. I have an attempted suicide. I need emergency services immediately.”
“Tell me what happened,” the operator says. Cool, dispassionate.
“He … he jumped. From the roof, I think. But he landed…” In the tag, Ophelia’s voice sounds strange, broken, both because of emotion and because of the utter inadequacy and inaccuracy of that word. The planned and elegant movement it suggests. Her patient didn’t land. He crashed. He smashed. He collided. “He landed on the seventh floor, south side of the garden terrace.”
“Confirmed. We have your location. Emergency services en route. Is he conscious—”
She’d disconnected then to concentrate on moving as fast as she could from her office to the terrace below. Hours, years, eons passed in the time it took her to traverse those seventeen levels of stairs.
By the time she reached the garden terrace level and rushed through to rip open the door to the outside, she was dizzy and panting. A sharp breeze cut through her sweater to her damp skin.
Her patient lay on his stomach on the marble floor, perpendicular to her, head turned in her direction. His eyes were open, staring fixedly at her. But the side of his skull was now flattened, like an irregularly shaped melon. His scalp was both pointed and sunken in where it shouldn’t be.
The sudden roar of nausea sent Ophelia’s hand flying up to cover her mouth.
Then he’d blinked. He was still alive, somehow.
She’d raced to his side and held his hand, knees in the pool of blood around him, her pants soaking up the rapidly cooling liquid.
Rueben Monterra. A grandfather of two, kind eyes that held both sadness and intense drive to get better. One of Ophelia’s favorite patients. One of her success stories. Her almost success stories.
He was a retired R&E pilot struggling a little with being at home full time with his beloved family for the first time in decades. Depression, anxiety, and mild cognitive damage from too many trips in the older version of the cold sleep system, known as NODD. Confirmed ERS.
But he had been doing so much better. Until he wasn’t.
He died on the patio before EMS could arrive, died holding Ophelia’s hand.
“It’s not uncommon, you know,” Julius had said, trying to comfort her. “They’re confused, scared. Their brains have turned against them. God only knows what he was thinking or seeing. But they want someone to witness, to see them, to understand.”
But Ophelia didn’t understand. And quite selfishly, she wanted to know why her. Why had he chosen her? All she wanted to do was make a difference. A positive difference. But she’d failed. Failed him. Failed his family.
Shame scalds her neck and cheeks, and an internal fan kicks on, her suit’s attempt to regulate her rising body temperature.
“It was the roof, actually,” Ophelia says finally.
Liana gasps.
“Making Mommy and Daddy proud with more death and mayhem,” Birch mutters.
Hamilton Beck is not my father! Ophelia wants to shout, as if that were at all the point.
“Enough,” Severin says sharply. “Let’s focus on why we’re here.” But his expression is troubled, brows furrowed like storm clouds on the horizon.
Birch changes their rotation then, pulling a stomach-swirling move. “We’ve got legs. Countdown to target,” he says flatly.
Taut silence holds for several seconds, and Ophelia can feel them not looking at her.
“Prep for landing in three, two, one…” Birch intones, his voice trailing off just as a giant collision shakes the entire lander.
But there is no screaming, no panicked shouts for information, or even loud alerts. Just the faint soothing beep of what she assumes is the navicomputer announcing that they’ve reached their target destination.
Before she can unclench her cramped fingers from her safety restraints, Birch is scrambling down the ladder and past them into the cargo area, toward the airlock, without another word.
“Who pissed in his Toasty O’s?” Suresh demands, shrugging free of his restraints.
“Toasty O’s?” Liana asks, unclicking her own restraints.
“It’s a saying,” Kate explains as she stands and stretches.
Ophelia swallows, dry tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. She has a water stem in her helmet somewhere, if she can remember how to trigger it. “He’s from the mining stations in the Carver system.” She means it as a question, but it comes out more like a statement. That’s the only logical explanation for his … anger.
She unbuckles herself, hands trembling.
“The Carver system?” Suresh whistles.
“How did you know that?” Severin asks as he descends the ladder from the command area.
“The stations are Pinnacle’s. Or they were.” She stands, fighting the urge to fold her arms protectively across herself. It’ll just make her look closed off and defensive. Besides, her suit is too bulky for the gesture to be effective. “My family shut down the stations twenty years ago, relocated the workers and their families to Avaris 796, in the next closest system.” But going from station living to dirtside is hard enough even in good conditions, and these were not that. Avaris is pretty much a ball of rock with limited terraforming potential. Anyone living there is utterly dependent on outside shipments, and with the distance from the central colonies, receiving anything in a timely manner is a crapshoot at best. It’s a difficult existence, but the only one that lets them remain near their former homes and keep their employment.
“Was this because of the whole Bloody Bledsoe—” Suresh begins eagerly.
“No!” Ophelia says, too quickly. “No. After that. They weren’t making enough money anymore.”
“That was shitty,” Kate says after a moment.
“Yes. It was,” Ophelia says vehemently. It’s one argument, among many, that she’s had with her uncle over the years. To no avail.
Oddly enough, her answer seems to satisfy them, like she’s passed a test that she didn’t even know she was taking.
Kate nods at her and then leads the way toward the cargo area, Suresh and Liana trailing behind.
“What’s Bloody Bledsoe?” Liana asks, her voice loud and clear over the common channel in Ophelia’s helmet.
“It’s this guy who went nuts and killed a bunch of people on one of the Carver system mining stations,” Suresh says.
Ophelia’s hands tighten into fists. This is why she shouldn’t talk about the Carver stations.
“Totally sick,” Suresh continues. “Biggest mass murder in the last century. They didn’t even know what was happening until his hauler docked and all this blood and body parts came pouring out of the—”
“It was a long time ago, when they first started seeing ERS cases,” Kate interrupts. “Before they even knew what to call it. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“ERS,” Suresh groans. “If I had a jackie for every time someone blames that bullshit, I’d—”
Their voices abruptly vanish in Ophelia’s helmet.
She blinks, startled.
“I’ll talk to Birch,” Severin says, next to her. A glance at her helmet display reveals he’s switched the two of them over to a private channel.
Ophelia turns to face him. “No. I should do it. He has a problem with me. That’s not going to go away on command.”
She steels herself to fight against his rebuttal, his insistence that Birch’s problems are his problems.
Instead, Severin gives a brief nod inside his helmet, a flicker of what might be grudging approval in his eyes. “All right.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he’s not fighting her on it.
Well. If only she’d known that all she had to do to get them all on her side was to reveal the most soul-shredding fuck-up of her life …
Who is she kidding? She still wouldn’t have done it.
“Come on,” Severin says, tipping his head in the direction the others took. “We need to go. Clock’s ticking on the next wave of storms.”
According to Ophelia’s mission brief, one side of Lyria 393-C is perpetually facing the sun, the other is in permanent darkness, but neither is warm enough for human habitation without interventive technology.
Their target destination is on the northernmost continent—which some joker had named Eden—in the terminator zone, the thin strip between light and dark that exists in perpetual twilight.
Despite knowing that, Ophelia instinctively braces for the sudden glare of light inside the crowded airlock as the door releases with a hiss.
Instead, gloomy gray illumination trickles in, along with a blast of wind and snow that knocks Ophelia back a step, into Severin.
He grasps her arms and steadies her. She pulls away before he can release her.
“Let’s go,” Severin says on the common channel. “We need to make sure the hab is secure before we unload cargo, and it looks like conditions are deteriorating fast.”
Liana and Suresh struggle at the threshold, both trying to shove through the space at the same time as the other. Liana wins, by virtue of being shorter and more cutthroat; she elbows Suresh under his arm, which probably doesn’t do more than surprise him, but that’s enough.
She races ahead, leaning into the wind, helmet bobbling with her steps. “First,” she says to him triumphantly, jumping off the end of the ramp into the snow. Ophelia can’t hear the crunch, but her brain supplies it, thanks to all the years at her grandmother’s Connecticut estate.
Birch follows them, studying a layout or map on his helmet screen, ignoring everyone. But the tension in his shoulders is readable even with the bulkiness of his suit. He’s still pissed. But now is not the time to address it. Better to wait. And that’s not avoidance of conflict, of discussion of her past, that’s just … timing.
She almost believes that.
“You two idiots realize that dozens, if not hundreds, of people have been here before us?” Kate asks as she makes her way down to the frozen ground.
“Not in the last six years,” Liana points out.
Six years? Ophelia frowns. That can’t be right. Planetary rights have to be renewed every three years, at minimum. Even if Pinnacle had decided to sell the rights immediately after their last residency, that would be thirty-six months at most.
“Besides, you know it’s not about that,” Liana continues. “It’s about being the first of us.” As if that explains it.
Ophelia steps off the ramp after Kate. Her booted feet connect solidly with the ground, but it feels wrong … slightly off. Too light, too insecure. The gravity is just that much lighter here, perceptible, but not enough to alter their movements dramatically. No flying or leaping about, in other words. Which is just fine with her.
It occurs to Ophelia that, like Liana and Suresh, she should be more excited about, or at least interested in, her surroundings. She’s literally setting foot on a planet where she’s never been, where no human has been born, ever. A planet where aliens used to exist, intelligent life that was not from Earth.
Instead, she shivers in her suit, despite the heat pumping out to maintain her body temp. It’s just so desolate here. So empty. And eerie.
The blue-gray light paints everything in shadow, turning everything into muddy, indistinguishable versions of itself. Drifts of snow and chunks of ice take on an ominous quality, as if they’re hiding something instead of just existing. Her helmet light, automatically triggered by the dim conditions, casts a bright halo around her, but every time she moves, or the wind moves her, jagged shadows dance in the periphery. It’s enough to make her wish for a sunrise, one that’s never going to come, not here.
If nothing else, Lyria 393-C will be the perfect test case for the benefits of having on-site assessment and treatment for the depression, isolation stress, and anxiety that is sure to emerge during three weeks here. It looks to be an ideal location for letting dark thoughts get the best of you. For paranoia to set in.
In the distance, against a backdrop of snow-covered mountains, the ruins of the alien city loom on the horizon—beaten-down, indistinguishable humps of buildings; tall, jagged peaks of black crystalline structure poking up out of the snow and ice. The wind whips through them, creating a thin moaning sound that is picked up by the helmet’s exterior mic, even from here.
From what Ophelia read about Lyria 393-C, the visible pieces of the city are the very uppermost part of the structures, and not much is left intact after so long in these conditions.
Kind of like if Chicago’s skyline was suddenly buried in several hundred meters of snow, leaving only the air-veh landing platforms and communication towers visible.
Her stomach lurches suddenly with the realization of exactly how high up they are. As Liana races ahead, followed by Suresh and Birch, Ophelia grits her teeth to keep from calling out after them. How sure are they that the ice and snow here are solid all the way down? How sure can anyone be?
One false step and Liana might simply vanish, disappearing into a crevice no one even knew was there.
How many bodies are underneath them right now? The original residents of this city, this planet? Other teams who’ve lost members under the snow? Or buried them here after they died?
Like Ava Olberman on Minos.
Ophelia picks up her pace to follow Suresh and Liana. “So, based on the mission briefing I read, something catastrophic ended life here?” As soon as the question leaves her mouth, she realizes that contemplating mass extinction events is probably not the best way to shift her focus.
“Probably an asteroid,” Suresh says with an unconcerned shrug. “Like ten thousand years ago.”
“Nothing here now but us and a bunch of microbes,” Liana says, breathless from her exertions, even in the lighter gravity.
Ophelia winces as Suresh shoves past Liana, nearly sending her crashing into Birch, but Liana rights herself and then pushes back against Suresh, the loose snow at their feet rising up ghostlike in the wind.
But Severin would speak up if he thought there was any danger to his team members, she’s sure.
A glance over her shoulder reveals Severin walking side by side with Kate, shortening his longer stride to stay even with her, listening and nodding as she speaks and gestures.
They’re on a private comm channel, clearly.
His expression is intent, thoughtful, a furrow in his brow as he considers whatever she’s saying.
None of the irritation or forced patience he’s shown when Ophelia has spoken to him.
A flash of jealousy comes out of nowhere, taking her breath away.
What the hell, Phe?
The side of her boot catches on a clump of ice, and she has to face forward quickly to right herself before she falls.
Shut it down. Pack it up. Wanting—needing—to be needed, relied on by authority, is her weak spot. It’s what both motivates and terrifies her, which, in psychotherapy world, makes her double the mess.
It doesn’t matter whether Severin trusts her or not. Granted, she might be more helpful in this situation if he did, but he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. And that’s fine.
“Two kilometers to our west,” Birch says on the common channel, speaking for the first time since they left the lander. The map shifts and grows on his internal helmet display, casting his face in a shade of blue.
Ophelia keeps walking, head slightly down to avoid the worst of the wind. To her left, which is east according to her helmet compass display, mountains tower over them, even farther away than the old city.
Then, directly ahead of them, she catches sight of familiar bright colors—red, yellow, and blue. It’s the Pinnacle logo, a giant P with the curve at the top shaped like a flag in the company colors, seemingly hanging in midair.
That can’t be right.
Instinctively, she squints for a better look, though her helmet makes that both unnecessary and unhelpful. Finally, in a momentary break between the blasts of snow, she sees what she missed before.
The Pinnacle logo is indeed present, but it’s plastered on the white airlock door of an exoplanet habitat. A big one, stretching out in both directions as far as she can see. All in white.
Her stomach tilts, giving rise to a wave of queasiness.
It’s huge. Nothing like what she was expecting, even after seeing the schematic. She was concerned about not having enough space, about the lack of privacy contributing to other issues, but this is an entirely different psychological hot button. They could each take a hab module and likely not run into each other for days.
Looking up at the structure, she feels dwarfed by the size of it in a way she hasn’t since she was a child. Somehow, the skyscrapers on Earth don’t strike the same way. Perhaps because they are not and never will be the only thing standing between life and a horrific death. This station, this compound, for lack of a better term, is both a prison and salvation, all in the same place.
“Structure is generally intact. Generator is off,” Kate announces on the common channel, after consulting a chunky handheld device with a tiny screen that she has produced from her suit pocket. “Syscon should be at the far end of the central hub.”
Birch, first to the hab, does something at the control panel next to the airlock that causes the enormous door to pop open. Seriously, what was Pinnacle planning on bringing inside? The exterior airlock door is easily six meters across and nearly as tall.
Liana and Suresh tug it back, and then they lead the way in, followed by Birch, Kate, and Severin, who steps past Ophelia to enter.
Ophelia hesitates. The interior is inky blackness disrupted only by their helmet lights. But this airlock appears to be much larger than the one on the lander—big enough, in fact, for a rover that they don’t have. On the far side of the lock, Birch’s helmet light skims over what seems likely to be a charging station for that same missing rover. But even with the five of them inside, the corners of the space aren’t touched by the light.
And this is just the airlock. What will it be like on the inside?
An enormous, enclosed environment with nowhere to run and thousands of places to hide.
Her heart shimmies in her chest.
It’s been years since she’s thought of … that time, that place, in this kind of detail. The nightmares stopped years ago, but clearly the effects are still present.
“Everything okay, Doc?” Kate asks, her thin eyebrows raised.
Ophelia refocuses in time to see all of them staring at her. “Yes, fine,” she says, clearing her throat. Her grandmother’s go-to move. “Just … thinking.”
“Maybe think when we’re, you know, safely inside?” Suresh smirks.
“Right.” Ophelia steps inside to join them. But her knees are weaker and shakier than they should be, and it’s not just the difference in gravity this time.
Then, before she can even get turned in the right direction to watch the gray light and snow outside vanish, the airlock door slams shut behind her with a heavy thunk that she feels in her bones.