Thrum

There is a new corridor outside my room. It has appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere, branching off a few steps past my door. There are now two corridors: the one I’ve been up and down and never able to walk beyond twelve paces; and this new one, perpendicular to the original, and trailing off into what appears to be an interminable distance. Not far down it, the lights are off, and the passage is swallowed up in darkness.

I need to go that way. I know this immediately. Somehow, for some reason, the ship has chosen to let me see this new hallway. Or the ship has slipped up, arranging itself in an unplanned way, and I’ve stumbled upon a mistake. But both options mean one thing: this corridor is important. There’s no time to make up my mind. I’ve only just left my room, still sleep-addled and chilled with half-dried sweat. My feet make the decision before I do.

I walk down the new corridor. It feels just like the other one, but the ship’s distant hum permeates my thoughts as I move slowly down the hallway. Lights begin to flicker on as I go, thank God. I don’t want to walk in darkness, but I know that I would have.

There’s something in this corridor that’s waiting for me.

This hallway doesn’t loop. After thirteen steps, I glance over my shoulder and see the way I’ve come. I take a few more steps, and I am still here, proceeding down the new corridor. I am not being led in a circle.

An eager fear boils at the base of my chest, and I am wide-eyed and breathing heavily, waiting — expecting — wanting — something to stop me in my tracks. I realize that the hum is getting even louder. It’s a buzz, a cry, and a breath; waves lapping at the curve of my skull. I hate it. And when it begins to hurt, when I’ve been walking for what feels like hours, I stop. I want to turn back, but I can’t.

Why am I wandering down this endless corridor, and what do I hope I’ll find?

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

I stumble, the sound in my head so loud now that it’s vice-like on my psyche, and my jaw aches from it, and my eye sockets threaten to expel my eyeballs from the pressure. I take another step forward, obstinate. I refuse to let fear rule me, to stop me from finding whatever waits for me at the end of this…

My knee buckles slightly. I don’t know if it’s the sound in my ears or my fear taking hold. Putting out a hand to steady myself, I lean my weight against the wall, breathing hard.

“You’re fine,” I murmur. “You’re fine. You’re tired and traumatized. You’re exploring. Just exploring. There’s nothing waiting for you.”

The words offer a small amount of comfort. I know all about verbal output; how saying a thing out loud makes your brain more liable to believe it. The thought strengthens me just a little, slowing the gallop of my frightened heart. I want to explore. I want to see what’s down this corridor.

Every terror I’ve experienced, every movement in the shadows, it hasn’t been real. It’s all been a dream, in my head. There’s no danger.

When I finally catch my breath, I push off from the wall and… there’s something sticky on my hand.

I look down.

The palm of my hand is red. Not red from cold or heat. No, it’s drenched in liquid, deep red, thick, and sticky, and it drips down my wrist. It smells metallic and vivid.

It’s blood.

Breath catches in my throat, and I spin to face the wall where I’d been resting my hand. There is no blood. It’s just textured metal, clean, absolutely clean.

“…the hell,” I breathe.

I hold up my palm, and the blood is still there. Disgusted and confused, I wipe it feverishly against the leg of my jumpsuit. Get it off. Get it off! But the liquid won’t budge, my hand is stained with it. It’s dripping down my wrist and arm, pooling at my elbow, this horrible thick red fluid.

“What the fuck.” My voice cracks.

Still rubbing my palm on my jumpsuit, I spin around, glancing wildly behind me, into the distant shadows, the claws of fear tightening at my throat. And then I stop. I freeze in place, heart hammering in my ears.

Because the ship’s hum is an overwhelming storm. Because there is blood on my hand. Because I don’t remember which direction I came from.

In my panic, I turned myself around. Both directions look identical now, an empty corridor disappearing into shadow.

I’m lost.

The thought repeats itself in my head like a marquee, in great flashing neon. Lost, lost, lost. Covered in blood.

I let out a strangled scream and rush forward, not caring whether I’m heading back to my room or hurtling deeper into the ship. I just want to get away from the blood wall. If I run far enough, my hand will be clean. The hum in my ears will go away. I will become clean.

I don’t know how long I run, my lungs are on fire, and I’m terrified to look at my dripping red hand, the bleeding ship. The hallway is endless, never changing, lights flickering on as I move forward, blackness behind and before me.

And then, when I’m sure I’m about to pass out from exertion and terror, I see it: a door.

It can’t be my room. I would have noticed the branching corridor; I’ve been stumbling straight forward. Haven’t I? The door stares at me with its unassuming visage, plain metal. Daring me.

Would opening the door be better than racing down this endless hallway?

I only pause long enough to catch my breath for a moment, and then I open the door, practically falling over the threshold. An orange light flickers on, and the door clicks shut behind me.

I’m breathing hard. Tears of fear and exhaustion prick at my eyes. This is my room. There is the bed, and the table, and everything else… except that none of my things are here. There is no pothos here. It’s completely empty.

Lifting my hands, I gaze at the palms, a feeling of slow suffocation lodges at the base of my throat, just above my collarbones. I’m clean. There’s no blood. No thick, choking red. I turn my hand around, then bend down to look at my jumpsuit. There’s no trace of it, that horrible… horrible redness, soaking me.

Swallowing the pit in my throat, I sit on the bed before my knees give way. Did I imagine it? No; it was so real. It wasn’t a dream. This is not a dream. I woke up already.

All the while, the distant sound pushes against my brain. A buzzy echo in my skull.

I decide that I imagined the blood on my hand. Hallucinated it. Who wouldn’t, in deep space?

“I’m operating under extreme conditions,” I say aloud, my voice quiet and wobbling. “Humans are not meant to spend years in stasis, or meet aliens, or encounter spaceships that don’t look the way they actually look.” I take a deep, slow breath. Of course. Of course. “It’s the ship.” My voice grows steadier, and the sound of my own confidence helps calm my nerves. The distant hum seems almost friendly now, a warmth in my core.

“The ship’s frequency is confusing my brain,” I continue. “Maybe it’s a glitch, a bug. I thought I saw blood that wasn’t there. But it wasn’t real.” I’m almost delirious now, searching for an explanation that makes sense. “It wasn’t real. I wasn’t hallucinating, not really. I’m not going mad. It’s always the ship.”

A wave of relief washes over me. It’s all fine. I’ll just stay here for a moment, collect myself, and then call for Dorian. He’ll help me find my way back to my room.

Sighing, I flop backwards on the bed. I might even take a nap, or — I freeze. Something’s digging into my back. Irritated, I sit up, reaching under the blanket to remove the offending object. I hold it up.

A pencil.

I peer at the wooden thing, momentarily confused, almost dumbstruck. What is a pencil doing here? Then I begin to see it, really see it, and all at once I’m sick to my stomach. I know this pencil. It’s pockmarked with indentations, dozens of little bite marks where someone dug their teeth into the wood. On one side of the pencil are the faded blue letters M.M.

I know this pencil.

This is Mahdi’s pencil. I’ve seen him hold it between his teeth like a Spanish dancer holds a rose. Watched him tap it against his temple, his knuckles. He fidgets — used to fidget with it, constantly. It was his.

All my hard-won calm immediately dissolves.

I’m encased in ice, unable and unwilling to fully grasp what I’m holding. Could it be another glitch? But why? Why this, why these specific objects?

Shaking so hard I can hardly manage it, I reach into my jumpsuit pocket and take out Vasilissa’s comb. I hold the two items side by side. They should not be on this ship. They are not on this ship.

Aren’t they?

“Dorian,” I say, the name catching in my throat, faint and frightened. “Dorian.”

He’s my anchor, why shouldn’t I call for him? He’s done nothing but soothe me. Everything is too loud, and too quiet, and he’s all I have, just now.

Slowly, I get up from the bed, overcome with the horrible and overwhelming sense that Mahdi has been here. In this very room. He’s been here, slept here, chewed that pencil here.

But he couldn’t have been. Mahdi is dead.

My chin shakes and my fingers shake and everything is shaking and I’m cold and I’m lost in this ship and the distant thrum is inside of me, everywhere, caressing me, nuzzling at my organs, and Mahdi was in this room.

A scream or a sob begins to work its way up my throat. I don’t want to let it out; I’m afraid that if I do, something will hear me and silence me with gentle hands, and I’ll be lost forever.

The door clicks open.