Thrum

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. When I disembark from Pioneer, I’m only wearing my standard-issue jumpsuit and boots, and am carrying a knapsack of essentials. Dorian assured me his ship’s air is breathable for humans.

Still, it takes me a minute to orient myself. I’m standing in what looks like a massive cargo bay, big enough to hold five more Pioneers. And it’s utterly empty, but for a stack of metal crates in the far corner. I’m alone.

Turning, I glance back at Pioneer. She seems so small from here, engulfed by the vast room. And beyond her, there’s an enormous window that opens into space. Light refracts and wavers at the edges — probably some kind of forcefield, keeping the pressure intact. Beyond, the stars wink in the black like distant warnings. It sends shivers up the back of my neck. I never used to feel that way about the stars.

“This ship doesn’t look that strange,” I murmur aloud, remembering Dorian’s words. “What’s not to understand?”

“It’s practically unfathomable mathematics and physics,” a voice says, just behind me.

I spin to face him, pulse stuttering. I didn’t hear him approach, but here he is, right in front of me. And he’s human. The inexplicable urge to laugh bubbles in my chest, as if seeing the first living human since leaving Earth has made me insane with relief.

But as quickly as it came, the relief curdles and sours. Dorian is not human; I know that. He only… he looks so…

“You’re confused about my appearance,” he says.

Yes. Confused, but… something else. Something deeper, a coiling snake of sensation in my chest. My skin hums with the sense of uncanny familiarity. What is he?

Dorian Gray is beautiful. There is no other word for him. Handsome isn’t enough, and somehow it’s almost too tame a brush with which to paint him. He’s beautiful but twisted, a human made with the painstaking strokes of an artist who’s never seen one before: too-high cheekbones, a perfectly formed aristocratic nose, eyes heavy-lidded and ink-black. Night-dark hair frames a pale face, falling in loose waves to brush the top of his high starched collar. He’s dressed like an ancient Victorian-era lordling, a bizarre image in that barren cargo bay. He stands statue-still.

I should be terrified of him, of what he isn’t. I heard his true voice, felt it tonguing my brain. But my body isn’t reacting in the way it should. My heart slams against my ribs, but not with fear.

“I thought it would put you at ease,” he says, “if I assumed a human form.”

“I’m not exactly sure I’m at ease.”

“Would you prefer a different sort of human?” he asks, and his lip curls in a slight smirk.

Is he joking with me? Is he coming onto me? I grip the straps of my knapsack and try not to giggle. This is insane. Absolutely batshit insane. “This one’s fine,” I say, my mouth dry. I like this one fine. “But how do you do that?”

He shrugs; a human gesture. How has he learned us so quickly? “My ship is emitting a frequency that intercepts your brain’s visual pathways. What your brain tells you you’re seeing is not what is actually in front of you.”

“Jesus.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“That’s not my biggest worry right now.”

“What is?”

Everything else, I want to say. My dead crew. My broken ship. Whatever broke said ship. But I’m only human, and I can’t continue like this — talking to him, acting as if things are fine. I need a minute. “I’m… a little overwhelmed,” I admit. “In shock, I think. And I just woke up from stasis. I’m not at my mental or physical best. All of this is… a lot.”

“You need to rest.” He studies me, his black eyes shining, snake-like. “Alone.”

I nod. It occurs to me I’m probably somewhere past the point of shock by now, if there is such a thing. Lily would have known how the human brain reacts to things like this. Or maybe this is the reaction, I think, a shiver jumping up my spine. Maybe I’m still on the Pioneer, crouched outside the airlock, and this is my mind’s way of inventing a savior.

Dorian moves then, a graceful drift toward me as if his legs and feet are only there for appearances’ sake. He is walking. But there are no imperfections, no tics that come with growing up in a human body, no favored legs or crooked smiles. He is too perfect.

My skin crawls.

He extends a hand. “May I?”

I don’t know what he wants. Is he asking to hold my hand? My knapsack? I shake my head, lips pressed together like a sullen child. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. I’ve forgotten all the mission protocols. My brain isn’t recalling what it should, and I’m ashamed. Just because I’m alone doesn’t mean the mission is over, that I shouldn’t be working. But here I am, confused and useless.

Dorian blinks, long lashes brushing ivory cheeks. “You need to come with me. I’m taking you to a room where you can rest, and be alone, until you are ready to speak with me. If you need to stop along the way, let me know. May I?”

I stare up at him, helpless. Our gazes meet, and my stomach twists. There are no pupils in his eyes that I can see — his irises are dark, inky black. A small mistake, but it’s another thing that renders him so deeply alien that I am enthralled.

He holds my gaze like a fly in a web. “I promise, this form will be far less distressing than my true one.”

“I’m not worried about your… form,” I say. “It’s just that you’re not human. This isn’t… I mean, I was trained for this, but…” But what? I’m in over my head? I forgot what to do and I’m scared of fucking up somehow? I should never have put myself forward for this mission?

“Ami,” he says, my name supplicant on his lips. “I would never hurt you.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I feel like I’m outside the ship again, tethered but drifting, cocooned in the drape of space.

“You know my name,” I murmur. My mind can’t contain this. Contain him. I blink, hard.

Lily would have loved this. I would have loved this if I wasn’t alone. If the ship wasn’t damaged, if everything was as it should have been. If I wasn’t alone.

“Of course,” he says, softly. “I read your welcome package.”

I nod, dropping my gaze to the floor. Right. He doesn’t read minds; he isn’t a wraith or a sorcerer. The ship is emitting a frequency. Centering myself, I focus my gaze on the floor. It’s textured metal. And on my boots, scuffed leather. Their laces, thick and brown. I slowly inhale, filling my lungs. As I exhale through my nose, I remind myself of the most important truth: This is why I came. The mission hasn’t failed. I can still do this, even alone.

When I raise my eyes to Dorian again, he’s half smiling. My pulse flutters and I hate myself for it. “Okay,” I say. “Lead the way.”

The corridor he leads me through is like the docking bay — a generic spacefaring vessel interior, overlarge, drably structured, and empty. My footsteps echo, rubber on metal. It even sounds the way it should. But is this how the ship truly looks? Am I walking through a hall of smoke and mirrors?

“Where’s the rest of your crew?” I ask when the repetitive echo of our footfalls becomes unbearable.

Dorian glances back at me, a line forming between heavy brows, an all-too-human expression. “I have no crew. I’m alone.”

“But this ship is huge. How do you fly it?”

His mouth quirks. “She flies herself. The tech is very different from yours.”

“Aren’t you lonely?” The question slips out before I can stop it. What business is it of mine if he’s lonely?

“Sometimes,” he says, surprising me. “I’ve been out here for a long time. But I am often sleeping.”

The words sound heavy in his mouth.

“Sleeping as in stasis?” I ask.

He shakes his head, strands of black hair shifting against his collar at the movement. “My kind doesn’t need stasis. We can sleep very deeply for long periods of time, without food or water.”

I’m fascinated, despite myself. “Do you age while you sleep?”

He darts a playful look over his shoulder. “Are you asking how old I am?”

My face heats, and I pray he doesn’t understand what that means, that I’m embarrassed. But of course — he read the welcome packet. He’s just as likely to be able to read every one of my tics, every facial expression, as if they were a book. “Actually,” I admit, “if it’s not rude…”

“My kind don’t keep track of age like yours does. We live far too long for that.”

“Oh. So… you’re saying you’re old.”

He chuckles. “Very.”

“Are we talking centuries or millennia here? In Earth years.” I can’t help myself, the questions keep coming, like I’m a human toddler meeting a real-life fireman for the first time.

He pauses, and I nearly walk into him, stopping short, my nose inches from one of his shoulder blades. Then, in a low tone, he says, “Millennia.”

I want to ask how long he’s been on this ship, why he’s all alone, and a million other questions. But his shoulders are tighter, his gait more matter-of-fact. I get the sense he’s done talking.

As we make our way through the ship, taking seemingly random turns here and there, I lose all sense of how long we’ve been walking, how far from the cargo bay we are. For all I know, we’re going in circles.

And in the absence of conversation, I begin to notice a strange sound. More like a vibration, a hum. As I focus on the sound, it gets louder. It starts under my ear at the jawbone, like a sour taste, and spiderwebs across my skull until I’m filled with it. It almost feels like tinnitus, or the ringing in your ear after a loud concert.

But this is different, more intense.

“What’s that sound?” I finally ask, on edge.

“What sound?”

“The deep vibration. It sounds like a faraway engine. Is it the ship?”

Dorian glances back at me, and for an instant, I think I see a reflection in his black eyes, swirls of red like tiny nebulae. “I hear no sound.”

When at last we come to a stop, I’m disoriented, as if I’ve been dreaming. At first, I don’t understand why we’re standing still. And then I see the door. It’s the first proper door I’ve seen in Dorian’s ship, which has been nothing but twisty corridors, angular high ceilings, and blank walls. The door is plain, as if cut into the ship wall. I see no knob, no button, no handle. No way to open it.

The air shifts, like a gust of wind in another world saw fit to visit this one, blurring the edges of what’s before me. And then, without any prompting from me or Dorian, the door swings open.

“This is your room,” he says. “It’s not much, but I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”

He stands to one side, waiting for me to go in. It’s dark; I can’t see anything beyond a few shadowy shapes. Some part of me wants to refuse it, to say, Actually, you know what, I’d rather stay on my own ship if it’s all the same to you. But it’s a very distant, small part of me, and I quickly nudge it to the back of my mind. I don’t want to be back on that coffin of a ship, familiar as it is.

My chest flutters with fear, anticipation, and even a little excitement.

Holding my breath, I move past Dorian into the room. My room on an alien spaceship.

A light flickers on, a warm orange glow. I exhale slowly, taking it in, and realize it’s not a bad room. In fact, it’s strangely normal. There’s a bed on one side, partially ensconced in the wall; and on the other side is a table, a sink, and what looks like a fold-out privy. There’s even a synthetic potted plant on the table. It’s not unlike our bunks on Pioneer, if they were three times as big.

“The plant,” I say, catching at my thoughts as if they’re escaping wisps of smoke. I glance back at him. “It’s a nice touch.”

Dorian smiles from the doorway. He’s leaning casually, one shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed. As if he’s utterly human and always has been. “I like greenery.”

“It’s a pothos. An Earth plant.”

“I know.” His smile widens. “I read the welcome package. A pothos requires low light, infrequent watering, and makes for a hearty house plant. But you’re tired, overwhelmed. I’ll leave you now.”

“Wait.” I blurt it out, his words sinking in. My hands prickle and I drop my knapsack, letting it thump to the ground. “It’s real?”

Before Dorian can answer, I’m bending over the plant, gingerly pressing fingers to its waxy leaves. I breathe deeply. There’s soil in the pot. It’s real. It smells like Earth, and it fills me with an undefinable ache, of grief or of relief, and I choke back tears.

Then I freeze, remembering what Dorian said about the ship, the frequency. I spin towards him. He’s watching me with an almost overwhelming intensity, his unblinking black eyes framed by unnaturally long lashes, head tilted down slightly, as if he’s starving and I’m a meal. But he blinks, his muscles relax, and he’s human again.

Well… as human as he’ll ever be.

I’m already going mad in this place.

“It’s just an illusion,” I accuse him. “Not a real plant at all.”

“Your fingers touched it,” he says, black eyes shining. “You smelled it. The touch and smell pathways in your brain recognized it as a living thing. Does that not make it real?”

This is basic stuff. Stoner Thoughts 101. I’ve heard it all before in my early twenties, passing a joint with friends, staring up at the sky, and wondering what it all meant. We were naive, sweet things who thought we’d make something of the world, be remembered, put our own notches in the ribbon of time.

Dorian hovers inside the door for a moment. “I’ll leave you now,” he says again.

I’m taken by a wild urge to ask him not to. Stay, I want to plead. Don’t leave me alone. His presence should be more unsettling than it is, more foreign, more frightening. But it’s not. He feels, against all reason, like a comfort.

“If you need me,” he says, backing out of the room, “all you have to do is call my name.”

Then the door closes, clicking shut, and I’m alone in this room that was made just for me. A simulacrum of quietude. I want to stay awake, I want to inspect every corner, take readings and make notes. I’ve brought tools with me, and tech. But I realize suddenly how tired I am, so tired that my body seems to be on the verge of collapse.

I sit on the bed, untie my boots, and kick them off. I lie down, jumpsuit still on. But there’s no way I’m sleeping here, no matter how exhausted I am. I’ll probably lie in bed for ages, wide awake with newness and agitation, every sound and thought pattering at my brain like uneasy footsteps. I stare up at the ceiling, that distant hum pressing like a heavy weight on my thoughts. And then the reality of the ship itself, the heaviness of my grief and overwhelm, the existence of Dorian, join the hum and press down on my thoughts and smother them, until unconsciousness laps over me like dark waters.