This Side of Deep Space

by Delphi Caldera

Clara has her steel boots parallel with the molten stream. The liquid crests the valley pell-mell like liquid Mercury. It changes its color like an oil spill. The singular second in which it flashes pink is the same second a memory hits Clara with another force to rock the planet from its orbit. For better or worse, this is not what happens. She swallows before the pressure in her throat can have its way and she looks at the horizon the same way someone looks at a corpse. That is, fearfully, as little as possible, only enough to discern some particular details. She finds there are no stars. Night’s fallen, though it’s always night here. The change is not evident through any real shift in brilliance. The starlight hardly reaches their small hunk of rock and so they are always lost in darkness. If there is a sun, they cannot see it. All the light and warmth that keeps them alive comes from deep within the planet’s center. The melted chemicals flow through the core like a tedious and tired heartbeat. She was a biologist, she remembers. A practicing xenobiologist, almost. She likes to think so. There are no creatures ambling about on this planet. Clara has only seen two forms of life: those like herself and those like the sky. Again, she throws a cautious glance up. No stars at all now. She is not quick enough to look away.

Above her, the sky writhes and slithers. She doesn’t have to see it to know it is up there. The figure beyond the atmosphere takes up its own constellation's worth of space - more than that. It is only a credit to its shape that it is not all-encompassing, that it is only visible when the planet faces it, because to the best of her knowledge it is surely infinite. The mercy is that it only extends forever in the opposite direction. The thought of this makes her a little crazy every time and she comes dangerously close to just collapsing into the red-hot stream of rock stretching in front of her. She pulls her gaze back down to the dust and runs back home, as if that will put any real distance between the two of them.

The cellblock hangs heavy against the seaslick horizon; it’s an awfully big building for such a small planet and even its silhouette has the markings of a mountain. It’s pointed silhouette reminds Clara of a castle she’d see in bedtime stories - the lair of something ancient and awful. She brushes this thought off; it always overstays its welcome. She climbs up into the entrance without a fight.

The interior’s silence is so pressurized that it hurts her ears. There’s only the blunt sound of her boots hitting stone and then with a shift in her weight - the sound of a droplet. She looks down to find a small splatter of red against the gray floor.

“You’re hurt,” Isaac appears at the first sight of blood like he always does. Clara’s eyes flit up to him, then back to the place where she’s opened. Isaac presses a rough-edged towel against the wound and she puts her hand against it. It’s a small cut, but it bleeds crazily. Besides that, infections on this planet are no small problem. She follows him down to the small space that functions as a medbay, where he’s cobbled together his antibiotics and rickety splints.

“I didn’t notice,” Clara explains as he applies a cool blue serum against the serrated skin.

“You shouldn’t let yourself become desensitized,” He doesn’t look at her.

“No?” She laughs, but neither of them find any humor in it. Isaac just sucks in his breath. If he didn’t have a doctor’s trained grace, his hands would have shaken too terribly to bandage the wound.

Rosie finds them, like she always does. Black eyes, golden rings, a bear-trap for a body. She was born with all the presence of a flood and both of them startle without meaning to. If she notices - which she is bound to, considering they are the only moving things for miles - she does not even feign offense. She merely stands in wait. She doesn’t need to announce it. With bodies used to dread, they trek down the obsidian stairwell towards the Sprawl.

Straws stand amicably in the center of the room - nothing like the farms’, we’re talking white with pink stripes running through them. They’re suspended in a little tinted box and cut off at different lengths. This is the smallest the box has ever been and it has only three holes drilled into the top. Three straws are held there by friction. If you squint, you can peer through the black veil to make out which is the longest, which is the shortest, and which is neither. Clara’s eyes have grown so accustomed to this act that she hardly needs to try. She slides against the table where they’re held. Isaac and Rosie take the seats opposite so that they form a neat triangle. Isaac recoils with the preternatural sense that his name has been used in the same sentence as Rosie’s. It happens again.

Clara still takes in both of them, weighing the odds - again, a learned and practiced behavior. The others are doing the same, she knows. The decision was much easier when there were more of them. In the early days, they dropped like flies, even without the aid of the thinning. She thinks the contest was meant to last five hundred days, but today is the 399th and only three people remain. Too many were taken as collateral. She glances at Rosie, who is staring directly at her with eyes as cold and distant as their moon. Clara thinks of why they’ve made it so long, besides not being stupid enough to flee. Isaac lasts out of necessity - most medics did. Rosie lasts out of intimidation - nobody’s ever brought up her name. Clara doesn’t understand her own longevity, but there is a creeping suspicion in the back of her head that just won’t go away. It is the dull thought that she is pitiful - too doe-eyed that a healthy consciousness could not excuse her culling. That defense seems ineffective today.

“Should I start?” Rosie suggests in a voice like wind, “I, personally, would not like to die.”

“It’s not going to be you anyway,” Isaac taps the table impatiently, “They need you here.”

“Yeah,” Clara chimes in, “If you left, there’d be nobody to guard this place. Your straw is just there for show.”

“There’s no need for a warden anymore,” Rosie says, “Neither of you plan on escaping.”

Nobody argues with this. Clara’s thoughts trace back to her first month in the enclosure. The doors to the cellblock were never locked; they were only false walls. The real boundaries were further out, some miles away from the epicenter, and marked with impenetrable, unscalable stone. Some bright young idiot with a flair for the dramatic was the first to suggest the mission. They would take all the food that’d been stockpiled, all the resources at their disposal, and venture out when the planet faced away from the thing monster whose gravity kept them in check. Even their failure was worse than surrender. Clara remembered how purposefully Rosie strode through the cavernous room. How suddenly the man’s scream had been cut off and how other sounds erupted from his busted pipes. Clara had seen the way Rosie’s fingers dug deep into his throat, how she pressed her knees against his ribcage to eliminate any chance of him breathing again. The shadows in the room swarmed all around her to bear witness. The doom was palpable after that; the wiser knew then that an exodus was impossible. Notions of it were punished all the same.

“Why are you here then, Rosie?” Clara rests her elbows on the table, leaning in closer to the girl, “Can you die, even?”

“They’ll just bring her back,” Isaac muttered, “Deathless death.”

“You worked at one of the Outer Circle’s hospitals, didn’t you?” Rosie turned to him, “Didn’t you see what became of the lucky souls that they brought back?”

Isaac shivers as Clara tries to remember what the Outer Circle was, exactly. A border that she’d crossed at some point, apparently. Everyone was from there. It was the realm closest to the monstrosity; the place where it’d first been discovered. Clara feels a surge of rage at how entirely preventable this whole thing was. Like anything bright and hot in these walls, the anger is quickly snuffed out. But the memories stay.

 The news they had sent back to Earth was a lie; they pleaded their innocence in ignorance. They swore that they had simply stumbled upon Deep Space. Everyone working in the Outer Circles knew that was not the case. They’d been asking for trouble; all the red flags had been raised. Like the bright warnings of a venomous creature, the monstrosities flooded the hospitals, hid amongst battalions, stripped the metal off of space stations. Still, humanity had pressed on. Some had varying trajectories.

“When did you first see them?” Clara asks quietly to Isaac.

“It was only my third shift,” Isaac shuts his eyes, “I’d only been deployed there a week when I saw my first Contamination. My teacher wanted me to practice; they all thought it was funny. But I couldn’t even bear to look at that poor kid’s face. It had turned all plastic, like a mask. Only their eyes moved. That was the only part of them still recognizable as human. Everything else was a mass of colors and ink; tumors were growing from each tentacle. And they wanted us to keep him alive.”

“When did you become like them?” Clara asks quietly to Rosie.

“I was born in the Outer Circle,” Her expression didn’t change, “They’ve been whispering to me for as long as I can remember. Nobody ever told me not to listen. By the time anyone noticed, I was already in their clutches. And now I always will be.”

“It was cruel of them to summon you here,” Clara says, “You’re supposed to be one of their own.”

        “They don’t understand the meaning of cruelty half as much as they do hunger,” She shrugs, “I believe their intention was to make as much use out of me as possible, but rest assured: I can still die. And the afterlife that awaits me will be far more gruesome than wherever it is you’ll end up.”

“I would take any afterlife,” Isaac says, almost to himself. His hand is pressed against his temple so that it shields his face from their stares, “I don’t think I can handle the end.”

“You don’t want this one,” Rosie promises.

“Versus an eternity of nothingness?” He muses, “It’s so final. And I’m not ready, I can’t be. There was so much I never got to do. We’re all too young to be trapped here.”

“Why are you in Deep Space if you’re afraid of the infinite?” Rosie asks.

“Aren’t you?”

She doesn’t respond. The silence comes back and the three of them look anywhere except at each other.

“I also don’t want to die,” Clara finally speaks, “I don’t know if I made that clear.”

“Oh?” Isaac snorts.

“Yeah. I know I haven’t done that much good in my life, at least, not as much as I should have. And I don’t have such a defined purpose. But I really have to get home soon.”

“You got someone waiting up for you?” Isaac asks.

“So did everyone else,” Rosie exposes her teeth - pointed, pearly.

“There’s nothing I can do for them now,” Clara’s voice takes an unusual pitch, “I never voted. I haven’t said a word at the drawing all year. I just want to get home to my family.”

        Isaac makes a face like the wind’s been ripped from his lungs; the walls seem to reverberate with her words. If the nightmares are anything to go by, the castle itself is an extension of the thing. At night, the walls move like they’re alive. They feed off of pain. Rosie raises a hand as if to quiet them, but nobody else speaks.

        “My mother was sick when I left. I didn’t want to go away at all - they promised me it would be a quick trip. It was supposed to be, I mean, I was just picking up the medication, but it was only meant to be a week and some change. And then I would get back home to her. I shouldn’t have even been there, I was supposed to be at home. You’re supposed to stay at home for months after maternity. But I didn’t have a choice, right? My mom needed the medication. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the Outer Circle. I just needed her medication.”

“Maternity?” Isaac speaks so softly he might as well be mouthing it, “You have a baby?”

“Yeah,” Clara’s voice cracks, “I’d just had her. I barely even got to know her before the selection. I just want to see her again. I don’t know what’s happening to her, my mom’s not well enough to take care of her. I don’t even know if Mom’s still alive. She might’ve - She might’ve just died alone.”

When she manages this last sentence, it is garbled and hard. She cries like she’s trying to keep it a secret, but she doesn’t hide her face. Her vision is too blurred to make out the others’ expressions. Isaac curses under his breath. They move on from her.

“You have any family?” He asks idly.

“My parents disowned me after a long series of misdemeanors,” Rosie replies.

“Oh. I have a brother. We aren’t close though,” Isaac bites his lips, “My mother wasn’t really in the picture.”

“My mother thought I was a witch.”

“She wasn’t wrong.”

“I guess not,” Rosie taps her cheek, “Do you think love could have saved me?”

“It didn’t save her,” Isaac looks back at a still-sniffling Clara.

“Can’t it?” Rosie asks. It’s a challenge. All of their eyes return to the straws.

Rosie’s expression hardens, which is remarkable, as Clara was pretty sure she’d already hit her limit on that front. Her own is soft as warm wax, eyes enormous and drenched - pitiful still. Isaac loses the game.

“...I’ll do it,” He surrenders.

Clara practically jumps across the table to hug him; she peppers his cheeks with kisses and tastes the salt on them. He keeps his steadiness as if he doesn’t even notice that he’s crying. He doesn’t look at the girl clinging to his neck. His gaze is fixed on the shortest straw. Soon, her gaze follows suit.

Isaac’s eyes are glazed over, already in the first stage of detachment, “I don’t want anyone to suffer for me. And I know nobody will miss me. It’s the only answer.”

“I’ll remember it,” Clara promises, not letting go, “For as long as I live, I’ll remember.”

She snaps the longest straw out of the box and clings to it like a rosary.

“Thank you, Isaac,” Rosie says with an air of ritual, “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

“Likewise.”

Rosie plucks the second-longest out and holds it like a cigarette. Clara figures that at some point, her nails must have been sharp as stilettos. Time has worn them down until all that remains are blunt edges. All that remains now is the shortest straw.

Isaac reaches his hand towards the straw, then jumps back. He paces backward, shaking. Clara’s eyes widen, fully unprepared for what will happen if he backs out. He shakes his head.

“I’ll do it. I’m going to do it, I just need a minute. I’m not ready.”

“Take your time,” Rosie says, “But once it’s over, you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” He agrees. He doesn’t move, “Ok.”

All at once, he lunges forward, snapping the straw out of its socket.

The death is not instantaneous, nor is it painless. It begins in his hand and crawls up his arms. Little white skin cells fall from his skin like snow, taking blood and body with them to the floor. The infection reaches his torso and surrounds his heart. It spreads to his head and distorts his face. Clara looks away; she hates this part. From the shadows on the walls, she makes out the full transformation. The body turns against itself; the tendons and muscles morph into something alien - slick, slimy, dying. Their natural inclination is self-defeating. Tentacles destroy the last of the brain in an incomprehensible suicide mission. That which cannot move any more falls limp. The body crumples.

Soon, the screaming stops. Clara still cannot bring herself to look at the remains. To even call them that seems a misrepresentation. When the poison entered his system, something replaced most parts of Isaac. Still, Rosie scoops up the body. She’s always been the one to dispose of them. Though Clara thinks it is ghoulish to stay by the cadaver, she knows for sure she does not want to be alone. She begins to follow Rosie when she notices the other girl has stopped. Her expression is unreadable, but it makes Clara freeze up all the same.

“Faker,” Rosie denounces, but it sounds like a compliment, “Those weren’t real tears.”

“Story’s true,” Clara wraps her arms around herself, “Mostly.”

Rosie shakes her head and pulls Isaac’s remains closer to her, securing them for the stairwell. The pit is quite fittingly located just beneath the drawing-room. It does not go down forever, which would be favorable, but the edge is still at a nauseating height from the bottom. Five hundred bodies lay still beneath the surface. They are in various stages of decay, at least one body for each day. Rosie tosses Isaac’s body onto the pit without a word.

“I didn’t think he would do it,” Clara says from behind her, “I was sure it would be me.”

“Yeah,” Rosie agrees, “You got lucky.”

“He didn’t deserve it,” Clara says.

“No. He didn’t.”

“At least one of us will get out of here, right?” Clara says. Rosie smiles at her wistfully, in a way that makes her heart stop.

“Right?”