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Curly is already in medical when Anya arrives.
This strikes him as funny. It should be the other way around, yeah? Anya’s the nurse, Curly’s the captain. He should be walking in on her. Only just here in medical, of course, obviously. And even then he’d knock. He’d knock, and Anya would look up from her desk, from her paperwork or her textbook, and she’d smile at him. She used to smile at him all the time.
She’s not smiling at him now.
She stands in front of the medical room door for a long moment. Her shoulders, hunched, look as though they’re being weighted down by some great, invisible force. He can't quite make out her expression. At least, not in a way that matters.
When she speaks, it’s very quiet. Her voice is curiously flat.
“He’s going to do it again.”
Anya locks the door.
Curly’s head aches. Well, every part of him aches just lately, but this is a different sort. A different beast. It’s so hard to look at anything head-on anymore. So difficult to be present. Anya deserves that, but it’s like clinging to a cliff edge using just his fingernails. Fingernails. That’s funny funny, too, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Isn’t—
“He broke the statue,” Anya mutters. “He knew. He knew why I put my sleeping bag next to it. Now I won’t have it to warn me. And I can’t…” She trails off. Chokes out a quiet, broken noise. “That’s a lie. I can survive it. Or I could. I have. But what would be the point? Eventually, we’re going to run out of food. Or air. Or I’ll…” She touches her stomach. Her eyes shine wetly. “I won’t. I won’t do it. I won’t.”
She kneels down. Pulls open a drawer beneath him. Curly’s tries to twist, to see it, but even the slightest movement is impossible now. He doesn’t want to think of that. He can’t think of that. Anya’s words. He needs to focus on Anya’s words.
“I wish I had more options,” Anya mutters. “The gun… if I had the code…” She laughs brokenly. “If I had the code, would any of this have happened? I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
There’s a rattle. Curly recognizes the sound instantly, and a moan slips past his lips involuntarily. The pills are torture. But they’re also the only thing that even slightly dulls the pain. With the pills, he’d be able to think. He’d be able to understand what Anya is saying.
Only Anya isn’t the one to give him the pills, is she? That’s someone else. That’s…
“There’s only enough for one of us,” Anya whispers. “I guess you’ll have to take the longer way. I am sorry about that, Captain. Even after everything.”
She’s talking to him. Curly wishes he could understand her. Wishes he didn’t hurt. Wishes—
“I wish I had some mouthwash after all,” Anya says. There’s a trace of her old humor in her voice, worn thin and frayed. “That would make this easier. Oh, well.”
Curly turns away. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he doesn’t want to see this. It’s as reflexive as flinching away from an explosion. He looks at the screen, at the sunset that’s been there too long, and there’s something wrong with it. He’s sure of it. If he could just figure out what it is, maybe he could figure out what’s wrong with this situation. Maybe he could figure out what’s wrong with himself. Maybe he could fix it.
He stares at the screen.
Anya gags, and he stares at the screen.
Anya sobs, and he stares at the screen.
Anya gasps, and he stares at the screen.
And he stares at the screen.
And he stares…
- KTAE ITILYRPEOSINSB -
There’s something wrong with the window screen.
It’s showing the same sky that it always does during this time of day: picturesque blue, fluffy white clouds. Curly’s been seeing that sky since his very first voyage on the Tulpar, but there’s something different about it now. He’s going to go bonkers if he can’t figure it out.
“Uh, Captain? You good?”
Curly blinks. Daisuke is sitting on the kitchen counter, boots dangling off the floor. Not the most professional thing in the world, but what the hell, the kid is young. Besides, he probably gets enough scolding from Swansea. No point in Curly piling on.
“Fine.” Curly shakes his head. “Just thinking. Are you on break?”
“Uh, something like that.” Daisuke looks up to the ceiling, kicking his legs. “More like I thought Swansea might literally throw a wrench at me if I kept getting all up in his business.”
“Aw, his bark is worse than his bite.” Curly considers this, then amends, “Well, mostly. But if he needs space to work, it’s probably a good idea to get out of his hair for a while.”
“Totally. What about you? What’s got you out of the cockpit?”
“It’s time for my psych eval,” he explains. “We’re in a calm patch, and I promised Anya I’d stop by medical once I was free.”
“Oh, rad! I just did mine a few days ago.” Daisuke nods sagely. Then his expression turns conspiratorial. “Hey, before you go, do you think you could, I don’t know, maybe…” He looks meaningfully toward the dispenser.
Curly chuckles. “Again?”
Daisuke groans. “C’mon. Ever since Swansea drank all of the coffee, it’s been like bummer central every morning. Sugar’s not quite as good, but like, at least it’s something?”
Curly fights back a wince. Technically, rationing is his responsibility. As captain, he’s supposed to make sure that no one is taking more than their fair share. But it never seemed worth kicking up a fuss. Swansea was a damn good mechanic, anyway, and if he wanted four cups of coffee per week instead of his corporate mandated two, that was fine. Curly could go without.
Only it turned out that Swansea was drinking a lot more than four cups per week. And now…
“Alright,” Curly says, heading toward the dispenser. “Just keep this between us, yeah?”
Curly punches in the code for a sweetener packet. Daisuke tries not to look too eager when he hands over the pouch. “Oh, hell yeah! I mean, uh. Thanks, Cap.”
Curly doesn’t laugh at him, but it’s a near thing. “Sure, Daisuke.”
He makes his way to medical. The door is open, but he still pauses in the entryway, rapping his knuckles against the frame. “Knock, knock.”
Anya looks up from the medical textbook she’s reading. She offers a small, tired-looking smile. “Well, hello, Curly. Are you here for your psych eval?”
“That’s the plan.” He takes a seat opposite her. “How are you doing? Rough day?” It’s not just her smile that’s tired. This close, he can see the tightness in her features, the glassiness in her eyes. Those eyes always look a little tired — something about the shape of them, the way they turn down slightly at the edges — but today there seems to be an extra strain.
That strain doesn’t stop her from looking at him pointedly. “Psych evals are generally about the patient, you know.” The disapproval in her tone is only half-hearted, a thin veil over her amusement. That pert humor is something Curly’s grown used from Anya, so he throws it back with a smile.
“We haven’t started yet. Besides, I want to know. I am the Captain, yeah?”
“You are the Captain,” Anya echoes, a faint smile on her lips. “I’m fine though, really. Just trying to wrap my mind around this chapter. The text is… dense.” She rubs at her temple, looking down at the page in mild disgust. “Sometimes, I think these academics care more about sounding smart than actually teaching anyone anything.”
Curly chuckles. She reminds him of a friend he had back home sometimes. The association stings, but he moves past it. “No argument there.” He leans forward, his expression easy. “Try not to work too hard. These hauls are a lot of responsibility already, you don’t have to push yourself for no reason on top of that.”
“I can handle it.” Anya closes her text book and looks up at him expectantly. “Are you ready for your psych eval?”
Her sudden change in tone catches him off-guard. Did he say something wrong? Curly considers probing before deciding against it. Probably she just wanted to get professional. He can respect that. “Sure.”
Anya pulls the standard form out of her desk and clicks a pen. She presses the back end of it to her bottom lip as she reads the first line. “Have you been able to complete your mandated tasks as captain efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”
“Yes,” Curly responds. By now, his answers to these evaluations have become as rote as the questions themselves. He’s heard them so many times, after all.
“How would you rate your performance as Captain, one being ‘very poor’ and five being ‘very good?’”
“Ah, let’s say four?” He always says four. Five feels too conceited, somehow.
Anya looks like she maybe wants to call him out on phrasing his standard answer like it’s some sort of deviation from the norm, but she marks it down without comment instead. “Do you ever doubt your ability to perform your role as captain?” she asks.
“No,” Curly responds.
Anya’s pen hovers over the appropriate checkbox, but she doesn’t bring it down. Instead, she looks up at Curly, her expression hesitant. “Are you sure?”
Curly lets out a nervous laugh. “I mean, why not? Do you think I should be doubting myself, Anya?”
“No, no, of course not, it’s just…” Anya casts her gaze around, as if the right words will materialize out of the air. “Everyone has doubts, don’t they? And it’s better to talk about them.”
Curly considers this. He supposes she has a point. But that’s more for the rest of the crew. Curly isn’t allowed to have doubts. That’s part of the deal of being the Captain. He’s supposed to be the one who has everything under control.
He opens his mouth to tell Anya as much. But Anya isn’t looking at him anymore. Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder. She looks pensive.
She looks afraid.
“Anya?” He looks over his shoulder. There’s nothing there that he can see. “Is something wrong?”
Anya doesn’t answer. She’s staring at the doorframe. Out the doorway. Into the lounge.
“Is there something out there?” Curly stands, goes to look. “Is it the sky screen? I swear there’s something wrong with it, but I can’t figure out what…”
Curly grips the metal edge of the doorframe, sticks his head out into the hallway, and—
- ATEK RITIPYBNESSLIO -
—peers into the living room. “Everyone okay? Thought I heard shouting.”
Maggie, sandwiched between Hassan and Esme on the couch, chucks her cell phone against the wall. Curly chooses to believe that she was aiming for that, and not his narrowly-missed head. “Everything’s great, Orion. I just got a goddamned D- on an exam worth half my grade, but everything is just fucking peachy, thanks!”
Curly winces in sympathy, bending to pick up the phone. Sure enough, it’s open to the offending email. He turns the screen off before gingerly setting the device on the table where it isn’t liable to be stepped on. “I’m sorry, Mags. That’s rough.”
Maggie groans, slumping sideways into Hassan’s lap. “It’s such bullshit. They were all essay questions, and super subjective. I think the professor just graded based on who kissed the most ass—or who has the best ass. You should see the way he leers at some of the women in our class, I swear to God.”
Jimmy, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, lets out a derisive snort. Curly’s glad it’s too quiet for anyone else to hear—it would probably just hurt Maggie’s feelings. “That’s… huh. If you really feel that way, shouldn’t you report it? Go to the head of department or something, yeah?”
“As if that would do anything.” Maggie puffs out her cheeks, blowing a stray curl off of her forehead with one frustrated huff. “Who do you think they’d believe, Curly? A failing student, or a professor with tenure?”
As much as he hates to admit it, she has a point. Curly believes Maggie, of course he does, but that’s because he knows her. And he doesn’t know the professor at all. But if the position was reversed… if his coworker, who he’d known for years, told him that some bitter undergrad was spreading rumors because she was mad about a grade…
“It sucks,” Maggie says, reluctantly pulling herself up. “And it sucks worse because I know this is just how things are, sometimes. If I can’t even manage it in college, how am I supposed to deal with the real world?”
“Aw, Mags.” With no chair left to speak of, Curly balances awkwardly on the arm of the couch. “Just because you’re having a hard time right now doesn’t mean it won’t get better later. Try not to be too hard on yourself.” He rubs at his temple. His head aches, suddenly. “Everyone has doubts, don’t they…?”
“I just feel like I’m falling behind,” Maggie sighs. “You’re moving up at Pony Express, Hassan’s got a job at his dad’s lined up, Esme’s got her internship, and I’m just… flunking out of college, I guess…?”
Esme opens her mouth, sympathy on her features. But another voice beats her to the punch.
“Oh my god. Who gives a shit?”
Curly jumps. He’d almost forgotten that Jimmy was there, he’d been so quiet. The realization sends shame swamping through his midsection.
“All I hear is a bunch of useless complaining,” Jimmy snaps, eyes narrowed. “Get the fuck over yourself!” He storms off. A moment later, a door slams. Curly winces at the sound.
Esme frowns. “Jesus Christ. What a dick.”
“It’s not his fault,” Curly says apologetically. “He got kicked out of college his first semester. It’s a touchy subject.” He should have realized that the conversation was upsetting Jimmy sooner. If he’d steered it in a different direction, he could have avoided the blowup.
And to think he just got his pilot’s license. Hopefully asteroids are easier to avoid.
“That doesn’t mean he can take it out on other people like that.” Hassan, who had put an arm around Maggie’s shoulder during Jimmy’s blowup, gives her a supportive squeeze before letting go. “Honestly, man. I know he’s your friend and all, but the way he treats people isn’t okay.”
Curly feels cold. Like someone’s opened the air lock on one of Pony Express’s freighters. “He’s really not so bad, guys. I mean, he’s got a good heart. He’s really been there for me when I’ve needed him, anyway.” He stands. “I’ve known him for a long time. I’ll talk to him.”
A wave of vertigo hits. He feels like he’s said those words before, but he can’t remember where. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He heads in the direction of Jimmy’s frustrated mumbling, knocks on the door, and—
- EKTA IORNBYESLITSIP -
“Curly? What are you doing here?”
Curly blinks. Jimmy’s staring at him from the doorway, but it’s not the right doorway. He looks around. He’s standing on Jimmy’s front porch, and Jimmy’s in his apartment. Hadn’t they just been somewhere else…?
Jimmy narrows his eyes. “Uh. What’s with the suitcase? You going on a trip or something?”
He is holding a suitcase. That’s right. He swallows thickly. “Not exactly.” When he exhales, it’s shaky. “Bev kicked me out. We’re, you know. Done. I guess.”
His chest aches. He and Beverly were supposed to be the high school sweethearts that beat the odds, made it past graduation and into adulthood. Four years of a relationship, one year of living together, all of it unraveled in a single conversation. It still doesn’t feel real to him. No wonder he’s so disoriented.
Jimmy makes a face. Curly’s pretty sure it’s meant to be sympathy, even though it reads more as disgust. “Jesus.” He whirls around, vanishing around the corner. Curly stands on the porch for a full fifteen seconds before Jimmy’s voice echoes from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. “Are you coming in, or what?”
Curly lets out a quiet, watery laugh before walking in.
When he walks into the kitchen, Jimmy has already popped the caps off of two bottles of beer. Usually, Curly isn’t normally the type to drink a beer mid-morning, but he guesses these aren’t normal circumstances. Besides, Jimmy’s trying to be a friend here. It’d be rude to refuse it. He picks up the bottle and tips it to his lips.
Jimmy makes that face again—wrinkled nose, wet shine of teeth poking from beneath his curling lip. “I haven’t washed the guest room sheets in awhile,” he says. “You’ll probably want to do that before bed.”
Curly’s eyes sting. He hadn’t even asked to stay here yet, but here Jimmy is, acting like it’s obvious. Like he wouldn’t think twice about opening up his door to Curly. “Thanks, Jim. I’ll just be here until I find a new place to stay.” He swallows another mouthful of beer. It’s bitter, but he tries not to make a face. “I’ll pay you back for the laundry detergent. And food and—and everything.”
Jimmy’s scowl deepens. “You don’t—I’m not—it’s whatever, man.” There’s an awkward silence as he plunks down into the seat across from Curly. He seems determined to look anywhere but his friend’s face. Finally, he asks, “What did it?”
“What?”
“You know.” He gestures vaguely with his beer bottle. “People don’t break up for no reason.”
“Oh.” Curly swallows. No beer this time. Just trying to work around the lump in his throat. “No. They don’t.”
His voice wavers. Jimmy wrinkles his nose again, this time with an air of genuine panic. “You don’t have to tell me. I just figure, I don’t know. Talking’s supposed to help. It doesn’t matter.”
Curly looks down. Remembers the look on Beverly’s face when he asked her why she would do this. She looked exhausted, tired in a way that seemed so much older than they were. It had frightened him a little.
Curly. I told you. She passed a hand over her face. It’s not my fault if you weren’t listening. And it’s not my job to make you understand. I’m done.
“It’s okay,” Curly says to Jimmy. “But the real answer is, uh, I don’t know. She didn’t really explain it.”
Jimmy scoffs. “Women. Typical.” He leans over the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the living room, comes up with the remote clutched in his hand.
Curly thinks for a moment that he should probably react to Jimmy’s words. It used to annoy the hell out of Bev when Jimmy would say stuff like that. But Curly knows that Jimmy doesn’t really mean it like that, and besides, he doesn’t really have to scold his friend now, does he? Bev is gone. There's no one left to get offended on behalf of.
Curly. I told you.
I told you.
Captain. I told you.
Jimmy turns on the television, puts on some sports game or another. Curly tries to focus on the screen, but he’s still unsettled. Bev’s (Bev’s?) words still echo in his mind, like a song he can’t get out. And there’s something wrong with Jimmy’s television screen.
There, right there, in the upper right corner, it’s—
- TKAE OINSPESIILBTRY -
“Oh, you cheap sons of bitches!”
Curly startles, turning away from the sun slowly rising on the Tulpar’s screen. Swansea, red-faced and scowling, kicks the coffee-maker with enough force to make it rattle. The lights in the machine flicker like a flinch.
Daisuke, behind him, stares wide-eyed. “Uuuuuh… you good, boss?”
Swansea glares at him so fiercely that he actually stumbles back a few steps. It’s probably lucky for Daisuke that the old mechanic isn’t holding anything heavier than a paper cup. “Did you fall off the goddamn turnip truck yesterday, boy? Do I sound alright?”
Curly steps between the two, putting on his most affable smile. It’s not the easiest thing to summon — mornings are the hardest for him, after five hours of tossing and turning — but he’s the captain all the time, not just when he’s feeling up to it. “Easy there, Swansea. What’s going on?”
Swansea huffs. “The goddamn machine is out of coffee!”
“Already?” Anya, standing at the counter with a bowl of cereal in front of her, frowns. She looks up in the way that she does when she’s calculating something. “We’re not even halfway through the haul yet…”
“The lady can count! Will wonders never cease?” Swansea snarls, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Pony Express pulled one over on us. That’s the only explanation.”
Curly checked the amount of coffee before they left. They had enough for all of them, as long as they stuck to their rations. Curly gave up the habit since it just interfered with his already lackluster sleep schedule, and Anya opted for tea half the time anyway, so they should have been better than fine, but…
“Don’t you think that you sneaking two cups a day had something to do with it?” Jimmy asks, having just arrived. “Honestly, I’m surprised we didn’t run out sooner.”
Swansea’s face turns a shade of brick red. “I work my ass off for nineteen hours a day! As if you’d know anything about hard work…” He stalks off, grumbling.
Anya looks at Jimmy reproachfully. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says. “He was already upset enough as it was…”
Jimmy shrugs. “Someone had to tell him.” He glances to Curly. “Think he’s gonna stage a mutiny? You might want a refresh on the gun case’s code.”
“I don’t think it will come to that. I’ll have a talk with him.” Curly rubs the back of his neck. “... Maybe I’ll give him some cool-down time first.”
Daisuke nods. “Good call.”
Jimmy shrugs. “You’re the boss.” He ambles toward the kitchen. Anya is still standing at the counter, and he nudges her out of the way with a hand on her lower back. Anya stiffens at the touch but doesn’t protest. And why would she protest? He was just trying to get past her. It was innocent.
Curly moves to say something to Daisuke, but when he turns he just sees the sky screen again. The sun is up. The sky is blue, the clouds are fluffy.
That’s not right. It’s still supposed to be the sunrise screen for another hour yet, isn’t it? Curly stares at it, trying to make sense of it. Behind him, Jimmy has already moved past Anya, and she’s still standing at the counter as if nothing’s happened, but something has happened. Something has happened, and the sky screen is…
- TAKE RESPOSIINLBIYT -
“Uh, Captain? You good?”
Curly blinks. Daisuke is sitting on the kitchen counter, boots dangling off the floor. Not the most professional thing in the world, but what the hell, the kid is young. Besides, he probably gets enough scolding from Swansea. No point in Curly piling on.
“Fine.” Curly shakes his head. “Just thinking. Are you on break?”
“Uh, something like that.” Daisuke looks up to the ceiling, kicking his legs. “More like I thought Swansea might literally throw a wrench at me if I kept getting all up in his business.”
“Aw, his bark is worse than his bite.” Curly considers this, then amends, “Well, mostly. But if he needs space to work, it’s probably a good idea to get out of his hair for a while.”
“Totally. What about you? What’s got you out of the cockpit?”
“It’s time for my psych eval,” he explains. “We’re in a calm patch, and I promised Anya I’d stop by medical once I was free.”
“Oh, rad! I just did mine a few days ago.” Daisuke nods sagely. Several beats pass in silence before he cocks his head to the side. “So, are you going to like, get going, or…?”
“Oh!” Curly startles. For some reason, he’d expected Daisuke to say something else. “Right. I’m heading over there now, but uh, let me know if you need anything, yeah?”
“Sure, dude,” Daisuke says, sounding as mystified as Curly feels. “Will do.”
He makes his way to medical. The door is open, but he still pauses in the entryway, rapping his knuckles against the frame. “Knock, knock.”
Anya looks up from the report on her desk. She offers a small, tired-looking smile. “Well, hello, Curly. Are you here for your psych eval?”
“That’s the plan.” He takes a seat opposite her. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
Anya regards him. Her lips contort into this bemused little smile, pert humor in her voice. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one asking questions? This is your psych eval.”
“We haven’t started yet,” Curly retorts. “Besides…” He trails off. His vision doesn’t quite swim, but it does distort. His back is to the door, but for a moment he feels like he’s looking out of it anyway, into the lounge. At that sky screen, at the red… no, no, the blue…
“Captain?” Some of the humor fades from Anya’s voice, replaced by concern. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Curly shakes his head. “Damn. It’s driving me bonkers.”
“What is?” Anya looks genuinely concerned now.
“The sky screen,” Curly says. “There’s something wrong with it, but I just can’t figure out what. Have you noticed anything, Anya?”
“The sky screen.” Anya’s voice takes on a curious edge. Not flat, exactly. Just… robbed, slightly, of her usual warmth. “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”
“What? Well, no. That’s why I’m asking you, yeah?”
“Do you see it now?”
“Now? Anya, I don’t—”
“It’s fine.” Anya says it like it’s the furthest thing from. “These things take time. Are you ready for your psych eval?”
Her sudden change in tone catches him off-guard. What is wrong? “Sure? But, Anya—”
Anya pulls the standard form out of her desk and clicks a pen. She presses the back end of it to her bottom lip as she reads the first line. “Have you been able to complete your mandated tasks as captain efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”
“Yes,” Curly responds on autopilot. Autopilot. A funny word, that, isn’t it? Although he can’t quite figure out why it’s funny right this moment. He feels strange. His thoughts are all out of order, like he’s been sick for a long time, on cold medicine or something. But he hasn’t been sick, has he?
“How would you rate your performance as Captain, one being ‘very poor’ and five being ‘very good?’”
“Four,” Curly says. “Anya, the screen—”
Anya slams her pen down. She hasn’t written anything on Curly’s psych eval as far as he can tell. She looks at him with her wide eyes, her dark eyes, and all at once she doesn’t look tired. She looks pained.
“Captain,” she asks quietly. “Do you believe me?”
“What?”
“I said—”
- TAKE RESPONSIBILITY -
“Do you believe me? You have to, right?”
Jimmy’s voice is desperate. Curly blinks. His mouth tastes strange, and there’s a faint ringing in his ears. His head’s moving too slow. It’s always like this after a long haul. Takes him time to get acclimated to life back on Earth. That’s probably what’s going on here. He’s probably misunderstanding something, because he thought Jimmy said—
“Hellooooooo? Did you leave your fucking brain on that spaceship? Say something!”
“Sorry.” The apology slips out without thought. “I’m just a little confused. Why is Maggie so upset with you…?”
“Does it even fucking matter?” Jimmy rolls his eyes. “She made me lose my job, Curly! Who’s side are you on, anyway?”
Sides? Curly hadn’t realized there were sides. “Whoa, hey, take it easy.” He puts both of his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders, like he can steady the rolling emotions beneath his skin with just a touch. “Look, I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. I’ll head over to Maggie’s, see what’s going on. We can work this out.”
Jimmy snorts, face contorting in upset. For a moment, he looks like the kid who used to throw tantrums in Curly’s backyard. “Maggie doesn’t even matter, aren’t you listening? Who cares about what she thinks when I’m broke? Are you going to talk to my boss, too, make it all better?” His voice drops. “Judgmental bitch.”
Curly winces. “Don’t worry about the job. You hated that place anyway, yeah?” He shakes Jimmy’s shoulders gently. “Tell you what. I’ll put in a good word for you at Pony Express. You can come work with me. Get away from all of this, no matter how it works out.”
Jimmy stills. The anger in his eyes doesn’t vanish, but it does shuffle off to the side, making room for something gentler. “You’d really do that?”
“Of course.” Curly breathes out, relieved to finally break through to him. “You’ll see. Everything’s going to work out fine. And Maggie—”
- I’LL TALK TO HIM -
“—doesn’t want to talk to you, Curly.”
Hassan stands in the doorway of Maggie’s apartment, glaring at him like he’s insulted his entire bloodline. Curly winces. “Um…” It’s strange. Ostensibly Curly should have had the whole drive to think through responses to situations like this, but he feels like he’s just been shoved into the scene with no warning.
“He’s not going to give up, is he?” Maggie’s voice, from inside, is hoarse. Like she’s been crying. “Just let him in, Hassan.”
Hassan steps aside, still glaring. Curly doesn’t know what to do with it.
Maggie is on the couch, Esme beside her. She has been crying. Her hair is greasy and unwashed, and she looks like she hasn’t slept properly in weeks. Curly considers himself a bit of an expert in fucked up sleep schedules, but he hasn’t seen eye bags that dark even on the Pony Express.
“You’ve been ignoring my texts,” Curly says. That’s a horrible thing to say. Curly shakes his head, tries again. “I’m sorry, I’m just—are you okay? That’s what I should have started with.”
“Well, Hassan told you,” Maggie says flatly. “I didn’t exactly want to talk to you, Curly. I know whatever I tell you is getting back to Jimmy.”
She doesn’t react at all to his apology, or anything he said after it. Curly clears his throat, awkward, wrong-footed. “Well, I—I don’t know why you’re ignoring him, either. I guess the two of you had some sort of disagreement—”
“So that’s what we’re calling it?” Esme interjects.
“—but I’m sure it’s nothing you two of you can’t settle over drinks or something.”
Maggie begins to laugh. At least, Curly thinks that’s what she’s doing. It’s a high, screamy sound, and when she lowers her hands, Curly is alarmed to see tears shining in her eyes. What’s going on with her?
“Drinks,” Maggie echoes, her voice cracking. “Oh, we went out for drinks, alright. He invited me out a few weeks ago, Curly. I thought it was kind of weird—we don’t exactly get along—but I figured hey, what the hell. Maybe I’d been judging him too harshly. Maybe he wanted to be friends.”
Hassan, hovering beside her like a guard dog, speaks in a gentle voice. “Maggie, you don’t have to…”
“Actually, I think I do.” Maggie levels her hard, wet gaze on Curly. “I met him at a bar. I had one drink. Before I could even finish it, my head was spinning. I felt sick. At first I couldn’t walk in a straight line, and then I couldn’t walk at all. Jimmy found me collapsed in the bathroom and dragged me out. The last thing I remember is him telling someone not to worry, that I just had too much, that he was getting me home.”
Curly feels cold. There’s something on the edges of her words, a weight, an implication that he can’t quite grasp. For some reason, it reminds him of being on the Tulpar, late at night when he can’t sleep. The sky screen. Why does this remind him of the sky screen with its fake moon and stars?
“I woke up covered in sick,” Maggie continues. Her voice is shaking. “I could barely walk. I couldn’t keep anything down. And I felt wrong. I didn’t want to believe that anything awful had happened. But I knew what he did. I could feel it. It fucking hurt.” She laughs. There’s no humor in the sound. “I wonder if he knew it would. Maybe he wanted it to.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, staring down at her lap. Esme sits on one side of her, Hassan on the other. Neither of them speak this time, and neither of them touch her to comfort her. It strikes Curly as ominous, although he can’t quite parse why. His head is swimming. “Hey. Hey. Whatever happened—”
“Whatever happened?” Maggie’s voice shoots up an octave. “Jesus Christ, Curly. Do you need me to spell it out for you?”
“Spell what out? I don’t—”
“Jimmy raped me.”
When the Tulpar malfunctions, it sends out a jet of protective foam. Without that sealing the cracks and smoothing the gaps, all of the air would be sucked out of the cabin, and most of the crew with it. Curly’s feet remain planted on the ground, but he feels a little like he’s been tossed into deep space anyway, void of warmth or oxygen. His ears ring.
“What?”
“He spiked my drink, Curly.” Maggie speaks slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “He spiked my drink, he lied and said I’d had too much, and then he took me home and he raped me. And when I confronted him, he didn’t even deny it.”
Curly stares at her. That can’t be right. “What did he say?”
“Nothing that makes any difference.” Maggie leans forward, arms wrapped around her torso. The position is… familiar. Only it shouldn’t be, and the words… is that really what she told him back then? Only back then, that isn’t right, this is right now, Curly is staring at Maggie with horror and panic and he needs to…
He needs to focus. He needs to make sense of this. “I’m sure he didn’t… mean it like that.” Curly speaks slowly, halting. “Jimmy… he was probably drunk, too. I’m sure he wouldn’t… If you’d just talk to him again, now that he’s had some time to calm down—”
He’d been so focused on Maggie, he hadn’t even noticed Hassan get off the couch and approach him until he’s slammed into the wall. His head rebounds against the drywall, and he sees stars. His shoulders and spine ache from the impact.
But none of that hurts half as bad as the way Maggie’s face had crumpled at his words, or the betrayal in her eyes.
“You fucking talk to him,” Hassan growls. “We’re done. With the both of you. Get the fuck out of here, Curly.”
Curly is hauled bodily out the door while Esme murmurs soothing things to Maggie in a quiet voice. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of the television. It’s muted but playing. A commercial for mouthwash stretches across the screen, jarringly cheerful. Except every few seconds, the screen cuts to black, with white text that flashes too fast to read—
- KILLS 99.9% -
“What do you think we’re hauling, anyway?”
Curly blinks, looking away from the night time screen. For a second, he thought it had words on it, but that’s ridiculous. The only reason it would have words is if the alarm system was going off, and that’s not happening.
No, it’s a normal night on the Tulpar. The crew sits crowded around a game board. Anya’s sulking over losing the latest round, Jimmy’s tipped back in his chair disinterestedly, Swansea is nursing one of the overly-sweet Pony Express sodas that only he can stomach. And Daisuke…
“Woooow, really? No one’s got any ideas?”
Right. Daisuke asked a question.
Curly chuckles, shaking his head. “Sorry, Daisuke. I wasn’t ignoring you, just thinking.” He rubs his temple, trying to get his head on straight. They’re far enough into the haul that the five-hour sleep schedule is starting to weigh on him. “I really don’t know what we’re hauling.”
Beside him, Jimmy snorts. “They don’t even tell their prestigious captain what we’re here for? Figures.”
“Must be important to have us all out here for such a long time,” Daisuke muses. “Like, ooooh, what if we’re actually on some top secret mission! For like the government or something.”
Swansea makes a dismissive noise. “This is Pony Express, kid, not the goddamn secret service. We’re strictly retail. Probably hauling a bunch of junk for damn fools to waste their money on.”
“Aw, man.” Daisuke deflates slightly. But after a moment, he rallies. “Well, I still think it could be something cool! Something fancy, like, uhhhhh…” He taps his knuckle to his lips, a look of real concentration on his face. “Caviar…?”
Jimmy snorts, and Curly has to fight to keep the amusement off of his own face. He’s the captain, he can’t be making fun of the poor kid. “We should get to sleep,” he says diplomatically. “Whatever we’re hauling, we need to be in fighting form to do it, right?”
“Aye aye, captain!” Daisuke snaps off a sloppy salute. “See you in five hours.”
The others disperse — Daisuke swinging his arms, Swansea grumbling about his back, Jimmy with his hands in his pockets. Curly stands and stretches, aware that there’s someone not quite accounted for, and… there’s Anya. She’s standing in front of the window screen, her back to Curly, facing the projection of the night sky.
She’s been quiet since the game ended. Still bitter about the loss? Curly chuckles. “You’ll get him next time, Anya.” Anya doesn’t answer. Amusement fades into concern. “Anya?”
Anya doesn’t turn to look at him. But she speaks. Slowly, without inflection and without even an inch of movement, she says, “I actually like the night time window screen. If you can believe it. So I just come look at it sometimes. If you look really, really close…”
Curly waits. And waits. And waits. “If I look close, what?”
Anya points. But only to her own temple. “In the back of my mind, it’s always there.”
“What’s always there?” Cold sweat beads Curly’s hairline, trickles down his spine. He doesn’t understand why. He falls to his knees beside her, but he still can’t see her face. “What’s wrong with the screen Anya? Tell me.”
Anya looks at him then. Her face is impassive. “Captain. You already know.”
“No. No, no, no.” Curly clings to the hem of her jumpsuit. He can’t help himself. He’s panicking, drowning. Surrounded by ladders, and yet he can’t climb his way out. “I can’t see it. I can’t. I’ve tried, I’ve been trying, but I still don’t know. I don’t. I need you to tell me.”
He thinks Anya might sigh. He knows she shakes her head. “Let’s try this again,” she says, and—
- WE’LL FIGURE IT OUT TOGETHER -
“Uh, Captain? You good?”
Curly turns away from the screen. Sees Daisuke is sitting on the kitchen counter, boots dangling off the floor. Looking at him inquisitively, the light of the artificial sun slicing through his face at a diagonal, red and—
Curly breaks into a run.
“Whoa, dude!” Daisuke’s concerned voice follows him down the hallway, but Curly doesn’t stop. He can’t. He flings open the door to medical, his heart in his throat.
“Anya!”
Anya looks up from her desk, eyes wide. Reproachful. “You could have knocked, Captain.”
Shame subsumes panic. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He actually steps backward into the hallway, as if that will undo the violation. “I just—Anya, something’s wrong. I need help.”
Anya sighs. She looks tired. “Well, I suppose that is my job, isn’t it? Sit down, Curly.”
Curly does. Anya pulls the standard form out of her desk and clicks a pen. She presses the back end of it to her bottom lip as she reads the first line. “Have you been able to complete your mandated tasks as captain efficiently and to your fullest capacity?”
“Wait, wait—”
“Answer the question.”
“I—yes.”
“Honestly, Captain. Not what Pony Express wants to hear. Not what I want to hear. What you feel to be true. Have you been able to complete—”
“I don’t know! I don’t know, okay, is that what you want me to say?”
“I want you to look at the facts, Captain.” Anya clicks her pen, then sets it down. She folds her hands in front of herself and looks at Curly, frank. “You’re the captain. This is your responsibility. When something is wrong, that’s your responsibility, too. That’s what you signed up for, when you took the job. You promised to keep us safe, Curly. That is your job. Have you done that?”
“I—I’ve tried.” Curly’s hands are shaking. “You have to believe that I tried.”
“Do you think it’s safe on this ship?”
“As safe as I could make it.”
“Even with him?”
Curly feels cold. He wants to run. But Anya is staring at him. “He—”
“He’s on this ship because of you, Curly. You put in a good word for him, even knowing what he was capable of.”
“I didn’t!” Curly’s voice is high, desperate. “I didn’t know, I—I… I didn’t want to believe—”
“But you’ve known. You’ve always known. What kind of person he is. Think, Captain.” Anya leans forward. Her eyes are wide and dark and desperate. “Think. When you look really, really close…”
- WORK THROUGH IT -
“What the hell are you looking at?”
Curly blinks. Jimmy’s staring at him like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s the pain. Every second, every day, it… it makes it hard to think. Hard to be.”
Jimmy snorts. “Christ, Curly. It was just a break-up. The way you’re talking, you’d think she sawed your limbs off or something.”
“Ha,” Curly breathes. But it tastes bitter. Was he talking about the break-up? The one with Bev? He supposes he must have been, but it feels like there was something else that was wrong. Something he was supposed to look for. Something he was supposed to do.
He can’t think.
You’d think she sawed your limbs off…
“Man, you need to eat something, come on.” Jimmy drags Curly out of his chair. “You’re starving, that’s the problem. Get something down, I’d even settle for one of those nasty protein shakes you like at this point.”
“I’m fine, really.” Curly says. His lips feel numb. “I appreciate you looking after me like this.”
“Someone has to, you damn sad sack.” Jimmy deposits Curly in a chair at the kitchen table, starts rummaging around his fridge. Jimmy’s not the best cook, but he does always share. Curly appreciates that. “Really, you got to get over it. You dodged a bullet with that one, Curly, trust me.”
“A bullet,” Curly says. Why should he be thinking about guns right now? He’s not that bad off. Jimmy is right. It’s just a break up.
“Yeah, man,” Jimmy says. “Girls like that, they’re awful to be around. So fucking sensitive. You’re always walking on eggshells, and for what? I mean, be honest, how often did she even put out? Not enough to justify dealing with all of her bullshit, I guess.”
Curly’s ears ring. His face burns. “I don’t know,” he says. Jimmy’s trying to help, he thinks, but he hates when his friend talks like this. He never knows what to say, especially in a situation like this. He should be mad at Bev, right? She broke his heart.
Does that justify this?
“Tell you what,” Jimmy says. “Let’s go to a bar tonight. Get you laid. It’ll be easy. Simple, safe. She might not even realize we did anything after the fact.”
Curly blanches. “What did you say?”
Jimmy looks at him like he’s just grown a second head. “I said, let’s go to the bar. Get you laid. You know, that thing you’re in desperate need of?”
“No.” Curly’s cold. He doesn’t know why. It’s summer. “After that. What’d you say after that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jimmy says impatiently. “Are you in or what?”
Curly grits his teeth. Looks down at the plate Jimmy put in front of him. Raw meat, bloody, filthy, stares back up at him. It smells of rot. Curly’s stomach lurches.
“Out,” he says. “I’m out.”
Jimmy shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says. There’s an axe in his hands, and a dull gleam in his eyes.
He raises it up. He brings it down.
- TAKE CARE OF IT -
Curly vomits.
He kneels, trembling, above an unfamiliar toilet bowl. It’s metal, cold beneath his gripping hands. Around him are the walls of a bathroom stall, scribbled over in graffiti. Not the usual public restroom fare. Instead of phone numbers and expletives, he’s surrounded by unnervingly cheery phrases.
Don’t be daft! Lend a hand! Giddy up, galaxy! Rise and shine!
Curly stumbles out of the stall. Where is he? The bathroom reeks of sick and old booze. He’s in a bar. But that’s not right. He told Jimmy he didn’t want to go. Out. He said he was out. Why is he here?
His reflection, pale and sickly, stares back at him. His hair frames his face, blond and curled. It barely brushes the collar of his shirt. He’d been wearing it longer when Bev broke up with him, and longer still in the months following. By the time he’d finally gotten his act together enough to get it cut, it had been past his shoulders.
He exits the bathroom, heart in his throat. The bar is crowded, chaotic. Voices overlapping each other, warm bodies colliding and clinging and sticky with sweat. A girl sways drunkenly on her friend’s arm, laughing as though she’s about to cry. A man shows his teeth to the pretty bartender.
And there, heading towards the door. Jimmy. Maggie’s arm draped over his shoulder, her head lolling forward, her feet dragging. The laces of her high tops slide across the floor like limp, filthy bandages.
Curly breaks into a run. He catches them right before Jimmy’s about to drag them away and into the night.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Jimmy turns. Where his face should be, there’s only a black square. “Not so fast,” he says. “You’re on the Tulpar right now, remember? Giddy up, galaxy! Not down here with us mere mortals.”
“Stop, just—stop.” Curly’s mouth is dry. His head aches. “Leave her alone. I can take her home. I can keep her safe.”
“You can’t, though,” Maggie says. She’s limp in Jimmy’s arms, but she’s also standing beside Curly, her expression dull. “What can you do? ‘HR complaints about poor team synergy may result in collective punishment.’”
“But that’s an excuse, isn’t it?” Jimmy says. “You wouldn’t have done anything anyway. Not to me. You believe in me. Isn’t that what you said? And it’s easy to believe in me, isn’t it? A lot easier to do that than admit what’s always been right in front of you.”
“That’s not true,” Curly pleads.
“It is true,” Jimmy shouts. The blackness of his face is all encompassing. “You just don’t want to admit it. You want to be able to frame it to yourself in a way that keeps you as the hero.”
“But you’re not the hero,” Anya says. She’s the one standing beside Curly, not Maggie. She’s always the one standing beside him. Her eyes are dull, and blood pours from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. “I thought you would be, but you’re not. You’re staring right at it and you still don’t see.”
“Stop,” Curly pleads. “Stop, stop, stop—”
- TAKE CARE OF IT -
Stop.
Curly sits upright in his bunk. Not awakened. He hadn’t been sleeping, not after the disaster of a birthday party. Even now, Jimmy’s angry words still echo in his ears, but now he swears he hears something else. Not a voice. Not yet. But something.
Footsteps?
Yes, that’s what he’s hearing. Footsteps outside, passing by his room. He should probably go check on whoever it is. Only he doesn’t think he’d be a particularly welcome sight for anyone. Daisuke, maybe, but the others?
The footsteps pass by Daisuke’s room. And his. And then they stop. Right in front of Anya’s room. How can he be sure of that? Every clank and groan on the Tulpar echoes. It’s impossible to know where the footsteps ended.
Stop.
Only he does know. The footsteps stopped in front of Anya’s room. He definitely shouldn’t go out there if it’s her. She’d been so upset when she found out the Pony Express was letting them go. She won’t want to see him. She’ll want to be alone.
The door to her room isn’t opening yet, though. Isn’t that strange? Curly can’t think of any reason why Anya would be standing in front of her own door like that.
Stop.
That word. Why does he keep thinking that word, like he’s hearing it spoken out loud, whispered against the uncaring dark? Why doesn’t Anya’s door open? It’s not like it’s locked.
Hey. Why do you think…
He should go out there. He should go out there. He should—
- TAKE CARE OF IT -
“Jim? What are you doing out here?”
“Of course I have doubts. I should have told you about them sooner.”
“He shouldn’t have talked to you like that. It’s not right.”
- TAKE CARE OF IT -
“What do you mean by that?”
“Are you okay? Is he making you uncomfortable?”
“Of course I believe you.”
- TAKE -
“What the fuck did you do? What did you do to her? That’s sick. You’re sick.”
“What he did was terrible. There’s no excuse for it. I’m on your side, yeah?”
“I can see it, too.”
- CARE -
“He’s always been like this.”
“That’s an awful thing to say.”
“Get your hands off of her.”
- OF -
“The upper right corner? Let’s see… Huh, what do you know? There it is.”
“Anya… Why are you asking that? What happened?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
- H I M ! ! ! -
“The code for the gun case is—”
- that so? hmmmmm. nope. don’t see it. -
“That isn’t how it happened,” Anya admonishes. She’s sitting at her desk, but her eyes aren’t on the psych eval form in front of her. They’re on him. Calm, patient, expectant.
Tired.
“That isn’t how it happened,” she says again. “You can’t fix this by pretending you swooped in at the last minute. It’s too late to play the hero, Curly.”
“Then tell me what to do!” Curly hates the pleading sound in his voice. Hates the desperation that makes a forest fire of his chest. Hates himself. “I need you to help me. I need you to forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it, but please, Anya. I need you to tell me how to fix it.”
Anya sighs. She doesn’t even look angry. That’s the hell of it. “Captain,” she says, hideously gentle, “you can’t.”
She might as well have slapped him. Curly’s ears ring, his trembling limbs shocked into stillness. He can’t blink. He can’t breathe.
“You can’t fix it,” Anya continues patiently, relentlessly. “You can’t help me. And I can’t help you.”
Tears spill over Curly’s cheeks. He tastes the salt of them on his tongue. “I’m sorry, Anya,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. What can I do? What can I say?”
“Curly…” Anya’s expression shifts. Not pity, but a cousin to it. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not even here. I’m there.”
She points over his shoulder. The floor by the medical cot. He knows what he’ll see there. He doesn’t want to look. She deserves that, she deserves everything, but even now, he can’t make himself. He’s frozen. A coward, even now.
“Please.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Everything in him screams. “Please.”
He’s not sitting in the med bay anymore. The seat beneath him is softer, wider, cushioned. The smell of antiseptic is replaced by the artificial lounge air. The fluorescent light against the backs of his eyelids softens and darkens.
He opens his eyes to the nighttime window screen. Dark blue skies, clouds, moon, stars. A peaceful view. If you’re looking at the big picture.
Sitting beside him, Anya speaks softly. “Do you see it now?”
Exhaustion washes over Curly in a wave. “Yeah.” With one heavy hand, he points. Upper right corner. A single speck of black. “The dead pixel. I see it now.”
Anya sighs, an unwinding. Her body relaxes into the couch, her head tipping back over the cushions. She looks more at peace than he’s ever seen her. “I think,” she says. “that probably would have meant a lot to me.”
Curly’s eyes sting. He blinks. He doesn’t want to cry. “Yeah.”
“Are you ready?”
Curly laughs. It’s a rough, broken sound. “I don’t have a choice.”
Anya’s head fetches up against his shoulder. A warm, companionable pressure. “Neither did I.”
Curly nods. Carries the weight of that, the grief, the guilt, the ache. When he looks up at the screen, he’s unsurprised to see that it’s changed. Bright red, black text. Alarms blare—
- SYSTEM FAILURE -
Anya locks the door.
Curly sees her now. With his one remaining eye, with every inch of his ruined body, he sees her. The months after the crash have not been easy on her. There’s a sallowness to her skin, the ever-present bags under her eyes darkened to bruises. Her hair hangs lank and greasy. There’s a tremble in her hands that never goes away.
Curly’s hands would be trembling, too.
“He broke the statue,” Anya mutters. She’s not talking to him, but he hears her anyway. “He knew. He knew why I put my sleeping bag next to it. Now I won’t have it to warn me. And I can’t…” She trails off. Chokes out a quiet, broken noise. “That’s a lie. I can survive it. Or I could. I have. But what would be the point?”
She pauses here. Curly watches her. Watches the practical brain that kept finding reasons to live come up against the inevitable truth: there’s no ending where she walks off of this ship alive.
“Eventually,” she says, “we’re going to run out of food. Or air. Or I’ll…” She touches her stomach. At what remains inside of her, growing even now, in spite of everything. “I won’t. I won’t do it. I won’t.”
She kneels down. Pulls open a drawer beneath him. The gun in its case, forever out of reach, taunts them both.
“I wish I had more options,” Anya mutters. “The gun… if I had the code…” She laughs brokenly. “If I had the code, would any of this have happened? I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
She’s right. Nothing matters. There’s nothing he can do except watch as she chokes down the only escape she has left. He wishes he could follow. But even if he could speak, he wouldn’t dare to ask it of her. After everything, he couldn’t do that to her.
Half of the pills are already down when Jimmy slams on the door. It’s not enough to keep the fear out of her gaze, but it’s enough to keep her voice steady when she speaks to him, when she spits his own words in his face.
“I’ll take care of it,” she tells him, even as she shakes more pills into her palm.
Five seconds after Jimmy and Daisuke flee, Anya vomits down her front as her legs give out. It doesn't stop her from finishing the job.
Curly wishes that he could say that she looks triumphant. Or at least content. He wishes he could give her the gift of a dignified end, if only in his perception. But there’s nothing dignified about this. Not the blood-frothy drool dribbling from her mouth, or the weak spasming of her chest, or the idiot twitching of her limbs.
Her eyes, already glazing over, are not the eyes of a woman who got the last laugh. She does not look defiant. She just looks tired.
Eventually, Daisuke will drag himself broken and bleeding out of the vent. Curly will bear witness to the horror of his end. And Jimmy will come, eyes wild and desperate, and he will step over the remains of the woman he ruined like the afterthought she always was to him. He will unlock the gun from its case.
And Curly will laugh as the dead pixel swallows them all in darkness.
- in the back of my mind, it’s always there. -