Chapter 5
JILLIAN
Ilose track of time here. Purgonis doesn’t give you neat twenty-four-hour days or star-swept nights.
The skies are a constant migraine blur of ash and magnetic haze, like the planet resents you tracking its rhythms. But I measure time by samples, by shifts in the soil texture, by the crystalline formations that glitter like shattered glass embedded in slag.
I start seeing patterns.
The crystalline fungi grow in strange fractals—almost mathematical in precision, though nature loves to pretend at order.
More than that, they shimmer differently depending on the sound around them.
The first time I notice it, I think I’m hallucinating.
One of the marines is yelling across the compound—some dumb joke—and I catch a faint pulse ripple through the edge of the fungus I’m cataloging.
I freeze. Wait. Tap the edge of my compad. It makes a soft chirp as it powers up.
Another ripple.
My breath catches. This isn't some random coincidence. The fungus is… reacting. Not just passive reflection. Actual resonance.
I record everything—timestamped video, spectrographic scans, even the tone frequencies from the compad audio files. I don’t tell anyone. Not yet.
Because I know what Ciampa will say.
Sure enough, when I try to gently bring it up—“Hey, I think these formations might have a sound-reactive—” he waves me off without even looking at the data.
“Echo resonance,” he says, that rehearsed kindly tone frosting over his words. “Not uncommon in crystalline formations exposed to sub-harmonic vibrations. Stick to your assigned grid, Jillian. And wear your damn gloves, we don’t know how the spore load shifts in variable humidity.”
That’s how he shuts people down—like you’re being irresponsible for noticing too much.
But I’ve got good instincts. And this place is weird.
Not just harsh—off. Like the bones of something ancient and half-dead that’s still twitching under the surface.
I feel it in the way the air buzzes sometimes.
In the way the marines’ eyes dart at shadows even though their sensors say the perimeter’s clear.
And in the way Carson avoids me now.
He used to hover. To joke, to ramble nervously about rock density shifts and magnetic anomalies like he needed to fill every silence before it swallowed him. Now he barely makes eye contact. When Darwin walks by, Carson flinches like a guilty dog.
Darwin is his usual smirking self, always lurking around Ciampa like a snide little echo. He’s technically just a student assistant, but he moves like he owns the place, always getting too close, asking too many questions. Watching.
Carson’s not paranoid. Something’s going on.
I want to press him about it, but the timing’s never right. Every moment feels like it’s under surveillance now. Even when it’s not.
I think about going to Ciampa. Asking outright. But then I remember the look on his face when I mentioned the fungus. The way his smile tightened by a millimeter. The way he immediately shifted the conversation to policy protocols and grant procedures like that would make me forget what I saw.
No. I don’t trust him.
That night, long after the base dims to low power and most everyone is asleep or pretending to be, I slip out of my bunk.
The recycled air hums steadily, the kind of lull that tries to convince you everything’s fine.
My boots barely make a sound on the polymer flooring.
Carson’s door creaks as I ease it open, but no alarm triggers—he disabled the proximity alert after the second time it went off from a rat-sized root bug scurrying under the structure.
Inside, it smells faintly of sour sweat and ration bars. He’s not here, probably still out “on patrol” with the marines—Ciampa’s idea of morale building. I crouch down and feel around under his bunk.
My fingers close on something cool and rectangular.
The compad.
It’s an older model, slim and heavy, wrapped in a torn piece of cloth like that would hide it from anyone determined enough to look. I cradle it for a second, my pulse loud in my ears. This thing is burning in my palm, even though it’s powered down.
I don’t open it. Not yet.
Instead, I slip it into the lining of my jacket and backtrack quietly to my bunk, every nerve lit up like a flare. I climb into bed and pull the blanket over my head like that’ll shield me from the weight of the truth I just pocketed.
Whatever Carson found, it scared him.
And now I’m holding it. Literally.
The walls feel thinner than usual tonight. The wind outside whistles through the structural joints with a keening pitch that almost sounds like music if I listen too long. My breath fogs the inside of the blanket. My heartbeat won’t slow down.
I close my eyes.
And I swear something outside breathes in time with me.
A few days later, we get an alert.
The storm isn’t on any of the IHC’s weather models. Which means it’s real.
The wind screeches against the dome shield like claws across old synthglass, and the distortion field hums louder than usual—low, pulsing, like the planet itself is warning us to stay inside.
Grady barked over comms twenty minutes ago that all non-essential personnel were to remain indoors. That was my cue.
“Just heading out to get a stronger signal,” I say, chipper as ever, holding up my compad for effect as I pass one of the marines near the entry port. He grunts, doesn’t even look up from his card game. He doesn’t care. None of them do. They’re too tired. Too bored.
I step past the pressurized lock and into the thrum of Purgonis.
The moment the inner hatch seals behind me, the world outside swallows me whole.
Wind smashes into my suit like it’s trying to rip me backward.
Fine black grit hits the visor, clings to every seam and joint like it’s alive.
I brace against the force and trudge forward, boots crunching over the dusty crust of volcanic glass and half-melted rock.
Every instinct screams at me to turn back. But I’m not wired that way.
I make my way toward the perimeter beacon—an ugly tower of fused metal and blinking lights that hums with a syncopated rhythm, like it’s in pain. The signal here isn’t better. If anything, it’s worse. But that’s not the point.
I’m not here for a signal.
I’m here for confirmation.
I glance out toward the ridge line, barely visible through the haze. The cliffs are jagged silhouettes, their outlines rippling like mirages in the refracted light. The storm bends the terrain into illusions—shapes that aren’t quite there, movement that could be wind… or not.
“I know you’re there,” I say softly.
The wind howls louder, flinging grit against the shielding of my helmet. “I saw you,” I add, a little louder this time. “I’m not stupid.”
The camp behind me feels a thousand miles away. In the storm, the world narrows down to static and silhouette, to breath caught in my chest and the persistent itch of being watched.
My words hang in the air like bait.
For a while, nothing happens.
Then—movement.
Just a flicker. Barely perceptible. A blur of darker shadow against the dark. Something too tall. Too upright. Too fast to be wind or wildlife. It crosses from one outcropping to another with inhuman grace and vanishes like smoke.
But that’s all I need.
My breath hitches, but I don’t panic. Don’t scream. Instead, I just smile, wide and slow inside the helmet. “Thought so,” I murmur.
I don’t expect a response. I don’t get one.
The presence doesn’t return. The cliffs settle into stillness again. But I know what I saw. I know what I felt. The eyes I’ve sensed at the edge of every dream since we landed… they’re real.
And they’re his.
I wait another moment, pretending to fiddle with the compad, then turn back toward camp. The storm hasn’t let up, but I walk easier now, like some weight has been lifted. I’m not crazy. Something’s out there. And for whatever reason, it hasn’t tried to kill us.
Yet.
Inside the dome, the temperature change hits like a slap. The warm, filtered air fogs up my visor instantly. I unlatch the seals and pull the helmet off, dragging a hand through my damp hair as I walk back toward the bunk modules.
The place is quieter than usual. The storm must be giving even the marines second thoughts. Or maybe everyone’s just pretending things are fine, like they always do.
My room is exactly as I left it—spartan, too bright, and barely big enough to stretch out in. The compad Carson gave me is still tucked into my satchel, hidden beneath a stack of datapads full of mineral surveys and incomplete reports.
I sit down on the edge of the cot and pull the satchel closer, fingers grazing over the compad’s edge.
It feels heavier than before.
Like it knows I saw something tonight. Like it’s daring me to open it.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I lie back on the cot and stare at the ceiling. Outside, the storm howls. I can hear the faint thrum of the distortion field struggling to keep up with the atmospheric spikes. The lights flicker once, then settle. My heart doesn’t.
I think about the blur in the cliffs. The stillness of that shadow. The fact that it didn’t charge. Didn’t snarl. Just… watched.
And I think about the way it moved. Like it belonged here more than we ever could.
Like the planet itself made room for it.
I wonder what it sees when it looks at us. Weakness? Arrogance? Maybe both.
But I don’t feel afraid. Not like I should.
I just feel… seen.