Chapter 7
JILLIAN
I’m starting to think no one actually listens to me.
Not really. Not the way I’m trying to be heard.
Professor Ciampa smiles like he’s soothing a frightened child, but the warmth never reaches his eyes.
He leans back in that ridiculous rumpled chair in the lab like he owns every speck of dust in the entire compound, folds his hands behind his head, and swallows my latest findings like they’re someone else’s problem.
“Fascinating, Ms. Smith,” he says, voice silky and slow, like doses of honey without the sweetness. “But subsonic resonances in crystalline growths are common under stress fractures. Continue with your assigned grid pattern.”
“Sir,” I say, teeth clenched behind my mask, “these aren’t stress fractures. The fungi are responding to specific frequencies. Sound patterns. They pulse differently, not just reflect light.”
He shakes his head. “There’s no biological precedent for your hypothesis here. Stick to the grid, and I’ll review your scans later.”
That “later” is code for never.
I close my compad and smile wide, like a good student. You know, the kind that gets vaults filled with grant money and pats on the back.
But I don’t feel good.
I feel trapped.
I step out of Ciampa’s lab and collide with Darwin in the hallway—like bumping into a wall that’s always been there, only somehow more irritating than the last time.
“Oh, Jillian,” he says, voice too smooth, like he’s practicing polite human sounds. “You look… enthusiastic.”
“Defined by acute irritation at being dismissed,” I reply.
He doesn’t blink. That’s the weird thing. Humans always blink when they’re lying or nervous or both. He doesn’t. That alone makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Science is about focus,” he says. “You’ll get your turn once the initial surveys are complete.”
“Sure,” I say, teeth gritted. “Once the surveys are complete and everyone’s six feet under.”
He doesn’t react, just turns on his heel and walks away like nothing happened.
I watch his back recede.
Something about that just… doesn’t sit right.
I end up back in the lab module, surrounded by half-finished datapads and the low hum of failing generators. It’s warmer here than it should be, and I can feel sweat beading under my collar even with the ventilation cranked up.
I set my satchel down and unzip it with a sort of reverence—like I’m undoing a secret I shouldn’t have.
The compad Carson gave me burns where it sits against my thigh. It’s heavy and secret and sharp with possibility.
Not now, not yet.
First I need data. Hard, measurable, undeniable.
I pull up my geoscan logs and cross-reference them with the fungus samples I snagged yesterday near the ash fields—where the pulsing light was so bright I could swear it was breathing.
I set up a private experiment station in the oldest wing of the lab module—where the lights flicker, half the outlets barely work, and the smell is a cocktail of overheated circuitry and antiseptic spray that’s way past expiration.
Just another day in a dying planet’s science facility.
I plug my equipment into the one power port that still hums with juice and begin reconstructing the waveform models.
Every time I play back the audio files I recorded—tiny blips of marine chatter, boots on gravel, my own voice—something in the fungus spikes like it’s alive. Crystals shift. Light changes. It’s not random.
It’s responsive.
I lean forward, eyes squinting at the waveform spikes on my small screen.
“Okay… come on,” I mutter to the fungi like they’re colleagues who just won’t talk.
A tone pulses at 12.7 kilohertz—high, piercing, something only a few species can detect. The samples begin to vibrate visibly.
Not fluoresce.
Not quiver.
Vibrate.
Like they’re resonating.
I nearly topple out of my chair with excitement.
That’s when someone clears their throat behind me.
I jump—an ugly, embarrassing lurch that sends a cascade of sample vials rattling.
There’s Darwin, standing in the doorway with that same bland expression pasted across his face.
“You’re working late,” he says.
I don’t take off my gloves. I don’t look away from the screen.
“No,” I say. “I’m working correctly.”
He shifts, uneasily. For a second, I think I see something behind his eyes—fear? Guilt? That same nervous flare Carson gets when he’s trying not to let panic leak out—
But it’s gone as soon as I notice it.
“Professor Ciampa said to log everything to the central database,” Darwin says. “Official channels. You know how important protocol is.”
“He also said I shouldn’t worry about resonant pulsing in crystalline structures,” I reply without looking at him. “And that was ridiculous.”
His jaw tightens.
“Jillion,” he says soft, almost rehearsed.
“Jill,” I correct, eyes not leaving the screen.
He sighs. Like it’s a burden to have to speak honestly.
“Watch your tone,” he says. “This facility is under constant scrutiny. Any deviation from base protocol flags the system. It’s better to…”
He trails off.
Better to what?
“…go through proper channels,” he finishes lamely.
I stare at him.
He doesn’t have the nerve to look back at me.
That, right there, tells me more than I want to know.
Something is off.
And it’s not just Ciampa.
Since I took that compad, Carson’s had the thousand-yard stare. He eats like he’s afraid food will slip out from under his jaw if he swallows too fast. He barely speaks unless spoken to. And even then, his answers are clipped, like he’s constantly juggling panic and reason in the same breath.
I corner him once near the supplies depot. He’s stacking ration packs with that peculiar nervous energy that makes me want to put a helmet on him and give him a stern lecture about posture.
I clear my throat.
He jumps so hard, he almost drops the stack.
“Carson,” I say.
He doesn’t respond at first. Just stares at me with that hollow-eyed tension, his shoulders tight like someone’s holding a blade against his spine.
Finally: “Hey, Jill.”
That’s it. Just that. Two syllables. No warmth. Barely recognition.
“Listen,” I say gently, lowering my voice. “About that compad—you okay with what you gave me?”
He swallows hard. Hard enough I hear it through the comm statics.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think it’s fine.”
I tilt my head.
“That’s not an answer.”
He shakes his head, eyes darting toward Darwin—who, predictably, is hovering two paces behind us with a clipboard and an expression that says I am entirely above suspicion.
“I said it’s fine,” Carson mutters. “It’s just… I don’t want trouble.”
“Trouble where? With Ciampa? With Darwin?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just rubs the back of his neck slowly, like he’s been doing that too long to notice the tension calluses forming.
“Carson,” I say softly, “whatever’s going on, I want to help. But you have to talk to me.”
He looks at me then, really looks—eyes flickering with something like fear, or maybe guilt, maybe both. And before he can speak, Darwin coughs loudly in the background, medication-syringe under his coat like he’s just passing through.
Carson bolts.
I watch him go.
And I realize—he’s not leaving because he’s ashamed of what he found.
He’s leaving because he’s terrified of what it means.
I return to the lab module, boots crunching over dust that feels like tiny sparks underfoot. My compad buzzes with updates—nothing unusual, just tedious logs from the base routine. But I know better. I know something’s missing from the readings.
Something the official channels aren’t picking up.
I work late into the artificial night, light buzzing overhead like an overworked eyelid. I adjust frequency ranges, modulate pulses, test pressure differentials.
The crystals don’t just react.
They respond.
To certain patterns.
Not all.
Only specific, repeating harmonics.
What kind of organism—if organism is even the right term—does that?
I lean back in my chair, weary, rubbing the ridge of my nose through the gloves.
My stomach growls.
It’s the first thing in days that feels normal.
I laugh—a dry, exhausted sound that echoes off the lab walls.
I’m not crazy.
At least, not yet.
Later, the night presses in like a warm, suffocating blanket, thick with dust and secrets.
I step past the last flickering perimeter light, its glow barely enough to cast a shadow.
The wind hums through the fencing like it’s whispering to itself—low, steady, almost musical.
I’m not supposed to be out here. The air filtration alerts pinged red an hour ago, and the comm unit in my bunk keeps flashing a warning about rising particulate density.
But I’m not interested in warnings right now. I’m interested in him.
I walk slowly, careful where I step, boots sinking into the soft grit that covers this side of camp. My breath catches as the cold air hits my lungs—dry and sharp, like crushed metal—and I taste something acrid on the back of my tongue. It doesn’t matter. I keep going.
The sensor post looms ahead, half-rusted and crooked from a dozen failed maintenance logs. It’s become our strange little meeting spot—though I’ve never met him. Not really. I leave things. He takes them. And somehow, that’s enough.
Tonight, I bring the last cookie.
It’s warm from my hand, the foil wrapper catching the starlight in a flicker of silver. I unwrap it slowly, careful not to tear it, and crouch beside the post. My knees crack softly, the sound loud in the silence. I pause, listening.
Nothing. Just the wind.
I press the cookie into the dust, making sure it won’t roll away. Then I take out a slip of notepaper from my jacket pocket. It’s old, creased from weeks of carrying it, corners soft from nervous fingers. I write only my name.
Jillian.
That’s it. No plea. No invitation. Just a name. A flag in the ground, if he knows what that means.
I tuck it beneath the cookie and retreat behind a nearby utility crate, my back pressed against the cold metal. The crate hums faintly—its power coupling’s half-broken—and the vibration buzzes against my spine. I hold my breath.
Time stretches. My legs cramp. My fingers go numb. Still, I wait.
A shape moves. Fast. Silent.
My heart jumps into my throat. I squint, but I don’t see him. Not clearly. Just a ripple against the dark—a distortion, like the air itself is folding. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t so much as shift a pebble. But when I creep back out from my hiding spot, the offering’s gone.
So is the note.
He took my name.
The realization hits harder than I expect. There’s a strange thrill coiling through my stomach, sharp and electric. I feel seen. Not watched—seen. And that’s more dangerous than anything else on this planet.
I wrap my arms around myself as I walk back to the bunkhouse, trying to shake the goosebumps from my skin.
The lights from the camp seem too bright now, too sterile.
I pass a couple of students on night watch—Monroe nods at me, eyes sunken with fatigue—but I don’t stop.
I don’t want to explain why I’m out here. I don’t want to lie.
Back inside, I sit on the edge of my bunk and pull the privacy curtain. The hum of the filtration system lulls most of the camp to sleep, but I’m wired. My fingers twitch. My mind won’t stop spinning.
Why did I give him my name?
Why did he take it?
I could open Carson’s compad. I could start decoding whatever secret made him withdraw so completely. But tonight… tonight I just lie back and stare at the ceiling. I let the memory of the wind carry me. The way it shifted just before he arrived. Like the planet itself noticed him coming.
He’s not just some beast, I think.
He’s something else.
And he knows my name.