Chapter 33
JILLIAN
That’s the first lie it tells me.
Through the reinforced viewport of the lab cell, I watch the station unfold in slow, silent grandeur—concentric rings of steel and glass turning with mechanical grace, docking arms flexing like the limbs of something alive.
Cargo lights blink in orderly patterns. Traffic control beacons pulse green, then amber, then green again. It’s clean. Efficient. Sane.
For half a heartbeat, a stupid, fragile hope sparks in my chest.
They’ll catch it here.
Deep Space 12 is an IHC hub. Layers of security. Biofilters. AI oversight. A thousand protocols stacked on top of each other like armor plates. If anything in human space should be able to see what Ciampa’s carrying—what we’re carrying—it’s this place.
The docking clamps engage with a heavy thunk that I feel through the chair strapped to my spine. The ship shudders, settles.
We’ve arrived.
I hold my breath.
Nothing happens.
No alarms. No lockdown shutters slamming shut. No hard command voices barking through the intercom.
Instead, the docking tunnel extends. Seals engage. Atmospheres equalize.
And then the doors open.
Ciampa steps out first, calm as a priest entering a temple. Darwin follows, hands folded, head tilted slightly as if listening to something I can’t hear. The rest of the crew trails after them, faces soft, eyes bright, smiles… ready.
I lean forward in my restraints, pulse pounding.
“Don’t,” I whisper, though no one can hear me. “Don’t let them—”
The station greets them.
A junior officer appears at the end of the docking tube, tablet in hand. She smiles professionally, already talking. I can’t hear the words, but I see the shape of them. Welcome. Clearance. Purpose of visit.
Ciampa answers.
He gestures.
And then—gods help me—someone laughs.
The sound carries faintly through the bulkheads, distorted but unmistakable. It’s light. Friendly. Human.
The officer nods. Taps her tablet. Waves them through.
Just like that.
I sag back against the restraints, dread blooming cold and heavy in my gut.
They don’t even scan them.
Or maybe they do—and it doesn’t matter.
Because the spores don’t wait.
They don’t need clearance.
They move faster than procedure, faster than suspicion. They ride on breath and skin and sound. And when the station’s internal comms ping to life—routine announcements, docking confirmations, traffic advisories—the song slips in with them.
At first, it’s nothing.
Just a faint harmonic under the white noise of station life. A vibration so low it barely registers. Engineers pause mid-step, brows furrowing. A tech scratches at his ear. Someone hums without realizing they’ve started.
The first time I hear it clearly, it’s over the lab’s internal speaker.
“—pressure stable. All systems nominal—”
There’s a hitch in the audio. A warble. Then the voice smooths out again.
And underneath it, there.
That sound.
Soft. Persistent. Almost comforting.
My scalp prickles.
I clamp my jaw shut and force my breathing slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Count the seconds. Count anything.
Jillian. Jillian. Jillian.
I say my name in my head like it’s a rope I can cling to.
Outside the lab’s reinforced glass, I see it spreading.
Crew members greet the newcomers with warmth that borders on reverence. Hands linger too long on forearms. Smiles widen. Conversations trail off into shared silences where no one seems uncomfortable.
Within an hour, the hum is everywhere.
In the corridors. In the lifts. In the mess hall, where people eat without tasting, chew without blinking. Someone spills a tray and laughs—not embarrassed, not annoyed. Just… pleased.
Within two hours, half the station is infected.
No one calls it that, of course. They don’t call it anything.
They just welcome.
I watch an IHC lieutenant escort Ciampa down the corridor, chatting animatedly. The lieutenant’s posture is perfect, uniform crisp—but his eyes have that same glassy sheen I’ve seen a hundred times now. The same absence of friction. Of doubt.
They pass my lab cell.
The lieutenant glances in at me and smiles.
My stomach drops.
He doesn’t look at me like a prisoner.
He looks at me like a problem that will soon solve itself.
The pressure starts behind my eyes not long after.
At first, it’s subtle. A tightness. Like the early stages of a migraine. I shift in the chair, rolling my neck, trying to ease it. No luck.
The song is louder here.
Not louder in volume—clearer. Like the station amplifies it. Metal and circuitry carrying the vibration farther, cleaner, stripping away interference until the melody—if you can call it that—presses right up against my thoughts.
It’s not words.
It doesn’t say anything.
It suggests.
Images drift through my mind uninvited. Warmth. Belonging. The relief of letting go. Of not having to decide anymore.
I grit my teeth until my jaw aches.
“No,” I whisper. My voice sounds small in the sterile room. “Not you too.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and repeat my name again. Louder this time. With rhythm.
Jillian. Jillian. Jillian.
The pressure pulses in time with the station’s rotation. My thoughts blur at the edges, like someone’s smearing grease across a lens.
I think of Maug.
Not as a concept. As a presence.
The weight of his arms. The smell of smoke and mineral and something uniquely him. The way his blood looked when it ran—dark, rich, threaded with something metallic that didn’t belong to humans or this place.
The mineral.
My heart stutters.
The water he drank. The pools in the cave. The way his body healed—not fast, not magically, but inevitably. Like it had the right ingredients and knew exactly what to do with them.
Maybe that’s it.
Maybe it’s not just the wild water. Maybe it’s him.
The thought is fragile, half-formed, but it’s something to hold onto. Something that isn’t the song.
I lick my lips. They’re dry. My tongue feels thick in my mouth.
“If I could just get a drop,” I murmur. “Just one.”
But he’s not here.
The realization hits harder than the migraine. I swallow past the tightness in my throat.
He’s out there somewhere, tearing himself apart trying to find me. Or he’s dead. Or he’s fighting his way through half the galaxy.
I don’t know which scares me more.
The lab door hisses open.
I flinch despite myself.
Ciampa steps inside, hands clasped behind his back. The fungal crystals at his neck have grown since the last time I saw him. They bloom outward now, delicate and obscene, catching the light in soft rainbow facets. He looks… thriving.
“Deep Space 12 suits us,” he says conversationally, as if commenting on the weather. “So much infrastructure. So many voices.”
“Let me guess,” I say hoarsely. “You’re going to call it a choir.”
He smiles. “You’re learning.”
The pressure spikes. I suck in a breath through my nose, fighting the urge to gag.
“You’re killing them,” I snap. “You know that, right? You’re hollowing them out.”
He tilts his head. “No. We’re freeing them from unnecessary complexity.”
He steps closer, peering at the restraints. “You’re still resisting. That’s impressive.”
I bare my teeth. “Go to hell.”
His smile doesn’t falter. “You’ll come around.”
He reaches out, fingertips brushing the glass between us. The crystals pulse in response, a soft chiming sound ringing through the lab.
The song swells.
For a terrifying second, my vision doubles. The room tilts. My heartbeat stutters out of rhythm.
I dig my nails into the padding of the chair until my fingers ache.
I focus on the memory of Maug’s voice when he said my name. The way it grounded me. Anchored me.
“Please be coming,” I whisper under my breath as Ciampa turns away. It’s not a prayer.
It’s a promise.
Because if he is—if he’s anywhere in the void between here and Purgonis—then this isn’t over.
And I’m not done fighting yet.