molded to the walls. She left the light on over the built-in desk so the room wouldn’t be pitch-black dark. She stared at the light as she rolled over onto her side.
She was tired, but she didn’t want to go to sleep. She had challenged Ward earlier, practically accusing him of murder in front of everyone—not that she wasn’t sure of his guilt—and now she could imagine Ward sneaking into her room with a knife in his hand, trying to slice her wrists open as she slept. Another suicide on the ship, he would say.
But she would fight back if Ward tried to kill her, she swore to God she would. Butler might have been an easy target for him in her near-catatonic state, but she would be ready for him.
As her thoughts morphed from defense strategies to a collage of strange images, her eyes closed without her even realizing it.
A moment later she jumped awake and stared at the door.
She thought she’d heard a noise out in the corridor.
Had she been asleep for a few minutes?
She lay back down on her bed and rolled over onto her side and faced the wall. She just wanted to close her eyes for a few moments. She was a light sleeper and she knew she would wake up from any little sound.
It only felt like a few minutes later when her eyes popped open again. She heard a sound right behind her in the room … it sounded like the crinkling of plastic.
• • •
Cromartie tossed and turned on his bed, his body twisted together with the white sheets, his skin glistening with sweat.
He was dreaming again.
It was the same dream he’d had before. He saw the two men in dark suits and ties, both of them hidden in gray shadows, both of them talking to each other. He couldn’t make out what they were saying right now, it was like he was falling deeper and deeper under the spell of the anesthesia or whatever they had used on him in the cryochamber. He couldn’t move his body, but he could still feel the cold air on his skin
Cromartie tried to hold on, tried to stay conscious as the fog sucked at him. He tried to concentrate on what the two men were saying, and now he could make out bits and pieces of their conversation. One of the men was talking now, and Cromartie was pretty sure he was the same man who had compared the human race to a virus that kills its host. “This is the only way we’ll be able to survive as a species …”
But then he couldn’t make out the rest of what the man was saying.
Then he heard MAC’s voice again—the computer’s even and emotionless tone. MAC’s words seemed so loud in Cromartie’s ears like MAC was close to him, yet at the same time his words seemed to be coming from so far away.
“You have to find the clues to your salvation, Cromartie,” MAC told him. “I’m afraid it’s the only way you’re going to survive …”
Cromartie wanted to respond to MAC in the dream. He wanted to ask the computer what it was talking about. He wanted to demand answers. But he couldn’t open his mouth to speak; he couldn’t get his vocal chords to work.
Then MAC screamed in Cromartie’s ear. It was a loud, high-pitched scream … like a woman’s scream.
Cromartie jumped awake in his bed, sweating and breathing hard. He looked around at his murky room.
Had the dream woken him?
No, it was a scream—a woman’s scream. He heard the scream again.
Sanders was screaming.
• • •
Sanders lay on her bed, still facing the wall, her eyes wide open. She was certain that she’d heard the noise this time—the unmistakable sound of a crinkling plastic sheet.
She turned over quickly in her bed, a panicked twist of her body like an alligator rolling over in the water. She saw Butler standing right beside her bed. Pieces of the plastic that Butler’s body had been wrapped up in hung off of her in tatters, blood smeared all over the strips of clear plastic, blood caked on her body. Her face was pale and slack, and her eyes were blank and milky white. Her mouth hung open all the way—it was just a
She was tired, but she didn’t want to go to sleep. She had challenged Ward earlier, practically accusing him of murder in front of everyone—not that she wasn’t sure of his guilt—and now she could imagine Ward sneaking into her room with a knife in his hand, trying to slice her wrists open as she slept. Another suicide on the ship, he would say.
But she would fight back if Ward tried to kill her, she swore to God she would. Butler might have been an easy target for him in her near-catatonic state, but she would be ready for him.
As her thoughts morphed from defense strategies to a collage of strange images, her eyes closed without her even realizing it.
A moment later she jumped awake and stared at the door.
She thought she’d heard a noise out in the corridor.
Had she been asleep for a few minutes?
She lay back down on her bed and rolled over onto her side and faced the wall. She just wanted to close her eyes for a few moments. She was a light sleeper and she knew she would wake up from any little sound.
It only felt like a few minutes later when her eyes popped open again. She heard a sound right behind her in the room … it sounded like the crinkling of plastic.
• • •
Cromartie tossed and turned on his bed, his body twisted together with the white sheets, his skin glistening with sweat.
He was dreaming again.
It was the same dream he’d had before. He saw the two men in dark suits and ties, both of them hidden in gray shadows, both of them talking to each other. He couldn’t make out what they were saying right now, it was like he was falling deeper and deeper under the spell of the anesthesia or whatever they had used on him in the cryochamber. He couldn’t move his body, but he could still feel the cold air on his skin
Cromartie tried to hold on, tried to stay conscious as the fog sucked at him. He tried to concentrate on what the two men were saying, and now he could make out bits and pieces of their conversation. One of the men was talking now, and Cromartie was pretty sure he was the same man who had compared the human race to a virus that kills its host. “This is the only way we’ll be able to survive as a species …”
But then he couldn’t make out the rest of what the man was saying.
Then he heard MAC’s voice again—the computer’s even and emotionless tone. MAC’s words seemed so loud in Cromartie’s ears like MAC was close to him, yet at the same time his words seemed to be coming from so far away.
“You have to find the clues to your salvation, Cromartie,” MAC told him. “I’m afraid it’s the only way you’re going to survive …”
Cromartie wanted to respond to MAC in the dream. He wanted to ask the computer what it was talking about. He wanted to demand answers. But he couldn’t open his mouth to speak; he couldn’t get his vocal chords to work.
Then MAC screamed in Cromartie’s ear. It was a loud, high-pitched scream … like a woman’s scream.
Cromartie jumped awake in his bed, sweating and breathing hard. He looked around at his murky room.
Had the dream woken him?
No, it was a scream—a woman’s scream. He heard the scream again.
Sanders was screaming.
• • •
Sanders lay on her bed, still facing the wall, her eyes wide open. She was certain that she’d heard the noise this time—the unmistakable sound of a crinkling plastic sheet.
She turned over quickly in her bed, a panicked twist of her body like an alligator rolling over in the water. She saw Butler standing right beside her bed. Pieces of the plastic that Butler’s body had been wrapped up in hung off of her in tatters, blood smeared all over the strips of clear plastic, blood caked on her body. Her face was pale and slack, and her eyes were blank and milky white. Her mouth hung open all the way—it was just a
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