The following is a Science Fiction short story I wrote a few months ago. As with most of my stories, it was originally inspired by a dream I had in mid 2025, however this particular story bears an unusually close resemblance to the dream that sourced it. If I had only known how increasingly relevant it would become to current events… I probably would have written it all the sooner. Enjoy what is currently the only high sci-fi piece in my body of work.
The Stella
A silhouette of a dark landscape is visible against a vibrant night sky filled with stars and the colorful band of the Milky Way. The sky transitions from deep blue to pink and purple hues.
—————
The pod readout flickers as I walk by, conducting my usual checks. I double back, wondering if it’s just a trick of the eye. It’s steady, the metrics all within normal parameters. Is it just me or is the frost on the viewport thinner than usual? I’ve just about decided I imagined it when it happens again. The screen flickers, and I can hear a low, sputtering hiss as the power fluctuates. The suspension field flickers, then returns to a steady orange glow, the frost creeping back in to obscure the face of the child inside.
It’s the middle of the artificial night. I look around, frantic for some supervisor to tell, but there’s only me and one other tech, calmly doing the rounds a few rows over. I look up to the empty overseer’s office, unsure what to do. If there is a protocol for this situation, the knowledge of it is clearly above my paygrade. I quickly download the pod’s data into my tablet and cross over to where the other tech, Owen, is entering data into his own tablet perched in the crook of his arm.
“Good eve, Evie,” he smiles at the same joke he’s been making since we started working the night shift together. When he stops to examine my expression, all trace of humor fades from his lined face. “What’s happening?” I hand over my tablet and he holds it over his own, deftly tabbing through the data it displays. “I don’t get it,” he says, tone flat. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“One of the pods, number 256, it faltered.”
“What do you mean faltered? The analytics look just fine.” I move to read over his shoulder and see he’s right. There’s no record in the pod’s analytical data to indicate the malfunction I saw.
“This isn’t right,” I say, rubbing at my temple. “I saw it flicker. It looked like some sort of power fluctuation. How can there be no record?” I remember seeing the frost ebb and reemerge, but when I look at the temperature gauge it reads as steady. Not a degree’s fluctuation is recorded. “This is crazy, I know what I saw.”
“Are you sure? This is your third night shift this week.”
“And yours. What are you trying to imply? I know what I saw.”
“I believe you.” He pats the air placatingly. “But I’ve been doing this job for over a decade and I’ve never seen anything like what you’re describing.”
“I know what I saw,” I reaffirm, resolving to bring the matter to the supervisor as soon as she comes on shift.
It’s 6am when my supervisor, Sandra, appears. Not that we have real mornings aboard the Stella, but the system lights throughout the ship are programmed to follow a light cycle similar to that of Earth’s Northern Hemisphere, to keep all of our circadian rhythms on track. Not that it matters much to night shifters like me. Someone has to keep things running while most of the ship sleeps.
Punctual as ever, Sandra wears the sane coveralls I do, but hers are crisp and pristine, devoid of dust or the sweat stains that come from hard wear. I wish I had more conclusive proof to show her, but my eyewitness account will have to be sufficient. It’s all I’ve got.
“Yes, Evie?” Her voice is high and clear, despite the early hour. She sips from her tea as I step fully into the office, not looking up from whatever she’s reading. “What is it? Isn’t your shift over? What are you still doing here? Get some sleep.”
“I will, but I have to bring something to your attention first.”
“Oh? Go on, then. Out with it.”
“I saw one of the pods… flicker.”
“what does that mean? You saw a glitch in one of the readouts? Happens from time to time. But it’s hardly an emergency.” I can already feel her dismissing me as a young sleep-deprived tech.
“It wasn’t the readout,” I say. “It was the pod itself. The status lights flickered and the temperature fluctuated.” She looks up at me over her glasses.
“You’re sure?” I nod firmly.
“I saw it. “
“Which pod did you say it was?”
“I didn’t.. It was pod 256.” I waited impatiently as she pulled up the analytics on her screen.
“I’m not seeing any fluctuations.”
“I know, somehow they weren’t recorded in the pod’s analytics. But I know what I saw.”
“I’m sure.” She sounds anything but.
“There must be some malfunction with the recording software.”
“I’m sure. This could be serious. I assure you it will be investigated thoroughly. You did right bringing this to me. Now you should go and get some sleep.” I blink, taken aback by the sudden reversal.
“Yes, sir.” I nod and fight back a yawn. I do need some sleep.
I return to my tiny cabin and collapse onto the narrow cot that takes up well over half the room, not bothering to change out of my coveralls, merely collapsing on the thin, sagging mattress.
When I wake up hours later, the light outside is fading to evening mode. At first it was weird, waking up when most everyone else is finishing up their work day, but you get used to it. Being out-of-sync with everyone else can even be relaxing, at times. When the lights are low and the ship is quiet. This is not one of those times. I check the time and see I’ll have to hurry to make dinner. I re-braid my hair and straighten my coveralls, then step out into the hallway, locking my door behind me.
The endless halls of the Stella echoed with the sounds of distant bootsteps and voices coming around corners. It’s the sound of home, and life, and purpose. I’ve lived here my whole life, like all the human crew. The last person who set foot on the Earth died before I was born, and she was only a small child when the Stella first embarked on its multi-generational mission, to find humanity a new homeland. Technically, it’s name is the National Interstellar Humanity Capsule, but everyone who lives here just calls it The Stella, for short.
AS I step out into the barrel, I take a deep breath of the freshest air there is aboard the ship. Making up the middle section between the engines at the back and crew quarters at the front, the barrel is where the ship’s food is grown. Its spin and the resulting friction it produces powers the artificial gravity aboard. It’s the only part of the Stella that still resembles the planet where it was assembled. Sans catastrophic Climate Crisis.
Our destination is a still-distant solar system with two planets in the goldilocks zone, one of which should be our new home. Of course, I’ll never live to see it. WE’re not due to arrive for another 2 or 3 generations. The willowets in the pods might, though.
Named for an extinct earth tree, the tall, thin red-skinned aliens were the former inhabitants of a planet in a system we passed by years ago, when I was just a small child. To this day, it’s the only significant course change the Stella has ever made. I still remember my teacher in elementary school explaining that we would be taking on a contingent of Aliens and their sleeping friends. Most of them were already in stasis by the time the Stella responded to their distress signal. About fifty were still awake, and have now become members of the crew like any other, their friends and family held in stasis and monitored by techs like me. They’ll be wakened when we reach our destination. The ship can’t support them all, so the agreement is to leave them in stasis until we reach NewGaia. If they were all to wake at once, they would outnumber the humans aboard. There are still some who think we never should have let them aboard. Who harbor conspiracy theories that they’re plotting mutiny at every possible opportunity. Thankfully they’re in the minority. But still, All the pod workers are human. Probably a coincidence.
The stasis pods were initially designed to allow the Willowet race to survive the cataclysmic Nuclear Winter that now shrouds their planet, and some were left behind to do just that. The others, now safely arrayed on the pod deck, are sheltering their residents and the rest of us from potentially deadly overpopulation. We were lucky to even breathe the same air and be able to eat the same foods. We aren’t about to push that luck by doubling the ship’s stated capacity.
There are whispers, but never more than that, that The Stella didn’t take on the Willowets as an act of benevolence, but out of necessity. My generation is half the size of my parents’, mainly due to a childhood virus that left many sterile and now, a couple decades later, left us short half a generation’s labor. If we hadn’t supplemented our workforce, in another few years, the ship could break down before reaching its destination.
Of course, officially, none of that is ever mentioned. But it’s common knowledge all the same.
As I walk carefully around a corn field, my toes tingling at the slight electric charge that holds the precious soil in its bed and off the path, the eating area comes into view. My gaze drifts away from the artificial sun hanging low in the sky and towards the far tables, where most of the Willowets sit. Their crimson complexions clash with the faded pale blue of the maintainance coveralls most of them wear. Maintainance is one of the only ranks on the ship lower than my own. I wonder if any of them know the occupant of pod 256. I search their faces for any resemblance, but they all look too similar to tell.
They have no hair, the willowets. But their skin is looser and more billowy than ours, giving their faces shapes that have little to do with the underlying bone structure. Their planet also has a lower natural gravity than Earth, so they arguably do better in the ship’s artificial gravity at half a G than us human crew members. I spot my closest friend, Clea, already sitting across from my parents and move to join them once I get my food from the long counter off to one side.
The only awake Willowet child when they came on board, Clea was an orphan when I met her. Scared by the dark and panic in the voices of the adults, Clea ran and hid when the rest of the children were being loaded into the pods and managed to escape notice long enough to stay awake. It wasn’t easy for her at first, being the only alien child in our class, but once we became friends it was easier. Now my parents treat her like one of their own. She speaks fluent English and fits in as well as any of the willowets can. She’s tried to teach me a few words of their language, but several of the sounds are almost impossible to make with human vocal chords. She even tested high enough to score a choice assignment working as an apprentice in the ship’s broadcasting room. Occasionally, when all her supervisors are busy, it’s her voice I hear making shipp-wide announcements. I’m really proud, and, I’ll admit it, a little jealous of Clea. She always seems to be able to get along well with anyone and everyone. She’s charming and engaging, and her smooth, confident voice belongs on the airwaves. Her spotless bright orange jumpsuit stands out in the crowd, contrasting the spray of deep red freckles scattered across the deep scarlet of her skin.
“Good morning,” Clea says, parents echoing the greeting as I approach with my tray, taking the seat across from her next to Dad.
“Morning,” I reply, still slightly groggy. My stomach is yelling at me for not eating this morning when I got off shift, so I quickly spoon down a few bites of the hot cereal steaming on my tray and feel more like myself. It’s meant to be dessert for after dinner, but it makes a good breakfast for night shifters like me. “Anything interesting today?” One of the benefits of being friends with someone who works in the broadcasting center is getting the news a few hours early. Since I tend to sleep through the late morning and afternoon it’s our ritual to eat breakfast/dinner together and have Clea catch me up on anything I missed. And it’s a good opportunity for family time. Though today, I’m counting the minutes until my parents go back on shift in the engine room and leave us alone.
“Nothing too good,” she responds with a shrug, the tactile polyp on top of her head waving gently with the movement. Some willowets have 2 or 3, but Clea has just the one, sprouting from the top of her head like a smaller, elongated replica of her face. Composed primarily of soft tissue, the jelly-like polyps move with the air, making the willowets extra aware of the changes in atmospheric pressure and air currents around them.
“No malfunctions?” I ask, thinking of pod 256. “No power fluctuations, nothing like that?”
“Not that I’ve heard about.” And she hears about most everything. Even when we were in school she always knew all the gossip.
“How was your shift, Honey?” Mom asks through a bite of artificial eggs cooked up with peppers and onions. I’ve often wondered if they taste like the real thing, but I don’t know anyone who could compare the two. There were livestock aboard the Stella once. But only for the first generation. After that, it was decided that they were a waste of valuable space in the barrel. Not just to house them, but for the space needed to grow their food. The fertilizer provided by their waste wasn’t enough to justify the resources consumed in keeping them alive. Efficiency is everything aboard the Stella. In school, we were told countless times that efficiency and reducing waste are how we ensure that our descendants will make it to New Gaia.
“Not too bad, I guess.” I shrug. “How about you?”
“Could be better,” Pa says. “Spent most of it detailing one of the aft exhaust ports.”
“It’s annoying,” Mom agrees. “But the company makes the time pass by at light speed.”
“You two are such goals,” Clea smiles at them. They share a smile and keep eating their dinner. My parents met when they were assigned to the same shift, and have somehow managed to stay on the same shift for over 20 years. It still makes me smile to watch them together. It’s as if all is right with the world as long as they’re in each other’s gaze. A few minutes later, they excuse themselves to go clean out the closet in their quarters, and Clea immediately notices the change in my expression as we’re left alone.
“What’s up?”
“It might be nothing,” I hedge. “But I saw one of the pods flicker last night. It looked like a malfunction but the monitors didn’t show anything.”
“You told a supervisor?”
“’Course I did. She said they’d look into it, but it felt like a brushoff.”
“Which pod was it?” Her tone has lost all trace of jobiality.
“256. Looks like a boy. Under twenty, I think, but definitely over 10. You know him?” She considers for a moment.
“I might have. He would have been a good deal older than me when they went under. Bran something maybe? I remember an older boy in the group and I’m pretty sure his name started with a B. That’s as much as I remember.”
“I’ll find out more during my shift tonight. Who knows, maybe I’ll show up to find they’ve fixed the p roblem without me.”
“Maybe.” Neither of us sound hopeful.
Later that night, at 10, I’m ready to start my next shift when the night supervisor waves me over to his office. It’s right next to Sandra’s, just as cramped but much more tidy.
“Yes?” I say as I enter, unsure what to expect.
“I just wanted to set your mind at ease about the so-called problem you reported your last shift.”
“Okay…” I’m not sure what to expect
“We’ve looked into it and it was a minor fluctuation, nothing to worry about.”
“Well that’s good. Are his parents awake? Did you tell them?”
“There’s no need with something this routine.” His tone and mannerisms are a little too casual. I remember Owen saying he’s never seen anything like what I saw, and he’s worked with the pods almost since they were first brought on board. I miss the rest of Josh’s placations but give the autopilot responses that signal I need to get to work, and leave the office for the cool stillness of the pod deck.
Owen’s already clocked in, ahead of me as usual. I pull him aside to the far end of the rows that isn’t visible from the supervisors’ offices. I describe the interactions with Josh and Sandra and Owen agrees they’re unusual.
“What if we watch it ourselves,” I suggest. His brows draw together in puzzlement.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“Well, the analytics don’t seem to be reporting the problem, so what if we keep an eye out for it. That way we can record the so-called fluctuations and Perform our own analysis.” Eventually, Owen agrees and we redivide our work so that one or the other of us will always be in sight of pod 256, to keep our eyes out for any more unreported malfunctions.
Owen catches the first flicker, about 2 hours into our shift. Just the same as I saw the day before. The meters still record nothing, but he knows what he saw. I catch the next two, the last just before we’re due to go off shift, recording them manually in my personal database. We know we should report it to Sandra, but I have a growing conviction that we won’t get any help or attention from the Executive Sector. I know a dismissal when I hear one. And so does Owen. He agrees to help but only from behind the scenes, not wanting to lose his job, which I understand. We go off shift, exchanging a knowing look and resolving to ask Clea to help me find the family of 256, assuming any of them are awake and on board. I don’t care what Josh says, they deserve to know. And if no one else is going to tell them, then I will.
It’s two days and half a dozen fluctuations later when Clea and I sit down with the mother of the inhabitant of pod 256. I have a tablet with footage of the pod’s flickering, thanks to a tiny camera Clea was able to score from her work. If any of the other technicians noticed the tiny lens attatched to one of the pods, they hadn’t reported it. They’d probably assumed it was supposed to be there. It’s gratifying to have solid proof, finally, but it’s no comfort to the woman sitting across from me. I can see her breathing stop with every flicker as she watches, her chest reexpanding only when the orange glow steadies. Clea introduced her as Katrina. She chose an English name because her real one is difficult for humans to learn to pronounce and she got sick of trying to teach us.
“Does he feel it?” she asks, and I have to think for a moment to know how to respond. Most of our training is in routine checks and making sure the pods run properly. There’s hardly anything about what it actually feels like to be in one. We don’t even know exactly how the alien technology works. Or, at least, techs at my level don’t.
“I’m honestly not sure,” there’s no softening the brutal vagueness of my answer, but I try anyways. “The metrics didn’t record any distress.”
“But you just said they’re not working.”
“It appears not. Without the metrics, all we have to go on is appearance. His expression never changed during the flickers I saw.” She nods, digesting my words, Clea laying a reassuring arm across her shoulders.
“So no one’s mentioned anything to you at all?” I hate to ask but have to confirm. She shakes her head, her tactile polyps swaying.
“Not until Clea started asking around.” Her accent is thicker than some, but still comprehensible.
“wish I could say I was surprised,” Clea says, shaking her own head. My brows furrow. I want to give my crewmates the benefit of the doubt, but it’s getting harder by the moment. It’s no secret that not everyone wants the Willowets here. But to not tell a mother that there might be something wrong with her child is a whole nother level of fucked-up.
“I’m so sorry.” Katrina doesn’t look away from her son’s face on the screen. I wish the resolution was better for her. “I can only imagine what you’re going through.”
“Thank you,” she manages, her voice strained.
“So we’re agreed?” I can tell from the way the other two women meet my gaze that we are. I want to confirm but I’m becoming paranoid. Even here, in the privacy of Katrina’s quarters. It’s a small ship. Hard to keep anything secret for long. I jhope it works more in our favor than sabotages us.
We’ve agreed to give the supervisors one more chance to do the right thing. I’ll give them the footage I’ve recorded. Either they’ll act on it and Either I or Katrina will hear about it, or they’ll bury it. In which case, Clea will release a copy of the footage on the ship-wide broadcast. Whatever’s wrong with Pod 256; with Braelyn’s pod, we’re determined to get to the bottom of it. I haven’t told Owen the plan yet for plausible deniability, but I know he’ll take our side if the shit hits the fan.
[Read more should go here]
A week later, I’ve been relieved of duty and joined a protest outside the offices on the pod deck. Despite the executives’ best efforts to keep the issue quiet, Clea was still able to get the footage released. It cost her and her supercisor their positions in the broadcasting rooms, but it’s too late. The information is out there, and nearly half the Willowets on the ship, as well as a few humans, have assembled to demand the issue be investigated. After all, if Pod 256 is failing, who’s to say which of the others could be next?
I stand near the front of the crowd, holding up a tablet playing the pod footage at double speeed on a loop, against the window into Josh’s office. Normally I would be sleeping right now, but I’ve been relieved of duties indefinitely. On paper, they say it’s due to overstaffing, but the truth is obvious. I got fired for recording and broadcasting the malfunctions. Whatever’s causing them, the executives seem determined to cover it up rather than investigating the problem. Firing us was a short-sighted move on the part of the supervisors, as now we’ve got nothing but energy to spend advocating for Katrina and her son.
She stands apart now, across the deck, leaning over her son’s pod. Pod 256. Where this all started. Her eyes never leave the viewport. It must be tortuous for her, knowing her child is in danger but being unable to reach him.
It’s an hour or two of calls and waffling before Josh finally steps out of his office to address us. The assembled crowd falls silent to listen. Josh clears his throat before speaking.
“We appreciate your concern and passion for this issue,” he starts, greeted by skeptical mutters. “I have been authorized to assure you that we are aware of the minor anomalies with pod 256 and have the situation well in hand.”
“yeah?” Someone behind me with an accent calls out. “What are you doing to fix it?”
“I can assure you, all necessary steps are being taken to identify any malfunctions, if, indeed, there are any, of which we’re not certain at this time.” I can’t listen to his waffling anymore.
“Bullshit!” I press replay on the footage on my tablet. “There’s clearly a problem with the pod. Anyone can see it. And you and your bosses fired me, Clea, and James to try and cover it up!” Josh shakes his head, placid smile slipping for an instant before returning in force.
“You have been temporarily suspended from duty pending investigation. As far as I’m aware, the situation in the broadcasting department is similar. I’m sure you’ll all be returned to duty if and when the investigations conclude you have no involvement in the apparent fluctuations.”
“Are you trying to say it’s our fault?” Josh pats the air placatingly, but the crowd is on our side.
“Of course not. All I meant is that we’re still pursuing all possible avenues.”
“You talk, but you’re not saying anything!” I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“Perhaps I can be of help,” a familiar smooth voice sounds from the office behind Josh and I watch, dumbfounded, as a figure I’ve only seen on screens emerges from the small office. The Captain steps in front of the crowd, calmly adjusting one of the medals pinned to his immaculate uniform. “What a lovely show of support to our friends in the pods.” He’s taller than I expected, but still half a foot shorter than most of the Willowets. “I assure you, we do, indeed, have the matter well in hand. We will pursue any path necessary to ensure the wellness of all the pod inhabitants.” He’s more convincing than Josh, but that might just be the rank.
“So you have a plan, then?” I immediately start sweating as the Captain’s piercing gaze fixes on me. I clear my throat. “To stabilize pod 256?”
“You’re the tech, aren’t you? The one who brought this issue to our attention?”
“I am.” Multiple times, I think, but don’t say. So what are you gonna do about it?”
“We have a plan, of course. Starting with reinstating you and your friend in the broadcasting room.” I don’t quite know what to say to that.
“What’s the plan?” Someone behind me demands, getting my thoughts back on track.
“The specifics are lost on me, I’m afraid.” The Captain gives a self-depricating smile. “All those technical terms. Until then, we’ll be moving the affected pod to a separate lab for closer observation. We will take every precaution, rest assured.”
“And Katrina will be there the whole time?” We all glance over at the mother standing over her son’s pod.
“But of course, the mother will be welcome to observe the entire process. You have my word.” The Captain puts a hand over his heart and there’s something in his smile that makes me uneasy. We exchange uncertain looks. It sounds like our protest has been a success. More so than any of us was expecting. “Here they are now,” the Captain says, gesturing to the far access hatch where a team of 3 security officers with a hand truck are making their way to pod 256. “We appreciate all of you and the care you have for your shipmates. But now I suggest you all return to duties. We have a whole ship to run, after all. Everyone does their part.” The last sentence is one I’ve heard countless times. It’s painted on all the classroom walls in the school. That and ‘All small parts make one happy whole.’ The latter over a cartoon image of the Stella smiling with faces showing through her portholes. I look over to the others to find the ones at the back already filing out. Clea and I shrug and follow them. I glance over my shoulder at the Captain whose smile is unfaltering. Something about the interaction doesn’t sit well with me, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what.
It’s a week later when the alarm sounds. I’ve never heard it before for real, but we’re taught the pattern from birth. One, two, three, four, time to close the door. Four horns, the last lingering, means somewhere on the ship has lost pressurization. I immediately look towards the windows, searching for compromised seals and finding none.
I’m back on shift in the pod room. It’s a little past midnight and most of the ship is probably in bed, woken up by the alert. I cross to where Owen stands in front of a screen and shoot him a questioning look.
“It says the breach is in section 31.” Section 31 is on the deck above us, mostly storage bays. Then it hits me like a sledgehammer.
“Isn’t that where they took the pod? Number 256?” The deep furrow between Owen’s brows is answer enough. The implications are spiraling through my head, when we both catch movement across the bay, where the portholes are that look out into space.
Breath caught in my throat, I watch, eyes wide with horror as Katrina’s body floats past, stiff and lifeless, her form distorted by the cold vacuum of space, one hand still stretched out towards the child she’ll never reach. We see the pod a few seconds later, the status lights dark, the viewport spiderwebbed with cracks, frayed wires and hoses trailing from its base. I clutch my stomach with one hand, feeling sick. It’s one thing to imagine the worst based on simulations on a screen, and quite another to see it in realtime.
The two bodies soon drift past the windows and I quickly cross to watch as they’re left behind, floating dead. The machine that once sustained the life inside grotesquely transformed into his coffin. No grave. No marker. Just the bodies, floating there. Alone Forever. I try my hardest to memorize the sight, sure that it will fade if I don’t. It’s all I can do to keep staring, but I maintain my gaze until they’re out of view. I feel like I owe it to them.
“They said they were taking him to a lab.” Owen’s voice sounds dazed and faint. “Where’s the equipment?” Guilt twists my stomach. I was one of the people pushing for Katrina to be present during the procedure. And now she’s…
One thing is clear, if nothing else. Something has gone horribly wrong.
More than one thing, as it turns out. I turn back to the pods just in time to see half a dozen of them flicker just like Brae- like number 256.
Owen and I exchange a worried look and rush to check the connections and every metric we can think of, but find nothing, just like before. The pod readouts are all holding steady, despite what we’re clearly seeing.
“What the fuck is going on?” I don’t know who I expect to respond, but no one does. For once, Owen seems to have less idea what to do than me. And I’ve got no clue whatsoever.
This time, the response from administration is swift and public. Not an hour after the alarm sounded, the captain’s face is on every screen on the ship, broadcasting live on the emergency channel. I feel sure that everyone on the ship is watching as closely as I am. As usual, Captain Bursa is immaculately put together, not a hair out of place. Judging by his tone and expression, you would never know two people have just died.
“Good evening to you all.” His brows are furrowed and his tone is serious, but there’s no real emotion behind the words. “I’m here to address the unfortunate incident in one of the storage bays earlier this evening.” Does it still count as evening at when it’s past midnight? I think sarcastically as I watch. “During an attempt to regulate the power in one of the stasis pods, our valient engineers detected a dangerous power surge in the pod’s circuitry. Whether this surge was the cause of the initial fluctuations remains unclear, however the danger it posed to the entire ship was both immediate and an imminent threat to the entire power grid.” I frown, remembering something my dad told me once about the ship’s electrical grid being broken up section by section to prevent surges from causing catastrophic system failures shipwide. I doubt that it’s changed significantly since then. I listen as the captain continues, resolving to ask my parents about it later. “Tragically, they were left with no recourse but to vent the storage bay and its contents, triggering the alarm you all heard. Our thoughts and prayers are with the families of the deceased, of course. I know you’ll all do your best to help us all move past this tragic incident.” I shake my head, not buying this fake sympathy act. If it was such a sudden accident, why didn’t I see anyone in Engineering red floating past the windows? “Early signs seem to indicate the surge has caused additional fluctuations in the remaining pods, but we’re working diligently to find a solution. For now, I’ll leave you all to your sleep. Everyone does their part. E Pluribus Unum.” The standard sign-off is too normal for the situation. The words feel like frayed wires scraping across my skin. Like the ones trailing from the lifeless pod.
“He didn’t even say their names,” I can hear the anger bubbling up in my voice, and make no attempt to stop it showing on my face with just the two of us in the room.
“Not even a pod number,” owen sounds shocked, his voice and face unnaturally flat and empty.
“How do they already know about the other pods?” I glance around the room. At least half a dozen pods are now flickering every few minutes. “Is there some channel that feeds the pod data up to the bridge?” I know the answer even as Owen shakes his head. There are two ancient video cameras trained on the large pod room, but their resolution is too low to show subtle changes.
“There isn’t. And even if there were, the analytics don’t show the fluctuations, remember?”
“So how did they know?”
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.” We lock eyes and in that moment I know he’s on our side for good. And we’re going to get to the bottom of this.
It’s another two days before mom is able to switch with another Engineer who works nights to let our shifts sync up. Owen writes out the work order, requisitioning an engineer for repair work to one of the smaller utility rooms near the offices. I make sure to add both electrical and plumbing expertise to the order to be sure they send the right engineer. Mom’s proud of her many certifications. More than most any other Engineer aboard. Dad sometimes calls her the Renaissance Engineer.
The choice of rooms is critical. Not only is the utility room out-of-sight from the offices, and far from the corner where the faulty pods have been gathered in a messy clump, but most importantly, it’s right below a similar room on the deck above, where the so-called surge supposedly happened, giving access to both decks’ systems. Add in the single monitoring camera that are easy to reposition, and it’s clearly the perfect choice. Whatever there is to find, I feel sure she’ll find it.
When Mom arrives on the pod deck through the main door, I do a double-take at the sight of Clea trailing behind her, dressed in light blue maintenance coveralls. She looks so different out of her usual bright orange, but I fight to keep my reaction off my face, in case Sandra happens to be watching the floor. It turns out I have nothing to worry about. My breath catches in my throat as the two walk past the window into Sandra’s office, stopping altogether when she glances up from her screen momentarily. But there’s no hint of recognition in her face, and she immediately returns to her work. Apparently Sandra is one of the humans aboard who think all willowets look the same. In this case, I’m glad of it. Still, I let out a relieved sigh when the pair make it to the utility room safely.
I work my way over to them and dart in when I’m sure I’m out of range of the pod cams. I glance up at the corner of the low ceiling to my right and see the camera there is now pointing upwards at the bulkhead behind it. I smile up at it for a moment before shooting a questioning look across the tight space at my mother. Next to her, Clea has to stoop to fit under the low ceiling.
“She can help,” she starts.
“I reminded Mom that the comm relays also run through utility rooms.”
“We thought she’d blend in better in blue.” A good plan as the maintenance staff often work with Engineers. I nod to my best friend and we exchange a small smile.
“If I can tap into the system log, I should be able to see if there was any communication between the bridge and these decks.”
“So you’ll be able to hear what they were saying?”
“Not so much. There’s no transcript of comms to and from nonessential decks and sections. But the system keeps a log of comm connections. We won’t be able to see what was said, but we can find out when and how they said it.”
“Still useful.” Clea brightens, straightening slightly only to hit her polyp on the low ceiling. “I need to get back on the floor before I’m missed. Let’s get to work.” The three of us share a conspiratorial smile and part ways.
I go back to my usual rounds, excluding the cluster of fluctuating pods in the far corner. We have been given very specific instructions not to touch any of the fluctuating pods. Still, the extension cables and hoses leading from their original spots are a constant reminder of their presence, as well as being a very real tripping hazard.
Its less than an hour later when a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. It’s clea, waving one hand to me, beckoning me over. I check Sandra isn’t watching and make my way over, struggling to keep my pace normal.
“What’s up?” I duck into the small room with Clea. The hatch to the deck above is open, presumably where Mom is.
“There were a bunch of comms sent between these two decks and the bridge around midnight the night before last.”
“Just like we thought.” I nod. Just then, a pair of boots appear on the ladder next to me and Mom’s back and joining in the whispered conversation.
“Definite signs of sabotage,” is, appropriately, how she starts.
“Like what?” I’m equal parts anxious and curious.
“well, maybe instead I should say there are no signs of malfunctions. Which there definitely would be if that’s what caused the so-Called Surge.” I nod for her to go on, glancing over my shoulder where I can just see Owen through the doorway. Still making his steady way along the rows of pods as usual. “If there were a real power surge, there should be evidence of fried wires, residue at connection points, maybe scorch marks from small electrical fires. There’s nothing. Not even any sign of parts being replaced recently. Whatever happened to Katrina and her son, it wasn’t caused by equipment malfunction.”
“This is great!” I have to fight to keep my voice to a whisper.
“It’s definitely suspicious, but it’s no smoking gun.”
“I guess not.” I look back up at the tone of my Mom’s voice, like she’s pausing for suspense.
“That’s here.” She reaches into one of the cavernous pockets in her red coveralls and pulls out some sort of electrical component. It’s about the size of my hand with at least six thick wires protruding from it like the broken legs of a large technological insect. All the thick cables have been cleanly cut rather than disconnected, and there’s several that were hastily spliced by whoever installed it.
“What’s that?”
“I’m not sure. But I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be here. I was hoping you could confirm. I pulled it from the relays that feed the pod room. It looked like it was attached recently. I’d say definitely in the past six weeks.” I look towards the open floor panel she’s indicated and feel immediately lost in the mess of wires and circuitry.
“I’m gonna go get Owen,” I say, pointing to the floor. The correct decision, it turns out.
“It’s a splitter, right?” He looks up from the component in his hands, one eyebrow quirked in question to Mom.
“That’s sure as hell what it looks like. Any possible legit reason for it to be there?” Owen shakes his head at once.
“No way. This is clearly the cause of the fluctuations. Would have caught it sooner if they’d overhauled the system like they should have in the first place.”
“Anyone want to translate for us non-experts?” Clea politely interrupts.
“It looks like a device meant to syphon energy from the cables that feed the pods.” Mom’s tone matches the grave expression on her face.
“So that means…” I can’t quite bring myself to finish the sentence. Clea, as usual, has the words I’m missing.
“That means there’s no way it was an accident. Not any of it.”
“Exactly.” It does not feel any better now that we’re all on the same page. I glance at the floor behind me, wondering how long we can both be in here before Sandra notices something’s off.
“I knew there were some humans aboard who thought the pods were a waste of energy. I guess I just never thought they’d go this far.”
“None of us did.” Mom assures me. “But they have.”
“So where do we go from here?” I look around for answers. For something, anything definitive, and come up empty. We agree to meet after our shifts are over and scatter to where we’re each supposed to be. Mom replaces the floor panel where the splitter had been, the actual device stowed deep in one of her many pockets. She considered replacing it but it would take too long to re-splice the wires and if anyone came looking they’d know it had been removed and replaced which would defeat the purpose.
“The Engine room.” Mom’s face lights up with the idea. “There’s a security choke point. In order to enter the engine decks you have to hand over any weaponry and or tech that might cause an issue. Even the captain. It’s only a few decks below us. I can send the report in so it seems authentic.” The four of us plus Dad nod, squished into a small utility closet to avoid watching eyes and listening ears, be they digital or organic.
“A report of what exactly?” I ask. “How do we make sure to provoke more than the standard response?”
“Obviously we report the splitter, that’s what we’re talking about here, isn’t it?” Owen is hunched in the corner to my left, more tense than I’ve ever seen him.
“I just mean, how do we make sure the people who show up to respond are the ones in on it?”
“They’ve already proven they’ll do anything to keep the whole thing under wraps.” Dad reasons.
“And they’ve proven their ability to keep their hands clean.” Clea adds, her expression serious. “We could include a picture. In the report.” We all pause to consider Clea’s suggestion. “Of the splitter. It would be harder to hide the comm that way.”
“Might just make them desperate enough to make a mistake.” I smile tightly as the plan starts to come together.
“Not a picture, but…” Mom trails away in thought and Dad picks it up for her.
“We could scan a spec of the thing. We do it all the time for parts requisitions. We could make it look innocent enough. Report it as a faulty, unrecognized component and run it through the system. Someone in command would have to intervene to stop the database search. Then we just have to lead them to the right place.”
“The engine room it is, then. But what do we do once we have them down there? Once we’ve exposed their conspiracy?” Owen asks. Someone needs to.
“That’s the big question, isn’t it?” No one seems to have an answer.
“We shouldn’t decide this alone.” We all know Clea’s right the moment the words leave her mouth. “We should ask the others.” We all agree and take our partial plan with us.
An hour later, Clea’s assembled all the off-duty Willowets who aren’t asleep, and we’re gathered in one of the upper storage rooms that one of them does regular maintenance on, surrounded by crates and stacks of spare parts for any number of systems aboard the Stella, perched on every available surface. Mostly crates.
“We should just vent the whole bridge and be done with it,” a tall Willowet man calls out to mutters of agreement.
“Even if that were possible, there’s no guarantee that we’d get them all. The Bridge crew work in shifts, too.” Mom explains in the patient tone she used when I was a kid.
“Who asked this human?” Someone says, not for the first time. I can’t blame them. We’ve just told them that all their loved ones are in danger of their pod being syphoned and ending up like Katrina and Braelyn. I’d be angry too. And scared out of my mind. Mom doesn’t take it personally, anyways.
“I’m an engineer,” she says calmly. “Just trying to advise from my experience.”
“She’s on your side,” Dad adds, his tone a little gruff.
“What if we do it during a shift change?” Someone suggests. “Lieutenant James comes on at 6 today.” All eyes turn towards the speaker and a smallish Willowet woman in pale blue steps forward, others moving to make a path for her.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Sillach. I’m a cleaner. I sometimes work the bridge so I’m pretty familiar with their schedule.”
“That’s incredible,” Mom gestures her further forward. “We all know James is the most sympathetic of the officers.” There’s a general mutter of assent. “Who’s he taking over for at 6?”
“It should be Captain Bursa,” Sillach says, her voice soft, polyp swaying slightly.
“Excellent. Then if no one has a better suggestion, we have the time for our report.”
“Hopefully, the captain will respond himself,” Clea picks up the thread, easily projecting her voice to fill the packed storage room. “That’s the best case scenario. Either way, he’s sure to senf officers to respond who are already in on the conspiracy. Thanks to our friends in engineering,” she nods to Mom and Dad. “We’ll be able to trap whoever does respond in a secure section of the engine decks. The question still remains, what do we do with the conspirators once we have them?” There’s a moment of non-silence while we all consider.
“Vent them!” The same man who suggested venting the bridge pipes up from the back. “See how they like it. Blame equipment malfunctions.”There are many murmers of agreement.
“Logistically, it does seem the easiest option,” I reason. I get a couple looks, but shrug them off.
“You want to kill half the bridge officers? Do you want us all chucked out after them alonf with our whole families?” The crowd quickly descends into bickering, tactile polyps quivering in punctuation to passionate arguments. Tensions are high, and the charged emotions make the stale air in the storage room feel hot and stuffy. I only hear snippets, from those few still speaking English, and can’t match most of them to any certain face, but the general fear, anger, and anxiety come through clear as day.
“We could let the Lieutenant decide once we have them,” someone suggests to a chorus of disapproving mutters.
“We just keep them down there.” This suggestion gets several calls of support.
“Unless you want to get the entire Engineering crew into it, that will only work while the two of us are on shift,” Mom says. “We have to hope James will be on our side, but he’s not in command of the entire crew. If he’s managed to stay in the dark about the conspiracy this long, we have to assume he doesn’t know who all’s in on it. There’s no way we’re going to get them all in our trap, no matter how well designed it is. So how do we deal with the others who know about the splitter, once we’ve got the captain and his cronies on lock.”
“We need to make sure they can’t cover it back up!” Someone near the back calls out.
“I agree, but how?”
“We can edit something together,” Clea adds. “To explain our actions to the crew who weren’t in on it. If we can get it on the shipwide frequency, there’ll be no way to put the blood back in the bag.”
“Excellent suggestion. Get on it.” Clea and her boss nod and head off to start working on the exposé. “Even with that, we’ll have a clock. More than one, actually. There’s the eight-hour clock of our shifts, but there’s a much shorter one until the Lieutenant realizes what’s going on. We can bet his first stop will be Engineering. What then? Do we hand over the prisoners when they ask?” A dozen arguments are instantly reignited and there’s nothing to do but let them play out for a couple minutes.
“Alright,” Mom calls out over the clamor, hands patting the air. “I have an idea.” The room gradually quiets to listen. “If you all can choose a representative, I can code the door lock to their voice print. So only they’d be able to release the conspirators.” The mutters seem to agree, some reluctantly. It’s a good plan.
“So who’s the leader?” I ask, and the arguments resume.
“I’ll do it,” the tall Willowet man calls over the din. Thankfully, he’s shot down by half a dozen others. Several more names are put forward and rejected, until one of the younger willowets who I vaguely recognize speaks up.
“It should be Sillach,” they say, and the room quiets, considering. “She’s the one who knows the bridge and the officers best. She’s best equipped to judge when it’s safe to let them out.” There are more mutters.
“Excellent suggestion.” Mom smiles. “Any objection?” Sillach looks nervous but nods, a firm look in her orange-red eyes.
“I’ll do it.” Her tone and face are united in resolve.
“That’s settled then.” It takes another hour to work out all the logistics, but by the end of the interminable meeting, we have a plan.
—————-
Things go well, if not quite as planned. The splitter report is a roaring success, securing the corrupt Captain and half a dozen complicit officers. James and his cohort helped round up the rest. From the speed with which they respond to Clea’s exposé, you would think they were already planning to mutiny. If so, the footage Clea and her supervisor edited together is the spark that starts the fire.
There’s a new status quo onboard the Stella. I’m too young to remember the Captain before Bursa, but my parents assure me this transfer of power is the bigger shakeup. Regulations are being relaxed and reviewed in every department, and the same recycled air somehow feels a little lighter. The Willowets are safer than they’ve been since they came onboard. Some have even been promoted.
Clea is an assistant supervisor in the media room now, and she’s used her new influence to convince her coworkers to transmit messages shipwide in both English and Willowet. Meanwhile, Sillach has been appointed to the new-made post of Willowet relations officer, after playing a central role in ensuring all their safety.
As for me, I’m back on duty in the pod bay. It’s much more fulfilling now that the deck’s been opened to visitors. Regulations are more flexible under Captain James. The pods get visitors daily now, and they’re allowed to leave small gifts and tokens if they choose. I was offered a switch to the day shift by Sandra, now promoted to Josh’s former position, but I declined. I like the still and quiet of the ship at night. With one exception.
It was hands down my favorite shift ever. Maybe my favorite day ever. Getting to be one of the lucky pod techs to wake the sleepers from the pods that were affected by the draining conspiracy. Seeing the looks on the faces of their exstatic loved ones, clustered around the pods, waiting with bated breath. Owen and I shared so many smiles that shift. The love in that room was enough to leave the large storage deck bursting at the seams.
Only the drained ones, at first. They were woken more for their safety than anything else. The next round was satisfying in a whole different way. Another seven pods opened, another seven families reunited. Nineteen in total. One for every officer who was in on the conspiracy. Ironic that they now inhabited the very pods they tried to leech energy from. Lucky for them, the rest of us aren’t so inhumane. They’ll be kept in stasis, the pods powered properly, until the ship arrives at New Gaia.
I stare down at the face of the former Captain, half-obscured by gathering frost. We would have put him in pod 256, if it hadn’t been destroyed. There’s a memorial to Katrina and Braelyn near one of the windows. Their pictures are painted on the glass of the window, their names written below in English and Willowet. Adorning the floor below is a semicircle of small tokens of love and loss. Handwritten messages on bits of paper, charms made from scraps of blue and orange fabric, and several small candles, the precious batteries powering their flames a greater gesture than any other. We all do our best not to disturb the memorial.
There are tokens on the pods themselves, too. A paper flower here, a ribbon there. As long as they don’t interfere with monitoring or maintenance, we try not to disturb them. But sometimes it’s awfully tempting. There are several uniform buttons, all in a neat row, on the edge of the former Captain’s pod. I’ve been tempted to remove them several times, but I worry more would spring up in their place. The fact that he still has supporters aboard, albeit quiet ones, sends a shiver down my spine.
I suppose we’ll always be dealing with issues like these. All we can do is our best to fight against bigotry and xenophobia. Thankfully, this time our best proved to be just enough.
There are still some who think the pods are too lenient for the conspirators. That we should expel the lot of them and be done, rather than leaving them for a future generation to deal with. But James and the rest of the new bridge officers felt that if they did, they’d be no better than their predecessors.
Things are better today than they were yesterday. For now, that’s enough, as we strive to make tomorrow better than today.