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 thatalmost 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.
