Carson paceswhen I get there, which is unusual enough. His natural speed is ‘amble,’ maybe ‘waddle’ on an ambitious day. But now he’s got this manic energy, hands flexing, his eyes darting toward the marines like he thinks they’re bugged for surveillance.
“What’s going on?” I ask, pulling my helmet off to get a full look at him.
He’s pale. Paler than usual, and that’s saying something for a guy who sunburns under fluorescents. There’s a bead of sweat clinging to his temple, and he keeps adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked.
“I think—I found something,” he says. “Something I wasn’t supposed to.”
“Okay…” I draw the word out, glancing over my shoulder. “What kind of something? Please don’t tell me you discovered Ciampa’s OnlyFans.”
Carson doesn’t crack a smile.
I sobered fast.
“I was going through the old geological surveys,” he says, voice low, “you know, the ones from the first expedition? Just out of curiosity. But the timestamped records—they don’t match the physical core samples. Like, not at all. And then I found these discrepancies in the data uploads. Edited entries. Gaps that’ve been spliced over. It’s not just sloppiness—it’s deliberate.”
“Maybe someone just screwed up,” I offer weakly, but I know even as I say it that I don’t believe it.
“I thought that too,” Carson says. “But then I traced the access logs. Every single altered file was accessed by Ciampa. Or Darwin.”
My mouth goes dry. “What would they even have to gain by faking core samples?”
“Funding,” he says, voice flat. “Purgonis wasn’t greenlit because of its natural beauty. It was supposed to be the biggestuntapped mineral site since Novaria. Except… it’s not. Most of this place is geologically useless. Hostile, radioactive, barely stable. There’s nothing here worth mining.”
Except… I glance back at the vial in my kit.
Maybe notnothing.
Carson rubs his palms together. “I think he’s been making it look like we’re onto something big to keep the money flowing. And if anyone finds out?—”
“You think he’d shut us up?” I whisper.
Carson hesitates. “I don’t know. But he’s not who we think he is. And Darwin—he’s not just a lackey. I think he knows everything.”
A chill rolls down my spine that has nothing to do with the wind.
Carson reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a sealed compad—older model, scratched, scuffed. “I made a backup,” he says. “Just in case. If anything happens to me—like, anything weird—I want you to have it.”
My fingers close around the device, hesitant. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the only one who’ll actually look into it,” he says, trying for a smile. It’s a ghost of one. “Hide it under my bunk. Don’t let anyone know you’ve got it.”
I look down at the pad, then back up at him. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?” he murmurs, eyes distant. “This planet eats people, Jill.”
I shove the compad into my kit bag before I can second-guess myself. “Okay. Fine. But if this turns out to be a prank and you’re just trying to freak me out, I’m putting bio-stink gel in your helmet.”
Carson doesn’t smile.
He just nods.
Disturbed by his behavior and request, I decide to go to bed early. I barely sleep.
Every creak of the prefab walls, every faint hiss of the atmosphere scrubbers feels like a whisper meant just for me. Carson’s words echo in my skull—cut-up soundbites playing on repeat.Just in case. If anything happens. This planet eats people.
I want to laugh it off. Tell myself he’s just being dramatic. That maybe the isolation, the planet, the pressure of academic expectations—it’s all just getting to him.
But I don’t. I don’t laugh.
