A forgotten relic of academia, the university was in ruins before I restored Stonehurst Observatory, reinventing the astronomy department to become one of the most sought-after by investors.
In truth, we were both in a state of decay, this dormant carcass on the verge of collapse, my shambles of a career crumbling like ruins into the sea. Both neglected, forgotten. Destined to rot.
Once your name is touted to achieve extraordinary things and you fail—immensely—you’re swept aside, buried. Cast into the farthest reaches of oblivion itself.
While I do owe Leo for that lifeline, I’ve repaid my dues and then some. Besides, I had little choice in coming here. And his charity was hardly selfless.
Desperation can push us to take extreme risks.
My old colleague once cared more about breakthrough and discovery than impressing donors.
Now that Stonehurst is being recognized in a prestigious light, funding and acolytes pouring in, fresh blood infusing the dusty veins of the halls, he’d sell me out just to secure another wing for his institute.
His risk paid off.
Now I’m too great of a liability.
Jaw set tight, I turn to face the Hand of God, the name a nod to Feynman and his number obsession. At the center of the dome is the 14-inch Clark refractor telescope, gifted to the university over fifty years ago.
The tube of brass and precision-cut glass points toward the open shutter, supported by a balance of gears and counterweights of my own design. I pull myself onto the aluminum ladder and adjust the mount’s controls, comforted by the familiar turn of gears. A process I don’t have to repeat incessantly until it feelsright.
Before I came here, the telescope was destined to be donated to a museum, Leo having nearly drained the department’s funds for the RC telescope. Yet I did more than restore the Clark—I enhanced it beyond its capabilities.
My hand glides over the tube, further chasing back the heated thoughts Collins stirred awake. This is the one place—theonlyplace—where I find any peace from the intruding thoughts.
As if to mock me, an image flashes of her sitting on the bench this morning, her pretty teal eyes staring into mine as she licked her finger to turn a page in her book.
Feeling unstable, I spear a hand into my disheveled hair. A dark laugh escapes, nearly shocking me. No matter how advanced we strive to become, no matter how dedicated to our evolution, we’re still just these primitive, carnal beasts.
Honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised by this development. If you deprive yourself long enough of any sustenance, your body will find a way to get what it needs—by any means necessary.
A dark current thrums along my spine as I descend the ladder and seat myself behind the console. Sliding my glasses into place, I toggle through my coded application and adjust the telescope’s position. A calming hum resounds throughout the room before the telescope locks into place.
As the sun dips below the horizon, I try to reclaim that rare peace. Hours bleed away until darkness tints the windows, the reflection of lamplight killing the view. My neck stiff, eyes blurry from monitor glare, I rub the scar below my hairline, bracing for the migraine already pulsing at my skull.
Frustration flares hot, and I shove away from the computer. Before I register what I’ve done, the chair sails across the room, crashing into the wall with a loud clang.
“Dammit.”
I tear off my glasses and drag both hands down my face. I then look up, searching for the stars beyond the darkened glass.
This, right here, is why the research team has to be relocated. Intrusive thoughts used to be just that—thoughts.
One second I imagined Prescott a broken heap on the ground—the next he was sprawled on the lab floor beneath me.
With a harsh exhale, I glove my hands and stalk toward the safety gate. Gripping the metal rungs, I scale the ladder and haul myself onto the catwalk and shove the door open, stepping onto the narrow observation deck that wraps the dome.
Inhaling a deep breath, I infuse my lungs with a cool, cleansing hit of salty ocean air and evergreens, dousing the fire in my chest.
The stars burn against a blanket of black sky. I can feel the kinetic pull, that dark energy capable of ripping atoms apart, a threat to my bones and organs, barely held together by that elusive matter.
On the misty shore below, waves crash against jutting rocks in a hypnotic, punishing rhythm. Crash and recede. Pounding the beach with the same relentless demand as the throb assaulting my head.
I reach into my pocket and retrieve the astrolabe, its compact design crafted to mirror the star-taker once used by ancient astronomers to decipher the secrets of the stars and planets.
A heavy pulse builds in my veins as my thumb sweeps the engraved ecliptic plate, tracing the calibrated dial. On instinct, my thumb moves to swivel the sighting vane on the rule—only to remember it’s no longer there. Jaw tight, I tap my thumb against the rete to offset the unease.
I turn my gaze toward the night, immediately pinpointing Orion. Three brilliant stars mark the belt—Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka—guiding my gaze toward a dimmer cluster of stars on the sword, where the nebula glows faintly, a wisp of white bleeding into the dark.
