3

fear never dies

They were still several hours out from the touchdown site in Zone 66, the remains of a landing pad originally constructed as part of a customs station for goods flowing in from the moon. While it was bound to be in terrible condition, early reconnaissance had indicated the structure was at least still there, which was more than could be said for most of the former air and spaceports, all strategic targets that had been carefully and systematically wiped out once the last war started, at least from what Rawlins had explained to Cole and Tina during the flight.

They’d been in the small craft for nearly twelve hours, with at least four more to go. Between having barely a modicum of privacy, the constant rocking motion that made sleep near impossible and the gravity of their mission, Cole thought it was no wonder that her old fears had started to surface.

I haven’t thought about her in years, and I can’t let this start up now. I spent far too many hours and too much money on trauma therapy to relapse.

Still, she thought it was a mistake that she’d come. She’d told Dr. Rauch her concerns, the very real fear that she’d relapse under so much pressure, but Rauch had insisted he thought she was ready, going so far as to give her a clean bill of health and personally contacting Marx and the DCUR to tell them Rianne Cole was ready to serve the Republic. It occurred to her Rauch might not have had much of a choice, that he’d been all but coerced into green-lighting her participation because Marx had so few options available, but she tried her best to dismiss such notions as paranoia. It wasn’t easy.

Cole looked at the other members of the team, who at that moment were all asleep or quietly keeping to themselves, looking ahead at the meteorological maps on the walls next to the bay door or else staring over Jones’ shoulder to the fore window, still largely obfuscated by green-grey mist the color of sickness. Cole imagined smelling it, too, an odor of damp and the ripe sweetness of meat. The ship seemed to have passed the worst of the turbulence, which meant she might actually get some rest those last few hours of the flight, but she’d resisted standing for so long that her bladder ached, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep until she took care of it, so against her better judgment Cole undid the cross-straps and gingerly rose, needing a moment to take hold of the roll bar over the seats and acclimate herself to the unstable floor angle before passing quickly towards the aft end of the vessel, where a small and heavily shadowed lavatory awaited at the far end of the lockers. Black, who sat closest to said lockers, gave her a curt nod but seemed more intent on her data pad.

The locker area was a tiny room not five feet across, carbon steel burnished gold that felt far colder than she’d remembered it being. What few personal effects they were allowed and the small stash of weapons were secured inside opaque metal cages secured with gravity locks. The sterile floor was surprisingly smooth and clean and reflected her face as she watched her footing and crossed the room, unable to hear the quiet curses she issued under her breath over the rattling thrum of the engines.

For such an otherwise clean vessel Cole was surprised (and more than a bit upset) to find the bathroom in a dirty state. The stainless steel chamber’s only sink was stained with what looked like rust but smelled of dried moss, and the only mirror was stained dark by smears that if she didn’t know any better she would have sworn were dung, but that seemed unlikely on a military vessel, especially since everything else was in such impeccable condition. The smell was also far worse than she would have anticipated, even for an overly-used lavatory. She was afraid to lift the lid and look into the toilet, but with the suddenly flickering lights she doubted she’d be able to make out many details, so at least she had that to be thankful for.

Should she say something? It had been nearly a full day since she’d used the facilities herself -- it was amazing how being strapped to a seat in a buckling aircraft and flying through a noxious sky had inspired her to just sit still, and the mission had certainly robbed her of any appetite, not that she’d had much of one to begin with -- but she didn’t recall the lavatory being quite so grotesque, and with the possible exception of Diaz she didn’t really envision any of the others being capable of producing the sort of mess she now faced. And what would she say? ‘Captain Ross, I think someone shit themselves and smeared it all over the mirror,’ wouldn’t exactly strike him as a high priority given their current situation, she imagined, and if anything would probably irritate whoever was responsible.

It’s a small thing. Disgusting, but a small thing.

The seat was ice cold, and she noted all of a sudden how overall much cooler it was in the bathroom than in the storage area, which in turn had been of a considerably lower temperature than the seating area. Maybe the ship’s heaters were only really effective closer to the cockpit, though she thought the opposite would be true since the engines were located at the aft end just below and behind the lavatory. In either case as she slid down her pants and underwear and sat on the frigid toilet seat she shivered, and for the briefest of moments swore she saw her breath fog in front of her face, but it might have been a trick of the flickering light. Shadows pulsed in and out and filled the tiny room with alternating flashes of grainy illumination and absolute darkness. The sensation was undeniably eerie, and even knowing several heavily armed soldiers assigned to keep her safe were in the next room did little to prevent her stomach from flipping upside down.

She finished, drew her pants up in a swift motion and turned to wash her hands. When she glanced up at the mirror she saw a reflection that wasn’t hers.

Her heart skipped in her chest. Cole gasped out loud and had to fight the instinct to jump back away from the mirror.

The other face was there only a moment, and when it was gone Cole’s recollection of it was vague: pale flesh pulled taut over the bone, eyes as hollow as burned holes, lips pulled back to reveal bloodied gums and rows of perfect teeth. The shape was ghastly and incomplete, as if the reflection came from underwater, too smeared to see clearly even in the brutally dirty mirror. The face wasn’t behind her, like in a nightmare she recalled from her childhood, but over her own, a replacement, a ghoulish mask supplanted where her own visage should have been.

By the time Cole recovered from the jolt of fear that washed across her skin the mirror had returned to normal, and though she still shook with surprise the face staring back at her was her own. She couldn’t be sure, but the tiny lavatory also seemed to have returned to a normal temperature. The vessel rattled and shook in place, which momentarily forced her to grip the sink in both hands as she was reminded of her precarious flight situation.

Jesus, I’m losing it.

She held fast to the sink.

She’s not real. She never was.

Cole shook her head in both anger and regret. It was a mistake to come on this mission. She couldn’t believe she was the best and only option for the Republic: there had to be other Engineers out there who were as off-the-map as she was, people who could be sent on a mission without drawing excessive attention to themselves, who could avoid the violent fundamentalist terror groups like Black Sky and Human Tomorrow without the baggage of needing so much therapy they were likely to have books written about them.

Okay, I’m not that bad. But there were times, like now, when she felt close.

The mirror was clean. Still old, smudged and dark, but the fecal waste she swore had been there was gone. Her eyes were gummy with fatigue. Her mind was playing tricks on her, as much the fault of poor sleep over the past few days as it was any deep seated issues she had, issues that until she’d embarked on this damned mission she’d found herself able to cope with.

She lowered her face, turned on the faucet and let the water run, lukewarm to cold, so fast and loud she could barely hear the rest of the ship. She reached into the oversized pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out the bottle of haloperidol. She only needed one, even though she hated taking them at all since they often blurred her vision, but she’d hallucinated twice in the past twenty-four hours after not having done so at all for nearly six months, and she couldn’t think of any other solution. Without her the mission was dead in the water, and while that largely reflected poor planning on Marx’s part Cole was the one people were counting on, and she didn’t want to let them down. Especially since it seemed that was all she’d done the last several years: discharged from a prized position because of childhood trauma she still couldn’t seem to escape, unmarried and childless, just an over privileged white girl with a wasted education and every opportunity blown.

She put the pill in her mouth and gulped water to wash it down.

Get your shit together. This is the most important thing you’ll ever do. You can fix so many past mistakes if you can just get through this.

She already knew the other face would be there again when she raised her eyes to look at the mirror, so she didn’t, just splashed more water over her closed eyes, turned and opened the door. She knew she imagined it, but in her mind she felt the haloperidol taking effect, casting tendrils of chemical-induced sanity through her skull like a sort of faerie-tale unguent as she returned to the storage locker. By the time she returned to her seat and strapped herself in she’d have as sane a face on as she could muster, her favorite mask to wear.

The voice trailed behind her as she left the room, but she ignored it, even as the cracked whisper traced along her spine with pinprick fingers.

I’ll drag you under. Right where you belong.

Next Chapter: Zone 66