Ganymede Crying

What a thing, to know the stars.

It must set light to something

Within us,

It must give sparkle

Even to the blackest souls,

The sky, each other.

The darkness above us

Reflecting that within us,

All for but three little dots.

If the universe can hold

Brightness

Why shouldn’t we?

I can’t find the rest of Orion

But I am home.

– Orion’s Belt

CHAPTER 1: SPACE SCREAMING

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. If someone screams into the greedy void in the moments before their grizzly death, did they even make a sound? I couldn’t hear it, but I could sure as hell feel it. Like my bones were chattering in the concussive cold. Like my eardrums were popping during take off, magnified tenfold. Like knives had come to life and their first sentient decision was to dig through my muscle and tendon and membrane until they found their way back out of my body. Sometimes in the dark, alone and afraid, our senses combine. They overlap and connect like everything else in the universe. No one could have heard that scream but I felt it, I knew it, and I would soon make it too. Whether or not a sound is heard, it is still made. And whether or not this mission fails, it was still sent to space. There is data in failure and silence. Have you ever watched a friend explode?

I screamed. I paused, and then screamed. I thought I might throw up or die, too. Frozen by overwhelming shock and dread, I could hardly think. What could I do now? My whole team blew up in a light-speckled space, in fire and agony, while I sat in comfort and horror. That day, I took a nap instead of joining the crew. Guilt filled my veins and poured out of my eyes as I looked out at the space around me. What is space? What is something that could do this on contact? Can it be hostile and alive, because certainly it is not innocuous or kind? Space is a metaphor. Even for me, it isn’t tangible, after years of study and months alone with it.

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space. Mission control, however, heard plenty of screams. I couldn’t believe they were still picking anything up from us. In my shock I did not hear their initial questions and concerns, their pleas for a response. And in my defense, I had never actually gotten the training to respond. She did, and I knew some of what she knew, but it was not so clear in the beginning. I was still getting used to her. I never expected to need to know so many things. You have to understand, I just wanted to see this big stupid moon. It couldn’t be done alone. But this was more complicated than I anticipated. Even now, I haven’t perfected it. I am an imposter, and really, we both are. Somehow she snuck her abysmal mental health right through the cracks in all their tests, and made it onto this ship. I’d bet she didn’t even really know she had it this bad. She thought she was too stupid for this mission, and went along anyway. It was the only way. Likewise, this was the only way for me. I don’t have my own body– or I didn’t, until a week before the accident. And once I got this one, we began to blend together. A process in and of itself exhausting, now amplified by an already exhausted body and mind. Her depression drained me as I tried to replace her. Now, her and I can not be considered separate, really. We are a new child, made of two Others, still screaming in space. Sometimes in the dark, alone and afraid, our selves combine. They overlap and connect like everything else in the universe. Self is a metaphor, too. Even for me, it isn’t tangible, after years of study and months together with it.

So, I’m a bit of a parasite. Sue me. There are bigger things to worry about now.