Thrum

by Meg Smitherman

Space, of course, is bigger than anyone comprehends, bigger than the human mind can handle. We’re able to come to some understanding of it with mathematics, and philosophy, and even art. We can look at pictures, read comparisons, and conduct complex equations to try to make sense of it. But the fact is that the biological makeup of a human brain is too simple, its neurons too few, to understand the true enormity of our universe. It is incalculably and emphatically beyond us.

I’m drifting half out of the ship, half in, but even then it feels as if the infinite universe is reaching for me with inexorable fingers, with hands made of whorls of starlight, of depthless lightless chasms that hum like monsters of the cosmos. The air in my lungs feels like a dare. I’m challenging the firmament in its horrible power, and it is gazing right back at me, unimpressed.

Maybe I’m still on the Pioneer, crouched outside the airlock, and this is my mind’s way of inventing a savior.

My footsteps echo, rubber on metal. It even sounds the way it should. But is this how the ship truly looks? Am I walking through a hall of smoke and mirrors?

Exactly the kind of body that makes me want to lose control. But he knew that, didn’t he? He tailored himself for me.

“There,” he says, pulling back slightly, but his lips brush my cheek as he speaks. “I have you. I’ll keep you safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Let go.” The ship’s hum reverberates from within and without me, and this time, it is a balm. I drink it in like sweet syrupy wine, and it consumes me.

He smiles, almost sadly. “I am the ship.”

Thrum, thrum, thrum. A memory: I’m disembarking from Pioneer. Mahdi, Lily, and Vasilissa flank me as we descend the ramp into the docking bay. I gaze around me, taking it in, the vastness, the newness. My crew, my friends, vibrate with excitement. We’re here, we made it. And someone’s waiting to greet us: a man with pale skin and dark hair, with eyes as black as night.

Another memory: Vasilissa perching cross-legged on a bed. The room is small, orange-lit, and a pothos sits on the table in the corner. A viewscreen on the far wall shows a swathe of starlit space. I’m slouched across from her on the bed, head resting on my hand.