The Darkness Outside Us

by Eliot Schrefer

Somehow, space is so deeply melancholy that it’s not at all sad, like a note so low it ceases to sound. Even my sorrow about my insignificance feels insignificant.

This operating system, which has no limbic system and therefore no emotions, and which has my life in its hands, can lie.

The sound is there, but to my experience it is ceasing to be. That feels like a warning, somehow.

Am I flirting with my operating system? I think I’m flirting with my operating system.

It’s weirdly reassuring: when adoration is selfish, it’s not going anywhere.

Intimacy is the only shield against insanity. Intimacy, not knowledge. Intimacy, not power.

A face and a body, wrapped in the shielding polycarb sheet, sealed in its juices, mouth open and eyes sunken and closed.

His line has been cut. Kodiak holds the snipped end up to his helmet in disbelief. He pedals and swims toward the spacecraft, but his movements do nothing to bring him closer. He’s drifting.

“I spent my whole life feeling like I was a robot pretending to be a human. It just got confirmed.”

“Well,” I say, “what else are a couple of doomed clones in the middle of infinite space going to do with themselves?”

“Well, yes. That was how life on Earth worked, too. People did a lot of tasks and tried to keep death as far away as possible.”

Three, settle into kissing Ambrose as soon as possible. You’ll enjoy it very much, and you’ll only have time for so many kisses.”

“My Kodiak,” I say, crying. “I love you.” I don’t know if he’s heard me. I hold him in case he shudders again, but he goes still. I stroke his hair, hug him close.

Insanity used to be a stranger that lived on the other side of the world. Now it’s moved next door. It’s only a matter of time until it becomes shipmate, lover, self.

The airlock opens, and the universe roars. The thunder on the other side is not full of light. It is only dark, and so cold.

You love Kodiak. This is the hidden miracle of all this: you might be loving each other deeper than any humans have ever loved, have ever needed to love, have ever had the occasion to love. Well, maybe Adam and Eve did, but you and I both know we don’t think they ever existed.

Kodiak is dead. The tumor Rover extracted was just a hint of how much was growing in his body. The universe has no light in it anymore. I will join him tonight. Hug your Kodiak close to you.

Kodiak will become your second self. But at first, you will see him and think of a man who needs love and is crying out for you to give it. In you he sees someone who will possess and manipulate him.

It’s very creepy and also very cute.

He’s a stranger, a lover, and my life partner. We have lived and died lifetimes together, and it makes me shiver every time that odd truth comes over me.

I do know where he’s going with this, and I surprise myself by crying. Kodiak’s thumbs stroke away the tears. His skin is so soft, so new. “Welcome to Minerva,” he says.

A baby. I clear the small face, hold the newborn upside down so its airway will open. Then I cradle it in the crook of my arms, warming it with my own body heat. Kodiak joins me, stroking the baby’s face, his heat joining mine. Our child is born.