Planet Eyes: Part Three

For Planet Eyes: Part One, click here. 

For Planet Eyes: Part Two, click here. 

 

14

As you exit the storage compartment, you glimpse concerned, shocked, frightened faces in a circle around you, the crew gravitating toward their fixed center. You turn to Fleurie and block out the others, even as you try to decide what to do with them, whether to send them away or sequester them until you can hear the myriad versions of what they witnessed. You decide to leave them here, for now. You realize with a sinking sense that it will be hours before you can return to your data tab and the closure it promises. “Okay,” you tell Fleurie. “Give me the rundown of what happened.” 

“He stormed in here—I saw the whole thing. First he got his food, but he didn’t touch it. When Ensign Marigold came in, he struck up a conversation with her. Since I could hear what he was saying and how paranoid it sounded, and since it was clear Marigold was uncomfortable, I stepped in. He repeated to me what you heard in the storage room, only with more feeling, and then he started running up to people, getting more and more desperate. Just what we can tell from the outset, he’s convinced that Ensign Montez is in on some conspiracy to poison the food. At some point, Montez came out to try to, I don’t know, defend himself, calm him down—whatever it was, it didn’t work. Next thing we know, MacAvoy is throwing punches and Montez is down. By that time, security was already on its way.” 

You draw in a deep breath through your nose, let it out through your mouth. If you had a good strong cup of coffee, you tell yourself, and a way out of this madhouse, your life would be perfect. “Why isn’t Ensign MacAvoy restrained?” 

“We tied him up, but he started breaking his hands to free himself, so we tased him and locked him in the pantry. We’re hoping he’ll calm down some. If we can figure out a way for a psychiatrist to speak to him safely, I would recommend we do that.” 

“Yes,” you agree, a little irked that he would feel the need to tell you this, as if it wouldn’t be the first thought to cross your mind. 

Keeping MacAvoy under house arrest will be a challenge. Though the admiral has a number of failings, in your opinion, and you could list them in alphabetical and chronological orders, you think that maybe his greatest failure was his inability to see the need for a sizable ship’s brig. In his mind, the crew was well-vetted, composed of law-abiding citizens, and thus a large brig would waste space that would be best spared for something else. Sometimes, in your darker moments, you imagine that this mission is headed by a man who is willfully stupid. 

Contrary to the admiral’s expectations, the brig is already at capacity. Two separate couples have broken the non-fraternization policy, so now they are your problem. If you were the admiral, you would have had them court-martialed because their actions undermine the authority structure, threaten the deeply-needed stasis onboard this ship. But you are not the admiral, even though you can’t overlook their infractions, so you turned the brig into a double housing unit. They are comfortable there, and for the most part happy, but only their children are free to roam the ship, under supervision. 

Additionally, you have two crew members under permanent house arrest. Their rooms have been converted to jail cells, their futures on Icarus III uncertain. Dealing with them has become your own personal logistical nightmare, but you have never had to face a problem of this magnitude. MacAvoy has become a threat to the entire crew, and the best solution you can think of is to lock him in his room. You are flying this ship blindfolded, so you’ve grown used to the sour taste of frustration. 

“Okay,” you say, when you realize that you’re still expected to speak, to provide a solution for a problem which feels unsolvable. You will take this one step at a time. “How much would you say he’s calmed down since the altercation. In your judgement, do you think it would be safe to move him now?” It’s a feeble pair of questions. You’re not a cop. This was not covered in your training. You accept this massive blind spot as a personal failing. 

“Yes, now that he’s been heard, he’s quieted somewhat.” 

“Good.” Your eyes flick to the galley where the medics are finishing up with Montez. You make a mental note to interview him once he’s situated in the medical bay. “Advise the security team to begin taking statements. And tell the crew to stop comparing notes—we don’t want them to taint each other’s accounts.” It isn’t so crucial, really, to  know every facet of what took place in this room, because MacAvoy’s psychotic break did not originate here. But it is possible that in the midst of everything, you will find one small, bright clue as to what is happening, and you can’t squander that opportunity. “I need to speak with Ensign MacAvoy again.” 

“Captain,” Fleurie grabs your arm, just lightly, “do you really think that’s a good idea?” 

“Trust me.” Apprehension roiling in your gut, you pull aside one of the medics. “Do you have any sort of sedative on you? It doesn’t have to be strong?” 

He reaches into his medical kit and pulls out a loaded syringe. “We tried to inject him already.” His eyes flick to the pantry. “But he was struggling too much.” 

“It’s okay. I have a plan.” You don’t leave him any more time to naysay. Instead, you grip the syringe and make your way to the pantry. 

This time, when MacAvoy sees you, he grows quiet, eyes raised to you like a question. “Ensign,” you hear yourself saying, “thank you for bringing this matter to our attention. Please know that we’re looking into it as we speak, that we won’t let the cook get away with this.” 

It’s all lies. Of course it is. And you are sure that he will hear the lie in your voice. But when you search his face, you see the muscles relaxing–you see a smile beginning to form. 

This next bit you try to say as lightly, as casually as possible. “It looks like you hurt your hands.” You point to his fists, the way they rest on his lap, bloody, crooked. You don’t want to think about how hard you’d have to punch someone to break your hands that badly. You tell yourself it’s just that he’s a tech geek, that he doesn’t know how to punch, and that anyway, he broke his hands trying to free himself, but you can’t shake the sight of Montez’s face, a bloody pulp. You’ve never been squeamish before, but you think this is what it feels like. “Can I give you something to help with the pain?” 

His eyes grow suspicious at first, but in the end it’s too easy. He’s been heard—he believes you, that you’re taking him seriously. Why wouldn’t he trust you? 

15

Once MacAvoy has lapsed into unconsciousness, you turn to Lieutenant Lawson, the head of security. You see Commander Fleurie to your right, pensive. “Lock him in Lieutenant Nelson’s quarters.” Fleurie stiffens a little at this suggestion; it has not been more than three months since Nelson died in a freak accident, but you can’t afford to be sympathetic now. His quarters are empty, bare as bare can be, his personal effects redistributed. So it’s safer to lock MacAvoy in there than in his own room where he could have hidden any number of weapons. 

This time you address Fleurie. “Cordon off Ensign MacAvoy’s quarters—make it clear that no one is to go in there except you and me. Change the codes on the door, just to be safe.” This is maybe a little paranoid, but you are dealing with a sickness you don’t understand, and you don’t want to give it any chance to spread. You make a mental note to visit MacAvoy’s living space as soon as possible, to see the world from his view. You wonder if his room has windows. 

But all of this is building to a thought, more onerous than any you have had so far. The hours between now and when you can review the data tab are extending, your day lengthening before you. For an almost overwhelming moment, you are tempted to pass all of this on to Fleurie, delegate the mountain of tasks onto his shoulders alone, just so you can go back to your office and watch the footage in peace. You swallow thickly and dismiss the thought. Wiping sweat from your palms, you tell yourself that the footage can wait—it will still be there when you’re done with this. 

“I think we need to consider that we have an especially nasty mutated virus on our hands. With regards to everyone in this room, until we can have the medical staff check them out and take blood samples, no one will be allowed to leave.” You turn to the head of security. “And I do mean everyone, including me.” This drives the point home. You see it on his face as he rushes to the doors and keys in the codes to lock them down. Before the crew can notice this and start to panic, you decide you will have to address them now. 

You double tap your comms to amplify your voice and begin speaking. “Crew, I understand that you have just been through a stressful experience and that you all have places you need to be and things you need to do. Right now I need you to sit tight. Members of security are going to pull each of you aside and take statements. The medical crew is going to draw blood samples. I want everyone to remain calm and orderly. If you have your screens with you, feel free to read, but I don’t want you talking to each other about what happened, and I don’t want you messaging anyone else on this ship until you’ve been cleared. Once we’re done here, you’ll be required to return to your quarters and remain there until further notice.” 

There’s more you want to say, but people are beginning to look glazed-eyed. It’s obvious that you’re making a big deal of this, and if they’ve been experiencing the rise in fear that you have, this will confirm to them that they are right to be afraid. If something like this happened with MacAvoy, you have the sinking, sinking feeling that it is only a matter of time before it happens again. Next time it could be worse, and you don’t want to know what worse looks like. You find yourself sneaking glances at those around you, sizing people up. Which one of you will snap next? It’s too soon to call it a pattern, you remind yourself, too soon to assume this is anything beyond an isolated incident. 

And yet. 

The data tab has become an obsessive thought, repeated over and over. No matter how hard you try to distract yourself with what you have to do, you keep going back to it, the shadows, the video of the shadows. Even being here in this horrible present isn’t enough to confirm to you that you’re not going insane. But if you can show the admiral your proof, if you can convince him, then you’ll know for sure. 

Of course, you could excuse yourself, you think. You could walk out the door—you are the captain, allowed to break your own rules—and you could go watch the video. You could be back in fifteen minutes, max. People might not even notice you were gone. 

You realize too late that someone is talking to you, has been trying to get your attention for who knows how long. Lost in thought like that, you don’t want to consider how you look, like you might go crazy at any moment, just give it time. You are a ticking bomb; everyone around you can hear the ticking. It’s not comforting to consider that you might be imagining this. 

It’s Johnson. “Captain,” he’s saying, and he looks like he’s about ready to have a heart attack. “We don’t have enough sample containers to draw blood.” 

“How many more do you need?” You sound impossibly tired. If you get a moment, you should step into the kitchen and mix up a pot of coffee substitute. It won’t be as good as the real thing, what you have in your office, but it will be better than nothing. Maybe it will make this day less hellish. 

“We need at least thirty more. We’re using two vials per person, so we won’t have to go back and draw blood again. But our kits only contain ten vials combined. We weren’t, you know, planning for something like this.” 

You have to think for a moment. Your brain is slowing down—no, the world is speeding up, and you can’t think any faster than you always have. Finally it comes to you. “Page one of the med techs. Tell them to bring up a case of vials—extra if you think you might need them—and leave them just outside the main entrance. Have them knock and then walk away quickly. Once they’re gone, Lieutenant Lawson will open the door and grab the case.” 

Johnson clears his throat. “We really need to get Montez down to the med bay as soon as possible so we can scan for brain bleed. We don’t know what kind of damage MacAvoy did.” 

“Okay.” You feel your anxiety rising, the tide coming in. “Pick out three of the most qualified med techs in this room. Have them bring him to Medical Bay B. It will become another quarantine section. Once your techs have reached the lab with Ensign Montez, they are not to leave until I give a direct order, and they are not to let anyone else in without my express permission.” 

“What about the people already there?” 

“Page them now. Tell them to evacuate all the patients to the other two medical bays. And tell the med techs working on Montez…” You pause for a moment, try to phrase the thought as gently as you can. You find it isn’t possible. “Tell them to treat him like he’s got a highly-infectious disease.” 

“But Captain,” Johnson begins, and you can see the distress rising red in his cheeks, hear the quaver in his voice. “Captain, he’s a victim here.” He says it like it’s a question. 

“I know. But he came in direct contact with Ensign MacAvoy.” Your eyes find him, surrounded by med techs. From this angle, you can’t tell if he’s conscious, if he’s still bleeding. The room feels dead quiet, despite the soft murmur of your security team interviewing people. There are spatters of blood on the floor, handfuls of drops forming unfamiliar constellations. “It’s possible MacAvoy is sick, that whatever he has could have transferred from his blood to Montez’s. We have to explore that possibility. Once he’s in the med bay, monitor his symptoms—I want to know if his immune system is fighting anything, however small.” 

You want to give more instructions, to tell everyone everything they need to do, all at once, because it’s piling up in your brain, a crushing weight, and you’re afraid that if you leave something out now, disaster will strike. But Johnson is already going a little glazed-eyed. You remind yourself that most of the people here witnessed a man being beaten to a pulp, and now you’ve insinuated that MacAvoy’s crazy might be contagious. They are coming down off adrenaline, just waiting for the next person to snap—they are going to start crashing if you push them too hard. If you don’t clear this room soon, pack people away to their quarters where they will be alone and unable to feed off each other’s fear, all hell will break loose. 

So you stop yourself before you voice the last thought knocking around in your brain, because it’s too drastic. It will undo what tenuous peace you have left. You want to tell Johnson to have everyone on this ship report to the remaining medical bays immediately to receive full workups. Of course, he is already collecting the data, at his own pace—but you want answers today, not at some indeterminate point in the future. It’s too much. You are turning an isolated event into an epidemic. The reality is, probably no one else is sick, or everyone is and it will run its course. Cases like MacAvoy’s will be the exception, not the rule. No cold, however mutated, is enough to destroy an entire ship—it just doesn’t work that way. 

And anyway, you’ve allowed yourself to believe that this is the result of a virus, because Johnson gave you reason to believe it, and because you wanted to. If it’s a virus, there’s a chance it can be contained, even cured. But you know what it could be. Space psychosis is a vastly-untapped field of research. Only a handful of ships have left the solar system, a little over a two-year roundtrip, and no one has traveled through subspace for as many consecutive days as your crew has—the numbers for comparison simply don’t exist; the studies haven’t been done. Your psychologist is working on it, but she is one of the first in her field, and the reference material she has on hand is scant at best. Another hard truth that you will have to stomach is that MacAvoy’s promise on Earth does not predict his ability to withstand the mental strain of being in flight for years. Everyone has their breaking point—this was his. Somewhere, out in the vastness of space, yours waits. 

16

By the time you’ve released the rest of your crew to their quarters and the medical staff have packed up their samples and returned to the lab, where they will work all night, you still don’t see an end in sight. Tomorrow you will have to speak with the head psychiatrist, and you will have to speak with MacAvoy. At some point, you will have to read his personal logs, inspect his quarters. Again, you wonder whether or not he has a window, as if the answer will somehow give you insight into what truly happened. 

In the meantime, you know, you will have to meet with Fleurie to debrief. As you turn to him, you experience an inexplicable moment of contempt. No matter how hard you try, you can’t put a finger on it, frame why it came or why it left so quickly. You’re watching a passing blur, knowing it’s a train only because that’s what you’ve been told. Something about him being weak, something about him being spineless, something about him being with them. 

You usher Fleurie to your office, wishing he would at least straighten his uniform, now that the crisis has passed. Instead, he looks more disheveled, half-crazed himself. You don’t want to have to keep an eye on him, don’t want to think about him breaking too, because if he breaks, then you’re next. Of course you know it doesn’t work that way, but you’re so tired you’re grabbing all your thoughts with mittened hands. 

Outside your office, you glance down the hallway, both ways, just to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. You don’t know why you have this moment of pure paranoia—they will be listening in, they will know that you know—but you indulge it anyway. Only once you’re sure the hallway is clear, as far as you can see, do you close the door and lock it behind the two of you. 

Fleurie’s eyebrows rise. By this point, you had thought he was so dead on his feet that he wouldn’t notice anything. Heat rises in your cheeks; it’s been a long time since you felt embarrassed. “It’s just, you know, Ensign MacAvoy might not be the only one.” 

He does what any good first officer would do—he lets you leave it at that. 

As you seat yourself at your desk, he pulls up a chair across from you. Behind him, you see your face, reflected in the window. Of course you’ve noticed this before, the fact that all the windows in the spaceship are made reflective by the darkness beyond them, but previously you were too focused on the stars to care. Now it startles you every time. You hate walking down the corridor beside your moving reflection, feeling like you are not walking alone. Sitting at your desk, glancing down at your screen, glancing up because you thought you saw someone, only to see your face. Except it’s not always your face, not quite, more something meant to look like your face. That’s what gets under your skin the most. 

As you start the coffee brewing, you take comfort in measuring out the scoops, in smelling the grounds. It’s a little ridiculous, having real coffee on a spaceship, if you think about it. Caffeine pills would be more than adequate, and they would take up less space. Everything costs. This was exorbitant. You’d like to say that you had to forfeit your entire paycheck, for the rest of your life, to swing this luxury, but the solution was a lot more straightforward than that. 

In the hydroponics bay grows a complement of twelve coffee trees. What would be the point of starting a new world without coffee? The harvest is small, the trees cultivated more for their potential than their present use, and there is not enough coffee for everyone. Only you, as the captain, have access to it, and not everyone even knows that the trees exist. But those who do know look forward to meeting with you, because when you meet with crew in your office, you always offer coffee. No one ever declines. If anyone on this ship were to assassinate you, it would be for this reason. You used to joke that where the power is, there’s coffee, but you’ve always known it was the other way around. 

You don’t know how to start this conversation properly, so you say the first thing that comes to mind. “I think you and I both know that this problem extends beyond Ensign MacAvoy and that our first priority should be containing it. What are your theories as to what’s happening?” 

It’s not a loaded question, as such, but it carries its own hidden purpose. You are less interested in considering solutions and more interested in knowing the extent of Fleurie’s fear, if only to compare it to yours, to remind yourself that you are not laboring under some solitary delusion. It should not be comforting that the reason for your fear is legitimate, but it is. 

“It could be anything.” His eyebrows knit together. “It started…well, it looks like it started after we entered orbit around the planet. It could be that the gravitational shift, um, even the change of scenery has people on edge. Or it could be coincidence. I feel like I’m coming down with something—maybe everyone is just under the weather. I think you’re right to treat this like a mutated cold.” 

“I’ll check with Med C to see what progress they’ve made.” You are going to start losing your hair—it’s going to fall out from all this stress. This mission will be the death of you. You don’t know why you ever thought you would be able to terraform Icarus III, to wrangle life from that desolate wasteland. 

Out of nowhere, you have the sudden urge to tell him about the existence of the footage, to show him the shadows. Your hand wanders closer to the keypad on the drawer. Somehow you force yourself to stand and walk to the coffee. You pour him a cup, mechanical, hand it to him, black. There are no luxuries like cream and sugar on this ship. The health of the crew is too important to jeopardize by allowing superfluous sugar on board. 

It makes sense to show him the footage, to explain to him what happened on the surface. Somehow, you realize, you have managed not to tell anyone—you don’t remember if you warned people not to say anything. Regardless, your brain insists that showing him would be a bad idea. You think it mainly has to do with the fact that you are afraid, on some level, that there will be nothing on the film, that you will be exposed in your insanity. Come here and watch this film, in which I insist there are shadows where there are no shadows. 

Even though Parsons volunteered the film. Even though Maugrim was the only one who didn’t see them this time around. You have to verify it first. Then you will show him, of course you will, but only after you’ve made sure. It’s such a reasonable compromise, you can’t bring yourself to pass it up. 

 

Copyright © 2025 by Elizabeth Brooks