It did look beautiful. They did look happy. She wasn’t happy, that much was certain. But she had no inclination to join them, whatever they were doing. If, in some future time, they proved themselves to be right, proved her to be wrong—fine.
The next day, she didn’t open the door to let them in for meals. She could hear their voices, now, very dimly, all of them sounding exactly the same. Sometimes they were right outside her window, saying things, as if speaking to her. But the words sounded made-up. She wouldn’t put that past them, that they were speaking some language not their own. Or, well, not hers. Too infuriating, really. Like pig-Latin, meant to point out how she didn’t fit in.
Each morning she got up and wrote her report and transmitted it although it went nowhere—the planets blocked her words from reaching anyone. It was comforting all the same. In less than a year, some morning not unlike this one, she would hear a blip, a beep, some startled movement on the line. It would be a warm voice, a human voice, a relief after all this weirdness—and maybe this wasn’t even the end of it, maybe they would become sand or rock or pellets of water themselves (she couldn’t know)—there would be a voice over the line, telling her, You made it. You were right, to seal that door. You are the one who is valuable. You are the one who saved the mission, and we adore you.
And she liked the sound of that so much—the love that was in that voice—that she began to fear that Jenks or Brute or Squirrel or Darcy would knock on the door someday and ask to come in. And she would be uncertain. She would want to open the door because for once they would sound normal. And they would complain they were hungry. How would she be able to withstand that? If they did that? Or if they bumped their foreheads against the plexi, crying, “Sibbetts, Sibbetts, we’re sorry, let us in!”
That would be unfair. To endure for almost all the way, and then have them trick her like that at the end. She would have to set up some rules. She would be clear about what they could and could not do. If they wanted food, she would leave it outside. That was reasonable. If they wanted anything else, they could leave her a note.
She found a notebook and pen to give them and suited up. Just because they had survived without a suit didn’t mean she would change procedure. Who knew what was growing inside their brains or in their blood vessels, biding its time?
She waited for the air lock to empty, then she stepped outside. Where were they now? They’d been in sight before she suited up. She turned around and bam! something hit her. She dropped the notebook, staggering a little. She still held on to the pen.
Then another strike. Her mind was trying to figure it out. She looked down at her arm and saw something moving down it. Like oil.
It was the thick water, of course. She turned to the left, and another one hit her.
“Can Sibbetts come out and play?” Squirrel called, his voice high and squeaky. He had his own face today, Sibbetts saw.
“Stop it,” Sibbetts said. “It isn’t funny.”
Someone put on a hand on her, from behind. She twisted as best she could in the suit. It was Jenks. “We miss you, Sibbetts. It’s hard to command someone who stays inside all day. Don’t you feel like you’re in prison?”
“I’m not sure who’s in prison,” Sibbetts answered. “I’m happier inside.”
“But I want you out here,” Jenks said. “I order you.”
“Yes, sir,” Sibbetts said, backing up. “Just let me stow my gear and I’ll be right back.”
Someone laughed. “Fat chance.” That was Brute. “Just get her helmet off.”
She was close to the door, close enough to get in and slam it.
That was that, then. Her heart was pounding. She went to the clean room. She stood under the spray. When she was done, she took off her suit. One of the clasps for the helmet had been undone. Luckily, they hadn’t gotten farther than that.
There really was no reason to go outside anymore. But they knew everything about the domes—could she really keep them from coming in?
If she wanted to survive, she would have to get rid of them. Her hands got very still, she clasped them together in her lap. The idea was horrific. Could she really kill them? No, it was too much. She could never be driven that far. If she stayed inside, and they stayed outside, then there was no reason for it. They would just keep to their own sides of the door.
Late one night, just as she was drifting off, she heard a scratching sound. Something small and rough. Was she imagining it? She took a flashlight and inched her way towards the sound. It was coming from the next dome, but it stopped as she neared it. Of course: she had passed a plexi window; they had seen the light.
They moved around, like mice, nibbling here and there. Were they using their fingernails? Did they still have fingernails? They could be using the rocks to scrape away at the dome, making the walls here and there thinner and thinner, so that one night they might poke their hands through and pull her out.
