the lacuna
Log Entry: Cycle 88, Sol 6. (cont.)
Following Roberts is like chasing a shadow through the decaying station. We pass Wilkins at a junction. He gives me a look of grudging respect. “You’ve got guts, writer,” he mutters and turns to follow us. “Or you’re a damn fool.” The jury’s still out.
Roberts leads me to a decommissioned cargo bay. And there it is. At first, I think it’s just a section of the bay sealed off. A wall of pure black. Then my eyes adjust. Not a wall. A hole in space the shape of a ship. A seamless, matte-black shape that seems to swallow the station’s dim light. No visible engines, no docking clamps, no seams. A silent contradiction to every piece of functional, rust-bucket tech I’ve ever seen.
Wilkens quietly says “That’s the Lacuna. What the stations call it anyway.” Face expressing disbelief Roberts led me here.
Roberts floats to a spot on the hull, places his palm against it. The material doesn’t retract. It flows. A perfect circle of blackness recedes into itself without a sound. He gestures. I push off, leaving the familiar grime behind.
Inside. A single, white chamber. The light is uniform, from the walls themselves. No shadows. Disorienting. The air is sterile, cool, and so pure it feels alien. Raw in my lungs, accustomed to grit. The only scent is my own. The stale smell of my clothes, suddenly pungent. The silence. Absolute. Not relaxing. Unnerving.
As Roberts drifts, the floor ripples. Rises. A minimalist couch. Another shape forms for me. A chair facing Roberts. The doorway seals as silently as it opened.
A voice from the air itself. Calm, yet expressive. “I trust you left listening devices on the station.”
I look for a speaker. Nothing. Roberts is a study in stillness. Then a small, white sphere I hadn’t noticed floats from a recess in the wall. It moves between us and, miscalculating, gently bumps my shoulder with a soft thump. It halts. Recalibrates.
“My apologies,” the voice says, now clearly from the sphere. A tiny, blue lens spirals into existence on its surface. “I trust you left listening devices on the station,” it repeats.
“Yes,” I stammer. “Wilkins said Roberts wouldn’t approve.”
“A wise precaution,” the sphere replies. “The Wires are always listening. But on ship, our communications are closed. We can speak freely. My name is Echo. I serve as Captain Roberts’s assistant.”
I stare from the talking sphere to the silent man. Echo. He has a voice. It just isn’t his.