Heinrick rushed to the platform, carrying Nilved. A lump in her throat swelled at the horror of abandoning Michael. She resisted the urge to turn around, hoping he’d find her.

As the shuttle ascended a few hundred feet below UG-2, she fought back tears, envisioning Devlin choking Michael, feeling hands on her throat. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, telling herself to breathe.

Nilved’s constant bleeping didn’t help. She pressed buttons to silence the robot but failed. When the shuttle slowed to a stop, she raced to a familiar corridor, hunting for the hidden entryway to the intermediate room. Nilved bleeped louder, as if playing a children’s hot-cold game. Taking the robot’s lead, Heinrick found the wall leading to the foam door.

A half-sob escaped into laughter. “Ha, you little rascal! Now help me open this.”

Heinrick remembered Devlin’s access code and tapped it in.

Nothing.

She said it aloud while entering. “4...6...3...9...7...3.”

Nothing again.

She checked the biometric readings, drew a deep breath and swiped the wrist computer across the scanner.

“Voice code?” the computer inquired.

“4...6...3...9...7...3.”

No response.

“Damn it! I know it’s right!” She looked down at the robot. “What do I do now, Nilved? Nilved!”

---

When Palmer realized what the scientist had done to him, an explosive surge of adrenaline coursed through his body, overriding all logic. He bolted towards the madman, but collapsed. Palmer struggled again, but it was no use. A strange paralysis set in.

“Can’t move…eh?” Devlin observed. “It’s the disease. It renders its victims powerless for a time.” He smiled, exposing his craggy brown teeth. “Want to know why?”

Palmer recoiled when Devlin’s sour breath reached his mask.

The scientist erupted into a crazed, gleeful cackle as he loomed over the trapped doctor, viscous, brown saliva dripping from his mouth.

“It’s really very clever, you know,” Devlin added. “The paralysis assures the spores can invade your body. Isn’t that magnificent?”

Sealing his eyes, Palmer wiped the putrid sludge from his mask across his shoulder.

“Hmmm…maybe I should bring over more. Do you think that’s a good idea?” Devlin exploded upwards, his sudden outcry reverberating throughout the chamber, cradling his remaining arms and torso, screams dying into soft whimpers. Palmer’s eyes fluttered, his eyes traveling to Devlin’s lower half. Fresh blood pooled at the scientist’s feet.

Devlin followed the doctor’s eyes and shrieked again. “It doesn’t hurt—really, it doesn’t. I suppose you could call it the beauty of the disease!” He leaned in close and whispered, “There is no cure.”

Color drained from Palmer’s face as he watched Devlin’s skin melt from his skull, his inner reality shifting, noticing Devlin pacing in blurred shadows and muted babbling. Strange swirls of light curled around him. Another bout of rage and madness surged, strengthening his resolve to fight Devlin and the spores.

Palmer used the intensity of the next wave to break the spell of paralysis. He sprang at the scientist’s throat and wrestled him to the floor, grabbing a nearby oxygen tank, snapping off the hose. He knocked Devlin unconscious, then detected a potent gas. Mates rushed around in utter chaos, mimicking Devlin.

Knowing he couldn’t save the scientist, Palmer contemplated his own fate. He thought of sacrificing himself to contain the disease, yet his mind—and the spores—told him to escape. There was hope: a robot who had the key to the serum. And Susan, waiting for him. The debate seemed endless, but he chose.

A bewildered mate stood in front of the wheel. As Palmer rushed to the vault-like door, he reached into his pocket and tossed his igniter into its hands. “Here, hold this!”

Palmer slipped past the mate, opened the door, closed it, and spun the huge metal wheel, locking it shut.

Devlin regained consciousness, saw the wheel rotating, and shouted after Palmer. He rushed over and pounded with bloody elbows, begging him to open up. On the other side, Palmer backed away from the scientist’s cries, then turned and ran for the shuttle.

As Devlin spun around, he saw his mate studying the lighter.

“No! Nonoo!” he shrieked.

Flick.

---

Susan felt the vibration of the enormous explosion. Clutching Nilved, she looked over her shoulder for any signs of Palmer. Another tremor rolled through, stronger this time. When the shaking ceased, she peered through the opening of the intermediate room. “Shit! No sign of him.”

A major blast shook the entire room, metal creaking around them. Palmer stumbled through the secret wall.

“Michael!” She reached out and guided him toward the foam door. “Thank God you made it! Are you all right?”

He managed a nod.

She squeezed Nilved through the foam door first, then led them through the hallways until they reached the main shuttle. Tremors shook while inside the tube, but it held its course. Another burst slowed the shuttle.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Heinrick pleaded. “Don’t screw up on us now!”

The doors whooshed open. Palmer collapsed. Heinrick shouted out through the entryway. “Quick, somebody! Help!”

---

Palmer woke among white sheets, his eyes focusing on two clear IV bags hanging over his head, squinting to decipher what they were giving him. He followed the tubing down his right hand. The last thing he remembered was being wheeled down a hallway and into a surgery suite. Sitting up produced a sharp pain across his abdomen, forcing his head to drop back onto the pillow. He stared at the ceiling, half-believing he’d dreamed the whole thing.

“Good morning.”

Palmer heard the familiar voice and watched his colleague ease into the room. “Hello,” he answered, his voice dry and crusty. He sat up, scanning for a cup of water while clearing his throat. Heinrick guided the straw to his lips. Palmer grasped the cup, shaking.

“That’s from the NG tube.” She sat down next to him. How are you feeling otherwise?”

Palmer’s chest heaved in short, shallow jerks, eyes widening as the image of Devlin’s grotesque face appeared. “Susan! That bastard held a pod right in front of my face!”

“Look at me!” Heinrick grasped his hands, his palms tacky and cool against her warmth. The shift in temperature snapped his attention back to the room. “It’s okay, Michael. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

“What?”

“You’re okay.” Heinrick locked eyes until she felt his hands relax and breathing returning to a steady rhythm. She handed Palmer his eyeglasses, his hands still weak. “Here. They told me you were coming around. I wanted to be here to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That you’re going to be all right.” She bent over and reached for something on the floor. “I thought you might like to see the little fellow who saved our lives.”

She lifted the small robot from an induction plate and placed it on the bed. “Recognize this guy?”

Nilved bleeped and tweeted.

“Devlin’s robot.”

“That’s right.”

Palmer clutched the sheets at the sight of Nilved, shaking his head. “Susan, there’s no cure. Devlin told me himself.”

“And you believed him?”

Palmer sighed and leaned back.

“Devlin was in no condition to tell us the truth. But we know what really happened, thanks to Nilved.” She patted the robot’s metal sides. Nilved bleeped.

“This robot not only carried the serum formula, but most of Devlin’s recorded messages. He was right on target, theorizing all probable scenarios. And the inevitable. While loading the prepared serum, one of the pods grew out of control and sporulated before he could inject himself. The organism’s powerful hold shattered his willpower, severing the connection between his brain and the hand holding the antidote.”

She watched Palmer’s eyes darting, rewiring the sequence of events in his head.

“So, he gave it to you instead.” She looked down. “It might have been Devlin’s last conscious act.” Tears wanted to come. Another time. Heinrick forced a smile. “Either way, his serum saved your life.”

Palmer peered at the bags, brows pinching. “How do we know it’ll work?”

Two knocks, and the door opened. An ICU nurse hurried in. “I heard you were awake!”

Heinrick beamed at Palmer. “There’s your answer.”

“Lena?” Palmer lifted his head to see past Heinrick. The moment their eyes met, the same wide-mouthed, breathless laugh burst from both of them. “Lena! You’re all right!”

She rushed to his bedside, their fingers intertwining in a tight embrace. “Yes, thanks to the new Zacora vaccine Susan developed.” She patted his leg in a dynamic, high energy gesture. “You’ll be fine too, once this takes effect.”

“We’ve had four days to test it,” Heinrick said.

Palmer plopped his head back. “My God, was I out that long?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. After the explosion, you collapsed, and a team rushed you to the ICU. Besides the obvious, you only suffered a few broken ribs.”

He hovered his hand over his torso before palpating his rib cage. “Ow!”

“It’s a miracle you made it out alive,” Lena said, checking the serum level in his bag. “Fire destroyed the virus before the blast wave could spread it.”

“Thank God.” Palmer sighed, then shot a look at Heinrick. “How did you create an escape path?”

Nilved bleeped. Heinrick tilted her head towards the robot. “Nilved showed me the way. And when the code failed, I looked down at this thing and thought, what a funny name…Nilved. Then it hit me. Devlin used palindromes to solve puzzles. When I entered the code in reverse; it opened!”

Palmer huffed out a breath and grinned.

A nurse poked her head into the room. “Doctor Heinrick, they’re ready for you now.”

“All right. Thank you, Connie.” Heinrick faced Palmer; their eyes met, lingering for a moment, a testament to their shared relief. “I have to go.” She rose and headed for the door, winking at Lena. “Besides, you’re in expert hands.”

“Where’s she going in such a hurry?” Palmer asked.

“She’s done more than take care of you these past few days. She had Martin Stewart and the other administrators removed from office and arrested for unauthorized ISC experimentation. And for exploiting Devlin’s zeal to understand the organism.”

“What about Jon?”

“Like you and the rest of us, he had no idea what was going on.”

“Figures. What else?”

“Now she’s working on a serum for the next Jupiter mission. The remaining members of the ISC committee are meeting with her right now to discuss the possibilities.”

Palmer laid his head back. A slow smile stretched across his tired face.

The room felt quiet. He rolled toward Lena, who was staring out the window, arms folded, misty-eyed.

“What is it?”

She sighed and faced Palmer. “When Susan opened Nilved’s compartment, her finger grazed a play button.” Lena paused. “It was Devlin, just as I remembered.” She gestured at Nilved. “When you’re ready, you should probably listen.”

Nilved sat on the bed where Heinrick had left him. Palmer noticed a flashing button and glanced at Lena, who nodded. He pressed it.

---

“This is Thomas Devlin. I’m happy to report our team eradicated the Zacora virus before it could mutate. Our friends on Earth are recovering.”

---

“I wish to document a curious development. My proximity and frequent handling of the virus may have created a damaging effect on my central nervous system. I’ve removed myself from my work post and asked the ISC to monitor my condition while in isolation. If my suspicions are correct…which I hope they are not…I have succumbed to the neurologic hijacking of this organism that renders its victims loyal to its survival. During the serum’s development, I felt an intense, driving compulsion to alter the formula, effectively sabotaging efforts to save those on Earth who had hidden underground. And this was, well, highly unacceptable to me.”

---

“Thankfully, I’m not experiencing vivid hallucinations, sudden aggression, or severe paranoia.”

---

“Their intelligence is impressive, sending out a vibration, feeding off the light we emit. I don’t think it ever wanted to harm us. We plucked them out of their natural habitat, so they borrowed the nearest biology to survive. And that was us.”

EPILOGUE:

On January 21, 2163, the ISC sent Phyllus III to explore Jupiter’s moons. The crew found no pods like the one Lieutenant Anderson had described aboard the Phyllus II, and no one ever encountered such a creature again.

Off in the distance, the Phyllus III crew reported an unusual sighting: floating red particles by the thousands, hovering around Europa and Io, then disappearing from sight.

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A foul odor of heavy decay wafted up, stinging their nasal passages.

“Smell? Oh, yes…here.” Devlin pointed to the containers.

Palmer recoiled at the stench. Heinrick gasped and looked away.

Corpses bobbed in a murky liquid, their skin swirling like damp paper around gaping jaws, frozen in eternal screams.

Palmer turned away and flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Heinrick steadied herself, fighting the urge to vomit as memories of stained bedding and percolating wounds flooded her awareness.

Multiple rows of clear caskets lined the wall, each with identical macabre viewing windows for a perverted post-mortem study. Palmer rasped, fighting the urge to heave.

“Jesus! Why have you kept these?”

“Oh, I’ve just begun!” Devlin shouted, jutting his chin in an air of defiance.

Palmer blinked and shook his head. “What do you mean? You solved everything. You have a cure!”

“Of course. But my work isn’t complete until I see how the organism fully evolves.”

Heinrick and Palmer’s wide-eyes met, communicating a voiceless, suffocating terror as the gravity of this moment sank in.

Palmer’s chest heaved. “You’re cultivating this monster?”

Devlin shrugged. “They already grow in this atmosphere, Doctor.”

“Michael!” Heinrick grabbed his arm. Palmer resisted, his glassy stare meeting hers.

She knew in that moment his admiration for Devlin had blinded him to the man’s complete madness, and she had to be the one to get them out. And the only way was to treat Devlin like one of his mates.

Glaring at Palmer, she squeezed his arm, urging him to focus. “Go on, Thomas. Tell us your plan.”

“I’m not sure Michael wants to be bothered with the details,” Devlin observed, cocking his head.

Taking her cue, Palmer nodded. “I want to hear it. Please. Continue, Thomas.”

“Well,” Devlin muttered, his hand resting near the base of his throat. “I will transmutate the organism to survive in an oxygen-rich atmosphere.” He shrugged. “It’s the least we could do, since we plucked them out of their habitat.”

Both nodded, trying not to process the horror. They had to escape this madman before it was too late, then get the serum to the ICU. But there were no more vials in sight. Palmer stalled for time until they could find more.

“And what purpose would that serve?”

“Well, for one: population control on Earth! We could wipe out thousands! Start over if need be!”

“But, what if we wanted to save a few?” Heinrick inquired, hoping he’d believe she aligned with his devious plan.

“Yes, yes—of course, for the propagation of the species.”

“No, I mean for experimental purposes. Wouldn’t we need the serum to keep them alive until you’re finished with them?” She glanced at Palmer. He returned her look and shook his head.

No serum in sight.

“Yes, it’s possible,” Devlin mused. “But I injected the last drop into Michael.”

A hush fell over the room. Palmer’s heart sank.

Heinrick shook her head, tears forming at the edges of her eyes. “Can’t you prepare more?” Heinrick asked.

“Oh, the formula? Sure, sure. Nilved has it.”

“Nilved?” Palmer asked.

“Yes, my…well, you’ll see. Come here, Nilved.”

A small, foot-tall mechanical robot detached itself from the wall and scooted over like a faithful puppy. It rolled on four wheels, with no arms or head, primitive compared to current-day robotic models.

“I couldn’t trust a mate with this kind of information. It’s all stored here.” He patted the robot’s front. “Nilved can spit out the serum faster than anything I’ve ever seen. Plus, he’s indestructible. Lightweight, too. Of all the ones I’ve built, Nilved’s the best.”

Heinrick studied Devlin’s fingers as he keyed a code to open Nilved’s compartment. Palmer felt a pressure in his chest. It was time to leave.

“Look, Thomas, we don’t have time for this now. I called a medical conference several hours ago. Susan and I need to get up to Level I before they come looking for us.”

Devlin stopped short of pressing the last button on Nilved and looked up. “I already called it off.

“What?” Dr. Palmer shouted, losing his temper. “How could you even know…?”

“One of my mates informed me,” he answered. “When I learned what you might tell them…well, you see why I had to stop you.”

“Let’s get out of here, Michael,” Heinrick urged, tugging his arm. She stumbled back and stepped on a floor button. A wall slid open, revealing the yellowed bodies of the morgue workers and the medical rescue team in plastic wrap. And there, tangled among the corpses, was Seth Johnson’s severed head in a bag, his torso and extremities hacked into meaty chunks.

Heinrick screamed. Palmer coughed wet and shallow, gasping for breath the moment the smell of formaldehyde hit him.

Devlin hovered, watching Palmer’s color fade to blue. “You have vulnerable lungs, my friend. You’ll be an excellent host.”

Heinrick grabbed Palmer and dragged her colleague toward the enormous steel door while he fought for air. She glanced at his mask. The oxygen level read zero.

She stopped and faced Devlin, who had hurried after them. “You’ve gone too far with this,” she protested, gesturing at Palmer. “Look! He’s suffocating!”

Before she could react, Devlin reached out and twisted a knob. Within seconds Palmer’s color returned, and he breathed normally again.

“Reserve oxygen,” Devlin said, waving off the near-fatal crisis.

“We’re leaving!” she screamed.

“You can’t,” Devlin said. “You see, this is where I need your help.” He gestured toward the yellow cadavers with his head. “I can’t work with these any longer. I need live human beings.”

“Well, you won’t have anyone alive down here at this rate!” Palmer rose and threw himself at Devlin, knocking him to the floor. As he did, a mate working with the corpses lost its footing and caught the transfer coupling line, shearing it. The mate shrieked and flailed as liquid methane streamed over its arm, turning the limb white then glassy with frost blooming up past the elbow. Its arm broke off at the shoulder like a dropped icicle. Devlin reprimanded the mate while pieces shattered across the floor. Palmer noticed a small computer strapped to the mate’s wrist and took it. While Devlin ran to the tank, Palmer turned to his colleague.

“This is your chance. Go now, before it’s too late!”

“You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

“No. Not until I know you’ve made it out and reached the sub-shuttle. One of us has to warn the others. Now go!”

“No, Michael! I’m not leaving without you!”

“You must!” He gave her the computer wristband. “Take it—and for God’s sake—take Nilved with you! Now go! I’ll be right behind you!”

She broke from her frozen stance, nodded, then fastened the wristband. Heinrick ran and scooped up Nilved. It blipped and tweeted as she bounded for the door.

Devlin heard the sound and chased after her. She was already turning the big metal wheel. Palmer came up from behind and seized the scientist by the arms. “Let her go!”

“No! No one may leave!” Devlin protested.

Heinrick struggled to rotate the wheel, but it wouldn’t open. She screamed, forcing it to turn with all her might. Nothing. “Damn you, Devlin!” She kicked the metal wheel until it moved. She stood back. It unlocked and swung open. While Palmer restrained Devlin, she looked back. He gave her a gentle, reassuring nod. She escaped with the robot.

Palmer pushed Devlin away and faced him. “This experiment is over, Thomas!”

“No! It’s over for you!”

Devlin lunged with full force. As they struggled, Palmer lost his grip on the scientist’s arms and fell, tearing off forearm sections of Devlin’s isolation suit. When Palmer looked up, hot bile rose in his throat. Dangling from Devlin’s arms were raw strips of bright red muscle and skin that slipped off into Palmer’s hands, peeled like a soft, warm tomato.

Devlin’s soul-piercing screams reverberated into dozens of hollow shrieks across the chamber. Palmer cowered, still grasping warm pieces of dripping flesh. Hands trembling, he cast it aside and shouted over the scientist’s screams.

“Even you, Thomas, who thought you’d found the cure, succumbed to the disease itself! It’s controlling your mind! Do you understand?”

For a moment, the scientist stopped vocalizing and stared at Palmer.

A sudden, high-pitched hum flooded Palmer’s ears, drowning out the world with a deafening roar. Heart pounding, he cried out. “I’m still infected!”

“No, not yet,” Devlin answered in a distant tone. “You need to be exposed to the pod first.”

Palmer watched the last vestiges of the once brilliant scientist drain from his body, leaving behind the most heartless form of life he had ever seen.

Devlin hurled Palmer against the metal door; his head struck, and the room dimmed. As he slid toward the floor, he watched the blurred scientist walk into another room. Devlin returned, crossed toward him, unhurried and deliberate.

Emerging between grotesque limbs was an iridescent green pod the size of a coconut. Before Palmer could pull away, it hovered inches from his face. The gases whirled through the room; the pod shook, and it was gone.

Devlin threw his head back and roared.

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“Aaahhgh!” Palmer grimaced, hollering as the first wave of pure torment hit. He stumbled backwards.

Heinrick broke from the standoff and rushed to her colleague’s side, her eyes wide and frantic. “What’s happening to him?” She screamed at Devlin. “Do something!”

“I’ll explain if you’ll both stop panicking!” he reprimanded, unaffected by Palmer’s agonized wailing.

That alone nearly drove Heinrick insane. Her eyes glazed over.

Palmer hyperventilated against the slippery wall, writhing and massaging his stiffening arm until the wave passed. He released an enormous sigh then nodded to Heinrick, who stared past him.

Devlin puffed his chest and commanded the room in a detached, arrogant tone.

“After the creatures on the satellite lured the crew, like bait in a trap, they were stunned to find empty specimen bags onboard. While deliberating where the pods went, each of them inhaled the very creatures they were searching for.

And why did this happen?

The stress of the ship’s hostile, warm, oxygen-rich environment threatened their very existence. The pods underwent rapid enzymatic breakdown, sporulating, casting their genetic material into micro-particles, small enough to pass through the ship’s filtration system, which by the way, actively recirculated through the ship’s automatic central vent system. Once that occurred, they were as good as dead.”

Devlin snorted.

“The only detections flagged by the system were changes in carbon dioxide and humidity levels, not the alien presence that filtrated into their lungs, crossing the alveolar membrane and into their bloodstream.”

Devlin’s pitch dropped to a slow, unsettling hiss. “It’s dangerous, humans venturing out into space. Like surfers paddling into shark-infested waters.”

Palmer and Heinrick exchanged a look.

Devlin cleared his throat. “Anyone exposed to a pod-infected human will not suffer the same fate.”

Palmer burst out. “Then tell us why Lena and the rest of us are showing the same early symptoms as the astronauts?” He held his head as a sudden, intense wave crushed his temples. A feeling of dread gnawed as he sank down the walls that blurred around him. Thick mucus slid down the back of his throat. He choked back tears, hoping Lena was still alive.

“You were not infected by the Jupiter parasite,” Devlin insisted.

Heinrick challenged him. “You’re lying. How do we know you’re not infected?”

Devlin’s head jerked, and his grin widened. “What symptoms do you observe? Am I debilitated? Am I insane?”

“That’s debatable!” Palmer shouted, seeing two Devlins.

“Ah, you underestimate me. All this time I’ve been working directly with the organism and the corpses myself, and I have not contracted a thing!”

Heinrick side-eyed and shot back. “Then what about our symptoms?”

Devlin chuckled. “Our symptoms? Your colleague’s signs are obvious: myotonia, especially in the right arm, and generalized pain. Perhaps hallucinations by now.” He sneered at Palmer, then turned to Heinrick. “And what symptoms are you experiencing?”

Heinrick paused to self-evaluate. What was she feeling? No pain, and every muscle flexible. Why wasn’t she experiencing the same as Michael? She looked at Devlin, baring his craggy teeth as if holding back a secret. Then it clicked.

“I never used the decontamination chamber.”

Palmer glanced over. “We all used the chamber. But you weren’t there.”

Heinrick’s eyes fluttered. “I fled the room after the captain…” She looked away.

Palmer propped himself up, shifting to one shoulder. “What happened when we used the chamber?”

“Ah yes. Anyone wish to take a guess?” Devlin taunted in a mocking cadence, smiling at Heinrick, who remained quiet, constructing pieces of information, calculating plausible scenarios, then answered.

“The spores. The captain and lieutenant expelled millions into the air. They ended up in our lungs, landed on our skin…”

Heinrick’s eyes widened as a cold chill ran down her spine. Her chest felt heavy, like a weight pressing down, confirming her worst fears.

“…and the chamber’s concentrated ultra-violet light triggered an opportunistic genetic shift.” She refrained from voicing the rest of her thought: the organism had evolved into a hybrid superbug.

“Yes, yes. Well done, Susan,” Devlin continued. “And Michael, remember the Phyllus I mission?”

Pushing through his discomfort, teeth bared, Palmer glanced at his colleague and swallowed. “Of course I do! I was the lead physician.”

“Well then, you should know what happened to them.” Devlin mocked, cracking a smile, noticing Palmer’s carotid hammering along his flushed neck.

Using the wall, Palmer rose to his feet. “Stop playing games! I had nothing to go on!”

“But I did,” Heinrick said, staring ahead, eyes fixed, unblinking.

Palmer’s head swung around. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes flickered, still focused on Devlin. “Zacora fever. Everyone on Phylus I contracted it, the same highly contagious virus that killed millions on Earth.

A subtle smile of approval played on Devlin’s lips. “Yes. Even after we inoculated those astronauts, they still contracted it.

Palmer glared at her, then slumped his shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me, Susan?”

Moisture pooled along her bottom lashes while she maintained a calm voice, eyes still on Devlin. “You put too much trust in your ISC buddies, Michael. You would have never believed that Devlin and the ISC lied to us without proof to back it up. Even I didn’t want to believe it.”

She glanced at Palmer. “I do now.”

Heinrick returned her hardened gaze, viewing Devlin as the repulsive pile of garbage he was. Her eyes slit into razor-thin lines that could pierce steel, causing tears to fall. She swatted them away.

“After the Phyllus I docked, I was the first to investigate the charred hull and discovered a body that hadn’t incinerated in the explosion. I extracted a tissue sample and later isolated the skin pathogen. Someone removed and replaced it with Staphylococcus epidermis, hoping to mislead me. But I had already documented an image of Zacora’s unique structure.”

Devlin stood still as a statue.

Heinrick raised her voice. “You were in charge of both Phyllus missions. And we were your decoys to draw attention away from your agenda.”

“Yes, my dear,” Devlin confessed. “But it was for everyone’s safety. I’ve been studying the mechanics of Zacora fever since the Earth epidemic.”

He leaned forward like a dramatic grade school teacher.

“But where did this virus originate? You remember, of course, the forensic botanist, Ben Larson, who first discovered the pods during his voyage to Jupiter, long before the Phyllus missions?”

“Yes,” Heinrick nodded. “He hypothesized the pods originated from an Earth-like planet called Zacora. After weeks in quarantine, Ben returned to Earth asymptomatic, except for a few sore muscles. He would have met the same fate as the astronauts had he not succumbed the Zacora mutation.”

“Ding, ding, ding, Susan!” Devlin cheered. “By then, the infected botanist had passed spores to his wife and children during their joyful reunion, and soon millions of unsuspecting humans spread them like stadium confetti!”

Palmer and Heinrick flinched when Devlin laughed.

“And the cruelest twist of all: health workers scrambled to implement outdoor triage tents. Alcohol wipes were the last thing they needed. Once people stepped outside, the most precious, life-sustaining power they had ever known became their executioner: sunlight.”

“Radiation-induced viral mutation,” Palmer breathed.

“Yes, Michael. Similar to when you stepped into the decontamination chamber: the ultra-violet load energized the spores that settled on your skin, like houseplants leaning towards a window. They fused with nearby Staph and whatever else, say your DNA, to rebuild itself. It stripped the Staph bacterium for parts and emerged as a resistant alien compatible with human biochemistry, fully adapted to its new environment. It can replicate inside human tissue and act like a pathogen!” Devlin paused for their reaction.

Both remained speechless.

Devlin bowed his head to Heinrick, her brow furrowing at the gesture. “Thanks to Susan’s isolated sample, not only did I develop the serum inoculation overnight—I discovered a remarkable trait in the new organism!”

He swept the room with his hand. “When I built my Jupiter lab, I still had living samples of the Zacora hybrid contained. One day, they transformed back into the pods right before my eyes!”

Heinrick and Palmer froze.

Devlin crinkled his eyes. “The Phyllus I mission was top secret, remember, Michael?”

Palmer nodded, his mind wandering, focused on Devlin’s serum comment.

“The goal was to assess the potential growth of my modified Zacora hybrid.”

Heinrick erupted. “You inoculated the healthy crew with your serum, but they had no idea what would happen to them once they reached space! They were guinea pigs in your sick experiment!”

“Yes,” Devlin admitted, raising his eyebrows.

Palmer’s nostrils flared as he reached for Devlin, but he was too weak. “So that’s where more pods came from, the Phyllus I disaster? You propagated those things and knew Phyllus II would bring them back!”

“Yes! And they did!” Devlin shouted with a wide, unsettling smile, baring his broken teeth.

Palmer moaned and bent over as the virus worked on his body.

Heinrick took short, guarded breaths as her abdomen tightened. Devlin had a serum. If she demanded it, he would not relinquish it. But if it were Devlin’s idea. She knew what to do.

“Thank God, Michael,” Heinrick sighed. “You’ll be all right, then.”

Palmer shook his head. “Don’t you get it, Susan? This is a death trap for me. The longer I stay here, the worse I get. We’re basically in Jupiter’s atmosphere!”

“He’s right. It may be transmutating as we speak,” Devlin answered in a monotone voice.

Heinrick reached for Palmer, who was faltering. “We’re getting out of here!” she shouted.

“Too late for that,” Devlin insisted. “He needs an injection right away. Come to the emergency chamber. I’ve already developed a serum.”

Heinrick took great care not to show relief in her expression.

“Impossible!” Palmer moaned, coughing into his mask.

“Not really,” Devlin bragged as they entered a room where they could breathe again. “It was rather simple. Basic biologic reconstruction of the first Zacora serum.”

He produced a small vial and a syringe. Palmer staggered back. Neither he nor Heinrick took off their masks. Devin removed his for better visibility.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured him. “I’ve already tried it on myself. How else do you think I’ve survived all this time? I’m no Superman. Besides, it’s your only hope now.”

As Devlin drew the serum from the inverted vial, he explained his findings.

“What’s amazing is that something out there reacts similarly to plant life on Earth, destroying a man in days, if not hours. I did autopsies on everyone who perished aboard. Some expired within minutes of exposure. But the captain and the lieutenant held on. Why? Was it because they ate all their space food sticks at dinner?”

Palmer stretched out his arm, unamused by the joke.

Devlin slowly injected the burning serum into his vein. “No guesses? All right, I’ll give you a clue: cell-mediated immunity.”

Palmer cringed, yet the theory intrigued him enough to distract from the pain. “Go on.”

“The captain and lieutenant performed several spacewalks while the crew remained in the ship. Spores floating in space penetrated their suits and settled onto their skin. With enough exposure, their bodies manufactured specialized white blood cells and antibodies to combat the alien material.

He withdrew the needle from Palmer’s arm, who released a prolonged exhale. “So, a routine spacewalk became an involuntary vaccine.”

“Yes! And when I performed the autopsies, I found the organism still thriving on their tissue. It was magnificent!”

That last remark alarmed both doctors. Still thriving? The next question was: What did he intend to do with the flourishing organism?

Palmer’s arm loosened. “I think it’s working, Susan.” Her mask fogged up when she breathed an audible sigh.

“Good,” said Devlin. “You see,” he continued, “like my mates, the organism’s adaptive qualities are quite remarkable. I believe it’s highly intelligent. As of now, it can’t survive in its present state in our atmosphere. But by eating human flesh, it triggers a chemical reaction, one that lets it survive.” He paused. “Do you get the picture?”

Heinrick nodded, the color draining from her face. This thing could transmutate until it survived anywhere. She turned to her colleague. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, much better,” Palmer said, releasing another long, exhaustive breath, this time brushing back tears.

“We have to get back and help the others,” she insisted.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted transparent containers tucked behind boxes near a wall. A strong, pungent odor seeped through Palmer’s oxygen mask. “Jesus, what’s that smell?”

Thanks for reading. In Chapter 7, Palmer and Heinrick discover the fate of their friends and the rescue team that never arrived. Devlin’s plan deepens.

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I’m almost done with this novella! I’d be grateful for some coffee ☕️ or rocket fuel to keep me going.🚀

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That look on her face! Is she determined to give up writing or weather the storm?

I didn’t know it, but the reactor in my brain two weeks ago was about to go nuclear. My need for a padded cell with a straight jacket had arrived.

Anyone who’s ever stuck their neck out, beyond their wildest expectations, knows the risks of putting themselves out there.

Rejection. Embarrassment. Ghosting. Unsubs. Oh, hell no. That’s what did me in a few days ago.

I then find out it’s a normal thing, and it’s not about the writer at all, really. People stop paying because a medical bill came, or they wanted another tattoo. It doesn’t matter what the reason is.

What matters is how you think about it.

For me, alarm bells rang. I messaged my fellow writers on Discord. Nothing dramatic, just asked them to talk me off the ledge because I was ready to jump.

Off Substack.

They swooped in like paratroopers and forced me back inside.

We forget those moments of bliss, when everyone says “Wow!” to our writing, then disappears faster than Homer fades into the bushes.

To the rescue: Horror novelist and writer-BFF, .

With 12 published books under her belt, she wrote a clever book called Recipe for Writing and reminded me that:

Fair enough. There it was: logic, the one thing we lose, along with our cool, when imposter syndrome creeps in. Or, as Kim puts it:

Now that my brain is back on-line, I have three simple tips to keep you from imploding like the ET ships in a novel I’ll eventually write:

1. Be your own best friend and find a support group. (God help you if you call that number above. I claim zero responsibility!)

I’m talking about real connections you’ve made here.

If you haven’t done so, then take the time to find your tribe. Read people’s stuff. They’ll love you for it.

Be genuine, or you’ll crash and burn faster than billionaire test rockets.

I was lucky. When I was floundering on Substack, a small band of dark fantasy writers snatched me up like a gold coin. Truth is, they became my prize and the most joyful, unexpected group of knuckleheads that I’d take an arrow for any day.

There’s an added bonus in forming a community: We’ve reported and blocked the hell out of anyone who dared to bully one of us. Or several, in one disturbing case.

Hasn’t happened since.

We support each other and boost Substack articles, and rightly so. These people are not only my friends, but they’re damn talented writers.

2. Identify exactly what derailed you.

After you’ve kvetched to a friend about how unworthy you feel as a human and a writer, I’d invite you to figure out what took your down, so that beast never gets you again.

For me, it was the dang sub numbers. Comparison-itis struck again. I decided to quit checking, enjoy the fact that new subs trickle in, and I can engage with them without getting overwhelmed. So, I’ll notice when I hit each 100 mark: 400 (soon, I’m not looking, I’m not looking!) then 500, then 1000.

And focus on writing!

I don’t blame anyone for comparing. We’re like children navigating a new world. “Am I doing it right?” It’s what you do with the anxiety that follows.

3. Take advantage of your anxiety. Yes, you heard that right.

Write down five things that make you anxious about feeling like an imposter.

Then write five, positive notes beside each statement that counter what you wrote. For example, what trusted people have said about you, and what you honestly notice about your skills.

Remember, you are unique. Be the best you as a human and writer, and enjoy the ride!🫶

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Dr. Heinrick questioned her sanity with each step, ignoring the deafening roar in her ears. A low, mechanical hum grew louder at the end of the corridor.

“Come, come!” Devlin called out as he disappeared down the T-shaped hallway.

Heinrick and Palmer hesitated, glanced at one another, then quickened their pace. They rounded the corner to see Devlin grinning, standing erect with his hands clasped. Behind him was a large steel frame encircling a gray, foam-like spongy material.

Devlin waved his hand, and the material opened from the center like a camera’s aperture, revealing a misty laboratory awash in blue-violet xenon lighting through a clear membrane.

“See? This is the entrance to my lab.” He waved again, and the aperture closed, like a creature returning to its resting state. He pressed on it, and his hand pushed through.

“Here. You feel it,” Devlin instructed, retracting his hand. Noting their hesitation, he commanded, “Just do it.”

Palmer reached out and touched the foam. It gave way under his fingers, solid yet spongy.

“Now push,” Devlin urged.

It engulfed Palmer’s hand. “Whoa!”

He pulled back, and they watched Devlin step one leg through. Halfway in, he smiled and motioned. “Follow me!”

As Palmer moved forward, he felt Heinrick’s hand brush against his and gripped it tightly. Together, they allowed the strange door to swallow them. On the other side, they expected the xenon-lit lab. Instead, they entered a light green metal compartment.

“We’re getting closer,” Devlin taunted.

“What is this room?” Palmer asked, scanning the new surroundings.

“Oh, kind of an anteroom. Come, you’ll see.”

He opened a console and tapped in a numeric code, activating the field. “Four, six, three, nine, seven, three.”

Devlin turned around, grinning like a child showing off a new toy.

A series of clicks resounded, then nothing.

His brow tightened, and he released a weak laugh. “Ha! I’m a bit too excited. One moment.” He closed his eyes, stood tall and drew in a slow, deep breath.

They noticed telemetry metrics calculating his biorhythms.

Devlin opened his eyes and reentered the code. One wall moved, sliding into the adjacent wall to form an opening. All three walls led to a hidden passageway.

“Ha! See? I’ve calibrated the entrance to assure one keeps a level head before gaining access! Let’s proceed!”

Both doctors exchanged bewildered looks, affirming neither considered him stable under any condition.

Devlin led them down a tubular passageway. “Every mate has a unique, coded signature,” he continued.

Heinrick studied the environment, baiting his vanity to pump for information. “And you created all these mates—yourself?”

“Ah, yes, Susan! Programmed for curiosity and trained to conduct my experiments.” He beamed. “Are they not wonderful?”

“Patterned after yourself, I’m sure,” Heinrick smirked.

The jab went right over Devlin’s head. “Yes, as a matter of fact! You see, I use what I call selective programming. I trained them to mimic behavior. When I’m happy, they’re happy. When I’m angry…well, you get the picture. That way, I feel I’m with humans rather than machines. In fact, sometimes I think they’re better company than humans.”

“I see. Who needs us with a hundred copies of you around?”

Devlin raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’re not fond of my mates, Doc-tor.”

Palmer elbowed Heinrick as they walked.

A shuttle was at the end of the passageway. Devlin extended his arm. “Shall we?”

“Where exactly are we?” Heinrick asked, feeling her heart race.

“Several feet below UG-3. Soon we’ll be much deeper. After you.”

She hesitated. A tightness in her throat caused her to step back. The walls of the tube seemed to close in, and she steadied herself on Palmer’s arm.

“What’s wrong, Susan?” Devlin asked.

“I can’t go down there,” she said, shaking, peering into the shuttle.

“Please! You’ve come this far, haven’t you? Why not go all the way?”

Heinrick cast a desperate glance at Palmer, who offered a reassuring nod, conveying this could lead to a cure. He looked away. And maybe save Lena.

“All right. Let’s continue!” Devlin stepped onto the shuttle, his pupils dilating.

Heinrick’s stomach sank in complete disbelief that her choices were gone as she boarded behind Palmer. She was now at the mercy of this maniac who had outsmarted her. Idiot! If only she had left with Michael. A team could have been down here by now, arresting this lunatic.

Beside her, Palmer swallowed hard, his jaw solid, eyes fixed on the closing door. He found Heinrick’s hand and held it, squeezing as they plummeted through each level of the Mars shaft, until the shuttle slowed to a stop.

“Here we are,” the scientist announced, pointing ahead. “This way!”

They followed another tubular corridor to a massive riveted door with a spoked wheel at its center. Devlin gripped it, spun, then gave it a tug.

“Bank-vault style,” he joked.

With a creaking reverberation, the door swung open, and they stepped in. As Heinrick crossed the threshold, she noticed the air seemed thin.

Devlin sealed the door behind them and advanced toward a second bank-vault door.

Beside her, Palmer swayed. His words slurred and thickened as if he’d had too much to drink.

“Shome-thing—.”

His knees buckled.

“Steady!” Devlin caught him with one arm and pulled a mask from a wall compartment with the other, fitting it over Palmer’s face and thumbing the flow valve with practiced ease. He tossed a second mask to Heinrick, who was gripping the wall, her sight beginning to fade. She pulled it on and inhaled cool, fresh oxygen. Her mind cleared in seconds. Devlin snapped on his own mask and turned around. “Better?”

Color flooded back into Palmer’s face. “What the hell happened?” his muffled voice demanded. “What is this place?”

“The front door of my laboratory, Michael.”

“What kind of laboratory nearly kills you at the entrance?”

“My apologies. I forgot what it’s like coming down here for the first time.” Devlin tapped a wall gauge glowing amber. “I keep oxygen in these sections at a fraction of normal. You’ll understand why in a moment.”

Devlin pointed ahead and walked toward the second wheel. “There are rooms off the main chamber, where we can breathe like civilized people. I’m down here so much I’ve half adapted like the Andeans on Earth, you know. And my mates can adapt to anything.”

Heinrick scanned the room. “Adapt to what?”

Devlin laughed. “Come now, Susan! I thought you’d have worked it out by now. I’ll bet you had your suspicions but thought it not possible.

He was right. She had thought the unimaginable.

Devlin spun the wheel on the second door and hauled it open, declaring, “If they say it can’t be done, then Thomas J. Devlin will prove them wrong!”

Beyond the entrance, dozens of mates maneuvered around towering stacks of gas cylinders, their faces dimly illuminated amidst the sealed chamber. They focused on intricate lines that coiled and twisted, leading towards a large glass vessel that dominated two-thirds of the expansive room. Inside, beneath the glow of violet lamps, gases swirled in slow, mesmerizing bands the colors of deep rust, creamy white, bright orange, and streaks of jet black, like a storm in a tank.

“Believe your eyes!” Devlin said. “A near-perfect recreation of Jupiter’s atmosphere. Hydrogen, mostly. Helium, methane, ammonia and trace compounds that paint those lovely colors when the lamps hit them. Now you see why I squeeze the oxygen out of my lab. Hydrogen and oxygen want to form water, and the reaction is, well, forceful. One spark in the wrong room, and my life’s work becomes a brief, dazzling crater.”

His eyes, sharp and unyielding, fixed on Heinrick. “But you know all this already, Susan. I must be boring you.”

“No,” she said, readjusting her mask. “I don’t think you have all the facts about this pod organism.”

“Oh, really?” he said, folding his arms. “Then tell me what I don’t know.”

“Those astronauts inhaled it after it dissolved into airborne particles!”

“Yes, yes, I know that! Sucked in the tiny bastards right through their masks!”

“But how—?”

“—From the autopsies, my dear! I found the highest concentration of the organism in their lungs. And good news! It’s not transmitted to the lungs by secondary means. He laughed. “I’m sure you caused quite a panic up there!”

Palmer’s face reddened. He lunged toward Devlin, grabbing his shoulders, wanting to choke him. “You bastard! Why didn’t you tell us about this before?”

Devlin raised a hand to shield himself. “Why should I? You were in no danger.”

Heinrick restrained her colleague while addressing Devlin. “You’re wrong! Even in strict isolation, this organism can penetrate any protective gear and enter through the skin!”

Devlin howled. “Is that your diagnosis, Doctor? Come now, you can do better than that!”

Heinrick recoiled and shook her head. “People upstairs are already experiencing paralysis.”

Palmer’s sudden outcry spun Heinrick around. Grimacing, he doubled over and clutched his arm, his face draining of color before he cried out again.

“Michael!” She held him as he staggered backward, her body shifting into a rapid state of high alert.

Palmer braced himself against the wall while Heinrick shouted at Devlin. “Look at him! Do something!”

Devlin remained motionless, quiet, and aloof, like the impassive pathologist.

Her eyes widened as he bared his craggy teeth in a macabre open smile, like those of the infected astronauts.

Without blinking, Heinrick walked up to Devlin with a fresh intensity. She searched his face for any semblance of humanity and found none. “Who knows how many others are suffering—you sick bastard!”

Devlin stared back, his ferocious grin developing a slight twitch. Neither one of them moved in a silent showdown between a madman and a determined scientist.

Palmer’s guttural moans reverberated throughout the chamber.

Thanks for reading! In Chapter 6, Devlin’s unthinkable plan unfolds and Heinrick reveals a secret.

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In Chapter 3, Both Heinrick and Palmer investigate non-regulation protocol in the morgue. In Chapter 4, Dr. Heinrick fends off aggressive technicians who inform her she’s off the case.

Dr. Heinrick stood frozen, her eyes searching for a way out. Neither one of them moved. Amidst the darkness, she imagined she could perceive the whites of his eyes, and the more she squinted, the more she felt them penetrating through her. To steady herself, she analyzed the form: a tall, pale man in a metallic suit that glinted in the dim light.

An object pressed against her body, a precision laser scalpel she’d forgotten to leave behind after an autopsy the day before. If the situation required, she could use it as a weapon. Moving with stealth determination, she pulled it out and disabled the depth governor, overriding the safety.

Heinrick advanced one step at a time, tracking his frame in the darkness. His invasive stare twisted a knot in her stomach, confirming his malicious intent. The thought caused her to hesitate. He stood still, watching her step closer, then stop again.

She sucked in her breath, her mind spiraled as moving shadows blurred her perception of whether she was the hunter or the hunted.

Screams tore from the shuttle’s entrance.

The sound went through Heinrick like a blade, and she barely saw the figure lunge. He rushed past her, wrenched open a door beyond where she stood, and bolted. She gathered herself and gave chase. He fled into a second room and vanished. She followed—only to find herself in a well-lit space, face to face with four lab technicians. It was the room he had run into, yet he was nowhere in sight.

Two of the men rose from their stations, eyeing her with suspicion. She pocketed her laser. Still shaken, she asked whether they’d seen a man run in, and whether they’d heard the screams. They looked at each other and shrugged. Behind them stood Johnson, the pathologist she recognized. The moment he saw her, he panicked and turned to leave.

“Wait!” she shouted. “I need information!”

Johnson stopped, then turned to face her.

“Identify yourself, please,” a technician demanded.

“I’m Dr. Susan Heinrick.” She studied her interrogator and returned fire. “Who are you?”

“Technicians, to you.”

“I see.” She looked past him. “What’s the latest on the tissue samples?”

Johnson said nothing.

She asked if he knew where the crewmen’s bodies were.

Again, nothing.

Another technician spoke, insisting they had cremated the corpses.

“Cremated? You cremated the astronauts—without my authorization?”

“With Dr. Devlin’s,” another shot back.

“Devlin? Since when does he have authority over my cases—and Dr. Palmer’s?” She stepped past the technicians and addressed Johnson again. “Answer me!”

His lifeless stare sent an icy shiver down her spine.

“Look,” the technician said, stepping into her line of sight. “All I know is that he does.”

“Give me another story!” she shot back.

He growled. “All right. Dr. Devlin wanted to run special tests on the organism that killed the astronauts, so he had the bodies moved to his private lab.” He studied her face, then added, “Everyone knows he takes the utmost precautions.”

“Devlin doesn’t know a damn thing about this organism!”

Another technician stepped forward. “Now look here, Dr. Heinrick—”

She spun around. “—No, you look! Only certain physicians have legal clearance to handle these astronauts—not to mention these bodies could still carry a live organism, one we know almost nothing about!”

“All the more reason to let Dr. Devlin take a little peeksy—right?” another sneered. “He’d figure it out in seconds.”

Dr. Heinrick recoiled. “Who are you people? You can’t be regular staff.” She stared at Johnson, waiting, but he only watched her in silence.

A fourth technician approached from behind. “How clever you are, Doc-tor Heinrick. We’re Dr. Devlin’s staff—if it’s any of your business.”

Heinrick pivoted, her face flushed, hands clenched. “I refuse to stand here and waste my time listening to you idiots,” she shouted, shattering her professional demeanor. But what was she dealing with? She had never experienced such open hostility. There had to be a way to reach Devlin without going through these creeps.

She fled the room and ran toward the platform, pulling the laser from her pocket. One technician followed close behind. Alarmed by his aggressiveness, she stopped, swung around and aimed at his face.

“You think you could match his laboratory?” he taunted, staring through her weapon.

“What?”

“No, I think not! Why do you suppose they gave him his own chambers? Because he’s a moron? No! Because he’s too brilliant to be tainted by mediocrity!”

This was insane, Heinrick thought. Something had gone very wrong down here. Johnson had disappeared, and three other technicians were closing in like wolves. She had to warn Michael and the others. Yet Devlin’s whereabouts remained a mystery.

Heinrick drew a shaky breath and lowered her laser, knowing she could eviscerate at this range in a single, swift motion.

A ghost of a smile brushed her lips.

“You’re right,” she responded as the technicians surrounded her. “I could never match the great Dr. Devlin’s intellect.”

Her eyes fluttered in disgust as they all nodded in approval.

“So, it would be an honor to know where I could find him and his distinguished laboratory.”

“Top secret!” one declared.

“Oh, I know. But you see, I’m quite an admirer of Dr. Devlin’s work.” Heinrick smiled and placed a hand on her chest, adding, “He’s wonderful!”

The technicians traded vacant stares.

One snarled. “Why the sudden change in your voice?”

“Well, no one’s perfect—except Dr. Devlin, of course.” She shrugged. “I was wrong about him.”

“You wouldn’t tell anyone about the lab?” another asked, crossing his arms.

Heinrick swung her hand in a dramatic arc, startling all of them. “Why, no! Of course not! That would be a disgrace!”

“You wouldn’t touch anything?”

“I wouldn’t dream of soiling his lab!”

One of them finally bought it. “Well, all right. You promised.”

His childlike phrasing caused her eyes to flash, yet she was ready for the answer.

“It’s in Sector One,” the technician revealed, his eyes sliding away from hers. Then, out of nowhere, he beamed. “He’s great, you know.”

She tilted her head—their affect and fierce loyalty baffled her.

“Oh, I know. He’s brilliant. Now, where might I find Sector One?”

She must have said it too eagerly—their eyes darted amongst each other.

“Oh no you don’t!” one snapped. “We know what you’re up to! You want all the glory for yourself!”

Another cornered her, tightening his lips. “The man has it all, so why don’t you let him worry about this disease? Knowing the other doc-tors, they’d get their filthy hands on it and spread it around. The sooner we’re rid of it, the better. Burn the bodies, I say!”

Now she was dealing with something far more dangerous than she had imagined and needed to handle this carefully.

“Gentlemen,”—it turned her stomach to say it—“I understand the emotions here. As I said before, only certain physicians can handle the bodies.” She held her breath.

“He is one of those physicians, Dr. Heinrick,” Johnson said, appearing from nowhere. “The only one.”

Finally, he speaks! She turned to mount a defense. “What do you mean by ‘the only one’?”

His glare radiated a contempt that chilled her to the bone. This was not the man Michael described. Why all the hostility? Before she could press him, more technicians entered the area, and the anger rose to a new pitch.

One of them strode forward. “You’re off the case,” he scoffed. “Now it’s our turn.”

Another threw a microchip in her face. It fell on the floor. “There! There’s your proof.”

Heinrick maintained eye contact as she picked up the item. She passed the chip over the induction port on her bio-suit. A report unfolded as a private retinal overlay, a clever way to allow a single read of classified material. There, on an official document, were the names of the Phyllus II astronauts and Dr. Devlin’s, listed as chief research scientist and physician. No other names appeared—except that of ISC administrator Martin Stewart. Someone logged the order eleven days ago.

“What the—?” she whispered. “This can’t be right.” After reading the last entry, the data expired. She looked up and found the morgue deserted.

Someone emerged from behind, and a shockwave of adrenaline hit her body. She twisted and fired her laser. The inert chip skittered across the floor.

“Susan!”

A scorched bloom smoldered on the panel behind Dr. Palmer.

She lowered the instrument and let out a tremendous sigh. “Thank God it’s you!” She grabbed his arm.

“Holy hell!” Palmer shouted, his voice cracking. “Be careful with that thing!”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry. You don’t know what I’ve just been through.”

“I could say the same.” He looked her over. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. But I could have used that rescue team down here.” She surveyed the area. “I don’t know where they ran off to, but the technicians down here were threatening me.” She saw the shuttle. Then it all made sense.

“The screams.”

“What?”

“Oh, my God.” She turned to him. “The team never made it down.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“After you left, a man stalked me in the dark. Then I heard screams from the shuttle. He must have heard them too, because he ran. Michael, did you hear them? They sounded trapped.”

Palmer shook his head. “No. I didn’t hear a thing.”

She scanned the room for the technicians. “Oh, God. They must have them.”

“Who?”

“Devlin—and his assistants.”

“The Dr. Devlin?”

“Yes, the Dr. Devlin,” she said, mocking his reverence. “I don’t give a damn about his notoriety.” She stepped closer. “Remember everything I just told you? He’s behind it.”

“How do you know?”

“I just had a friendly little chat with his assistants.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

Heinrick shook her head. “All I know is that the bodies are missing from the morgue, and Devlin has taken them to his private lab.”

“What?” Palmer clenched his jaw until it ached.

“I know this sounds crazy, Michael. I checked their so-called records. It says Devlin heads this entire mission—including the medical end. The order is eleven days old.”

Palmer’s head drew back. “That’s absurd. Stewart Johnson assigned me the autopsies this morning.”

“Then Stewart assigned you to a case that was already someone else’s. His name is on the order, Michael. Right under Devlin’s.”

Palmer walked around in a small circle, stroking his chin, then exploded. “Damn them all!”

Heinrick leapt forward. “Shhh!”

He gripped her shoulders. “Listen, Susan, we have very little time. I had to delay the briefing. We can’t let this out—not now. Or, we’ll have a major panic.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Lena. She’s contracted something I’ve never seen before.”

“You don’t think it’s—?” Heinrick stopped herself. She didn’t want to consider it.

“That’s what worries me. Lena’s showing the same early signs as the Phyllus II crew. And there’s more—two of the other nurses who were in that room have reported the same symptoms.” He raked his hair. “This disease? Organism? Hell, we don’t know what it is.”

“Oh my God. What are we going to do?”

Palmer rubbed his mouth. His thumb found the rim of the empty cigarette tube in his suit pocket. So much had gone unsaid.

“Susan,” he began, “I need to tell you…”

“Go ahead.”

“…about this anomaly.”

The ominous tone in his voice wrenched her gut, yet she listened, stifling her tears and yearning for this nightmare to end.

“Before Lieutenant Anderson died, he told us each bright green star contained a pod that vaporized once aboard the ship, which the crew inhaled.” He paused, clearing his throat. “And now I think Lena contracted it by secondary means.”

“Meaning...?”

“It passed through solid material. Isolation suits. Filters.”

“From what? A dead host—to us?”

“Possibly.”

“Through the skin?”

“Skin, lungs. Any means.”

She blinked, took a moment to process, then glared at him.

“I would have told you in the briefing, Susan. I didn’t know the morgue was going to turn into a clusterfuck.” He stopped. “It’s too quiet. Something’s not right.”

Both of them listened. Nothing.

“The building’s under quarantine,” Palmer added. “We need everyone to stay calm while we figure out the mechanics of this thing.”

“What about Devlin?”

“I don’t know. Someone up there must know how to find him. Let’s go!”

They proceeded to the platform.

“Wait.” She stopped. “When I came down here, not one of those technicians was wearing an isolation suit. If Devlin’s so superior, why would his staff be that careless?”

Palmer kept walking, shaking his head. “That’s exactly why we have to get this under control now!”

“But—don’t you think it’s strange?” She caught his arm. “Why didn’t they take precautions?”

“I don’t know! That’s what we’re going to find out!”

“No—Michael! Wait!” From behind, she grabbed both his arms. “Listen!”

He stopped and turned around. She hesitated, seeing a fear in him she’d not seen in a long time. Her eyes softened. “You can’t save Lena unless we know what’s going on down here.”

She closed the distance and took his shoulders. “We have to find Devlin. Now, before it’s too late.”

“How?” he stammered. “You know he’s an eccentric, private man. That’s why his lab is isolated. Someone up there has to know where it is.” He shrugged her off and continued toward the platform, motioning for her to follow. “Come on, let’s go!”

“And risk infecting others?”

“What?” Dr. Palmer whirled around.

“What makes you so certain we don’t already have it?”

“Come on, we’ve been through this. We all used the decontamination chamber, you know that.”

“But I didn’t.”

Palmer closed his eyes briefly, his lips pressed together, and he shook his head. Heinrick continued.

“What makes you think that chamber sterilized an unknown pathogen? Who knows how it reacted? Face it, Michael—you, Lena, and the others may have contracted it up there no matter what precautions you took.” She drew a breath. “And now it’s possible I have it too.”

He shook his head, denying scientific logic. “Be realistic. Do we feel any different? Is our skin peeling off?”

“Not yet. That’s the outcome. We know the early symptoms are violence and paranoia. We don’t know what the catalyst is. What triggers it? Fear? Psychosis? Both?”

“What does it matter if we’re infected already?”

“It doesn’t. That’s exactly my point. It’s all academic from here until it hits us.”

“Until what hits us?”

“The psychosis.”

“Jesus, you’re scaring me with this talk.”

“I’m doing my best to think rationally. You said the technicians who confronted me down here were nothing like the people you knew from the lab.”

“So what are you saying—they’re infected too?”

“Yes. And they have been for some time. How long? Who can say—except Devlin?”

“All right, let’s find that son of a bitch.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’ve seen him before.”

Heinrick’s head jerked back. Neither she nor anyone she knew had ever seen the renowned, mysterious Dr. Devlin in person.

Palmer smirked, watching her eyes widen. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time and caught a glimpse of him walking down one of the morgue’s corridors. I heard someone call out his name and always wondered where his lab was, so I followed him. He darted into a room. I went through the same entrance, only to find he’d disappeared. Vanished, just like that. I imagined him laughing at me somewhere behind a secret door. Anyway, I know what he looks like. We’ll find him.”

“Maybe.” She recalled the man in the dark who vanished just as Michael described. “Do you know anything about Sector One?”

Palmer shook his head.

“I squeezed that much out of one technician. It has to be down here somewhere. They acted like it was around the corner.” Then she understood. “The shuttle’s computer refused my access to Sector One. ‘No such sector.’ No access. It’s here, Michael.”

Palmer scanned the area. “Then it’s behind the seal at the end of the west corridor. I’ve walked past that door a hundred times. I always assumed it was cold storage.”

Heinrick pointed. “This way!”

They ventured down the narrowing, dim corridors of the underground morgue. They reached a passageway labeled UG-2, Sector 2.

Heinrick’s eyes widened. It dawned on her they intentionally mislabeled it. “Oh my God, Michael! This is it!”

“Shhh!”

The peculiar pathologist rounded a bend and walked in front of them. Unnoticed, both doctors ducked behind an entryway and peered around the corner, watching him stop and cock his head. They flattened themselves against the wall and stood silent. The man turned, shielding his eyes from the lights to see down the darkened hallway where he’d sensed movement.

“He knows we’re here,” Palmer whispered, his heart beating faster.

“Quiet!” she breathed.

The technician drew a small instrument from his pocket. A tiny red light pulsed on what looked like a gun. Both doctors held their breath as he aimed toward their corner. A beam of green light swept the area, bouncing off objects and throwing ominous shadows on the ceiling. It passed over the entire opening and back. Then darkness swallowed the corridor again. Neither dared to peek at the silhouette at the end, standing still, silent, listening. They stayed pressed against the wall. Around the corner, they heard advancing footsteps.

When Heinrick worked up the courage to look, she saw the pathologist and two technicians muttering among themselves. She had a better view down the hall now. At the end stood a huge, riveted black doorway marked Sector 1. On either side, entryways branched off to form the top of a T. She strained to decipher the conversation and couldn’t. Her colleague finally glimpsed over her shoulder.

“That’s not Seth,” he whispered.

“Shhh! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t know. But I think we’ve found the right place. Look.”

She didn’t have to point. There, barely hidden behind the technicians, lay the body of Lieutenant Anderson, the iso-protective shell wide open, and the bag exposed, revealing a dried, brown contorted heap.

“Good Christ,” the doctor breathed, recognizing the capsule he and the others had sealed. “Why the hell do they have it open?”

They watched a technician leaned in and touch the corpse with his bare hands. Heinrick’s jaw dropped.

“My God, Michael. They don’t know how powerful it is.”

“Maybe they do,” he answered.

“I don’t know what to think.” She watched them cover the body again.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Palmer admitted. “What if Devlin’s being as careful as everyone says? Maybe we should trust him.”

His colleague twisted towards him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What if he’s found a breakthrough—something we never thought of?”

The muttering stopped, catching both doctors off guard. All three figures peered down the hall, listening. Another pass with the green light revealed nothing. Satisfied, they resumed talking. Dr. Palmer whispered on.

“We have to find out what he’s done. They’ve discovered something—I know it.” He then remarked, with a jealous edge, “Maybe he’s already found a cure. We can’t dismiss the possibility of his genius.”

She shook her head in utter disgust. Hearing admiration in her colleague’s voice sent a revulsion through her body that settled deep in her bones.

They watched in silence as all three figures receded into the side hallway, wheeling the lieutenant’s body with them. Puzzled by a new sensation, she whispered, “They seem to have no feelings at all.”

“What?” Palmer roused from a deep thought. “Who?”

“The technicians. Come to think of it, the pathologist too. Look at them—the way they stand, the gestures. I never noticed it before.”

Now it became obvious. Even as they walked farther away, Heinrick could see a small wire, about two inches long, hanging from behind one of the technician’s ankles, poking out from under his scrubs.

“Michael, they’re not human!”

“You’re quite right, Dr. Heinrick,” a voice announced behind them.

Both doctors nearly leapt out of their skin as they spun to face a tall, scruffy, bearded man in his late sixties with thinning gray hair. Palmer recognized him at once. The man greeted them warmly, as if they were old friends.

“Dr. Heinrick, Dr. Palmer. I was told you were looking for me. I’m Dr. Devlin. But you can call me Thomas.” He smiled and extended his hand.

Heinrick remained still, reading past the warmth. Palmer, still rattled, was the first to shake it. “It’s Michael,” he said. “You gave us quite a start.”

“My apologies,” Devlin replied with an ill-placed chuckle. “I was walking down the corridor and came across the two of you standing here.” His eyes gravitated towards Dr. Heinrick. “Not the most desirable place to meet anyone,” he added, revealing jagged, stained teeth. He reached for her hand, and she mindlessly raised it. Before he could bring her fingers to his lips, she shook it firmly, then pulled away, breaking the spell.

“Delighted,” she replied, feigning a smile. “Please. Call me Susan.”

Devlin grinned, his eyes narrowing. He sensed her wariness and strategized a different approach.

“Good, Susan. I like a first-name basis. More personal that way.”

Palmer stepped closer to steer the conversation his way, but Devlin ignored him. “You’ll have to excuse my reclusive tendencies. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, I do,” she replied. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve shut us out of the studies here.”

“Shut out? Why no! We’re all a team!” he insisted, spreading his arms.

Palmer raised his voice. “That’s contrary to everything we’ve experienced down here, and we deserve answers.”

“Oh, please don’t be cross! It is I who should be ashamed of the way my staff has treated you. We’re all so protective of our work.”

He turned to Dr. Heinrick. “You’re right, Susan. Those were androids you spoke with earlier. But I prefer to call them ‘mates’. ‘Droids’ or ‘automatons’—they both sound so cold. They’re sort of my watchdogs.” He chuckled again. “Oh yes! I’m sure they made you feel most unwelcome—oh dear!”

Heinrick fought the urge to roll her eyes. This guy.

He continued to snicker as Heinrick and Palmer exchanged uneasy glances. Then his laughter faded.

Heinrick folded her arms. “We saw the bodies exposed. What are you doing down here?”

Devlin raised his hands as if he were being held up in a Western. “I know the astronauts were your patients. They still are.” His voice rose an octave. “So much has happened since you last saw them. I’m sure you have many questions. Come—let me show you.”

Dr. Heinrick maintained her stance. “I’m not going anywhere until we get answers from you.”

“Answers! Yes, yes. I’ll tell you everything! Come!” The scientist turned and walked away, motioning for them to follow.

The two doctors swapped glances again while Devlin ushered them toward the huge black door marked Sector 1. They trailed behind, widening the gap between them and the eager scientist.

Tired of games, Heinrick shouted, “Look, Dr. Devlin—”

“Thomas! Please, call me Thomas.”

“All right. Thomas, I’ll get to the point. You’re evading our questions, and you don’t have all the facts. I’ve searched everywhere for those bodies, and now I find your rude ‘mates’ wheeling a breached capsule into—.”

“Yes, Doctor! I know how upset you must be. It was necessary that I take the bodies right away. But please, Susan, let me show you the lab. I can explain everything far better there.”

Palmer interrupted. “She’s right, Thomas. There’s something you should know about the organism. We may all be in danger.”

Devlin turned around mid-stride and continued walking. “Yes, yes. The one from Phyllus II? I know everything there is to know about it. Now, shall we proceed?”

“The communicability is questionable,” Palmer said, glancing at Heinrick. “We may have contracted it.”

“Nonsense! Believe me. You have not succumbed to the Jupiter parasite. I didn’t reach my position by chance. Allow me to show you Sector One.”

His offer intrigued Heinrick. What if this nut-job actually found a cure in his lab? He seemed to know something they didn’t, and she wanted to find out.

The Jupiter parasite. He had a name for it.

Nobody upstairs had a name for it.

Thank you for reading Chapters 3 & 4 in their updated versions. In Chapter 5, Heinrick and Palmer enter Dr. Devlin’s mysterious lab and discover hidden horrors.

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Content note: The story contains a few recaps of disturbing imagery.

Writer’s note: Chapter 3 is now divided into Chapters 3 and 4 for easier readability.

The transit shuttle carried Dr. Palmer to the upper deck for the briefing. He leaned on the rail and closed his eyes, wishing this was not his reality.

It slowed for his younger associate, Dr. Susan Heinrick, a bold and talented clinician also assigned to the astronaut cases. Her knowledge of planetary organisms, along with her background in Jupiter’s magnetosphere, made her invaluable to him. Palmer knew it, and he hated to admit feeling jealous of her string of successes. But this was no time for professional envy. He nearly destroyed their working relationship years ago through his inability to control his impulses. She corrected him, and he stayed corrected. Thinking back, he realized it wasn’t entirely his fault. Dr. Heinrick possessed a dual nature, capable of being both tender and vocal when the situation demanded. Despite their turbulent history, they had worked together for years as one of the finest medical teams around.

A wave of relief washed over her as she stepped into the shuttle. “Michael! I’m glad I found you!”

Ching. The shuttle requested her destination. Heinrick tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and directed the computer to take them down to UG-2.

Moments before, she had learned about the lieutenant’s death and was heading to the morgue to ensure they followed strict isolation protocols. Heinrick had just finished a long briefing with ISC administrators regarding the negligent decontamination of the crew’s remains—a delay the bureaucrats blamed on an accidental tear in the body bag. Now, precious time ticked away while she waited for sanitation crews to scrub the exposed chambers.

Yet, something far more unsettling had been bothering her since her attempt to collect Captain Jardan’s tissue samples.

Heinrick shook her head at her colleague. “You need to know what just happened.”

Dr. Palmer’s eyes never left the floor. His mind was elsewhere.

Studying him, she could tell he was distraught about the deaths—and, no doubt, blaming himself.

“I just heard about the lieutenant, Michael. I’m sorry. Were you there when it happened?”

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Yes—I left his room a while ago,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It’s over.” He shook his head. “God-awful thing to happen to any human being.”

“Indeed.” Watching his face, she added, “I wish I could have done more for Captain Jardan this morning.”

Now it was her turn to break eye contact. She and the captain had been friends for years. Seeing him reduced to that state was beyond devastating.

Dr. Heinrick tried to shake the image of Jardan’s thrashing body from her mind and couldn’t. She had cried once already, and now she felt tears welling up again at the memory of her friend in agony. At least the initial coma was merciful, she thought, for when he awoke, the pain hit with blinding force. It had all unraveled so fast: the violent convulsions and projectile vomiting. With no time to administer enough Genicote, all anyone could do was watch him writhe and scream, tormented by the thing that devoured him. Heinrick’s lip quivered—she could still hear him calling out her name in those nightmarish shrieks. That sound permanently branded her memory.

“That was one horrific vision for sure,” Dr. Palmer said, doing everything to shut out the noise in his head. He slipped on his glasses. When he saw her tears welling up, his tone softened.

“I’m sorry you lost your friend.” He put his arms around her, and she held on tightly.

“Believe me, I tried my damnedest to piece this thing together in time to save both of them. But it was too late, even after what Anderson told us.”

Dr. Heinrick pulled back, wiping tears from her face, then opened her mouth when the words registered.

“Yes,” he said, reading her expression. “He gave us the information we needed.”

She was about to ask what, but he cut her off.

“I’ll tell you all about it at the briefing.”

Heinrick glared at him with an intensity that could have set wood ablaze. She liked him best when he was the quiet researcher, the physician who found something remarkable in an ordinary patient. He shared more then, and they worked better as a team when the patients weren’t so high-profile. But astronauts from Phyllus II? She knew he’d be difficult—and he probably felt the same about her. Regardless, they had a job to do. Hers was to examine the bodies in the morgue and perform extensive histopathic studies of tissue samples.

But something strange had happened down there.

“I can’t go to your meeting, Michael. I have to get to UG-2. Now.”

“Susan, you don’t grasp the scope of what we’re dealing with here. You’d only be wasting time.” He pulled down his shirt. “After this briefing, you might wish to rethink how you study the samples.”

“After the briefing, let’s hope you and I still have something to evaluate.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” She broke off, glanced at the com’s red light and ordered, “Com, cease recording.”

“Acknowledged, Dr. Heinrick,” the computer, recognizing her voice, answered in a pleasant, synthetic tone. She waited until the light dimmed.

“I mean someone’s been tampering with tissue samples down in UG-2. They opened the vessel at 1100. It’s been five hours. So why hasn’t a single specimen reached my lab—not from the eleven, not from the captain?”

The color drained from Dr. Palmer’s face. Administrators informed him that the remains were still in quarantine. He searched his mind for a plausible answer while calculating the discrepancy in his head.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re delayed. Or, someone misplaced them.”

“Misplaced? Classified biohazard tissues? Entire bodies? Heinrick scoffed. “We are wasting time standing here talking about it!”

The shuttle decelerated as it approached Level K.

Palmer’s exhaustion was crashing down on him. He knew his colleague well and had no patience for what he considered her stubborn paranoia. Her actions did prompt him to question the location of the bodies.

“Listen, I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said, keeping his voice leveled. “That’s exactly why we can’t get sidetracked. You’re already here. Step into the incident briefing today, at least for a few minutes. We can go over the logs together, and you can fill me in.”

Dr. Heinrick hesitated. Why was her colleague so dismissive of the strange occurrences in the pathology lab? Why was everyone being so evasive? Even the administrators had given her evasive, cryptic answers.

The door slid open with a soft hiss. Dr. Palmer stepped onto the Level K platform and glanced over his shoulder. “Coming?”

She stood her ground on the shuttle, glaring at him. “Why are you so calm about this?” She turned toward the observation window as the shuttle held its position. “I don’t think those bodies ever made it to the lower decks.” She faced him. “Michael, who would want to hide the bodies? That would impede the investigation.”

Palmer was in no mood for guessing games. He raked his hand through his hair, then walked onto the shuttle and hit the console interface. “UG-2, Morgue. Stat!”

His eyes locked onto hers as the shuttle dropped, descending into the dark, unlit levels of the morgue. Feeling her cold resentment, Palmer paced to the far edge of the circular shuttle deck.

“Your insights on this case matter a great deal to me. I don’t want you to think otherwise. But let’s not let the pressure get to us, all right? We’re both drained.” He paused, watching for her reaction. “Maybe neither one of us is making much sense right now.”

She offered no response, keeping her back to him.

He approached her. “What you’re saying about pathology makes no sense to me.”

She spun around. “Then why would they lie about the astronauts’ whereabouts?”

He recoiled. “Lie? He squinted at her. “Are you certain you spoke to the right person?”

“Is Dr. Johnson good enough for you?”

“Seth? I’ve known Seth Johnson since medical school. He would never compromise lab protocol. Did you speak face-to-face?”

“No, we spoke twice over an encrypted com link,” she said, folding her arms in defiance. “But I know what I heard. Something is going on down there.”

Dr. Palmer watched her face harden into an impenetrable wall of certainty. “All right, whatever it is, let’s clear it up now. Then, we head to the briefing.”

A ping sounded from Heinrick’s pocket. “Connect com,” she stated, and a hologram materialized. A shimmering image of an ICU nurse appeared in the middle of the shuttle.

“Dr. Heinrick! We received a Flash message from UG. The AV was garbled, but it’s definitely a distress call. Here, see for yourself!”

The nurse stepped back and replayed the message. The garbled audio and distorted visuals were useless.

“They tried to reach you—something about a ‘formula.’ I couldn’t make it out.”

“Did you say this was from the morgue?” Heinrick asked.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Which sector?”

“The signal was weak. Our instruments traced it to UG-2. No sector ID.”

Dr. Heinrick glanced at her colleague. “We’re on our way there now. Call security and get a hazmat team down here right away. End com.” The hologram faded.

“What the hell is going on?” Palmer asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. At least I know I’m not going crazy.”

Palmer chortled, nostrils flaring. That makes one of us. As the shuttle slowed, the amusement left his face. “Jesus, this is turning out to be one hell of a day.”

The door opened onto the morgue. No one was in sight. Only a few lights burned, and the halls trailed off into darkness. Dr. Heinrick stepped off.

“It’s so dark down here. I don’t hear a thing.”

“I don’t like it,” Palmer admitted, one foot remaining on the shuttle. “Let’s wait until the others get here.”

His com pinged.

“Yes?” he asked. He was old-fashioned and preferred audio only.

“It’s ICU, Dr. Palmer,” a quiet voice reported. “I think you’d better get up here.”

“What is it now?” he snapped, annoyed by the interruptions.

“It’s Lena, sir. Something’s terribly wrong.”

Palmer tensed his neck and blinked several times. “What happened?”

“She’s not feeling well. We’re not exactly sure what it is.”

“Dammit—be more specific!”

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re all a bit shaken.”

“All right. Go on.”

“After you left the ICU, Lena complained of weakness in her legs. No one thought much of it until a minute ago, when we heard her cry out and saw her clinging to the railing. After she collapsed, we took her vitals. Pressure rose to 140 over 90, pulse is 110 and respirations are shallow at 30.

“Is she conscious?”

“Yes, but she can’t move her legs. There’s been progressive paralysis.”

Palmer turned to Heinrick. “What does this sound like to you?”

“I’m not sure. They could administer Keledir until one of us gets back up there.”

“Mm-hmm. I was thinking the same thing, using a neurostabilizer.” He barked the orders. “Get her to a bed and have someone stay with her. I’ll come up as soon as I can.”

“Sir, there’s more. She’s conscious, but frightened and delirious. She keeps talking about another place—a dark room or something.”

Dr. Palmer cocked his head and stared at his colleague.

“You go check on her,” Dr. Heinrick offered. “I’ll take care of whatever’s going on down here.”

“No,” he argued. “Come up with me. I can’t leave you down here alone.”

Dr. Heinrick spoke into his com. “How soon do you expect security and the hazmat team?”

“One moment…they’re on the shuttle now,” the voice answered.

“I’ll wait for them here,” she reassured Palmer.

“All right. I’ll check back with you.” He stepped onto the shuttle. “On my way!”

As Heinrick watched the shuttle tube rise, she felt a ghostly draft. It made her shiver, and she immediately wished she’d gone with him. It’s all right. Just wait here. She scanned the room for movement. She was alone. The morgue was dim, and the sharp, pungent sting of flesh preserving fluids filled her nostrils, the way it always had since her first days of residency. It would have been pitch black had it not been for the yellow glow of scattered wall lights.

Why does it have to be stereotypically creepy down here? she thought.

After what seemed like hours, she felt a vibration from the second tube. Yet it never reached the entrance where she waited. She leaned in and listened. Surely she had heard it coming. It would be foolish to put her head inside the shuttle tube—with her luck it would decapitate her. She smiled at her own thoughts. The sensors would prevent it.

No one had arrived, and Heinrick worked herself into a near panic, her eyes darting. Neither shuttle was available, so she summoned one.

No response.

“Shuttle to UG-2,” she repeated.

Still nothing.

“Shuttle to Under Ground-Two, please.”

“Sector?” the com blared, catching her off guard.

“Sector. Uh...”

It had been a long time since she’d been down to the morgue. Every floor was now split into two sectors. On other floors, the markings were obvious. But here, she couldn’t find a number in the dark.

“SECTOR!” the voice demanded.

She had a fifty-fifty chance.

“Sector One.”

“NO ACCESS!”

“No access? I’m standing right here!”

No reply.

“All right. Two, then.”

“AFFIRMATIVE. Shuttle to UG-2, Sector 2.”

“Good! Get one down here—now!”

Her eyes swept the room. Darkness played tricks on her, and she imagined a pair of eyes following her every step.

You’re acting like an idiot, Susan.

Pacing near the tube, the echo of her hard-soled shoes intensified her solitude in the crypt-like atmosphere. She walked toward stacked metal boxes and tried to read the labels, useless in the shadows. There, she caught a towering silhouette standing motionless against the wall a few feet away—someone who had been watching her this entire time.

Thanks for reading. In Chapter 4, Dr. Heinrick encounters unusual technicians and other strange occurrences in the morgue.

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Content note: The story contains a few scenes of disturbing imagery.

The rescue ship arrived on schedule. The medical team had placed the survivors from Phyllus II in isolated decontamination chambers while life-support sustained them during the trek back to the Mars colony.

Dr. Palmer watched as the transport docked. He remotely directed the proposed treatment for Captain Jardan and his XO, Lieutenant Anderson, and was eager to examine them after reviewing the data. He rushed to the ICU.

Lena, the primary nurse, was waiting for him in full isolation gear. He recalled meeting her at a surgery conference a year ago and nodded in her direction. Knowing she was on the team brought a smile to his face. Lena directed him with her eyes, and he suited up.

When Dr. Palmer entered the captain’s room for the first time, his stomach churned at the sight. He locked his knees to steady himself.

Palmer had read the reports, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

His pulse quickened as he moved closer to view the captain’s shimmering skin, reminiscent of iridescent, spoiled ham. It parted in fibrous threads and stretched like a living entity, revealing wet, exposed, pulsating muscle underneath. Within the cavities, a mixture of blood and viscous, neon green pus—the unsettling ooze seemed to move with a deliberate flow of intelligence.

The captain’s eyes stared blankly at Dr. Palmer, who found it difficult to believe a man could exist in this condition, with only threads of tissue holding his eyes, mouth, and throat together. No fever despite the compromised skin integrity. None of this made sense. Poor bastard.

Swallowing hard, the doctor stepped back, observing the IV delivery system dispensing Genicote, relieving pain without compromising the patient’s alertness and orientation. He glanced back at the captain, whose eyes were pleading for death.

Was this organism keeping him alive?

Then the smell reached him—rotten eggs, thick and sour. A distant part of his mind flagged the impossibility: through a triple-filtered sealed suit, he shouldn’t be smelling anything at all. The thought surfaced, wavered, then sank beneath the nausea. He braced against the wall, fighting the urge to retch.

“God—not in the suit!” he groaned, sweat stinging his eyes. Palmer fumbled for his Cannadin injector and administered the aerosolized anti-nausea drug through his med-port. He released a long breath, then startled when his com pinged. ISC base administrators summoned him to an urgent meeting. Relieved, Dr. Palmer rushed out of the room.

He nodded to Lena, who returned the gesture as if their minds were one. She would notify him the second his condition changed.

During the meeting, no one could agree on the proper procedure for containing the organism or when to break the seal on the Phyllus II itself, due on the landing pad at 1100 with eleven bodies still aboard. Arguments erupted, then ceased when all coms pinged, announcing Captain Jardan’s state had worsened.

“Shit!” Dr. Palmer stood and shouted, “This is a waste of time!”

Racing toward the ICU, he realized this morning’s coffee had backfired. His limbs felt like lead, and his vision blurred at the edges. He quickened his pace toward the main branch of the hospital, where he could catch a shuttle, ignoring the magnificent orange horizon through a riveted pane window. Red light reflected off the dusty surface, illuminating the buildings below. His mind was on the case, on what he’d already discovered, and on preparing himself to face the captain and the lieutenant in adjoining rooms.

Ping. Another notification. “Sorry to inform you, sir,” a voice announced from his pocket, “but the captain expired at 1040.”

“Dammit!” He checked the time. “Did you bag and decontaminate?”

“In progress, sir. He’ll be in the morgue within the hour,” the voice reported.

“Good, good. Damn!”

“Doctor?”

“Nothin’. What’s Anderson’s status?”

“Still poor but stable, sir.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.” He signed off and rushed down the hall, his fury mounting over the meeting debacle that cost him precious minutes. His jaw clenched again, and he opened wide to counteract it. The tension broke with a sharp crack.

“Idiots.” He didn’t know whether to be angrier with them—or himself. He wondered why he had agreed to leave critical patients and meet at a remote location. What the hell was that about?

He proceeded toward the transport, remembering the discussion. They all concurred on one point: no one could save the astronauts. Obviously, Palmer thought, after seeing Captain Jardan. That thing was killing both of them faster than anyone could hypothesize a treatment. How both men had lasted this long remained a mystery. Now they needed to contain the anomaly, whatever it was. Had he missed something in their medical history? Could the answer have been right in front of him, with no time to investigate? Now the captain was dead. What could he learn from Anderson, his XO?

“ICU,” he barked at the transport console. Palmer stepped onto the air-platform, which lifted him inside the circular hollow frame. As he yawned, he stretched, and a seam in his undershirt gave way.

“Holy hell!” Despite his good looks and robust health, Palmer’s metallic suit couldn’t disguise his growing waistline. He’d promised a few colleagues he’d meet them at ISC’s track. Then he’d back out. His genuine downfall was a secret habit of smoking cigarettes—when he could find them, since such vices were now forbidden on Mars. He felt normal, he told himself, and solved problems much better after a smoke.

The platform slowed, and he stepped out into an empty hall. Without thinking, his fingers found the small metal cylinder in his suit pocket and turned it over once. Inside were the last three cigarettes he’d smuggled back from Earth. Not now. He shoved it deeper and hurried down the corridor.

It was 1055 when he reached the deserted nurses’ station. A hologram chart labeled Lt. Kerek Anderson hovered overhead. He shielded his eyes from the harsh light. “Materialize,” he ordered. A printed chart emerged. Dr. Palmer grabbed it, opened the history section and walked around the console. He had read it all before. Instinct compelled him to skim it again to be sure he hadn’t missed a single detail.

As he reviewed his own orders, Palmer felt his confidence slipping—in himself and in the case. Nothing in the lieutenant’s history sparked any ideas. His hand ached for the cylinder in his pocket.

“Dr. Palmer?” The attending nurse stood at his side.

“Hmm?”

“Doctor, I’m glad you’re here.”

He glanced up, the chart’s contents still fresh in his mind. It was Lena.

“Oh, yes. How’s Lieutenant Anderson?”

“That’s what I came to tell you,” she said. “His condition is worsening. I don’t think we have much time left with him.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighed, “there’s nothing more we can do to save him. We still don’t know why he’s alive.”

He squinted at another display and scrolled past a detailed account of Captain Jardan’s death, probing it for clues. He winced at the next entry: the captain’s last attempt to relay critical information collapsed from syllables into guttural shrieks before he slipped into unconsciousness. Palmer’s gaze drifted to the floor to erase the image. He addressed Lena, this time giving her the courtesy of meeting her eyes.

“This afternoon I plan to examine Captain Jardan’s body. Until then, I don’t have a clue.”

“But there is something we can find out,” Lena pressed. “This morning, the lieutenant had regained consciousness—but that was all. A few minutes ago, we heard him trying to speak.”

“What?” Dr. Palmer’s head snapped. “What’d he say?”

“Just a few syllables. Hard to understand at first, but there’s a pattern to it.” Lena’s eyes locked onto Palmer’s. “He’s trying to tell us something important, or he wouldn’t spend the energy.”

For a moment, the doctor stood paralyzed. “How the hell—?”

“Please—go in now. Before it’s too late.”

Dr. Palmer rushed toward the isolation room to don protective gear. Lena assisted him with his gloves and helmet and followed him in. This time, he took a prophylactic shot of Cannadin.

He pictured the captain’s ghastly remains and braced himself for what waited behind the curtain. The sole remaining survivor of the Phyllus II disaster lay two feet away.

He took a deep breath and pulled the partition back. Before him lay a contorted, mummy-like shell of a man. A sour, vinegar tang of decay reached him—through the filters again, a distant part of his mind registered—but his watering eyes distracted the thought before it could take hold. Green and yellow pus dripped onto the white sheets like a leaky faucet.

Or Chinese water torture, the doctor thought.

Palmer noticed the lieutenant’s presentation differed from the captain’s. Brown ropes of skin pulsated, as if something inside were attempting to escape. The lieutenant’s chest heaved as a respirator hovered over his moist face. Soft tissue had sloughed off, exposing his nasal bones and parts of his jaw, and his lidless eyes darted as irrigation tubes flushed the sockets. Whatever this thing was, it was keeping him alive.

But why?

A fresh wave of sickness caused him to sway when the realization struck him.

“Doctor?” Lena steadied him.

“I’m okay.”

Another nurse moved around the bed to provide a human touch in cleaning and redressing his wounds. Holographic machines tracked the man’s vitals and displayed them. His respirations were rapid and shallow, his extremities bony and contracted, and his circulation was failing by the minute. Genicote flowed through a thin tube into his fragile vein.

“Je-sus,” Palmer murmured.

“Yes,” Lena whispered.

“We should just let the poor man go,” the doctor said, softening. “We can study this—this horrible thing afterward.”

“I thought the same,” Lena admitted. “But if he can speak, we have a chance to find out what happened.” She glanced at the lieutenant. He was staring right at her, screaming with his eyes. She looked away, her hand trembling, covering her mouth.

“All right. Let’s see what he can tell us.”

As he stepped toward the bed, the man’s head lifted from the pillow.

“It’s all right,” Palmer reassured, leaning forward. The lieutenant recoiled.

“Lieutenant, I’m Dr. Palmer. Can you hear me?”

The lieutenant emitted a chilling, high-pitched, hollow tone from a damaged trachea, followed by a gurgling moan from his cracked, blood-stained mouth.

“I need you to try as hard as you can to talk to me. Do you understand? Give me one syllable. Yes or no.”

“Ehsss.”

“Good,” he coached, cracking a smile. The shattered jaw limited the man’s articulation, but he still had a tongue.

The lieutenant’s eyes rotated in their watery sockets, searching the room. “Clo..”

The doctor leaned in. He heard a long “z” sound after that.

“Close? Close what?”

“Tennnnzzz!”

Lena studied the partition. “Curtains?”

“Yuhhhh!”

“Close them,” the doctor ordered, and a nurse drew the drapery around the bed.

“Maybe it’s best we leave you alone,” Lena offered. “He seems to communicate more one-on-one. I’ll be right here on the other side.” She ushered the other nurse out to the anteroom and stationed herself beyond the drape, watching the monitors.

Dr. Palmer remembered the final stage of the disease in the other astronauts: an overwhelming need to hide. Now it was just him, alone with his dying patient.

Syllable by syllable, sound by sound, a picture formed. There were hundreds of those iridescent green creatures drifting near the satellite and around the ship.

Palmer’s skin prickled. The transmission reported two. Just two, sir. Like a couple of emeralds. By the end, thousands. Whatever these things were, they had either multiplied—or they had been waiting.

“Can you describe them in one word?”

A silence. Then: “Eeeeeed.”

“Eeeeeed, eeeeed,” the doctor muttered. “Bead, seed, weed...weed?”

“Uh.”

By now he knew that meant yes. “Weed. Some kind of vegetation?”

“Uh.”

It sounded absurd. “Like seaweed?”

No response. The monitor showed a decrease in respiration.

“Did the creature penetrate your suit?”

“Yuhhhh!” The word tore out of him, nearly spending his last breath. The heart monitor bleeped.

“There he goes!” Lena came through the curtain, pulled it back, and adjusted the respirator while Palmer’s eyes remained locked on the lieutenant. A principle from medical school surfaced: You cannot not communicate.

Stay with us just a little longer.

His heart rate returned to a manageable pace. Lena shook her head at Dr. Palmer.

“Lieutenant, I know you’re suffering terribly. Can you please help us learn more about these entities?”

“Yuhhhhh!” Both Palmer and Lena understood the meaning was far beyond the syllable they heard. The lieutenant wanted this biological abomination wiped from the universe.

“Then listen carefully. This weed you picked up—what does it most resemble back on Earth?”

And then, as clearly as he could, the lieutenant said, “Pod.”

“This pod. Was it brought aboard?”

“Uh.”

“Isolated?”

“Yuhhh.”

“Did everyone touch it?”

“Noooo!”

“No?” The physician leaned closer. “Are you sure?”

“Yuhhh!”

“God…then how—?”

“Diz.” The lieutenant’s head rose from the pillow, as if to stress the most important thought of his life.

“What?”

“Dizallv.”

“Dissolve?”

“YUH!” His head flopped back onto the pillow, displacing remnants of his skull. The gaze faded into emptiness.

The doctor had to ask the right questions in the next minute, or the chance was gone forever. Isolated, untouched. Dissolved. And then it hit him.

“Are you saying it dissolved into airborne particles?”

The lieutenant’s eyes ceased darting and fixed on Lena and Dr. Palmer, as if seeking his last human connection. He then exhaled a final, long vibration.

“Yuhhhhhhhh.”

The lieutenant’s color faded to dusty silver. Pink drool threaded down the sheets. His lifeless eyes stared into Dr. Palmer’s, who looked away. He made the connection.

“My God, they inhaled it.” He looked up at Lena. “Even in isolation—how?”

His blood ran cold. The rotten eggs in the captain’s room. The vinegar in this one. Through a sealed suit, through triple filters, he had smelled them—and told himself it was nothing.

Lena didn’t respond. She stood over Lieutenant Anderson, her eyes filling. Palmer, too, considered the body. What was once a man was now a hero.

A nurse in the anteroom had drifted back to the doorway to listen. She burst in, gesturing at the lieutenant’s remains and the staff. “Why are we just standing here?” she screamed. “Airborne—through suits? We could all be infected with this thing!”

Panic ignited among the nursing team crowding in behind her. Lena gasped but held her composure.

“Wait! Wait!” Dr. Palmer shouted over the hysteria. “It’s all right—listen to me!”

A few of the nurses quieted, while others scrambled for the decontamination rooms.

“Calm down, all of you—remember your training!”

“She might be right,” Lena said, watching the physician step back from the body.

“It’s highly unlikely the organism is that communicable,” he said, working to calm himself. “Even so—how could it spread by secondary means, or survive in this environment?”

“Are you willing to risk our lives to find out? That chamber is our only protection.”

Palmer blinked, his mind racing to calculate their options. With no time to evaluate, he conceded. “All right. First, we isolate his remains.”

The doctor sent instructions to morgue personnel, while the staff encased the lieutenant in an iso-protective shell. From there, the automated system would sterilize and transport the body to the morgue below.

The staff entered a specialized room could break down any attacking virus or bacterium shortly after exposure.

By the time the team passed into secondary rooms, stripped off their suits, and redressed in sterile scrubs, auto-fumigation robots had sanitized the ICU unit. Everyone reemerged, trembling and exchanging swift glances.

Dr. Palmer broke the tension. “Just a precaution,” he assured them. The words didn’t ease his own fears, but they were the only comfort he could offer. “Everyone will quarantine in this building and self-monitor for unusual symptoms until further notice.”

He initiated the lockdown protocol. “The adjacent wings are now sealed.”

Architects had thoughtfully designed the building for such events, ensuring housing for all occupants. The somber group acknowledged Dr. Palmer with silence.

As others departed, Palmer observed Lena’s distant gaze and attempted to console her.

“My gut tells me we won’t experience what the astronauts did—their bodies reacted as soon as they came into contact with these organisms.” He extended his arms and hands, turning them over. “I’m not feeling anything—are you?”

Lena’s chin rose, lips trembling, and she shook her head no. She drew a deep breath and let out a sigh.

“What do we do now?” She had fought back tears but finally gave in, releasing them down her cheeks. Palmer’s instinct was to offer physical touch, but he refrained.

Instead, he pulled a packaged, sterile wipe from the wall dispenser and offered it to her. “Help me keep everyone calm.” He managed a smile. “You’re great at that.”

Afterward, Palmer didn’t go to his office. He walked the sealed corridor until he found the observation alcove past the freight lifts—the one blind spot he knew, tucked beneath the air recycler’s exhaust vent, where the sensors were forgiving and the horizon filled the window.

The doctor fished out a small metal cylinder from his pocket, tipped it, and snagged the last cigarette. He took a moment to ponder the fate of the others before grazing the cigarette along his unparted lips. The aroma alone lit his brain.

He pressed his igniter to the end. The first drag seared his lungs and bent him into a cough. The second delivered a calm he needed since 1040. He closed his eyes and exhaled toward the vent.

All the crew—dead. A creature that dissolved itself into the air and passed through sealed suits like rumors in a hospital. Twice he had smelled it, and he’d just ordered a building full of people to self-monitor for signs and symptoms while he stood pulling smoke into the very lungs he was supposed to be observing.

Palmer studied the smoldering ash, orange as the horizon beyond the glass, and wondered if the thing was already in him, riding his breath, and if it minded the company. He crushed the butt against the rim of the trash chute and watched it fall.

He rushed with purpose, his footsteps echoing as he headed to a scheduled briefing to update his colleague, Dr. Heinrick, and the rest of the team. They had two autopsies to conduct—with eleven more bodies awaiting examination.

I hope you enjoyed Chapter 2. In Chapter 3, disturbing events occur in the morgue.

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Content note: The story contains a few scenes of disturbing imagery.

Michael Palmer surfaced from the nightmare like a drowning man gasping for air, sheets damp, no memory of what had tormented him, only the certainty it was the same one from last night and the night before. He didn't try to remember it—he never did. When his breathing slowed, he mulled over his last dictation on microbial research, hoping the dry, rhythmic banter would lull him back under.

He was drifting off when his com pinged.

Dr. Palmer flung his arm toward the interface and hit receive. A man’s likeness appeared on the large screen in his room. Palmer rolled away from the image and dozed off again.

“Hello—Michael? Are you there? I can’t see you.”

“Hmmm?”

“Wake up! It’s Jon.”

Palmer squinted at the image. It was his friend, Jon Lucar, one of the International Space Consortium’s chief administrators. “Can’t it wait ‘til morning?”

“No, Michael, it’s urgent. ISC has assigned you as Senior Medical Officer for the incoming mission, Phyllus II.”

The doctor bolted upright, his chest heaving. A low growl escaped his throat. “Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past eight weeks? Busting my ass to develop a broad-spectrum vaccine for their space missions—that’s what! Now they want me to hold these guys’ hands when they come in? No, not me, buddy. Tell ISC to find someone else to baby-sit!”

“Michael—”

“Why me, for God’s sake?” He squinted at the blue xenon clock glowing by his bedside. “Especially at two in the morning! What about Dr. Gabbel, Konicek—or even Devlin?”

“No!” Jon blurted out. “Devlin’s the last one I’d ask!”

Palmer felt the sudden tension over the line. Why would Jon hesitate to seek out one of the most brilliant scientists available? He pressed for an answer.

“I don’t understand. If anyone can help, he can—he’s the most qualified!”

“Look. I’m responsible for these astronauts, and you’re the only one I trust to handle this situation.”

Palmer grumbled into his pillow.

“Come up to my office in the morning. We’ll discuss it then.”

“No. You still don’t understand—”

“No—you don’t understand, Michael! Remember what happened on Phyllus I?”

Those last few words struck Palmer hard, causing his heart to race. Phyllus I? How could he forget? Seven years ago. No one had survived the mission. Everyone had returned from exploring one of Jupiter’s moons—dead. Whatever had taken their lives had done it swiftly, mutilating their tissues until they were unrecognizable. He was one of the attending physicians, but there was nothing left to study.

The team speculated that the last survivor initiated the self-destruct sequence to prevent the spread of an unknown, virulent organism. ISC attempted to abort the process from the base, but they could only lock onto one of the two explosives. The stern detonated and burst into flames.

Afterward, all that remained were the shredded, charred bodies left by the fire that swept through the astronauts’ cabins, enough to show the mutilation had come before the flames, but not enough to say what had caused it. Dr. Palmer worked the case, and there had been nothing, not even in the ship’s laboratory, to explain what had happened. It was maddening. No one on his distinguished research team could solve what killed those astronauts.

“Michael? Are you with me?”

“Yes,” Palmer snapped. “You know as well as I do what happened on Phyllus I.”

“Yeah. Scariest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” Jon’s voice trembled. “And now—Michael, we believe it may have happened again. On Phyllus II.”

“Geez-us!” Palmer’s jaw tightened, his grip on the sheets so firm his knuckles went white. A heavy ache settled deep within him as fragmented images of those warped forms haunted his thoughts. Yet the possibility of another window opening on the case intrigued him, and he began mulling over ways he might study the ship—and its remains.

He shook his head, rethinking, “I couldn’t help you seven years ago. What makes you think I can help you now?”

“Because you were the only one who seemed to care about that mission at all.”

“Caring really got me somewhere, didn’t it?”

“Nobody could explain what happened out there. It wasn’t just you.” Sensing his friend’s stubbornness stemmed from fear, Jon leaned in close, filling the screen with a provocative grin. “Look, Buddy, if this is truly how you feel, now’s your chance to make a difference.” He leaned back, letting that land. “The Phyllus II survivors arrive at 0900. Meet me at my office at 0700, and I’ll brief you on everything.”

Palmer relented. “All right, all right. I’ll do it on one condition. Spare me the administrative bullshit! And don’t keep any secrets from me this time.”

Four and a half hours later, Dr. Palmer hurried down what seemed to be the longest corridor in the entire Wolf complex. Beyond the building’s outer shields, which protected inhabitants from frigid, inhospitable cosmic and solar radiation, stretched a vast desert of iron oxide dust over volcanic rock. He glimpsed the landscape as he rushed past a triple-sealed window: reddish-orange geological wonders unmatched anywhere in the solar system, the sun a small, brilliant coin tossed into a dusty sky, offering a blinding glare but no warmth to the frozen plains below. Palmer muttered to himself that the entire planet looked like a rusted-out scrap yard someone forgot to sweep.

In his late fifties, he was still a handsome man. His salt-and-pepper hair, neatly slicked back, complemented by dark-rimmed glasses, gave him a distinctive, scholarly presence. He arrived at Jon’s office to an unexpected sight: six other officials seated alongside Jon.

“Good. Everyone’s here now,” a man at the far end of the table announced, motioning for someone to close the doors. Palmer shot a fierce, unyielding glare at his friend.

Jon stood up. “I’m sorry. They insisted we all talk about this.”

The expressionless man rose and addressed Dr. Palmer. “Martin Stewart,” he said, extending his hand. “Glad you could come.”

Dr. Palmer returned a firm grip. “What’s this all about?”

Mr. Stewart gestured toward a chair at the other end of the table. “Please. Sit down.”

Palmer’s approach to the table was slow and uncertain, his steps mimicking those of a trapped animal, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. As he sat, Mr. Stewart requested a com link and ordered routine monitoring to cease. “And close all com channels. I don’t want interruptions from anyone.” He glanced over at Dr. Palmer, who was having a silent conversation with Jon.

“Even we can make mistakes here in the administrative office, Dr. Palmer. That’s how we stumbled upon your meeting with Jon.”

“Somehow, I’d guessed that.” Palmer tapped a single heavy finger against the conference table with an annoying, rhythmic thump. Channel monitoring had become a way of life on Mars—and so had the counter-devices meant to defeat it. Evidently, the administrative office had found a way around those, too.

“As intrusive as we may seem, I assure you, we’re all in this together,” Mr. Stewart said. “Every one of us in this room had personal experience with the Phyllus I mission. They pulled me from the roster for another flight right before departure.” He requested a com monitor, and a screen emerged from the wall. Stewart paced the room.

“You know the official record: Phyllus I ended in tragedy seven years ago, no survivors, all data lost in the fire. Or so we thought. Salvage crews later recovered a scorched data core from the wreckage, fragments only, but enough for our engineers to reconstruct the video you’re about to see. We classified it top secret the day we recovered it, and it has remained sealed ever since. Now we have a reason to reopen the wound.” He paused, placing his hands on his hips. “We believe both missions encountered the same organism.”

Get on with it, you pompous bastard. Palmer drew in a long breath, his chair groaning slightly under his weight.

Stewart darkened the room, and a crude rendering of video footage appeared on-screen. As the picture cleared, Dr. Palmer’s heart rate doubled. He dug his fingers into the upholstery, seeking an anchor.

The horrifying spectacle activated his olfactory senses. The memory of a pungent, sickly sweet smell of infected wounds invaded his nostrils, and he attempted to shake off the vision from his first surgical rotation, but it was no use. He saw it in his mind again—the knife releasing a sour hiss of trapped gas that bubbled up buttery-yellow pus from pockets of liquefying muscle.

Palmer swallowed hard and tried to relax his throat, fighting the surge of stinging bile climbing the walls of his esophagus. He glanced away and coughed to ease the tension, then forced himself to view the gruesome images of men wailing in agony, shrieking and scrambling as they slipped on warm, bright crimson fountains splattering the cabin walls. Muscles tore and peeled away from their skeletal frames in long, wet sheets, exposing glossy white bones that fractured and spontaneously disintegrated.

Mr. Stewart illuminated the room. A stunned silence fell over everyone. They had just witnessed men they knew peeled like oranges.

Dr. Palmer composed himself, then glared at his friend. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”

Jon shook his head.

“We couldn’t risk widespread panic,” Mr. Stewart said, “when we didn’t have the facts ourselves.”

“And what could we have told the public?” one administrator added. “Sorry, but there’s a strange monster out there that strips men to the bone?”

Palmer’s face flushed red. He stood and jabbed his finger toward the vacant screen. “I was the attending physician on that case. Something on this recording could have given us clues seven years ago—and I should have been the one to judge that.”

“Gentlemen, please!” Mr. Stewart intervened. “The Phyllus I tragedy remains a mystery to all of us, and we’ve encountered nothing like it again—until now. So we have no time to lose.” He addressed Dr. Palmer, who remained standing. “Please. Sit down, Doctor.”

Palmer sank slowly back into his chair.

Mr. Stewart continued. “The Phyllus II expedition lost a great deal of time during the early stages of its three-year mission. Mechanical and system failures plagued the outbound year, and ISC threatened to recall the flight.” He chuckled briefly, remembering. “Of course, Captain Jardan and Lieutenant Anderson wouldn’t hear of it. They spent days on multiple spacewalks repairing the ship, despite our warnings, and saved the mission from being scrubbed."

He walked over to the large screen, which began playing footage of the Phyllus II in action. “The primary goal was to study atmospheric changes around Jupiter, with the secondary hope of discovering life despite the gaseous conditions. On the last day of their first year in orbit, the crew successfully entered Jupiter’s vaporous atmosphere. A significant day in history for everyone at ISC.” His tone shifted as he advanced toward Dr. Palmer. “It was also the day the thirteen-member crew met with tragedy. The what, how, and why, Doctor, is for you to decipher.”

“Go on,” Palmer urged, unflinching.

Mr. Stewart approached the console. “In February, we received an unusual transmission from Jupiter. The crew had encountered a new life form attached to one of our satellites orbiting the planet. What you are about to hear is the last intelligible recording—the moment of that encounter.” He tapped a button. The computer’s synthesized voice announced, “Recording, dated zero two, zero four, twenty-one sixty-one, at twelve fifty-one hours.”

Tech. Donola: “Yeah, Roger. I repeat—we have the satellite in view, and...oh, my God! Anderson! Do you see what I see out there?”

Lt. Anderson: “Uh... can you be a little more specific, Donola?”

Tech. Donola: “Look out the port window, sir!”

Lt. Anderson: “Yeah, okay—holy shit! What is that? Pan back to the right a little. I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Tech. Donola: “What do you think it is?”

Lt. Anderson: “I don’t know. A reflection? Looks shiny. Captain, you need to see this!”

Cpt. Jardan: “I see it. Interesting, whatever it is. Could be a lunar reflection off the satellite. Donola, get a higher rez on it.”

Tech. Donola: “Image on screen two, sir.”

Cpt. Jardan: “That’s no lunar reflection!”

Lt. Anderson: “God... it’s beautiful.”

Cpt. Jardan: “Indeed!”

Tech. Donola: “Look! There’s another one floating just left of the satellite!”

Lt. Anderson: “How many are you seeing, Donola?”

Tech. Donola: “Just two, sir. Like a couple of emeralds!”

Cpt. Jardan: “Alright, everyone calm down. Speculations? (pause) Anyone?”

Lt. Anderson: “Don’t know...Hmm. That’s strange.”

Cpt. Jardan: “What is, Anderson?”

Lt. Anderson: “I can’t explain it, sir. It’s like something inside is guiding me toward them.”

Tech. Wolski: “That’s funny, Anderson. Maybe they wanna mate with you!”

Cpt. Jardan: “Knock it off, Wolski! Get your gear on!”

Tech. Donola: “I don’t like the looks of it, sir... let’s get out of here!”

Cpt. Jardan: “Nonsense! Anderson, go out there with Wolski and get a better look at those things. Take samples. Be careful. We still don’t know what the hell they are.”

Tech. Wolski: “Uh... roger that, sir!”

Lt. Anderson: “Sir, do you want to send Otto out there first?”

Cpt. Jardan: “No, we don’t need a bot. You guys will be all right if you activate your vector barriers. You copy that, Wolski?”

Tech. Wolski: “Roger. Copy that, sir!”

Mr. Stewart stopped the recording. “That’s all we have on the creatures. The remaining audio is unclear. We can assume they made direct contact with the satellite. All we know is they emitted a bright green light and exerted some kind of pull on the crew.”

Dr. Palmer sat forward. “Say it was some sort of creature. Are you suggesting that the same beast attacked the crew on Phyllus I?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Stewart admitted. “Maybe we’ll never know. But there seems to be a connection between the two disasters. And we’re fairly certain about what happened after the exposure.” He paced the room again.

“Within hours of that recording, we were seconds from uncorking the champagne when word came that vicious outbursts and bloodthirsty fights had broken out aboard the ship. Then every voice channel went silent. ISC ordered an immediate return to Mars. We dispatched recovery tenders that locked onto the hull and have been propelling her home ever since.”

Stewart’s voice dropped. “What little telemetry survived tells a strange story. The crew grew withdrawn and secretive, and their need to hide was extraordinary. The captain attempted to record events in the computer log, but his voice patterns produced only distorted words and garbled feedback.”

Palmer noticed Jon’s vacant stare. He glared at Stewart to hurry the hell up.

“Perhaps that’s why no one knew about the others’ deaths. When our rescue team intercepted the ship and boarded it, forensics discovered an alarming sight: eleven of the crew dead, separated, mutilated and unrecognizable. The captain and his lieutenant were barely alive, both comatose.”

Mr. Steward paused like a lawyer making his case. “The team found no creatures aboard the ship.”

Palmer sat staring, his eyes wild with fright. Never in the history of biological science could he have conceived this.

Mr. Stewart announced that the rescue team had stabilized the survivors. “The captain and the lieutenant will arrive within the hour.” He eyed Dr. Palmer. “To be placed immediately in your care.”

Palmer studied him, bewildered by the drama, then stood and faced the room. “Now that I have something to work with, maybe we can get somewhere.”

“We must find out what’s destroying them,” Mr. Stewart added. “No one can save these men now.”

“We’ll see,” Dr. Palmer challenged. He glanced over at Jon, who remained silent, staring. “Jon, get in touch with the ICU and have them prepare two isolation rooms as quickly as possible.”

Hearing his name hit him like a cold splash of water. Jon blinked and nodded. “Sure. Anything else?”

“No. Just let them know I’ll be there when the astronauts arrive. I’ll contact Dr. Heinrick.”

Dr. Palmer excused himself and departed the room.

Now he understood why they had appointed him chief medical officer. No one else would take the case. No one sane, anyway.

Up next: In Chapter 2, Dr. Palmer, primary nurse, Lena and the team encounter the mutilated survivors of Phyllus II.

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• 🎙️ If you want an immersive experience with me…

  Stories That Heal conversations — start with the Jonathan Skarr episode to feel the vibe of my very first hosted livestream.

• 🤖 If you want to know what my fiction feels like…

• 🌹 If you want to know me…

• 🎭 If you like plays…here is a short, two-character ten-minute play entitled Are You…Really Here? It’s a story about a mother, a daughter, and a dream.

🪐 The Mission Report

Starting July 2026 and until the novel is ready, I will send out a monthly Mission Report, a short dispatch on my progress. It’s for curious subscribers, beta readers who’ve stuck around this long (thank you), and any aspiring novelists out there who need to know they’re not alone on this journey.

🎆 Come along on this galactic adventure

Subscribing is free — and it means the next transmission lands in your inbox instead of getting lost in the feed. You’ll get Stories That Heal episodes, the occasional essay or story, and a monthly Mission Report to keep you in orbit.

I keep a sustainable pace on purpose (there’s a novel to finish, after all), so I won’t crowd your inbox. When I show up, it’ll be with something worth your time.

If any of this resonates, hit subscribe and settle in.

I’m really glad you’re here.

— Linda, The Galactic Writer

Transmission Log: signal sent. Over and out. 🛰️

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