Dreaming Beyond the Stars

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. That claim has always reminded me of another silent scream, the one found in nightmares. My whole life, I’ve dreaded the moment I scream for help and find I’ve lost my voice. The sensation used to plague me every night. Perhaps that’s why I signed on for this experiment, to escape the echoing silence of my fears by plunging into something new. Of course, when I was first introduced to this project I had no idea what was in store for me the moment I graced the release form with my signature.

For five months now, I and a team of nineteen other REM-explorers have been traversing and mapping the cosmos. We do this using brainwave technology called neuro-teleporters to project our conscious minds to distant galaxies as our bodies sleep. The scientists behind the tech think it’s the safest and most precise way to gather this information. I’m inclined to agree, especially since this experiment has resulted in the perfect job. I get paid to sleep, and my days are free to attend classes at Knox University. With any luck, the project will continue and I’ll graduate debt free with a resume to get me hired at any space-travel facility I want.

I pull into the OSTE parking lot just after sunset. I glance at my clock and groan. I’m already late. The scientists at the Organization of Space Travel and Exploration don’t typically care when I come in, but today is the first of the month, which means reviewing last month’s data and fine-tuning our neuro-teleporters. I grab my backpack and I.D. and run for the entrance, locking my car with my keys pointing over my shoulder. I speed-walk through the lobby, ignoring the heads turning in my wake. I’m here often enough that everyone recognizes me, so I have no trouble with security as I reach the elevator and punch at the buttons. The doors open smoothly, and I jab at the button for the top floor. As the doors close I force myself to take a breath. And another one. There’s no reason for me to be so worried about being late, they have nineteen other REM-explorers to keep them busy until I get there.

The doors glide open and I step onto the floor reserved for our project. There are a few large research rooms, though the majority of the floor is lined with doors that lead to small, dorm-like rooms where we all sleep. I head for the first research room, marked Lab 1. Shouldering open the door, I find the majority of the REM-explorers are already here, half of whom are currently sitting at desks and reviewing the data they logged for March alongside their lab-coated research partners.

“Callie,” a stern voice calls from my left. I turn to spy Dr. Miller standing up from his desk. He gestures to me to come closer. I oblige, forcing a smile. It feels more like a wince. “You’re late.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was studying at the library with some friends from class and lost track of the time. I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

“This project is worth millions, of course it’s a big deal.” He lets out a sigh, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger and sitting back down. “Just, be more aware of the time next month, okay?”

“Alright,” I say, sinking into the chair beside him. He wasn’t normally so uptight about these things. I bite my tongue to refrain from asking if anything is bothering him. We start discussing my data, and double-checking coordinates and brainwave stats. After a few minutes, my eyes begin to blur and I look away from the screen. Five months and I still can’t read half of the recordings they collect from my neuro-teleporter. It bothers me more than I’d like to admit.

My gaze falls on Dr. Miller and my brows furrow. His normally pristine white lab coat is wrinkled, and there is stubble where his face is normally shaved smooth. Dark circles hang low under his eyes, and I could swear there’s a crease between his eyebrows that wasn’t there a month ago.

“Is something wrong?” I blurt out. His eyes flick to mine, narrowing slightly. I backpedal. “I mean, everything looks okay with the data?”

His eyes narrow more, and he clicks his tongue. “No, everything looks alright. As long as you agree with all the findings, we can get started with adjusting your neuro-teleporter.”

I only nod and stand up, slinging my bag over my shoulder as I head to my room to grab the neuro-teleporter. Normally one of the doctors goes and collects them all before we arrive, but I saw when I got here that they must have forgotten today. As I cross the room I frown. Four of the other participants still aren’t here. A shiver snakes up my spine. I don’t know why, but the absence of those four makes me uneasy.

I shake off the feeling as I cross the hall and head toward my room. My footsteps echo slightly against the white tile floors. It used to bother me how pristine everything was around here, how sterile and shiny and white. It took over a month for me to adjust fully to living at the OSTE. Now, I focus on the soft tap, tap, tapping of my footsteps and blank surroundings to clear my mind.

I swing into my room a moment after waving my I.D. in front of the door. It takes me a moment to drop my backpack in the corner and disconnect the neuro-teleporter from the enormous computer next to my bed. I had a say in every way I decorated my room except for that computer. If you could even call it that. It’s more of a big, black, plastic box that powers the neuro-teleporter and collects information that I transmit back. It also makes for an ugly bedside table, but I really can’t complain. Not when I get free housing for living here as a part of the program.

Tucking the neuro-teleporter under my arm – it’s not much more than two disks connected by some wires – I head back toward Lab 1. It doesn’t look like anything has changed in the few minutes I was gone, though the energy in the room has shifted. Almost like the air has grown thicker and started buzzing with static. I bite my lip, looking around. A few of the other participants meet my eyes, then look away quickly, as if my gaze is scalding. I frown and sit at the desk where Dr. Miller is still looking through my data. Setting the device on the desk, I lean in and ask quietly, “Did something happen?”

Dr. Miller jumps and turns to me with wide eyes. My frown deepens. In the five months I’ve worked with him, he’s never been one to scare easily. Shaking his head, Dr. Miller turns toward the neuro-teleporter and plugs it into the computer. A diagnostic pops up on the screen. “No, nothing happened.”

He leans closer to the screen to read the new data, and I roll my chair back a few inches. I scan the room for any differences, coming up empty. Then I remember the missing REM-explorers.

“Hey, Dr. Miller,” I say, adopting a laid-back tone, “Where are Oscar, Ivy, Dean, and Paula?”

He freezes, and I know I’ve found the source of everyone’s tension. He doesn’t look at me as he says, “I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you, Callie.”

I cross my arms. “Are they sick?”

Dr. Miller remains silent, clicking on something on the screen.

“Did they leave the program?”

His mouth tightens.

“Have they–”

“Your neuro-teleporter is looking good.” Dr. Miller says, disconnecting it from the computer. I glare at him. “Let’s go get it set up in your room.”

“I can set it up just fine on my own, thanks,” I say, reaching for the device as I stand. Dr. Miller snatches it away before I can grab it.

“I know you can, but I just installed an update and I want to be sure everything is running smoothly before you drift off tonight.”

I open my mouth to argue, but something in his eyes makes me pause. “Fine.”

Silently, we walk out the door and turn down the hall to my room. This time, the tapping of our footsteps sounds more like thunder. The walk to my room feels like an eternity. We reach my door just as I’m about to break and ask another question. Dr. Miller seems to sense this and puts a finger to his lips. I raise a brow and lift my I.D. to the scanner on the door, scowling. His only reaction is to open the door and follow me inside. The door clicks shut behind us and I spin to demand answers, but he brushes past me to connect the neuro-teleporter to the computer.

He squats in front of the computer for a moment, pressing buttons and turning dials. I tap my foot impatiently behind him. “If you’re not going to tell me anything about the missing participants, could you hurry up and go, please? I’ve got homework.”

Dr. Miller sighs, his shoulders caving in. Slowly, he stands and turns around to face me. He rubs a hand over his face. I look him over again. He looks disheveled and stressed. He clears his throat and I meet his gaze.

“The REM-explorers you’re asking about have been compromised.” He stated simply. “I can’t tell you more than that.”

“Why can’t you tell me more?” I demanded. “How were they compromised? Were they dropped from the program?”

“You didn’t let me finish. I’m not allowed to tell you more, but I will, because the matter concerns your safety.”

My stomach drops. I feel cold. “What do you mean?”

“They don’t want any of the REM-explorers to know, they think you’ll drop out of the program if you find out, or worse, report the program and land the OSTE in hot water with the government. But you need to know.”

I realize what he’s asking. “If it concerns our safety, I can’t promise that I’ll keep quiet.”

He shakes his head sadly. “I know.”

“But,” I say, “I can do my best to make sure the information leak doesn’t trace back to you.”

He gives me a tight smile. “Very well. Five weeks ago, Ivy Lopez did not wake up. Her neuro-transporter was recording data as normal when suddenly it was as if the connection broke. Her body is still functioning as it should, but it is as if she is in a coma. We thought perhaps that truly was what had happened, but then it happened again two weeks later with Oscar Thompson.” My breath catches in my throat and Dr. Miller gives me a sad look before continuing. “This time, we were able to retrieve some data from Oscar’s neuro-teleporter and discovered that Oscar witnessed a bright blue light before disconnecting from his device. In the weeks that followed the same happened with Dean Anders and Paula Wilson, both of whom experienced the same blue light before we lost contact with their conscious minds.”

I stand frozen, my hands hanging limp at my sides. “Is there anything we can do?”

“All four of them are currently on one of our lower floors receiving round-the-clock care, but I’m afraid until we learn more there is nothing to be done.”

“Will it,” I pause, fighting against the shaking in my voice before I try again. “Will this happen to the rest of us?”

Dr. Miller doesn’t say anything. I’m about to ask again when he says, “We don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” I demand. “How can you knowingly send us off each night to that possible fate and not even warn us?”

“I’m trying to warn you now.” His face hardens. “We know there is nothing wrong with the neuro-teleporters, otherwise we would cancel the experiment. We’ve updated the devices to forge stronger connections with the participants’ minds to better protect you. But we don’t know why these disconnections are occurring.” I open my mouth to say something, but he continues rambling. “Each of the four affected REM-explorers was in a different location entirely from the others. Your neuro-teleporters have built-in safety features to keep you away from black holes, so it can’t be that either. The only answer I can imagine is that there was an outside influence, but there is no proof of that other than the blue light.” He sighs, sagging inward. “We don’t know what is happening.” He says quietly. It seems he’s speaking more to himself than to me now.

I take a step back. “Do you still expect me to REM-explore tonight?” I ask. My voice comes out in a whisper.

He straightens, rolling his shoulders back and heading toward the door. “That’s your decision to make. Just know that OSTE will be notified if you don’t connect to the neuro-teleporter tonight. Now I have to go, I’ve been here too long. And after all of your questions in the lab, it won’t take them long to figure out what we’re talking about.” He says this last sentence with a bite to the words as if I should have known better than to say anything around the others. “Goodnight,” he says, leaving the room as swiftly as he came in.

“Goodnight,” I mimic, flopping on the bed. I look over at the neuro-teleporter and recoil. Suddenly I can’t bear to be near it. Swinging my legs off the bed, I stand and make my way over to my desk instead. My stomach is churning.

How could I have not noticed participants were missing? Ivy was missing for five weeks and I didn’t notice. Was the OSTE truly content to sit back and let us risk our lives for some dumb space exploration experiment?

I lean back in my desk chair. I suppose it’s not surprising I didn’t notice people were disappearing. Aside from the monthly check-ins we rarely saw each other. Everyone was always coming and going whatever time of day worked with their schedules. In a normal week I probably only saw five other participants.

I think back on what Dr. Miller said. He claimed to not know what is happening, but he did hint at an ‘outside influence’. Did he mean aliens? Or was it another warning and he was being cryptic? I glance at the neuro-teleporter over my shoulder. It seems to loom next to my bed like the plague. My gaze shifts to my feet, as if I can see through the floor to the beds occupied by the comatose REM-explorers far below. The scientists don’t know how to help them, and the doctors can only do so much.

An idea sparks in my mind, and determination settles in my gut. I stand and get ready for bed, ignoring the fear creeping in and twisting around my heart like a snake. Laying down in bed, I reach for the neuro-teleporter and gently place the two disks on my temples. I flip a switch on the computer and burrow into the covers. If no one knows how to help those REM-explorers, then I will figure out how. Even if I risk a similar fate by doing so.

I close my eyes, and the blackness of space greets me.