Nova, Unearthed

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. As Artemis expelled the last bit of air from her lungs, which were her uncertain cries for help that escaped even her own ears, she remembered this, but it was not her last thought. She also wondered what might exist beyond this mortal form. Most importantly she asked, Is this really it? What would it take for life to go on and for Earth to flourish once again? There was scarcely a living thing on Earth, and she had not seen a man, woman, or child in many years. In those last ten seconds, she chose to remain conscious as her physical senses began to fade.

She unmasked herself and withdrew her headgear, allowing her long wisps of golden hair to flow in all directions. Her eyes opened wide, full of tears that would never fall, and then she became suddenly still, the muscles of her face limp, void of all expression, as they would remain for the rest of eternity, preserved in space in a state of suspended animation, frozen in time by the evaporation of her own bodily fluids. The last human from Earth had taken her last breath, and the final curtain was called on the planet once considered by its inhabitants to be the center of the Universe, its dull lifeless terrain now barren and deserted.

The star date system in her spacecraft, now locked into Earth’s orbit, contained the following record:

Captain’s log. Maiden voyage. I am Artemis, the last of my species left on a small planet called Earth in the Milky Way Galaxy. It is the 8th day of the Earth calendar month November, in the year 3,998. I do not wish to be alone in the universe any longer. My mission is to activate the beacon satellite to alert any possible inhabitants of any nearby star systems of my presence. It may be a futile mission, but I must go on so long as the question remains: Is there life out there somewhere in the Universe? I take on this task at my peril for I am not sure if I will be equipped with enough oxygen to make it back in time as one of the tanks in my suit is empty. In the event of my demise, I have uploaded Earth’s histories to the ship’s databanks. Although I believe that I am the last Earthling, we were once a prolific civilization.

###

Earth, circa 2022

“Please remove all restraints from the patient. Pull all patient records. I am taking them with me. Make sure she gets a shower, and – “

“Dr. Patterson?” interrupted the nurse. “Do you think this patient is ready for transport? Have you read any of her file?”

“Not now, Monica. I don’t need you to question me. Just prepare the patient. Thank you,” he said as he grabbed a package of documents from her.

Dr. Patterson rifled through the large pile of handwritten notes for his new patient. “Damn it, Jacob, I can’t read your writing,” he muttered, complaining about his colleague. “Nurse, is Dr. Gottwald here by any chance?”

“No, sorry, doctor,” she started to apologize for the elder clinician.

“Don’t be sorry. Just get the patient ready for transport,” he mumbled, pen in mouth, as he hurriedly went through the records in front of him, squinting and furrowing his brow, gathering details from the shoddy penmanship scribbled on pages that seemed somewhat out of order to him.

He sat his brisk form down and seemed to relax for a moment, taking note of the major details hidden in this mass of rubbish that was littered with crossed out words and phrases, run-on sentences, and shorthand that made little sense to him. “It seems the good doctor had pancakes for breakfast last Thursday,” he blurted out, seemingly incredulous.

“He wrote down what he ate in the patient records?” questioned the other nurse who remained at her station, eyes fixed on the screen ahead of her.

“No,” sighed Dr. Patterson. “He left a drop of maple syrup – and jam?” his expression unfurled as he recognized the substance. “Plus, there’s a receipt from IHOP in the folder with the patient's photos and his memos.”

When he wasn’t so serious and hurried, the doctor was rather handsome and at times even bit charming. At literally any other time, all the single nurses would be flirting with him. However, it was clear that in this particular instance that he meant business. So, the two that were on staff at this late hour did their best to pretend not to notice. Doubling over the clinical notes that he delicately cradled with the left side of his body so they would not fall off his lap, he positioned his tablet on his right leg, powered it up, and scrambled to find his writing utensil that he had been keeping safe in his lips a few moments ago – where it would still he'd still have it had there had not been a need to exchange words. Eventually, he found the stylus adjacent to his bum on the cushion of the chair that he was seated on. Luckily, the seating in the waiting room did not have deep crevices, and his body had not moved enough to wedge anything anywhere that it didn’t belong.

“Klonopin. Seroquel. Celexa,” he muttered through his teeth and let his words escape under his breath. “Good God, I hope we’re in time.”

Pivoting slightly towards the nurses’ station. “How long has she been on these meds?” he asked.

The nurse barely looked up from the screen as she continued typing. “It doesn’t say in the notes?”

“C’mon, Claire. Be serious,” he urged, fighting the desire to fling the whole assortment at her.

“Just a week or two. Her intake was pending a transfer from Mt. Sinai Hospital. They kept her there as long as they could for treatment and physical rehabilitation due to the extent of her brain injuries, but they needed to evaluate her mental health after she become uncooperative with their staff.”

“Artemis?” he read as he scanned the notes detailing a psychotic break. “She said her name was Artemis, like the goddess of the hunt?”

“Something like that. While she was under hypnosis, she started talking about being from outer space and asking where she was, what planet, and didn’t believe that she was on Earth. I’m sorry. You’re going to have to read the records. Got other shit to do,” she said, making eye contact with the doctor for once, “You understand. Besides, that’s really all I know. I've never seen her talk, but apparently she can do it without needing to move her jaw very much when she's deeply relaxed according to one of your specialists who saw her when she first got here. Not exactly sure how it was possible with what that poor girl has been through, but that's what they say. Again, that's all I know. I don't ask questions above my pay grade.”

Frederick wished that he had gotten all the medical records from Mt. Sinai, but there wasn’t time for that. Whatever transferred over with her would have to do. “Do you have the transfer documents from the hospital, Claire?”

“Yep. They’re right here in the computer along with the records that you are holding. Both sets were uploaded and transcribed by the system before being added to her file.”

He glared at her, “Do you think this is funny?”

“No,” she said trying not to laugh, for the first time almost breaking a smile. “I’ll setup a profile for you and email your login credentials. A lot has changed since you’ve last been here.”

“Apparently. Finally upgraded to the 21st century. Can you check on Monica? She should be ready with the patient by now.”

“Yes, doctor,” and she stood up, tossing her long, dark hair about while breathing in deeply and stretching her back and torso. Her bust nearly popped out of her uniform for as she opened her tight frame to yawn. Now, he pretended not to notice.

Frederick quickly neatened the pile of papers he was working with, straightened himself up a bit, and placed his tablet directly on top of the papers on the center of his lap, his legs closer together as he sat rearranged. He breathed in deeply and swallowed hard, exposing his prominent Adam’s apple as he looked up at her again.

“I’ll go get Monica,” she stated and left the room.

“Thank you,” he said as he looked back down at his tablet, breathing a heavy sigh of relief once he heard the door close behind her.

He finally took in his surroundings. It'd been awhile. The wing he was in was separated from the other side of the building, and the nurses’ station was sequestered from the residents' dormitory on this side. He sat in what looked like a waiting room, but the lobby was really used as a meeting place for group therapy and visitations for the residents who were beginning a path toward rehabilitation. Generic abstract art hung on the walls. Color prints he supposed. One wall was bright orange; the remaining walls were off-white and slowly turning a dingy grey. The wall he faced had fingerprints, smudge marks, and scuffs along it where the patients used to line up for meds before the pandemic. Looking down, he noticed the hospital's linoleum floors were well worn and badly in need of a polish, and the one carpet in the entire area was a runner that ran parallel to the nurses’ station, directly in front of it, from the entryway. He guessed that it was originally a bright red, now turned reddish grey, a much different grey than the walls were turning. The chairs in the lobby were likely the most recently updated component of the main area. Splotchy patterns of pastel colors were woven together tightly over cushions that did not easily give much against the weight of the human body, and the sides of the chairs were a exposed light-colored birchwood that had sustained little wear and tear.

A high platform separated the nurse’s station from the rest of room that he was in. He rightly conjectured that it was a psychological tactic used to keep the patients in place so they wouldn’t get out of hand. The idea was that you have to look up to authority as a child does with his parent. As a former military brat and a veteran himself, he did not need to be a behaviorist to tell you this either. At any rate, this place was not doing a thing for his personal mental health.

Finally, the door swung open again, and he caught his first sight of his patient, one Miss Abigail Lachey, ushered out by Nurse Monica. She looked rather rough in that hospital gown, her head partially shaven and sutured, half of her face still so swollen that one eye was forced shut. The other eye, however, was wide open, visibly bright blue in color with a glimmer of pale gold surrounding an overly dilated pupil. She barely blinked, if at all, and appeared vacant to him. Everything about her lacked expression and luster. She sat there in her wheelchair motionless as if in a fixed catatonic state, no signs of any youthful vigor or any response to stimuli. In contrast to the few pictures that he’d seen of her before her accident, all of the rosiness in her cheeks had left, and she appeared lifeless and nearly as pale as the sheet that lie on her lap for warmth and modesty. If it weren’t for the slow but consistent shallow rise and fall of her chest, he might have mistaken her for a corpse had he not known any better. The only color on her body came from the bruises on her wrists and ankles where she had been tethered by restraints at the hands of the hospital staff – signs of resistance between the rounds of medications. He hoped this was a good sign.

However, as the physician took in the patient’s general condition, Dr. Patterson seemed to be quite beside himself, pacing and breathing erratically as his repressed anger got stuck in his throat while he fought back tears from forming. Due to his clearance level, he was aware that medications like the ones prescribed promoted irreversible catatonia in subjects like Miss Lachey. However, to the staff at South Haven Psychiatric, her treatment was consistent with the normal regimen for someone experiencing a psychotic break. Upon meeting the latest victim of the so-called healthcare system, his outrage rendered him speechless.

In the past, he’d have flailed his allegiance to the Hippocratic oath as a sort of weapon against the mediocrity of other medical practitioners if he knew they were acting against the patient’s best interest. However, having gained in wisdom and experience by his appointment as a high ranking civilian adviser to the U.S. government, it was now clear to him that it was not so much malpractice as it was ignorance that kept old standards in place. If it were up to him, he’d tell the whole world what knew. Unfortunately, that could never be because if there was one thing that Frederick loved more than truth, it was freedom, particularly his own freedom. He could do more alive as a free man than he could ever do dead or imprisoned.

In those several minutes that the doctor had spent pacing and scowling about the lobby, Nurse Claire had nestled herself once more behind her desk and began busying herself behind her screen. Meanwhile, Nurse Monica had gone back to grab some bags for the patient.

“Dr. Patterson, I created your profile and uploaded the complete set of patient records. Your login information has been sent to your .gov email address. Can you confirm the receipt?” asked Nurse Claire.

Glancing down and his tablet to unlock it and take a look, he swiped his fingers every which way. He then nodded. He’d received the email.

The doctor smiled as the thanked the nurse behind the desk before turning around to see other one reemerge with two personal bags for the patient, one smaller one full of medications and the other containing the patient’s personal belongings.

“Did she come with any clothes?” he asked her.

“Unfortunately, no. There were no visitors. Both parents are dead, and she’s over the age of 18. Her only belongings that we received were salvaged from the vehicle after the crash.”

He looked down at Abigail’s shoes. “I don’t suppose that you have her shoelaces?”

“Figured,” he said after the nurse shook her head to confirm a no. “We’ll get some new clothes. Thank you, nurses.”

Frederick stuffed the patient's files and his tablet into his backpack, pulled it up onto his shoulders, and repositioned himself behind Abigail. He hung her bags from handlebars of the wheelchair and then placed his hands on the bars and began to wheel her out of the lobby, leaning slightly towards her so that he did not have to stoop down too far to push her. He was tall and strong with a long, lean muscular physique. Nurse Monica opened the door to the main corridor.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said so cordially that the nurse was almost taken aback. He was clearly happy to be on his way with his patient that he’d come to collect.

As he wheeled the young lady down the corridor, his hands absorbed some of the shock of the rickety old ambulatory device. He hoped that she would not be too uncomfortable during the transport. The staff area of the hospital was definitely noise-proofed for a reason. The sound of the chair being pushed down the hallway had caused quite a ruckus. Going at the pace of a snail would have minimized disturbance, but it was already too late. Nurse Monica was slow for a reason after all, he reluctantly conceded to himself.

“Let me out! I’m innocent,” one man cried out pathetically.

“My baby! They took my baby,” accused an elderly woman, wailing against her door.

Inaudible sobbing, screaming, and moaning could be heard from at every step along the rows of locked doors that lined their narrow path to the front of the facility.

“Help me, please help!” hastily pleaded another voice that broke through the others.

The yellowing lighting fixtures flickered overhead as the pair continued their wobbly roll down the way. Frederick could not help but to start to get an eerie vibe about this place. He’d never been here at night before.

Just then, one of the wheels got stuck – almost as if it had one of those magnetic locks that grocery store carts are mechanized with to keep them from straying too far. This caused the chair to spin around out of his control, throwing off his balance. As he wobbled to keep himself from tripping over his own two feet, his hands let go of the chair, and he fell against one of the room doors, which he used to catch his equilibrium. Luckily, the chair stopped on its own without incident. Just as he was about to breath a sigh of relief, the door that he was leaning against threatened to give way. But as quickly as it started to give, it slammed forward with a substantial might that was coupled with a loud thud from the other side! Someone inside that room wanted out badly. Someone big, someone strong. A frantic, deep voice bellowed from behind the door, “Get me out of here! They're going to find me. No! No...." His voice faded. "I don't want to die."

As the the demands turned to sobbing, the doctor noted the loose door latch. He’d let facilities know on his next return. For now, he just wanted to get the hell out of there. If he were honest, places like this always made him a little uncomfortable, which was surprising given what he did for a living. Satisfied that the door could not spring open and just needed a proper mend, he regained his composure and was able to begin maneuvering the wheelchair once again. This only required pulling back in just the right way and giving it a proper shove, while taking the utmost care not to dislodge the patient. And he seemed to be a pro.

The very last voice from the end of the hallway sadly sounded like that of a child. A girl in her early teens perhaps? The voice called out in search for her mother. “Hello, Mommy? Are you there?” she called.

Frederick shook his head and sighed, wishing he'd could do more for these people. “In just a moment, we’ll be through,” he whispered to Abigail as they finally reached the end of the hallway. Still in direct earshot of the screams, he turned around to push the door open with his body as he backed them out of the east wing. The enclosure at the other end of the hallway that housed the nurse’s station seemed so far away now. Thankfully, he’d made sure that he'd not forgotten anything. Once he’d gotten them both completely through the door frame, the heavy door abruptly slammed itself closed before he could catch it with his foot, and the night security system activated – locking them both out immediately. For the first time, his patient jolted and covered her ears in panic.

He felt bad, realizing that loud noise most likely antagonized the other patients too, causing an uproar that must have louder than ever. The door, much like the door at the other end of the hall, however, provided sound proofing. For obvious reasons, the front foyer would be quiet during the day and dead silent at night. As he looked down at Abigail, her hands were still covering her ears and she did not look up at him. The door slam must have triggered a memory from the car accident she’d been in. While the doctor in him wanted to celebrate her the small success of her response to external stimuli, he knew it was just a small triumph. Plus, it was evident that she was suffering from PTSD.

More importantly, the journey in front of them had only just begun. As he backed them both out of the final door – this time with a helping hand from security personnel – a chill caught him. Plumes of vapor from the condensation of their breathing began to rise in front of them like clouds of smoke, and after only a few short breaths, the first stings of the cold air began to cause discomfort and slightly labored aspiration in Frederick. Fighting through his shivers, his attention turned back to his patient. He stayed present with her and scanned the perimeter for their driver. No lights? Bet he's napping. Fucking Ethan, he thought, grabbing his cell phone out of his pants pocket and cursing his lack of gloves as he opened his messenger app and quickly typed a message.

Frederick: Captain Maynard. We’re ready for pickup in the front. Copy?

To his surprise, it was instantly marked read, and the recipient was responding.

Ethan: Tracking.

He saw a pair of headlights turn on in the distance and slowly start to move towards them. In less than a minute, their escort had arrived from the other side of the parking lot. It was a white cargo van that doubled a nondescript ambulatory vehicle. The emergency lights flashed from behind the windshield as the driver put it in park and exited the from the front driver’s side.

He was also dressed in civilian clothes; however, he wore his tactical parka for his top layer. Dr. Patterson on the other hand was just wearing his standard clinical attire – white coat atop a baby blue Oxford collared button-down, a black printed tie with an understated diamond pattern, black trousers, and pair of crossovers for comfort and style.

Ethan, walked towards them carrying a winter blanket. “That was fast, Maynard. Were you on lookout for us this entire time?” asked the doctor.

“Not exactly – here,” he said as he draped the warm cover over Abigail and then turned his attention back to the doctor. “I just have my ways. You know how it is,” he smirked and then winked as fumbling through his pockets in search of his pack of cigarettes. “You mind, man?” he asked as he lit one up.

Maynard gestured to the back of the van. “You get her get ready while I have a smoke? There’s some extra layers back there for you too. Go get warm.” He said as he took a puff.

The doctor used a special lift to hoist the wheelchair into the van without having to move the patient separately. It’s clear that he’d used one of these before. Once in the van, he directed all his attention to the patient’s comfort – and his own – while the captain looked on.

After a few minutes, Maynard flung his cigarette and stomped out the ember with his boot, ready to meet his new charge. As he stepped up and lifted himself into the van, he smiled at her.

“Heard you got your head knocked pretty good there. Let me see,” he said as he leaned in.

“Mm-hmm, you sure did, but you know what? Let me tell you a little secret,” he whispered to her, “Doctors do not know everything.”

“I can still hear you, Maynard.” Dr. Patterson dryly objected, not truly interested in having a debate in the middle of the night. He also did not particularly enjoy debates with this guy as he’d learned very quickly that he would rarely, if ever, win them.

“Of course, you did,” he said to the girl, confusing the doctor standing next to him.

“Are you talking to me, or are you talking to her?”

“To her.”

The doctor was not the only one confused. Abigail had been trying for weeks to talk to everyone she’d interacted with, but the injuries that she sustained would not allow it. She'd overheard them say that she'd have to learn to walk and talk all over again.

You can hear me? My, my mind? YOU CAN READ MY MIND?

She panicked. She had thought someone who had come to visit understood her at one point. Some gentleman in a black suit. He repeated some things she said and wrote them down, but it seemed so surreal at the moment that she figured that she'd just been dreaming.

“Easy there, easy. Slow down,” he cautioned. “Yes, I can hear some of the commotion in there.” He pointed to her head. “And I know you could hear things in there,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the hospital, the large brick building that they were still parked in front of. “When did it start?”

After the accident, after I woke up. I, I heard her.

She started to break down and unintentionally began sending him a flood of images and sensations.

Maynard grabbed his head, face contorted, breathing slowing – doing his best to stay focused and not pass out or go into another trance.

Dr. Patterson didn't know what to do. He just looked at the captain and then relaxed as his comrade straightened up.

“Easy, honey,’ he said once again. “Slow. It. Down… Now, who was she? The one you saw.”

Artemis. I heard her. I lived everything she’d been through. It’s like I was there. Like I was her. She thought she died alone, but she didn’t.

Abigail could no longer physically cry, but you could see the pain in her expression. That one open eye looked like it’d seen a lot.

“Oh my,” he said, showing concern but allowing her to go on.

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

“She died in space? Who was she? An astronaut?” he asked the girl, and then turned toward the doctor. “Patterson, check NASA’s database for a female named Artemis. Check for any deaths of anyone with that name. And get me a list of any females who died in space.”

Dr. Patterson was too tired to really question or make sense of what was going on so he did as requested and sent a query to the database with his clearance.

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say, she repeated.

“I understood you,” he acknowledged Abigail.

I heard her! She died alone, believing that. It was one of her last thoughts. I heard them like my thoughts, but they were hers. She thought no one could hear her, but I did. She said she was the last human, and it really felt like that was true for her.

Maynard sprang aback in his seat, there in the makeshift ambulance, his face twinging as he suddenly arrived at a realization, “What if it hadn’t happened yet?” As a federal official of a top-secret government agency that studies consciousness, he knew a thing or two about a thing or two. Spectral visitors from the past were something that he was familiar with. This was new.

“The reason they can’t hear you in space is because there’s no molecular substance, such as air, to carry the vibration of the sound. However, every molecule has consciousness and can communicate through the vastness of spacetime. Most of the known universe is space. Outer space is just less molecularly dense than the planetary environments that sustain life as we know it.” The older man paused and spoke to the young woman as if he were talking to his daughter. “Baby girl, I think you heard someone from the future.”

He continued, "'Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.' Never believe what they say. When you are willing to know what’s truly possible beyond the realm of the known universe, the possibilities are actually endless."

Dr. Patterson's jaw dropped as he began to realize what was going on. Abigail had no words but somehow understood what he meant even though it kind of made her head feel like a bowl of warm soup about to spill over.

Somewhere, in some other time, a spaceship was lighting up the sky directly over of their location. They couldn’t see it from inside the van just then. Even if they were outside of the van, they wouldn’t have seen it either – because it had not happened yet – but together they'd created a new reality with their choices that night. What other possibilities would now await them? What future could now exist that has never existed before?

“Doctor, please stay back here with your patient. Keep her warm and safe. Let her rest.” Turning back to Abigail, “Would you like to know what else is possible? Keep the questions coming. Goodnight.” He left the van, closed it up from the back, and headed back to the driver’s seat. The two would stay warm in the cabin. There were blankets and bedding and medical equipment just in case of emergency. He turned off the emergency lights as they wouldn't be necessary on that night.

As the van finally drove off, a shooting star passed over the horizon. They say, make a wish.