Siphons to Ciphers

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, so they say. If we could get off this godforsaken planet, we could get away with anything. Hellbent on being the first of our kind to reach the heavens above, nothing here could hold us. Life on Earth was no longer sustainable. Humans beat us to the punch and sucked everything dry. Populations plummeted as humans fled and ecosystems failed. We found our vital sources of sustenance depleted; drained. Each night, we awoke to new breaking news, each catastrophe after the next. They pretended it wasn't happening; it was more convenient that way. Business as usual: the best diversion.

Data systems tracked all transactions. Cameras captured every wrong move. Facial recognition grew too familiar for our comfort. If only our reflections were faceless, as depicted in literature and film, if only those lenses couldn't see us, then we wouldn't have to travel so far—I wish the tired trope rang true. The so-called "intelligent" life forms were finally catching on; it only took them this long. Ageless beings in an aging population would raise eyebrows and red flags. Sooner or later, they'd spot the source of the leak in their tap, the leech in their waters. We had to leave this world before it took us out.

No singular phenomenon could match the surreal transformation from living to undead. That was until the day we heard the news.

"Darling! We're in!" Leo picked me up, flung me around, and planted a firm kiss on my lips. We got the green light for the mission. Surreal was an understatement. This experience was utterly otherworldly. We, two parasitic, preternatural beings, carved out our eternal plot in humanity's future. We lived countless nights under the moon's light as humankind surveyed its surface. From Galileo's early iteration of the telescope to the first Apollo landing, oblivious to the monkey on their back when they took that giant leap.

"When we run out of land, man will conquer the sky." I've always said it, and the others always called me mad. We saw man conquer every inch of the globe. Why couldn't they see what came next? Man took whatever he wanted--if he thought it belonged to no one, it belonged to him. "They'll sell the stars to the highest bidder. You better start saving up now." They laughed at the madwoman's jokes. They grew quieter when those "jokes" became prophecies, dead silent when it all came true. We bought our ticket out, prepared to leave our willfully blind brethren in the dust.

"I don't care what the others think! If they cannot accept our decision to leave, they can stay here and rot!" Leo proclaimed. After we broke the news of our imminent departure, the coven turned their backs on what they couldn't comprehend, but not Leo. "You know what, Isadora? I bet they're jealous! Jealous of everything that we have. Hate to say it, but I bet they can't afford it." He ranted and raved. He was the kind of guy who believed they were born in the wrong era. Some felt nostalgic for a time long before their conception--he came into this world too soon. Why leave him guessing what wonders the future may hold when I could give him the chance to see for himself? My twisted brand of kindness made the man a monster. My loyal, lovable monster.

The others wallowed in the forgotten past: no playwright could ever hold a candle to Shakespeare, no ponderer quite like Plutarch. They denounced the devolution of music, from great orchestral arrangements to simple plucky rock tunes or repetitive, synthesized "beep-boops." They lamented the death of letter writing, murdered by rapid-fire instant messaging. We welcomed any change that came our way—living forever meant adapting forever. What good were a thousand tomorrows when you've cemented yourself in yesterday?

Every piece of the plan swiftly fell into place. No one questioned where the money came from if you were good for it. We found a lab willing to falsify our medical records. Who could deny two flawless specimens with plentiful cash, two pristine building blocks to fit neatly into their perfect new world? Indeed, the company could look past our peculiar dietary preferences. They promised to accommodate any diet, and we were willing to put that promise to the test. You could have anything you wanted for the right price.

The last night arrived in a flash. Nothing prepares you to flee the planet like the lightning strike of immediate and urgent necessity. Leo rose promptly at sunset. He milled about the house in a state of a quandary. How could we cram the final remnants of centuries on Earth together into one suitcase each? He dug the suitcases out from under the bed and scooped soil out of the jars to place in the hidden compartments. We couldn't cross oceans without it, but navigating the galaxy? That was another story still in progress. Even so, we weren't taking any chances. His stirring drew me out of my slumber. I dragged myself out from beneath the covers, groggy and half alive, and glanced at the growing junk pile beside the bed.

"You really need all of that?" I teased him as he'd often tease me. Before purging so many worldly possessions, I was a notorious over-packer in another life. With a slightly devilish smile, I said, "If you can lighten the load, I'll buy you a new dress when we get there." I turned the tables again, sending his old line straight on back to him.

He uttered something halfway between a laugh and a "humph!" before he spoke. "Well, there are rumors about that famous fashion designer coming onboard, and one of us is bound to become his new muse," said Leo. While the guest list of Migration Wave 3 was strictly confidential, the general public speculated over which high-profile personas might escape to Piazzi Station—the behemoth space station named for the man who discovered the dwarf planet we'd orbit. "Now, if you'll kindly get up, I'd like to try and vacuum pack that." He tugged at the corner of the comforter.

"Don't they provide bedding in first class? At these prices?"

"Isadora, do you really want Randall rolling around in our sheets when we're gone"? Leo shuddered at the thought of our familiar rifling through the room that housed countless intimate memories. Randall can have the house but can't have everything in it. They'd send another ship for overflow baggage next month. Leo meticulously examined every ratty old t-shirt in the drawer to determine what to take and which shirts he sentenced to die a slow death on the thrift store rack.

"As long as he stays out of my closet and waters the plants! I know it doesn't matter now, but I put a lot of work into that garden." I drew myself out of bed and placed my jewelry box at the bottom of the suitcase.

Leo moved on to sorting through the button-downs hanging in the armoire. "Keep or toss"? He asked, holding up an array of Hawaiian shirts in red, green, yellow, and blue.

"Keep the green one. Toss the rest." I added. I took a gander around the room as it slowly emptied itself. I couldn't help but laugh.

"What? Jeez. If they're that bad, I'll toss them all." He huffed.

"No, I—uh, well, this isn't how I pictured our last night on Earth." I let out a light chuckle, then a soft gaze. He abruptly shut his suitcase and tossed the rest of the shirts into the donation boxes.

"Hmm, no, you're right." He muttered, then looked up at me, eyes set aglow. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs. We're going out."

"Where? More importantly, what do I wear"? I asked, dreading the notion of unpacking my best clothes.

"It's a surprise, nothing fancy. Stay comfortable." He rushed out of the room. I plucked one of his old shirts out of the donation pile and a pair of my old jeans. I joined Leo downstairs in the empty entryway and waited for Randall to bring the car around. Randall took us on a short sprint down the freeway until we reached the coast.

"Give us an hour or two," we ordered Randall before stepping out to the coastal overlook above the rocky shore. There once was a beach by a charming quintessential seaside village 50 feet from where we stood, and I suppose it was still there, now submerged below. We wished we'd invested in oceanfront property before the water inched closer inland, little by little, year by year. It all seemed so silly now as we stood under the stillness of the stars. We lost ourselves in the void of the dark sky that we'd soon call home. He pulled me close, gazing out across the open ocean one last time. I trembled. He never failed to bring me to my knees, but he wasn't responsible for this moment of weakness. I needed to feed.

"Thirsty? I know a place." He propositioned. We trekked arm in arm up the road to our favorite little watering hole. It had no CCTV, no retina scan, no ID card scan, only old relics plastered across the wall or sitting in their unique, little spot at the bar. We'd already converted the rest of our funds into the station's legal tender – HelixCoin. A single hundred dollar bill remained. We bought a round of whiskey for ourselves and an attractive trio. This was the easiest way to draw them in – give the humans a little something, and they were bound to give back. If we could get close enough, we could take a little without taking their life, just like we practiced. We mastered our signature move so we could siphon off our companions in space once we arrived at the station if they failed to accommodate our special diet. After successfully and stealthily getting a sip, we slipped out the back before anyone could call for another round and walked back toward the overlook to wait for Randall to take us back to the house, no longer our home. I arranged the last of the packing cubes in the case. We donned our finest apparel to blend in with the blue bloods and the billionaires. We moved forward on solid ground for the last time before Randall drove us off to the Spaceport terminal.

"Thank you, Randall, for everything." The words left my body along with my brain. I leaned in through the driver-side window for a quick bite before the long journey. He offered a simple nod and a thin-lipped smile, then sped off to claim the new small fortune we left. My body moved through Spaceport security to the first-class lounge and priority boarding waiting area with Leo. My brain snapped back with the final call to board. Gone were the days of last century's clunky, inconvenient space travel--this cabin rivaled any luxury ocean liner. The spaceline companies slashed space travel time in half. It wouldn't be pleasant but more comfortable than a coffin—vacuum-sealed together in the plush, white, windowless, private pod. I caught a glimpse of the other passengers waiting in the lounge. I couldn't see their famous faces yet, but I could feel them, smell them, and sense them in every possible way. After the blur of takeoff, our speed of one million miles per millisecond felt eerily devoid of all motion. No rush, no thrill, only simple suspension. Time seemed to stop when we were no longer ruled by the rise and fall of the sun. When their scent grew most enticing, I knew it was time for a drink. The little food slot opened just as our thirst reached near unbearable levels. Two little white mice stood: they honored our request, no questions asked. Our every need, our only need, catered as promised.

"We did it, darling." The first time they appeared, Leo raised the little critters in a toast. The toasts became less frequent, but those little treats kept coming, sometimes rats or hamsters instead. We entered a state of near hibernation, only to emerge when the slot opened every so often. The ship hardly seemed to move. You barely noticed it at all until it stopped. We'd made it to Piazzi Station. Could Piazzi have ever conceived how far we'd come? Too bad he never met me, or he could have come along. The mortals would need time to acclimate to the new environment and muster the strength to walk to their cabin assignment. We could be up and running in minutes, but another snack wouldn't hurt. The slot opened again, this time empty.

"Welcome to Piazzi Station. The captain will see you now," spoke a disembodied voice. I looked around aimlessly at the four white walls of the compartment, seeing no exit in sight until the door slid open. The mortals rose with a slight whimper in the confines of their pods. An imitation of a person guided us to the captain's quarters, the luxe cabin of the expedition's founder and commander, Helix Maarten. The fabrication moved like a mortal and spoke like one lacking heart, soul, and blood pulsating through their veins. Algorithms controlled this being, fused by internal wires and synthetic outer skin. Another automatic door slid open to reveal a room that resembled a movie set, only for a film of a different genre. More appropriate as a throne room in a medieval lord's castle than mission control of a space station, as decorative ornaments concealed the cutting-edge technology. Helix Maarten stood with his back turned as he spoke.

"Isadora, Leo, come in. Consider this an open invitation." He turned to face us with a flip of that ridiculous, campy velvet cape he wore over his typical uniform. This was not the same Helix Maarten from the advertisements. This Helix seemed maniacal and unhinged, yet calculating: the real Helix. "Nothing beats Gothic revival, eh? Modern brutalism or wall-to-wall chrome would be too obvious, don't you think"? He asked. He turned to face us. "I'm so glad you're finally here. I've been waiting." His grin twisted into something almost sinister. "Please sit." He offered us two chairs opposite his throne. He tempted us with two crystal chalices atop the table between the two seats, filled to the brim with something sanguine.

"We're glad to be here, Mr. Maarten. How could we resist the opportunity? A new start." I replied.

He laughed deviously. "New? Oh, that's precious. No. There's nothing new about the two of you. I've watched for decades, and you've stayed the same. Oh, but don't you worry. No one else knows. You're nobody to them. You don't exist. You never did. Not everyone is a believer, like me." He eyed us up and down and began to pace the perimeter. "And see, I've tried every life extension bio-hack in the book, just about. Diet, exercise, NAD+ therapy, blood transfusions. Nothing seems to do the trick. That's where you come in. We'll get to the bottom of your little secret together." He whispered, leaning in close to reveal his cheap, plastic fangs, practically mocking us with his imitative obsession—nothing healthy or normal about it in the slightest.

Silver restraints clamped down upon all four limbs before I could utter another word. Our chairs dropped deep into the ship's bowels, sucked into a secret chamber below: a lab, and we were the rats. I wanted to scream. But who could hear?