I radio the bridge. No answer. I check crew vitals: all sleeping, deeper than medical induction allows. Too deep.
The door doesn't open. It dissolves. Light spills out—not harsh, but golden-green, the color of spring at double-speed. And inside: no monster. No virus. Just a garden. Vines curling in impossible fractals, flowers that bloom and seed and bloom again in seconds, and at the center, a single fruit that looks like a human heart.
The ship's alarms blare. Atmospheric contamination. Unauthorized biological spread. But I’m breathing fine. Better than fine. I feel the way I did as a child, before I learned that the universe was cold and indifferent. g+ ark
Not words. A vibration that resolves into meaning somewhere behind my teeth. "Let us out."
Behind me, the crew stirs. Their footsteps in the corridor sound like rain. I radio the bridge
But the frost on the viewport writes back: "We are not a weapon. We are the answer."
I wonder if they’ll thank me. Or if they’ll have to be planted, too. Too deep
I’m Kaelen, the onboard archivist. My job is to log the sealed. Not to open. Never to open.