What do you do with all the things you can’t explain—all the things that you know to be true but still don’t understand?

I dream of towering trees with wide green leaves and shards of glass falling like rain. I dream of empty rooms that echo with whispers and a face in a darkened window watching my every move. I dream of a lonely planet so desperate for life it plucks passing ships from the sky.

But they’re more than dreams. They’re pieces of my reality. And though broken and fragmented, they’re all part of a whole, part of a bigger picture I’m still trying to grasp. But the more I look for answers, the more they seem to allude me. My instincts tell me that this is where I belong, so why do I feel like an intruder?

I sit in the cockpit of Remus, my head leaned back and my eyes closed as I try to conjure some memory of how this all started. I remember waking up, Ramy’s face creased with concern as he leaned over me. I remember his easy smile, his laugh. Even then, he was familiar to me.

It seems to be a pattern—all these familiar faces everywhere I go. I can’t seem to escape the feeling that everyone I meet I’ve already met somewhere before. Yet none of them seem to recognize me.

I think of Jahdra, her face imprinted on my mind like a passage from a favorite book, impossible to erase. I think of the first time I saw her on Olympia Station, the way the rest of the world seemed to fade away, and I knew that if I could just get close to her, it would somehow bring me closer to myself.

But here I am, on her ship, and all I’ve managed to do is earn her ire. I don’t want to leave, but if she doesn’t want me here, is it selfish to stay?

I lean forward and switch on Remus’s main controls. The readout confirms a barely operational engine system. With any luck, it’ll be an easy fix, misaligned couplings maybe. But something like a deteriorated assimilator is another matter entirely. Either way, I’ll have to head down the engine shaft to get to the root of the problem. I sigh and scratch at the back of my head, my finger catching a scar where Shae did a little repair work. Really, I should drag her down here and make her give me a hand. But after our last conversation, things have felt a bit tense between us. It’s not that I don’t see her point—I can understand why she would have ethical objections to messing with someone’s mind, especially when she’s made it her life’s work to help the less biologically validated among us—but I don’t think her reservations are all she’s making them out to be. If it was something harmful, objectionable, why would she have written it down in the first place? Whatever the case may be, I think a little space will do us both good. Besides, the solitude gives me time to think, to try and figure some things out.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I’ve been trying to put everything down—memories, thoughts, dreams, recollections, premonitions—to collect all the bits and pieces in one place, create a sort of outline. I’m hoping that it’ll lead to something grander, but for now it’s enough to keep me occupied. If I can’t make sense of the chaos, at least I can try to organize it.

I reach over and switch on comms, stalling my inevitable descent into the engine shaft. It’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that someone would be trying to contact me, I tell myself, though I’m well aware of the unlikelihood. The control lets out a plaintive crackle before flickering to life. Unsurprisingly, I haven’t received any messages. With a sigh, I push myself up out of the chair, heading reluctantly to the back of the ship. But just as I reach the hatch to the engine shaft, the comms control lets out a chirp, the telltale sign that I’ve just received a communiqué. I walk back to the front of the cockpit, my curiosity piqued and my mind racing. Who could be trying to reach me? I check the controls, scrolling through the display eagerly, but oddly, it shows no new messages. Did I imagine it?

I shake my head, and make my way back to shaft, this time making it to the third rung before the comms control chirps again. I pause for a moment before deciding that I definitely didn’t imagine it. But once again, when I get to the display, there’s no message. I frown at the readout. The fact that the docking bay has EM-conductive plating hasn’t escaped me, and I’m beginning to wonder if there could be a live current interfering with my onboard systems. I’m not sure how much weight that theory holds, but I’m short on alternative explanations. I mean sure, my ship was beat to hell and it could just boil down to a simple malfunction or a loose wire somewhere, but the comms were working just fine on the way here.

The third time, I’ve already made it all the way down the shaft and have the main access panel halfway off when the comms lets out a chirp. I probably wouldn’t have even heard it if I wasn’t listening for it. I should probably be annoyed, but instead, I’m just grateful for the distraction. Sure enough, the display once again insists that I have not, in fact, received a message. I plop down into the chair in front of the controls and think. Maybe if I stay put, I’ll be able to catch it the next time it alerts and figure out what the problem is.

I stare intently at the screen, waiting. I try not to let my mind wander—I want to be ready in case a message really does come through. The minutes seem to tick by slowly, but just when I’m about to give up and resume my previous task, the comms chirps. A new message.

I reach for the controls, desperate to play the message before it disappears again, but what comes through the speakers isn’t a message at all—it’s a distress signal, and it’s coming from the Chrysanthemum.