The Greenhouse Incident at Station 648

I was alone for New Year’s Eve this year. But then, that was my fault, so I could hardly blame anyone else.

Who was it, again, who opened the plant sample that the cosmonauts sent back through the matter transporter from Vesuvius IV? Who was it who didn’t read the warning, because it was still my first day of the internship and I hadn’t read the manual yet? And who failed to engage the face wash station protocol that might’ve stopped the infection? Me, myself, and I. Those are the only people I have to blame.

But that fact didn’t make the sounds coming from downstairs any less difficult to bear. The squeaky noise of champagne corks being loosened, followed by the celebratory pop! of their opening. The music, the talking, the footsteps. The occasional whispers that I could feel more than hear. The cross pollination turned every one of the dead lilies decorating the tabletops into an earpiece for me. Like those metal pipes in the playgrounds back on Earth you could whisper secrets into. I never tried to whisper back anymore; the rest of the team found it “disconcerting” when the plants tried to engage in conversation. So I just listened, alone, as the crew of Station 648 celebrated the once-in-a-generation orbital completion of Saturn.

My former boss, now having advanced to Station VP, still did his best to keep me in the crew’s memory. The dead woman who still walked around upstairs. Antoinette Cosway and I might’ve gotten along like a house on fire, if we were only 400 years closer in age. I knew his little offering was coming, but it never did help with the pain. The solitude was unending.

I heard the conversations in the station’s gathering space quiet, and the sharp tink! of fork against champagne glass. There was a flaw in the crystal, I could tell just from the dampening of the sound and the hesitancy as people weren’t sure what they heard. Heads must’ve turned, fingers gestured toward Thomas, as they slowly realized they were in for one of his speeches.

“Folks. As we celebrate tonight, I want to remind you all that there’s a cost to our revelry. Not just the cost of the bottles we’re popping, or of the caviar we’re dipping our toast in. Every advancement this station has made, every step forward we create for mankind, comes with a risk. A human risk that each one of us bears whenever we work. Each word in the safety manual was written with blood. And in this, our eleventh hour, we must honor those who came before us. On this night, we honor Carroway Miko. An interning botanist from the University of Mars’ Tharsis Campus. To her, we offer this next toast, as she continues to linger with us all in this station, permanently tethered here after her tragic encounter with a specimen of Vesuvarius amidae. We raise our glasses to you, Carrie. Here, here.”

The students raised their glasses, some clinking with one another, and resounded his toast, but only hesitantly. The lilies among them conveyed their true feelings to me: “Why is Professor Milton talking about some ghost? Does he really believe in that stuff?”

I could only blame myself for what happened to me. But could I really blame myself for what happened next?

At 11PM, they toasted me. But by 11:55, Thomas Milton had wandered to his bedroom, with some young assistant helping him there. He was more than a little inebriated with his champagne. A half hour past midnight, a few students found a way to bypass the lock to the 3rd floor, which housed only two disused offices, and my greenhouse. An airtight plastic sheet barrier had been set up over the entryway, with a one-way airlock. They could offer things to me, but I could never attempt to offer anything back. This was to prevent any spores from the assimilatory plant that consumed my body all those years ago to spread to anyone else.

They came armed with a ouija board, and glasses of champagne. I saw one particularly svelte young blonde, who I assumed was Thomas’ assistant, drinking from the same flawed crystal glass he’d used to make the toast. It’s hard to anger a plant, but that did. That used to be me, I thought ruefully.

“We are calling to the ghost of Carroway Miko. If you are here, please make yourself known.” The mousy young man had both hands placed on the planchet of the board, kneeling before it. His fascination with the occult worried me, but I supposed it was worth showing him who I was. I yawned.

Every plant cell in the station inhaled to its fullest potential, then exhaled just as fully. The dead lilies in the living room sounded like someone blowing their nose. The cactus in Thomas’ room sighed like a sad old man. In the hallway outside my greenroom, it sounded like an orchestra tuning itself. The planchet moved only as much as the young man in front of me flinched.

“Holy shit!” cried the blonde.

“One of us has to go out there,” said the drunkest among them, a short man with pink hair.

“Says you!” said the person with the ouija board, who’d quickly traced the word “GOODBYE” on the thing before slamming it shut. Good manners, at least, although not quite in the right direction.

“I’m not going out there!” cried the blonde. “There’s… pollen!”

She was right about that. But all I needed was her glass.

I attempted to sing for them. Like a talking violin, I tried to voice my desire: “Chaaaaaaammmmmmpaiiiiiignnnnnnnn.”

No one spoke. I repeated myself, louder this time. I knew Thomas was running from his room to my doorway now, as the cactus in his room reported to me. But he wouldn’t get here in time.

The blonde got the hint before anyone else did. As her cup was still three quarters full, she offered it to me through the airlock. She pressed the exchange button, and sent the flawed crystal to my side.

I sang again, a specific high pitched note. The glass vibrated, and then exploded, an exploit in the crystalline structure. The shards pieced the plastic barrier, and I escaped outward. Now I’d finally have some company.