The seemingly perpetual static hum of the cryovault, which had been softly vibrating the walls of the ship for the last three-hundred and seventy-three hours, suddenly morphed into a sharp hiss, then a limp body slumped to the floor and remained there until a time it had gained enough strength to do more than just breathe and remain alive.
The body belonged to Dr. John Murphy, a botanist back on Earth, but there in the endless vacuum of space, he was called an astronaut, a title he never dreamed of having before it was somewhat casually bestowed upon him some months prior.
When he stood, he knew at once he wasn’t meant to be awake. There were many signs, the most obvious being the other five astronauts in his crew, including the ship’s captain, were still packed tight in their icy cocoons. Another dead giveaway was the electronic clock on the wall just above his head, its brilliant red light splitting the darkness. The date on the display was not the date he was expecting. It was nearly a full year before it. Eleven months, almost to the day. If the clock was accurate, his deep slumber had only lasted fifteen days.
Immediately, he realized how severe of an error this was. He was not in charge of the ship and therefore did not have access to certain critical areas. Nearly every room was locked via fingerprint scanner and most concerning, he could not open the storage lockers that housed their food rations. His heart raced to the point his skin grew moist.
In his panicked pursuit for a solution, he found he had access to a digital camera, meant for recording short videos for their loved ones, however he didn’t have the proper credentials necessary to connect to the network that would send the files back to Earth. Still, being the devout Catholic he was, he found comfort in the machine. Speaking to it would sort of feel like speaking to a priest in a confessional booth, the one place he could ever speak aloud even his darkest of thoughts and all would be forgiven.
Though, if he was truly honest, he’d admit he’d never spoken aloud his darkest of thoughts, because that’s all they were—just thoughts. Little flashes of darkness. Things he would never actually say or do. He assumed it to be true of all people, that everyone had this darkness lurking within them, things they’d never dare admit to another person. Animal instincts. Thoughts that form before our learned decency sets in.
His first confession to that convex lens was more of a panicked plea, understandably, but as time moved forward, he became much more relaxed, especially after discovering a way to satiate his hunger on that cold, cavernous ship.
“I’m making a mess tonight that no one will know about, not even me,” he cryptically confessed during the first of his many sessions, however failed to elaborate further. He finished by saying only, “the mind is what you make it.” Then abruptly ended the video and pushed the delete button.
Curiously, on that day he did not tell the camera he found a way to break into the other chambers of the cryovault, a way that wouldn’t disturb the sleeping bodies within. He also didn’t mention he found a toolbox containing a sharp pair of cutting pliers, or that those pliers were resting in his back pocket as he spoke those eerie words to the machine.
The next day, during his so-called ‘confession,’ he would not speak of the atrocity he committed the night before, that he had opened the chamber containing the body of his frozen captain, took her by the wrist and clipped the end of her index finger clean off. As her fingertip thawed, blood pooled inside his palm. His plan had worked. With her snipped fingerprint, he now had access to every room and locker on the ship. He ate three days-worth of rations in a single sitting and not once did he feel bad about it. In truth, he was quite proud of his actions that night, of his great intellect, and of his problem solving skills.
His confessions moving forward became strange and increasingly less confessional, more like random thoughts, sometimes even poking fun at his fellow crewmembers. The camera became more of a drinking buddy, some random stranger he’d drunkenly confess minor frustrations to, someone who cared so little about what he was saying, they wouldn’t waste energy on bothering to judge him for it. Curiously, he remained guarded, only revealing truths he could speak easily, truths that wouldn’t harden at the back of his throat as he attempted to purge them from his consciousness.
“Jim, he’s a real nutcase. Blows a fuse once every hour or so. I call him Depth Charge Jimmy, ‘cause he takes everything the wrong way. Even compliments! Always so negative and combative. Truly energy draining. He once asked me if I think our democracy is broken. I told him ‘no, I think it’s fixed.’ This sent him off the deep end. He was still yapping about it right up until we went down for the big sleep. I can’t stand folks like that. I’m entitled to my own opinions, you know? Don’t preach to me. Maybe I should start calling him Briar ‘cause he’s a real prick.”
- DELETE -
“And Eddie, ol’ Eddie Smoak… well, he’s alright, I guess. Quiet, reserved. A face like sculpted clay… finger-formed. I call him Wiggle ‘cause the guy can’t sit still. I bet he’s still vibrating in his chamber over there, if you look close enough. I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anything like it. Then there’s Bob Ozzle… what a name, right? I almost feel bad saying anything about him, ‘cause the guy’s had to live his entire life with that name. He’s probably the oddest of the bunch. He’s the kind of guy who has no awareness he’s in a physical body, know what I mean? And, boy, does he have a body on him. He’s a big fella. I may go to Hell for saying it, but he’s about 700 calories away from his head swelling to the point his hat pops right off his head. He’s a piece of furniture who sprouted limbs, walking around like a giant block of cheese. Alright, alright. I admit, that was unnecessarily cruel. Forgive me, father.”
- DELETE -
“The captain, well, she’s another story. I like her quite a bit. I suppose all the fellas do. She’s the kind of beauty that catches your eye in a sea of other faces. I once overheard her say she only dates older fellas because guys her age can’t handle a conversation. They’re all too burned out… no, no… spaced out… from decades of staring at bright screens and flashing lights. She said it was like dating an electric zombie. I laughed aloud, forgetting I wasn’t part of her conversation. It was mildly embarrassing, but I don’t think she thought much of it.”
Offscreen, he reached into his pocket and wrapped his fist around the captain’s withered index finger, now feeling more like a prune than human skin. He made no indication to the camera of what he might’ve been thinking at that moment. Instead, he only lowered his eyes for a second, then reached up to push a button on the device.
- DELETE -
It was his last ‘confession’ for days.
“Oh man, am I glad to see you! Did you miss me? I’ll be honest, for a time there, I didn’t think I’d be coming back. I guess you could say, I got lost. I was looking for something. Got caught up reading a manual for this wild machine I finally found locked up in a room near the back of the ship. It’s some kind of memory erasure device. They kinda glossed over the details of it during my training, but from what I can tell, they brought it along to erase the memory of any martians we may come across on our journey. I guess that’s their way of ensuring we keep the peace between our planets, on the very possible chance they take issue with us terraforming their planet. Anyway, I took a wrong turn somewhere and it took me a full day to get back. No food, no water, just dread and panic and a few tears. But all’s good now. I’ve certainly learned my lesson!”
- DELETE -
He was only somewhat being truthful. He’d learned a valuable lesson that day, but it wasn’t the lesson he was implying in the video. What he actually learned on that day was fingerprints greatly degrade within the first week of a finger becoming severed from its body. It took nearly a full 24 hours of trying before he finally managed to get the fingerprint sensors to read the fetid digit he was carrying around inside his pocket.
He made a new rule on that day, only freshly snipped fingers from there on out. Three days of use, maximum—no more. Any longer was too risky. He’d have to pull all the remaining food into the main room and limit his roaming to only the days immediately following each clipping.
So that’s exactly what he did.
In the months that followed, he hardly ever left the main room. The perpetual hum of the cryovault buzzed along the floors and walls of that massive space and he just sat there, absorbing it, staring through each of the glass chamber doors, studying every line and imperfection of his unconscious crewmembers’ faces until he knew them even better than they did.
He became particularly interested in learning every physical aspect of the ship’s captain, but for the sake of having something to look forward to, he’d only reveal a small portion of her body every week or so. Her forearm… her stomach… her inner thigh… These reveals became so incredibly exciting he could no longer contain the surge of energy rushing from his heart as he peeled back her clothing. He often shouted and ran around the room in circles, similar to the excited states of lesser primates. These moments would not embarrass him, for there was no one around to judge him for it.
Curiously, he never mentioned these obscene outbursts to the camera. Animal instincts. Everyone has them. Instead, he’d only speak aloud any and every thought, so long as it was completely detached from feeling.
“There’s a demon eating breadsticks in my brain,” he said, haphazardly tossing a fistful of cracked pistachio shells into a nearby wastebasket, missing completely, causing each one to scatter across the floor. He caught a glimpse of himself in the camera’s display and perked up proudly. “People always told me I had great hair. That’s a big thing for a man. We don’t typically have great hair. Hell, we’re lucky if we even have hair at all! At least on top of our heads. We’ve got more than we can handle everywhere else, that’s for sure. My great hair comes with a little assistance though. Want to know my secret? Okay, I’ll tell you, but it doesn’t leave this room, alright? Lice prevention shampoo. Had a little scare at summer camp as a kid, started using it every day and haven’t looked back since. I don’t know what it is, but it was a game changer for me. Everyone noticed. I went from being invisible to visible, all in a single lather and rinse. But don’t you go telling my secrets or everyone will do it and I’ll disappear again!”
- DELETE -
As time marched on, he had even less to say.
“I thought of a great band name the other day. ‘Chained to the Radiator.’ No, wait… ‘Chained to the Stove.’ I don’t even play an instrument, but I’m inclined to learn one just so this band exists. If I ever get back home, first thing I’m doing is buying a bass.”
- DELETE -
He watched the clock on the wall closely, clicking ever closer to the day the others would awaken. By the time the eleven months were nearly up, and the captain’s body no longer contained any secrets, he could hardly get a word out.
“Forgiveness,” he muttered, then fell into silence for nearly a full minute. “I will be forgiven. I have an out. If I’m sound in mind and right in God, that’s all I need. That’s all I need. Forgive me father.”
- DELETE -
He snipped away her only remaining fingertip, except this time, instead of closing the hatch and leaving her to her frozen slumber, he pulled her from the chamber and burned what was left of her body, right there on the cold open floor of the main room.
He used the severed digit to leave the room, escaping not only the smoke, but also the traps of his mind.
As he made his way to the back of the ship, to the forbidding room containing the memory erasure machine, he once again thought of his captain, of her beautiful green eyes… the orientation of every tooth… the way her perfect, frigid body felt against his warm skin on those cold, lonely nights… and how every last one of those details would be gone in a matter of minutes.
As much as he’d like to remember, he knew those thoughts would be unbearable the moment the others awakened. They would know, even if he didn’t tell them—through his eyes, his fidgeting hands, his uncomfortable body language. He would be forced to confess. He would be judged. He would live with guilt.
But he had an out. The memory erasure device would bring him solace. If he didn’t know the truth about their beloved captain, then no one else could. There would be no confession. No judgment. No guilt.
In the months leading up to that moment, he was careful not to overlook any details. He read the manual to the machine so many times he had the entire thing memorized. He knew every switch. Every step. He even knew how to target specific memories so he could erase only the troublesome ones and keep all the rest. There was no room for error. And with the freshly pruned digit he now held in his hand, he’d have no trouble activating the machine either.
He placed the fingertip over the censor and just as expected, the device fired right up—then, almost immediately, it fell silent again.
And every light on the ship went out.
And even that seemingly perpetual hum of the cryovault had gone quiet.
A power cut.
A drained battery.
He sat there, in silence, in darkness, in horror, until the unmistakable hissing of the remaining four cryovault chambers pierced through the night, awakening the others, and at last the darkness was brought to light.
POWER CUT
© William Pauley III, 2025
All rights reserved.
