The Sistine Signal

I know every one of them.

Mark, who checks the airlocks twice and thinks nobody notices. Niki, who holds this family together with a look that could stop a reactor. Tyler, who says exactly what he means and nothing more — and never, ever on time. Enna, headphones on, middle finger up, talking to my engines in a language only we share.

Jordan, who cries at goodbyes and burps like a docker and would walk into hell if someone in there needed a medic. Darren, hair still perfect after an explosion, carrying something from prison he’ll never put down — and Blu beside him, scowling at strangers, soft only for her dad.

Jason, pacing my corridors on another walking call, keeping everyone connected because that’s what he does. Kayleigh, running the numbers nobody sees, falling asleep on Jason every night, ready to break someone in three seconds if she has to.

Scott, who fixes things that aren’t broken so he can be in whatever room Winnie’s in. Winnie, six years old, cartoon planet pyjamas, The Bear under one arm, asking me if bears can live in space if they wear helmets.

Sammy, who’ll hand someone his coat and walk toward whatever everyone else is running from. You hear him before you see him. When you stop hearing him, worry.

I have twelve heartbeats on this ship and I know every one of them.

The Sistine has been missing for twenty-two years. Her signal shouldn’t exist. When it arrives, Mark does what Mark always does — he goes toward it. And because this family has never once let him walk into the dark alone, they go with him.

I should have told them what I heard in that signal. I should have told them what this ship really is. I should have told them a lot of things.

I told myself it was to protect them.

I’m still not sure that’s the whole truth.