The train is hurtling through a lush landscape, cutting through a dense forest of overgrown trees. Moss dangles from the foliage like fingers, reaching out toward the alien piece of machinery as if to extract it from the otherwise picture-perfect vista. I sit alone, tucked away on a bench, forehead resting upon the window. Condensation pools along the rim of the window and trails down it, forming rivulets that cut through the fogged-up glass. Rain is on the horizon, the cloying scent of ozone the only hint of the encroaching front besides the humidity in the air.
Other passengers bustle around me, heading toward the dining cart or conversing animatedly in the aisle, but for the most part I pay them no mind, my gaze remaining fixed on some distant point beyond. I shift uncomfortably, feeling the edge of the seat bite into the backs of my thighs. I feel disquieted around this many people, but I can’t pinpoint exactly why. My thoughts feel far-off and hazy, as if I am only now coming back to myself after a long voyage away.
A two-tone chime rings out over the speakers, followed by a tinny but chipper voice. Beneath the blithesome veneer, a hint of strain can be detected, perhaps a slight quaver in its cadence
“My dear travelers, I regret to inform you that we must make an emergency stop for…” A cleared throat, dislodged phlegm, a deep inhale through nostrils. “Routine train maintenance. On long journeys such as this, it is vital that the train remains in tip-top shape. We do appreciate your patience and adaptability in the face of this inconvenience, but I assure you it is a necessary delay to ensure everyone’s safe arrival. Thank you.”
The din of conversation had ceased during the announcement, but a low murmur picks back up after a moment of silent reverence for the conductor. Whispered questions are volleyed back and forth, most echoing the same sentiment. Routine maintenance? But he said it was an emergency stop. Where are we stopping? The chatter crescendos back to its previous volume, drowning out the gentle whoosh of the train barreling along its path.
—
Roughly half an hour later, the train’s velocity begins to slow. There is a slight lurch as the brakes engage. Clanking sounds reverberate through the carriage as magnets lock the train into place. A dilapidated station platform comes into view through the haze of the windows. The world outside looks as if it were painted with broad smudgy strokes, an artist’s impressionist interpretation of nature.
Several passengers stand from their seats to get a better view of the station; some begin to gather belongings, grabbing a purse or backpack, expecting a brief excursion before the journey resumes. I stand, following the lead of others around me. I draw my coat in tighter around my body, minimizing my presence as much as possible. I don’t bother grabbing any of my luggage from my compartment, not wanting to bog myself down and hoping for a quick return. I catch a glimpse of myself in the smooth brass arch across from me. My hair swarms in a shaggy mop around my face, the deep indigo color of a far-off storm. Dark smudges ring my eyes. In the warped metal, it almost looks as if they’re not there at all, just empty sockets set into my face, looking but not seeing.
The train settles into place with a myriad of raucous clanks and a prerecorded announcement directs guests to disembark. A semi-orderly line begins to form, and I insert myself somewhere in the middle, not too eager to get off but not wanting to linger. Within the throng, my senses are overwhelmed. I catch snippets of conversation, some continuations of various anecdotes and stories that sound as if they’ve been told a hundred times. The majority of the discourse has an anxious undercurrent; couples are trying to reassure one another and their children, solo travelers chatter into their interfaces, keeping far-off family members and lovers abreast of their situation in realtime. The aroma of expensive pheromone perfume hangs in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of booze. I catch whiffs of other things as well: laundry detergent, a steak dinner, toothpaste, worn leather, candy, tobacco, sweat, oil, the symphony of living beings coalescing into an entity of its own. I breathe deeply of it all, then step off the train.
—
Once the throng disperses a bit, guided by porters directing us off the train and onto the station and beyond, I step to the side and study our surroundings. The concrete platform and the station’s outbuildings are overgrown with thick vegetation. Glass crunches underfoot as people shuffle into the largest building to get out of the rain. Ahead looms a shockingly large building, in better shape than the platform itself and some of the maintenance buildings and long-abandoned restaurants and storefronts. Dozens of windows in odd shapes spiral up the building, and copper piping weaves around the facade, dipping in and out of different floors. Each story is a different shape and size, creating a lopsided and nauseating effect as my eyes trace upwards. As the first group of people enters the building, I see lights swell and begin to emanate through the grimy windows, casting a warm glow on the pallid concrete.
Trailing behind, I enter the building and am surprised at what I see before me. It’s a pub, a true-to-form Earth-style pub complete with a Union Jack that went out of fashion hundreds of years ago. An Arcturus I recognize from the train is already behind the bar serving drinks to several exasperated patrons that have taken up residence at the bar. A fire has been stoked in the hearth in the center of the room, already fending off the chill of the rain. I meander through the crowd, unsure of where I’m going, until I spot a staircase tucked into an alcove just next to the bar. I duck into the doorway and peer upwards, the rusted metal stairs jutting out above me in the enclosed space. As I put my foot on the first step and grip the bannister, sconces lining the walls breathe to life, illuminating the narrow hall. I reach out and touch the one closest to me. It burns cold, putting off no heat. This place must be relatively newly constructed if it’s running on fission rather than an outdated fossil fuel or other energy source, which is in stark contrast to how derelict the building seems.
I ascend the stairs, careful of where I place my feet on each tread. The metal creaks and groans beneath me but holds my weight, so I continue. The oddly shaped and placed windows I saw from the exterior follow me up the stairway, providing increasingly dizzying vantage points of the forest surrounding. I take several turns before reaching another floor, and the stairway dumps me off into a hallway that spans seemingly the entire length of the building, or at least what constitutes the entire length at this height. I stroll to the end where there is a large bay window overlooking the train and peer out. From here, I can see the conductor standing with several porters and a Fornax whom I presume is the engineer. They appear to be engaged in a heated discussion, though I am too far up to decipher what anyone is saying. The conductor has taken off his cap and is wringing it in his hands, gesturing to the train to emphasize whatever he’s saying.
My breath fogs up the grimy glass before my face. I hover for a bit, feeling like I'm eavesdropping on a conversation I should not be privy to, despite not being able to hear what's being said. I pull myself away from the window and trail back towards the staircase, my fingers running along the wall as I pass, tracing the grooves in the wood and jumping over riveted metal panels placed at varying intervals. The sconces on the walls were all lit when I entered the hall, but as I pass, the ones nearest seem to surge brighter.
I ascend the next flight of stairs, stepping less cautiously but still mindful of where I place my feet. The next floor is open, and the room is a large square. The stairs continue upwards in a spiral though a small hatch, but I am eager to explore this room. Bookshelves line the walls, constructed of a dark wood burnished by age and use. The books themselves are a peculiar collection, there is a smattering of old and dusty tomes that would be expected in a building that looks as abandoned as this one; however, there are some newer-looking volumes interspersed without any semblance of organization. Dust is conspicuously absent in front of certain books and it gives me an eerie feeling, as if I just walked into a room that someone had only just left behind. Punctuating the feeling, there is a desk still strewn with papers and a fountain pen with a dark blotch of ink dried beneath it. A half-full ashtray sits to the side, discarded. A fireplace, less stately and more rustic than the one downstairs, is nestled on a wall devoid of bookshelves. An odd round window peers out from between the shelves on the far wall, giving the room the illusion of a watchful cyclops surveying the land. Beyond the window I notice that the stragglers from the train have made their way inside, as well as the group of train workers, and are no longer in sight.
I hear chattering on the floor below me, and I consider continuing my ascent, but decide against it, ultimately returning to the ground floor and searching for a table with an open seat. I pass by an Ophiuchi family warming themselves by the hearth, chittering softly in their native tongue. I spot an empty table and begin to beeline towards it, but as I grow closer I realize with a small start that the table is indeed occupied by a Lyrae. The warm firelight reflects off her iridescent skin in undulating waves, her eyes holding a far-off expression. The crowd is thinner here, and I consider turning back around and getting lost in the throngs of people, perhaps even heading back upstairs and continuing my exploration of the strange building while we still have time before our train journey resumes, but instead I hesitate. Nerves are blooming in the pit of my belly - I have an instinctual urge to remain on my own, to distance myself from all other passengers, but then again, it is a long journey ahead of us, and my time might be made easier with someone to share it with, at least for distraction and basic small talk. I approach, placing my hand on the back of the chair before speaking. The brass fixtures are cold against my skin, a brief shock compared to the roaring fire warming my back. As I open my mouth to speak, her eyes lock with mine, deep and piercing. I feel stripped bare, assessed and filed away with just a look.
"Yes?" Her voice is warm and sonorous, ringing through me like a bell, rattling the fibers of my muscles.
"I - sorry, I was just going to ask if this seat was taken." My voice sounds thin and reedy compared to hers, and I start to feel very small in her presence when a wry smile flickers across her stoic visage.
"Not at all. Please, sit." She gestures to the seat across from her with her free hand, the other holding a snifter and absentmindedly swirling it.
I acknowledge her with a slight incline of my head, hoping that is universal for "thanks," then I pull the chair out and take a seat. I feel as if I have interacted with Lyrae before, at least in a professional capacity, but my memories feel just out of reach, and my fatigue from travelling means all knowledge of interspecies social customs is fully out the window.
After a moment of observing me, she returns her gaze to the crowd, taking a long sip of her drink, a liquid that shifts from a pale green to a deep purple as it catches the light. Desperate for something to occupy myself, I reach into my bag, a worn leather satchel, and withdraw my journal. It is old-fashioned, certainly, but not entirely out of place in this strange pub from a bygone era. I jot down some notes, adding onto the skeletal timeline outlining my journey thus far on The Ambassador, encapsulating the vague notion of what I've seen in bland and unexciting bullet points. The mob of passengers is growing rowdy, a far cry from the initial apprehension surrounding the impromptu excursion.
"What's your name?" Her voice draws me out of my focused scribbling, and I look up to find her appraising eyes on me once more. "Or title. Pseudonym. Whatever you fancy. I'm Asteria," she divulges, extending her hand out towards me.
"Rhea." I take her hand in response, giving it a gentle squeeze, noting to myself that this is a universal formal greeting in these parts at least.
“Rhea,” she repeats, rolling my name around in her mouth, tasting the curves and edges of it. The corners of her lips quirk up into a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and I find myself returning a weak grin despite myself. Her skin is rougher than I anticipated; her overall appearance is so soft around the edges, verging on ethereal. A silken cascade of hair hangs around her face like the gentle blade of a guillotine.
I nearly wonder aloud what she does for a living - either work or pleasure - but I am stopped by an arrival at the table. A server carrying two plates of food on a tray clearly borrowed from the train stops by and offers us the chef's choice (really the only choice, considering the circumstances) and we both accept gladly. I hadn't noticed how hungry I was until the food was in front of me - damn near ravenous, in fact, and I make quick work of my serving. When I look up, Asteria's plate is half-finished, and I notice her picking over it while she scrolls through her interface.
The raucous din of the pub is snuffed out to a hush, and I wrench myself around to see why, scanning the room. I already felt on-edge when aboard The Ambassador, but being in an even more unfamiliar location has me tense and wary. It doesn’t take much searching to see that the conductor has entered and is now standing on a creaky stage. The warped wood has a smattering of worn spots from when it likely featured musicians and entertainers from all over the universe. Now, it just showcases one very fidgety stout man.
"My dear travellers," he begins, gesturing grandly out towards the crowd, "I am afraid to inform you all that the maintenance is taking...a bit longer than expected. The crew has come to the decision to bunk here overnight, though I assure you all that this delay will have minimal to nonexistent impact on our arrival time to our final destination. We will make up for lost time and The Ambassador will guarantee reimbursement for anyone impacted by this unprecedented situation." He trains his eyes along the room, gauging the audience's reaction. The crowd is silent - shock, perhaps? - so he continues, "That being said, myself and my porters will happily escort anyone who wishes to retrieve their belongings from the train. Please, feel free to make yourselves at home and find a temporary respite in this lovely place. There should be more than enough rooms to accommodate everyone, so you should all have a fair pick." He trails off, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Er, that is all." He descends from the stage and joins a line of porters waiting beside the front door of the pub. A small mismatched group of people have already begun to line up alongside them, wanting to be the first to retrieve their belongings and perhaps even catch a glimpse of what could be delaying the train. More people rise to their feet, abandoning half-eaten plates of food, drinks, and games still in progress. I lose sight of Asteria in the shuffle, so I linger towards the back, not wanting to be part of the surging crush of antsy passengers.
I insert myself somewhere towards the end of what semblance of a line there is, and file onto the train, ducking into my room at the end of the fourth carriage. I have yet to unpack my luggage, if it could even be referred to as such. Everything I have to my name is shoved haphazardly into a secondhand (realistically, maybe third- or fourth-hand) Gladstone bag that stares me down from the Murphy bed.
I sling it over my shoulder and nearly run into Asteria as I leave my compartment.
"Oh, why in such a rush? The train won't get fixed any faster without us on it, I assure you that. Here, let's head back together." She links her arm in mine, wheeling a bulky suitcase behind us as we disembark the train once again.
"Travelling light, eh? Are you running from something?" I blanch at this, and my face must have shown such in full detail since she immediately backtracks, albeit gracefully. "Just a joke, darling. I understand that not everyone needs to carry their entire life’s belongings in their luggage like me."
I give a small, thin laugh and shift my weight. "Yeah, I prefer to take the essentials with me and just buy whatever I need along the way." I hesitate before continuing, "What did you mean by that? About the train repairs?"
"Oh, nothing. Just making an observation." She smiles but averts her gaze, and something in me says that there is a lot more to her than I yet realize.
We arrive back at the entrance to the tower, and I notice the peculiar lack of anything identifying the building - no architect accredited on a tasteful yet obvious placard, no company name on a neon sign spanning several floors, not even a faux vintage sign hanging over the entryway giving the building a vague atmospheric name.
A crowd has returned to the pub, though the previous merriment has dimmed into a more somber tone, drinks silently being sipped around the tables, toasts and singing replaced by hushed tones and stares into the fire.
I follow Asteria up the stairs that she takes two at a time, even with her cumbersome luggage, and I struggle to keep up with her long-legged strides. My joints ache from being confined to the train for days, and I wonder if perhaps the impromptu stop will be good for everyone in the long run.
I reach the landing mere seconds behind Asteria, only to see her already coming back down the hall towards me.
"Damn," she says, frowning slightly, "looks like all these rooms have already been laid claim to. Up we go again." She gestures back toward the stairwell, so I duck inside and continue upward. I pause, apprehensive, at the top step, feeling as if the library I'd found before was something of a secret. I decide that the notion is silly and adjust my bag, wanting to appear as if that were my intent all along, then exit the stairwell into...another hallway, lined with rooms, a near carbon copy of the floor below. I stand in the doorway, rooted in place. I must have misremembered the layout, or taken an alternate staircase that went up farther than I thought.
Asteria strides past me to two doors that are still open, right across from one another.
"Ah, here we are. We can be neighbors just like on The Ambassador." Her voice pulls me from my thoughts and I follow her to the end of the hall, pushing open one of the doors.
"Perfect. Thanks." My voice comes out hollow and thick with some unrecognizable emotion, likely some culmination of the circumstances and emotional exhaustion from the day. She gives me a meaningful look, but before I can discern her intent, she pulls her luggage through her door, calling across the hall to me.
"Goodnight. We shall see what tomorrow brings." I bid her a goodnight as well, then tuck myself behind my door before she can study me any further, coming to whatever conclusions are now churning through her mind.
The room is less spartan than I expected; in fact, I may go as far as to say it's downright cozy. The bed is a generous queen size, piled with mounds of bedding and fluffy pillows. The furniture is a rich dark wood, a far cry from the sleek sterility of the rooms I'm used to staying in. Notably, there is a faint chemical scent in the air, the artificial citrus of cleaning supplies. I wonder to myself if some of the train crew tidied up while us passengers were retrieving our things. From what I’ve seen thus far, it doesn’t appear that there is any actual staff in this…hotel? Tourist destination? Whatever its purpose, it seems perfectly accommodating and yet entirely abandoned all at once.
I place my bag onto the dresser, rolling my shoulder now that it's free of its weight. I dig through, pulling out suitable clothes to sleep in, then head into the bathroom. The fixtures here are a hammered copper, matching the old-world aesthetic of the pub downstairs, and I turn on the tap, watching clear water cascade out and begin to steam up. The thought of a warm bath is inviting, so I draw myself one, figuring I would be passing up on a rare opportunity if I didn't partake in one tonight. The shower stall back on the train is cramped and barebones in comparison, particularly since I opted for the more economical compartment due to my increasingly dwindling funds.
I strip down, piling my clothes on the dresser next to my bag, and pad across the floor, the cold marble a shock to my system. I dip a toe into the water, wincing at the scalding water, but follow through with my foot, then my other one, sinking down into the heat and feeling the steam flush my cheeks. I tilt my head back and submerge myself fully, just for a moment, the weightlessness making the boundaries of my body feel thin. I close my mind off to my thoughts, the anxiety brimming just below the surface at all times, and just float.
By the time I open my eyes I realize don't know how much time has passed, but the water has gone tepid and the sky outside is a dusky purple, nearing full dark. I wash myself quickly and mindlessly, using the generic soaps and lotions from dispensers mounted to the wall.
I step out of the bath, drying quickly. I have skin and hair products tucked somewhere in my bag, but I have zero desire to retrieve them, so I wrap my hair up in the towel and dress before heading back into the bedroom. I repack the few things I've taken out, laying out a fresh outfit for the morning. I unravel the towel from my hair, hanging it over the corner of the bathroom door, and the lights dim behind me as I pace over to the bed. The duvet is soft and cool against my bare thighs, and I settle into the middle of the sumptuous bed, feeling the ache in my back subside as I am cocooned within.
A dull headache pounds at my skull, and I rub at my browbone as I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, and there is a faint, fuzzy vignette around my vision. Being alone for the first time in a while is a strange thing. Even if you are in a room by yourself, you still feel the presence of others nearby, their blood and skin and heat pressing on the air around you. Despite knowing all of the train’s passengers are in the same building with me, I feel isolated, as if I could open the door to the hallway and instead find an infinite abyss waiting to greet me.
The headache grows deeper, boring into the center of my brain, and I feel as if that void is within me instead, like there’s something I’m missing. A delicate piece of me that has been carved out with precision and care, leaving me not quite whole.
I close my eyes and drift off into a dreamless sleep.
want to read more? offer me a book deal.