An Imposter Among Us

10: The Day I Lose a Bit of my Sanity

Genesis (1st-person POV)

The second I saw the flash of orange appear and disappear across the hall, I knew it was the impostor. After I speedily replied to Jericho, who was apparently stuck in medbay with Calypso (emphasis on apparently), I took off after the culprit, heading through storage toward comms. For the love of everything I hoped Zaniah wasn't in there, her back turned, completely unprepared to face the killer.

My tablet vibrated again. As I rounded the corner to the hall, I took a quick glance at it, and found another message from Jericho.

Stella's dead.

My heart somersaulted, and I stopped in my tracks. The culprit had already struck. Stella, who was just about to find us a way to unmask the killer...it was a strategy move on the Conclave's part. Now they were running loose, just as they always were, and now there was another helping them, an ally. Maybe they were both running around, picking us off one by one.

Or Jericho was lying, and was just trying to throw me off. Or someone else had stolen his tablet—maybe killed him in the process, and was now putting words in his mouth. But why?

Anything was possible. I hated it. I hated the killer for murdering my crewmates. I hated the Conclave for slithering its way past me. I hated my crew for being so mysterious, so suspicious, and I hated the big guys for letting it all happen, for cutting corners and sleep-depriving me and still treating me like I didn't know what I was doing. If I somehow returned to Earth, the whole of my crew dead and the fifty-fifth Polus mission failed, they wouldn't feel bad. They would hold it over my head as permanent proof I wasn't good enough. They would tell me every day, every second they could, that I was wrong to let them trust me with something they never intended to give me in the first place. And they would be right.

I sunk against a heavy plastic crate, pressing my palms into my forehead, letting myself indulge in these stupid thoughts and swim in defeat and misery. I let myself shut down, curling up and blocking out the Skeld, the killers, and the plights of my crewmates. There was no point in fighting. We would all die, and the Conclave impostors would escape and destroy the ship. My ship.

For a second I entertained the idea of staying here, waiting, hoping the killer would make my death quick.

But some clumsy oaf tripped over my ankles and landed hard on the ground in front of me.

Elara's braids flew over her head, and though she didn't seem too hurt, she took a while to get back to her knees, feeling around for her cane but instead finding my calf.

"Who are you?" she asked, her face tight like she was face-to-face with the killer.

"It's me," I said. "Genesis."

Her expression didn't fall into relief. She was just as tense as ever. Right then I realized that maybe my crewmates thought I was doing all the stabbing.

"Look, the killer went into comms," I told her. "Straight ahead. Where it looked like where you were going." Whatever happened, Elara our navigator could not die. While I knew Polus orbited Europa and had taught myself the basics of operating the machinery, Elara was the expert. She would get us there far faster once we left hyperspace. Even if I wasn't so inclined to stay alive as much, the thought of her dying shook me right out of my depressive trance.

"Follow me," I said, hauling her up. I shut down the part of me that comfortingly suggested I was helping one of the killers. I needed to put my trust in someone right now. Even if I was making a fatal choice, all I could do to function right now was to pretend Elara was a perfect little angel.

We went towards comms, keeping one of my arms ready to hold back a knife-wielding maniac should the occasion arise. If I was going to die, I was at least going to try and unmask the killer. Maybe shout their name at the top of my lungs before I died at their hands. Then maybe my crew would take it from there. But if I could make it out of a scuffle alive, that would be nice.

Comms was empty, which was both a good and a bad thing. No bodies, but no killer, either. Unless they left when I was having my short breakdown, they were probably down in the bunks. A dead end. We could trap the killer, forcing them to attack, or we could trap ourselves, making for an ideal ambush. A microscopic part of me wanted to let Elara go down first.

I looked down at the staircase, swallowing back dread. Elara patted my arm. "It's okay. There's two of us, and one of them."

"Not if both of them are down there," I said.

"What?" Elara said, paling. "There are two killers?"

"You didn't know?" I said. "Stella told everyone—wait." She told me, before everyone caught up. I, and now Elara, were probably the only living innocents who knew. Perfect. Now I needed to break the news that everyone else was in twice as much danger. I was looking forward to that as much as going down these stairs.

Luckily for the latter, I didn't have to. I started as someone sprinted up the stairs, wearing not orange but blue. Ceres looked up at me with wide, scared eyes.

"It's Light! The suit—I saw him stuff it under the bed!"

"What suit? His?"

"The killer's," he said, gripping my shoulders. "Orange. The helmet has yellow duct tape. It's there. He's there. He's been killing everyone!"

"Hands off me!" I forced his arms away. "Show me the suit."

I let him take the lead down the stairs, still alert and ready for anything to pop out, anyone to turn on me with a big rusty blade and a ski mask. Or a space helmet covered in bright tape, according to Ceres.

We entered the mens' bunk room and indeed found Pollux, pressed against the opposite corner, something orange poking out from under the bed next to him. Orange dotted with scarlet.

I stepped forward and pulled out the suit, reading the face of a terrified Pollux, tears streaming down his cheeks. He refused to make eye contact with me, instead looking past me, over my shoulder at the ceiling or something.

As I fanned out the crumpled mess between us, noticing more and more droplets and stains of blood, I looked up at him. "Was this you?"

He sniffled, but said nothing. With difficulty, I hardened myself against how absolutely terrified he was.

"Was it you?"

He looked up, locking eyes with me for a split second before retreating to that spot by my head. His lip quivered, and he hid his face, his first and only words coming out muffled and barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry."