The Observed

Dan McNeil

I have discovered a planet.

I have not informed my colleagues, because I know they will be disinclined to accept my discovery.

At the end of each evening, after my secret observations, I aim the telescope at a different part of the sky, capturing a galaxy here, a nebula there. I never leave the telescope trained on the planet. I don’t think any of my colleagues have seen the planet, but I can’t be too careful.

The planet appears to be motionless; it simply hangs in space, close to its parent star.

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Carefully holding the glass of warm water, I walk across the kitchen, through the scullery, down the steps and across the lobby to the bedroom door and my sleeping, cancer-stricken wife. My musculoskeletal system is in absolute harmony, the surface of the water is flat, unmoving and infinite. I place the glass on the bedside table and murmur good morning.

That evening, in the Observatory, I twirl knobs and shift levers, aligning the telescope. The image resolves and achieves definition, and I extinguish the oil lamps. From a distance, the planet is an inscrutable monochrome disc. By increasing the magnification, it seems to be a planet of grey sand, with no artificial or natural surface features. Light from the parent star is seemingly absorbed by the planet’s surface.

The planet seems closer.

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Holding the glass of warm milk, I walk across the kitchen, up the stairs, and along the landing to the bedroom door. My musculoskeletal system is in absolute harmony, the surface of the warm liquid is flat, unmoving and infinite. I carefully place the glass on the bedside table and murmur good morning to my dying wife.

That evening, in the Observatory, I twirl knobs and shift levers. The image resolves and achieves definition, and I extinguish the gas lamps. The planet is no longer an inscrutable monochrome. Now, there are darker clouds covering much of its disc. Between the cloud gaps, intense volcanic activity is occurring on the surface, above which flicker immense lighting storms. It is during this observation that I notice the planet seems closer still, and that it has a second sun.

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I pour tea into her cup. Add milk. Stir gently. Walk. Shade from the early morning sun spills through the western windows of the conservatory and into the kitchen, cooling the air. Physics is an unearthly thing, I tell myself. Walk. My musculoskeletal system is in absolute harmony, the surface of the hot liquid is flat, unmoving and infinite. Walk. I place the cup carefully on the bedside table and murmur good morning.

That evening, in the Observatory, I twirl knobs and shift levers. The image resolves and achieves definition, and I extinguish the gas lamps. I see an enormous domed structure, twin tubes protruding from it, like a gigantic gun turret from one of Fisher’s dreadnoughts.

It’s an observatory, and its twin telescopes are pointing directly at me.

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Holding the mug of coffee, my musculoskeletal system in absolute harmony, I walk across the kitchen, through the conservatory, and upstairs to the bedroom door. I place the mug of coffee carefully on the bedside table and murmur good morning to my dying wife. The surface of the hot liquid is flat, unmoving and infinite.

That evening, in the Observatory, I flick off the lights and work the keyboard, directing my telescopes to their target. The image resolves and achieves definition. An immense stone structure, a reclining animal of some sort. I increase the magnification, and the structure fills the entire screen.

It’s the Great Sphinx of Giza, and it has my face.

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I pour hot water into her mug. Add milk. Some milk spills and falls onto my palm. Stir gently. Walk. The musculoskeletal system is an unearthly thing. The surface of the coffee remains flat, level and infinite. Physics allows for this, I tell myself. The bedroom door is not there, so it cannot be opened. The black early morning sun cools the air. Physics is an unearthly thing.

That evening, in the Observatory, as the lights automatically dim, I instruct my telescopes to locate the planet and lock onto the previous night’s coordinates. An image leaps into view: not the Sphinx, but instead a vast building site, a partially completed spaceport. Gantries, towers, hangers and assembly buildings; thousands of ant-like figures crawling over them, fastening, fixing, bolting, drilling, welding, connecting and programming. Several radio telescopes are clustered at the edge of this scene. All are pointing at me. The central control tower is stencilled with the word Yevpatoria.

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I pour tea into a mug. Add milk. Some milk spills, and falls through my palm to the floor, where it mingles with ancient photons. Gravity waves tremble. Physics is an unearthly thing. Stir gently. Walk. The surface of the tea remains flat, level and infinite. Outside, snow falls from the Observatory and upwards into a pale blue sky. Physics allows for this.

That evening, in the Observatory, as the lights automatically dim, I instruct my telescopes to lock onto the previous night’s coordinates. An image leaps into view: hundreds of delta-winged spacecraft are soundlessly ascending from Yevpatoria spaceport, their silver fuselages glinting in the white light of the planet’s three suns.

The planet has discovered me.

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Carefully holding my mug of tea, I walk across the kitchen, through the conservatory and into the garden. My musculoskeletal system is in absolute harmony, the surface of the hot liquid is flat, unmoving and infinite. The shade from the rising black sun is failing to withstand the increasing intensity of the planet’s triple suns. Physics allows this. My dying wife. Physics is an unearthly thing. Walk.

With the ethereal sound of theremins in my head, I sit at my desk, awaiting the planet and its endless exhalations of spacetime.

In this order, I experience:

• a fading recollection of a distant memory.
• a visage of my wife.
• the sound of theremins.
• an almost forgotten scent.
• nothing.

Beyond the dissolving structure of my office, the universe crouches like an eternal basilisk. ∎

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Dan McNeil’s short fiction has appeared in several print and digital publications, including Alien Contact, Alienist Manifesto, Antipodean SF, Bewildering Stories, Fugitives & Futurists, Full House Literary Magazine, Misery Tourism, Plutonics Journal, Sein und Werden, Word Riot, and Zygote in My Coffee. His art has appeared in Fugitives & Futurists and Kenji Siratori’s Hyper-Annotation #001.

Find Dan at: The McNeil Variations, Twitter, Instagram, and Mastodon.

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