Out of the Blue, and Into the Black

What does it mean to say a place is haunted?


Does someone have to die there? In 2470 almost the entire party of colonists--more than one thousand souls--on the frontier planet Illyria died, mostly of coal gas poisoning; the discount rebreathers supplied by the colony's financial backers failed, and the miners all died. The food was bad, too; squirming with maggots and running with flour-beetles. The nineteen colonists who survived until a passing Alliance picket came to their rescue had long since resorted to cannibalism.

Since then Illyria has been unsettled, but the space station orbiting has seen its share of deaths. And I wish I could tell you all of the dead could be accounted for. I very much wish I could.



Some people say haunting has nothing to do with death, and everything to do with strong emotions, beaten into the walls and furniture and leaking out when presented with a pliable mind. Adolescents, they say, are especially susceptible, to both sending and receiving these impressions.

And when the student body of the Alliance Academy is agitated--as they periodically are, en masse, chanting and hiding from "the eye, the eye, the eye"--it can be very hard to tell which way is up, in there. The texture of ordinary things can be confusing. Things change. You can lose your way, if you aren't careful.

We'll be careful indeed, but we need to get closer.



Is it a place where an evil spirit walks? Where the walls between worlds are thin? Where sick men do dirty deeds?



This is a haunted place. This is a big wheel turning, dark and terrible. This is a shadow place, a darkling place, a place that tincts. Dim. It's hard to find if you aren't looking for it, but we are. And it's a terribly hard place to leave once you get there. But we're going in. We're meeting someone. She's never been here before (even if they think she has) but she's been someplace very like it.



Here's a room. It's a big cheery room, with watercolors on the wall, and big solid furniture. There's a bowl of fruit on the table, comforting although plastic; supply lines are tricky out here. The chairs are soft, and there's no clock, and no visible lights.

No visible windows.

No visible doors.

The students call it The Big Room. You don't want to be here.



There's a girl here, with long dark hair. She's waiting.

Her name is not River Tam.

(no subject)

Lunchtime is never a silent affair, at the Academy, even when the blue-gloved guards are around. And they always are -- there are four in the room, now, one in each corner, and a handful of doctors and nurses as well. Some students eat methodically, unspeaking; others whisper nonsense to the air, or build elaborate edifices with their food, or make jerky motions and moan.

All but the most advanced students and the Graduates eat here. Including the girl who is not River Tam.

(no subject)

The room is small. Cosy, almost. Six beds, carefully made every day, white sheets and blue blankets turned down precisely. The walls are a pale, soft blue, painted with wispy clouds floating near the ceiling. Small flowers and shrubs, also painted, edge the bottom of the wall. Shallow niches, like doorless closets, hold clothes and soft shoes. In one corner is a collection of dark blue beanbags and overstuffed ottomans, making a comfortable corner for students to lounge in. A door, always open, leads to another room with long tables and chairs, supplied with datascreens and a few books.

It's a dorm room, for this live-in school. Well-designed, both comfortable and functional.

Except in most dorms, the furniture isn't carefully made to avoid sharp edges and potential blunt instruments. In most dorms, the beanbags aren't fixed to the floor. In most dorms, there aren't call buttons above every bed and by the door.

In most dorms, nurses don't patrol from room to room every night with sharp eyes and medications, and the students don't cry and scream in their sleep.

It's bedtime, at the Academy. Nearly time for lights-out. Sleep well.