Echoes Under Goliath Station

Maya Rowe had learned to read the subway like other people read maps. The worn brass of the service cart's throttle told her the line's moods under her fingertips; the way a relay hummed at three in the morning marked which switch was tired or willing. Tonight the city above slept under a purple bruise of weather, but below the concrete was an archive of ordinary sounds: the drip of condensation, the distant friction of an express far off its schedule, a mouse knocking at a torn paper bag. Maya liked those small certainties. They made her feel, when she touched the cold rail with the heel of her hand, that she still remembered what belonged where. On her jumpsuit the name patch had been sewn by someone who knew her father. She never removed it.

The cart coughed as it rounded Goliath Station's yawning arch. Mosaic tiles, chipped into a thousand mapless pieces of blue and black, stretched like a tide across the platform. Fluorescent strips above the platform buzzed and bled light into the gaps; their sound was like a distant fly. Iris pinged the hull on Maya's wrist comm with a string of voice and static—someone's laugh clipped off by interference. Maya answered with the short fit of humor they kept for nights: 'Bay twelve is still sleeping. Bring the wrong coffee and you can have my watch.' There was a lift in her shoulders when she spoke. Routine, even a cracked one, steadied her.

She stopped at the maintenance alcove, hands quick to the toolbox that lived like a second palm. She pried under a panel to find a fuse warm with use. The maintenance log had neat lines and the sloppy additions of people who'd been awake too long. A new entry snagged her eyes: 'Rook missing—last seen end of night, Bay 7.' The handwriting was a push-pin of panic under the routine. Rook was a short-limbed man with a bad cough and better jokes. He'd once braided Maya's hair to keep it from the wrench's teeth. The log smelled faintly of oil and someone else's cigarettes. Maya tapped the entry and found a smear of black dust beneath the scrawl, like soot pulled thick from a throat.

She checked the service cameras out of habit. The wide-angle lens on Bay 7 showed the platform like a stage, lights blotched; then a set of frames flickered—pixels stuttering where nothing should. A thin dark seam crawled across a corner of the image as if something had licked away the film. Maya frowned and leaned closer. She heard a whisper, or thought she did: a syllable without a mouth, a consonant like a cold hand. It might have been the cart's fan. It might have been her memory. She traced the seam on the screen with the tip of her finger as if she could feel what had gone missing. The tile where Bay 7's mosaic should mark the old boundary showed a patch of grout freshly disturbed. For a second she thought of Rook's missing grin and then the wedge of absence widened, and she felt that small, familiar stab: the world had a hole in it and something wanted to crawl free from there.