We Contain Multitudes — Part One
By Geoff Holder
Happy New Story Sunday, Daily Tomorrow readers! This week, we have an utterly singular fantasy of flora, a multifarious multiplication of mutant thoughts and potent crops. Geoff Holder is one of our finest champions of the uncanny, and he’s written a story just for us. Our esteemed paying subscribers can read about this story’s journey from open call to submission, but all in good time. For now, for all of you, enjoy.
“Hi, Captain,” I said, smiling at the big man through the impermeable barrier that’s so perfectly transparent you might hit your head if you didn’t know it was there. It’s designed to increase the sense of one-on-one intimacy during the interviews. “How’re you today?”
“Good morning Doctor,” he replied formally, giving me the slightest of nods as he did so. It looked strange, because he liked to float round while we talked, and at that moment he was upside down, at least in relation to my position. There’s no real ‘up’ or ‘down’ in zero-G. “I am well, thank you.” Douglas Banda never used contractions. It was one of his speech pattern characteristics. No “I’m” or “he’s” for the mission Captain. “What are we likely to mutually experience today?”
“Another psychological evaluation, I’m afraid.”
He groaned theatrically and flipped himself around his observation cell, expertly palming himself off the surfaces to control his movements. “And I thought I might be in with the chance of a purely social visit.”
I looked down at my clipboard to avoid catching his gaze. “I’m afraid not. Business as usual.”
“When will my crew get to go home?” There was a slight note of exasperation in his voice. I made a note. Increasingly Captain Banda and the rest of the team from the Clarke had been manifesting low-level frustration at the length of time they’d spent in quarantine. I could understand their feelings. Eight years in deep space, and now they’d been cooped up for months on this platform a couple of hundred miles above Earth. To make matters worse the home planet rolled past the observation windows every day, adding to the desire to see their families.
“You know the procedure, Captain. Once every specialist team has signed off, and Control gives the go-ahead, then you’ll be homeward bound.” It wasn’t a lie as such, but you couldn’t say it was the whole truth. I hated having to do it. “Shall we begin?”
He flung his arms out in a flamboyant gesture, which subtly showed me how his shoulders and chest had expanded over the past week. “Analyse me, Doctor, please do.” I started with a few warm-up questions, then dived into the full eval. In truth, however, I was operating on autopilot. I wasn’t really interested in Captain Banda’s answers. Instead I studied him as he spoke. Had his behaviour altered? Was his personality significantly different? There was no decline in cognitive function, so did he know what was happening to him? Or did he remain unconscious of the changes, in the way you don’t notice yourself growing older day by day?
The Earth Safety Protocol had been put in place once we started sending return missions to planets, starting with Mars and Venus. Both humans and robots, and any samples collected, had to be placed in orbital quarantine until tests proved they’d brought back nothing harmful. Venturing out into space was the very definition of encountering the unknown, and we had no idea if, say, previously-unsuspected viruses could survive in the void, or whether vessels and crews might encounter other factors our physics and chemistry could not yet imagine.
Hence, the Asimov Orbiter, the greatly upgraded version of the International Space Station of distant memory. The best research equipment and scientists money could buy—and if that wasn’t costly enough, the entire process of docking returning interplanetary vessels and running endless tests added untold zeroes to the cost of a mission.
The Clarke had been the absolute pinnacle of ambition. A multi-agency, multi-nation mission to Saturn, to explore the famous Rings and also send probes to investigate two of the gas giant’s moons, Titan and Enceladus, both strong candidates for supporting life. The mission had been a great success, not just scientifically but in terms of popular appeal. The high-definition images of astronauts playing space hoopla with the glorious spectacle of the Rings in the background became iconic, with the game’s champion, Engineer Zappone Lorde, being inevitably baptised the Lorde of the Rings. Several entirely new chemical elements had been added to the Periodic Table, and although life had not actually been identified on the two target moons, the exobiologists and exogeologists would be spending years trying to work out the nature of what had been collected by the probes.
As planned, the crew were placed in quarantine as soon as they arrived back, to be greeted by our host of doctors, biochemists, epidemiologists and other specialists, including me, all eager to learn what eight years in space had gifted our intrepid heroes. And heroes they were. Endless awards and commendations. Media stars. Millions of kids had their poster on the bedroom wall.
Which was where a slight PR problem had arisen.
Do you contain multitudes, Rita?
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Geoff Holder is the author of more than 30 non-fiction books on the strange and the supernatural, including Zombies From History, Poltergeist Over Scotland and Scottish Bodysnatchers. His fantasy, sci-fi, horror and mystery fiction has appeared in over a dozen anthologies and magazines. He is also a produced genre screenwriter, a judge for the British Fantasy Awards, and a frequent public speaker on, perhaps not surprisingly, the strange and the supernatural.
Copyright © 2026 Geoff Dupuy-Holder