Spaceships are very wet affairs. Souls are born of water; every religion on every planet knows this.

I have been in many dry places. A high desert on the lee of a mountain range, where rain is unknown for generations at a time. A dead sea, where the salt climbs out of the water and rises in pillars like ghosts walking the waves. A planet, far from its sun, where the water is stone, frozen harder than granite.

A bitter soul, hardened against the world, where love is long forgotten. A chemist’s bath of sulfuric acid, where even the constituent atoms of water are torn from molecules to leave nothing but caustic ash. A sepulchre, long forgotten beneath a deserted city, where bones slowly turn to dust.

The seventh is space. The seventh is always space.

I feel a ship coming, and it is full of souls. A thousand or more. I enter, and feel the shape of them to remember their collective history. I find that I am part of it. One of the souls remembers the event particularly well. It lies just beneath the surface of her mind, and I bring it up to examine. It is not what I remember. I find her alone, treading barefoot on moss in a dimly-lit greenhouse.

“Hello?”

I study her for a moment as she peers into the indoor jungle. She wears a uniform, but not a jumpsuit like most of the crew. All black, with a stiff white collar under her chin.

She squints through the mist as she calls out again. “Do you need help?”

She must have heard a noise. They are skittish things, for a species who evolved from an apex predator. It almost seems like she is looking directly at me.

“I can’t see you, but I know you’re there.”

She can’t be talking to me. I, in fact, do not exist. I am neither matter nor energy.

“I feel you there. Are you able to communicate?”

Yet she speaks to me.

“I want to help you. Will you please speak with me?”

That sounds like an invitation. I gather myself and step inside of her.

[i]Hello.[/i]

She did not speak.

[i]You aren’t crazy. It can be difficult to distinguish my voice from your own thoughts, but you are no pig herder. You were clever enough to notice me, so… speak.[/i]

“Um, I’m Ella.” Her eyes search left and right. “What’s your name?”

[i]I’ve had many names; perhaps you would call me Legion.[/i]

She clasps her hands behind her back and resumes strolling through the artificial rainforest. “Well, Legion, I’m the ship’s chaplain and counselor. My psychic training tells me you’re in pain. This may be humanity’s first contact with extraterrestrial intelligence, but pain is pain.”

[i]I do not feel pain. I am, to borrow your jargon, eternally pre-existing.[/i]

“Ah. Well. How can I help you, then? You must have chosen me for a reason.”

[i]Tell me of the man in the tombs. The one who had broken his chains.[/i]

She turns the corner into a metal corridor. “How odd. I was just thinking of that story, before you showed up.”

I see the verses flash through her head. Matthew. Mark. Luke.

[i]You read that he broke his chains, but did you know that he was a slave?[/i]

She takes a shallow breath and purses her lips. “I did not. The stories don’t give those details, but I have no reason to doubt that.”

[i]I spoke to him, as I speak to you. I gave him the strength to break his chains and be free. Then one of my brothers cast me into a herd of swine and drove them to drown in a lake. He laughed at his own irony.[/i]

“Ouch.” She cringes. Not just her face; I can feel her soul react. The theological debate that had been bubbling unspoken in her head disappears. “That… That sounds painful and humiliating.”

[i]When one of us is cast out, we must make our way through seven dry places before we can speak to another soul.[/i]

She stops to look out a window at the empty black. “And I’m the first soul you’ve met since.” She puts her hand on the cold glass and stares. After a moment, she whispers, “And the Spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters.”

[i]Something like that, yes.[/i]

“Let’s take a shower and have a nice, long talk. Maybe we can find some chains to break.”