GAME SPACE - Full Novel

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GAME SPACE - Full Novel Page 9

by Peter Jay Black


  “What’s an MMU?” I asked, ignoring Miss Pessimism.

  “Like a space jetpack,” Eve said.

  My smile turned into a cheesy grin.

  That made it official.

  Sound the fanfare.

  I was a Rocketman.

  “You won’t use it,” Skylar huffed, ruining the moment. “You only need the air supply. You’ll use handholds on the ship’s hull to get about.”

  My face fell, and I peered into the empty locker. “Where’s the helmet?”

  “Hold your right hand to your left shoulder,” Eve said.

  “Oh, yeah.” I remembered the video of Mason and Kelvin.

  I did as she instructed, and strips rose from my collar, covering the sides, back, and top of my head, and a visor dropped in front of my face.

  I immediately let out a small whimper and held my hand to my shoulder again.

  The helmet folded away, and I floated there for a second, trying to get my breathing and my racing heart under control.

  “What’s wrong with him now?” Skylar snapped.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

  “We haven’t got a minute left, oolak.”

  I wished she’d stop calling me that.

  With regards to my reaction, I wasn’t claustrophobic as such, but suffered from cleithrophobia—fear of being trapped in small spaces. And a helmet, apparently, counted as a small space.

  Who knew?

  I was glad my sickness had reduced in intensity because the thought of chucking up in the helmet would have sent me over the edge.

  A loud explosion shook the spaceship.

  “Time’s up,” Skylar shouted. “We’re out of here.”

  She shoved off, and her feet disappeared past the cabinets, down the hallway.

  I balled my fists, knowing this was the only way I would survive, so I took a deep breath and pressed my left shoulder again, allowing the helmet to engage.

  The visor dropped—complete with a heads-up display showing oxygen levels, internal and external temperatures, and a whole host of other crap I didn’t understand—but my nineteen percent health remained in place.

  Sigh.

  I tried to concentrate on the job in hand and turned to Eve. “What’s next?”

  “Panel on the other side of the door.”

  I made my way over to it, found the panel in question, and swung it open. A single red handle sat inside.

  “Manual release,” Eve said. “Crank that several times, and the door will open. Go outside and keep to the right side of the ship. There’ll be handrails along the hull every few feet. Don’t move too fast, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Sure, I will.” I offered her a weak smile and was about to grab the handle when I froze. “Wait. I’ve forgotten something really, really important.”

  “Seriously?” Eve’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Earlier, when you were mouthing stuff through the window, what were you saying?” I tilted my head. “Herpes?”

  Eve’s cheeks flushed. “Headpiece. The communication band you’re wearing.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Headpiece. Gotcha. Makes sense now.” I frowned. “What about Skylar? She wasn’t saying hatchet?”

  “Headset.”

  “Right.” I turned to the door, mentally scratching lip-reader off my list of future career choices. “Wish me luck.” I gripped the handle. “Opening in three, two, one . . .” I cranked it, screwing my face up with the effort.

  Air blasted from the airlock, shoving me through the door and into outer space.

  Seventeen

  I shot out of the airlock like a human cannonball at a circus, but somehow grabbed the doorframe at the last second. I screamed as pain tore through the muscles and tendons, every fiber and sinew of my arms threatening to tear them from my shoulders. My health dropped to fifteen percent and the greyed edges of my vision returned, yet I still managed to hold on.

  While I was helpless to do anything about it, the smartphone Dad had given me for my sixteenth birthday sailed past, along with my Earthling clothes and stasis bed, and disappeared into the blackness of outer space, mixing with all the floating crap.

  A second after that, the pressure eased.

  Wincing, the only sound coming from my raspy breaths, I stared into the vastness of space, feeling oddly detached as the debris of hundreds of broken ships floated past my feet—mainly shattered wood and twisted metal. Had those been a good choice for spacecraft material?

  Shaking myself, I squinted through the other door’s window, now like a hatch above my head. To my surprise, Eve was still there.

  “Go,” I said. “Get to safety.”

  “You all right?”

  I pictured how stupid I must have looked from her point of view. “Fine.”

  “The airlock couldn’t depressurise in the normal controlled way,” Eve said, “because there isn’t enough energy for the pumps. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

  “Eve?” Skylar shouted. “Here. Now. Hurry.”

  Eve gave me one last concerned look, then pushed off, disappearing up the hallway. “Keep to the right of the ship.” Her voice grew faint. “We’ll meet you at the other bulkhead airlock.”

  Every atom in my body screamed and begged me not to do this. Using nothing but sheer willpower, I swung myself above the door and, finding the nearest handhold on the wooden hull, gripped it for everything I was worth.

  Beyond the scene of destruction hung a planet, its icy surface cracked and pitted. I gazed at it for several seconds, mesmerised.

  Small debris rained down on my arms, my back, and my legs, thudding into the hull like a billion pieces of wood and metal raindrops and shaking me back to the reality of my situation.

  Deciding to ignore the carnage and hoping a large chunk didn’t swing by and either crush me to death or pluck me from the ship, I focused on the next handhold a few feet away.

  Stretching out, I pushed off and grabbed it.

  What’s the big deal? It's easy. I could do this, especially with a now sixteen percent health and clear vision.

  Thirty more handles sat in a line. A large crack zig-zagged over the hull, threatening to split the corridor from the rest of the ship. Now I understood the urgency in the lovely cyborg Skylar’s voice.

  I was about to push off to the next handhold when a strange popping assaulted my ears.

  Fearing my suit had sprung a leak or some micro piece of space junk had punched a hole in it somewhere, I froze for several seconds, but seeing as I was still alive with no body parts launching themselves through tears in the fabric, I assumed it wasn’t that.

  Then I looked up.

  Ahead, one hundred feet from the ship, was another chunk of space debris. I recognised the red corridor inside from Skylar’s CCTV recording. The immense rear section of Horizon Eighteen drifted, open to the vacuum, with sparks flying and explosions erupting from within. Like everything else in the space graveyard, it was a mess.

  Several chunks of space crap thundered into the hull around me, splintering wood and denting metal. My heart leapt into my throat.

  Concentrating on the next handhold, I shoved off the hull and grabbed it, feet and legs hanging behind me, my entire life held by nothing more than my gloved fingers.

  Hand over hand, panting, sweating, I moved along the rails, traversing the hull as quickly as I dared, trying to beat the ever-widening crack.

  All the while debris rained down, thudding into the hull like metal hailstones, peppering my arms, legs, and back and straining and rending the hull beneath my fingertips.

  I gripped the next handrail, but it tore free. “No, no, no.” I flung out my hand, managing to grab another rail, and released the loose one, sending it tumbling into the rest of the debris around me.

  Panting, I continued onward to the next handrail and the next, my body tensed, expecting to be plucked from the hull at any moment, until I finally reached the crack.

  Trying not to think, I
pulled myself into a ball, pressed my feet against the grab-rail, and uncoiled like a spring, launching myself over the gap.

  For a few seconds all was silent and peaceful, then I slammed into the ship’s hull, tumbled for a few feet, and finally clutched a rail on the other side.

  My head snapped around as the entire section behind me broke free, off to join its brothers and sisters in the space graveyard.

  I let out a juddering breath.

  Close call.

  The target hatch was ten more handholds away, already swung open, waiting.

  More popping made me stop a second time, and a glint of light came from the red corridor inside the detached rear section of the ship.

  I squinted. Was that—?

  Crackling filled my skull, and I recoiled.

  “Hello?” a male voice said.

  I almost let go of the handrail. “H-hello?”

  Crackle.

  “Help me. I’m trapped.”

  The light moved from side to side.

  “Mason?” I said, astonished. “Kelvin? Who is this?”

  A loud pop, and everything fell silent again.

  I stared into the red corridor, but the light remained, waving from side to side.

  “Eve? Skylar?”

  No answer.

  I tried to gauge the exact distance to the red hallway, using its internal height as a guide. It was at least a hundred and thirty feet away, the gap increasing with every passing moment.

  If I climbed over the ship’s hull and launched myself through space, there was a chance I could make it.

  Large chunks of debris moved between us.

  “Who am I kidding?” I murmured.

  That left me with one alternative—the airlock hatch. I’d have to get inside the ship as quickly as I could and tell the girls what I’d seen and heard. They’d know how to take care of the situation.

  But deep down I knew that by the time I’d gone through the airlock and met up with them again, the other section of the ship would be too far away for a rescue.

  I checked my health. Only fifteen percent and refusing to increase.

  Stubborn git.

  Sighing, I looked at the red corridor—one hundred and fifty feet distant—and swore.

  Then I remembered I was wearing a freaking jetpack.

  I looked at my arms, searching for controls and finding none.

  How could I fly?

  “Eve?” I said. “Skylar?”

  Still no response.

  “Is it because I’m outside the ship?” I murmured. “Is the hull shielding our signal?” Eve had told me we needed to be close to communicate.

  I clenched my jaw, wondering if I could I make it on fifteen percent health.

  The red corridor was one hundred and sixty feet away now.

  “Oh, bloody fine.” Before I could talk myself out of it, I launched upward, releasing the handle and flying over the top of the spaceship’s hull.

  Something banged into each elbow, and controls flew out on either side of me—armrests with joysticks. Smiling, I took hold and nudged forward on the left stick.

  I shot up, like directly up, perpendicular to the ship’s hull, at a right angle to my intended target. “No. Wrong way. Wrong way.”

  I pushed on the other control and flew in the correct direction this time, albeit in a hesitant, weaving motion.

  Right stick was forward, backward, left and right, which meant the other hand control was up and down in height—or at least that’s how I interpreted it.

  As I twisted out of control, I kinda wished I’d paid attention when Dad had droned on about his work as a pilot, because I would’ve appreciated some flying smarts at that moment. However, seeing as I never listened to either parent, I had no choice but to figure it out for myself.

  With small movements, I aimed the best I could toward the wrecked hull. Sixty feet down, one hundred to go.

  It was working.

  I was doing it.

  Sort of.

  I spotted a massive chunk of space debris heading straight at me. I jabbed the left control, and to my surprise, I shot over the top of it. Then I pulled back, lowering my flight path, returning more or less back on target.

  I laughed.

  I was made for this.

  Easy.

  Fifty feet to go.

  I flew around, up and over more space clutter, zooming in, out, and around, all the while keeping my primary focus on the red tunnel and heading in that general direction.

  Forty feet remaining.

  Thirty feet.

  Oops. I narrowly missed a triangular section of space junk, darting around it and back on the right path again.

  Twenty feet.

  Dad thinks this is difficult?

  Nah, flying’s a piece of cake.

  Something slammed into me from behind, sending me spiralling out of control. My vision tunnelled. I wrestled with the jetpack’s sticks, trying to bring the red corridor back on target, and the next second, I flew inside.

  I tumbled along the hallway, bumping into the walls and floor. In desperation, I let go of the jetpack’s controls and grabbed a wooden beam protruding from the ceiling, finally coming to a grinding and painful stop as I slammed into the wall.

  My health meter read twelve percent, meaning I was now worse off than when I’d first arrived in the game. Panting, I closed my eyes and thanked the stars I was still in one piece.

  “We’ve got to fly back through,” a calm voice said.

  My eyes snapped open.

  At the far end, pinned to the floor by several thick structural support beams, was a fifteen-year-old boy with white hair—Skylar’s brother, Mason.

  I grinned.

  I’d made it to him.

  That wasn’t so bad, I thought as I shook my head, trying to clear the greying edges of my vision and willing the health meter upward. But what I saw next punched a gasp past my lips, and the blood drained from my face.

  Mason wore a spacesuit like mine, but air hissed through a crack in his visor.

  Eighteen

  I’d never watched anyone die, and given the choice, I didn’t want to. But Skylar’s brother looked about to slip into oblivion. His face was pale, his breath shallow, and he had problems focusing on me. I guessed this might have had something to do with the stream of gas escaping through the crack in his visor.

  “Hey.” I forced an awkward smile as I clung to the wall of the red corridor a few feet away from him. “You must be Mason?”

  He gave a feeble nod.

  Trying to remain calm, I pushed off, glided over, and examined the three structural beams pinning him like a dead butterfly in a display case.

  “I’ve only ten minutes of oxygen left,” Mason said in a weak voice.

  “Plenty of time,” I reassured him, not knowing if that was true or not.

  I grabbed the beam restraining his robotic legs and tried to work out which angle was best to prise it from Mason without killing him.

  “Here goes.”

  I took a deep breath, pressed my feet against the floor and wall, and heaved the girder aside, mindful to stop it from moving too fast or drifting back toward us.

  As soon as I was happy the beam would stay clear, I returned to Mason.

  One down, two to go.

  The next girder cut across his shoulder at both ends, holding him there. Thick cables twisted around Mason’s arm and vambrace.

  I went to untangle the wires.

  “Wait.” Mason’s chest rose and fell in fast breaths, and he closed his eyes.

  I stared at him for a few seconds, then tapped his hand.

  Mason looked at me with a glazed expression. “Sorry.” Cuts to his nose and forehead oozed blood that congealed in large globules inside his helmet.

  Now I really knew we didn’t have much time.

  “We’ll get you out of here. Hang on, okay?” I eyed the cables. “Are they dangerous? High voltage?”

  “No. Not that.” Mason touched
his free hand to the part where the beam cut across his shoulder blade. “It tore a hole in my suit.”

  “Oh.” I flinched. “What do we do?” I was no scientist, but I didn’t need a doctorate to know a tear in a spacesuit was probably bad.

  Very bad.

  Mason winced as he shifted his weight. “My suit will heal itself, but it’ll take a while.”

  Right, I thought. Self-healing technology. I felt a little easier about the prospect of snagging my suit on all the floating scrap.

  “How long?” I said.

  “I’m not sure,” Mason said. “Depends how bad the tear is. Maybe ten seconds. Maybe a minute. No way to know.”

  Exposed to an environment where every nanosecond counted, I hoped for a quick repair. “And what’ll happen to you until it’s sealed?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. “Will you, like, explode or something?”

  Despite his predicament, Mason managed a weak smile. “The suit’s pressed to my body around the breach, so I think the rest of me should be fine. I’m not sure, though. Kelvin would have the answers. He’s the tech geek.”

  I glanced about. “Where is he?”

  Mason shook his head.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “You’ve got robotic arms and legs like your sister, so—”

  Mason gasped. “Skylar’s alive?”

  “Yes. Eve too.”

  “Oh, thank the Monolith.” Mason visibly relaxed. “And yes, I do have cyborg limbs, but—” He looked at his shoulder. “The rip in the suit is above the connection point. That’s all me right there.”

  “Of course it is,” I muttered.

  Mason screwed up his face. “The vacuum will vaporise any liquids, boiling them to form gas bubbles. Capillaries might burst too. Depends how big the rip is and how long it takes to repair. I’d freeze, eventually.”

  Well, that all sounded bloody charming.

  “Can any of those things kill you?” His diminishing air supply could’ve been the least of our worries.

  “Dunno,” Mason said, “but any exposure longer than a few seconds is going to hurt. A lot.”

  “Brilliant.” I eyed the crack in his visor. “Why isn’t that healing?”

 

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