Adrift

by Rob Boffard

  He keeps pulling until the nozzle is level with his chest, until he’s got it pointed right at the base of the fire. But he can’t make it stay put – the tip of the nozzle keeps arcing up towards his chin, the stiffness of the hose pulling it straight. He’ll have to use his free hand to hold it in place, which means he’s going to have to drop the mask so he can activate the cylinder.

  There’s no time to think it over. No time to figure out if it’s even possible. Corey takes one last breath of oxygen, then drops the mask and reaches back.

  His hand lands on the scorching floor of the vent, making him yelp. Where’s the cylinder? Surely the hose can’t have –

  He finds it. Then he finds the top, and the trigger, and then he’s pushing down as hard as he can and the vent fills with bubbling, expanding foam.

  The nozzle slips out of his fingers, flicking back towards his face and sending gobbets of foam thudding against his chin. Corey splutters, sucking in a mouthful of smoke that twists his throat into knots. The whole vent is vibrating around him, as if he’s in the intestine of an angry monster. As he fights to get control of the flailing nozzle, he tells himself to keep his finger on the trigger, to keep squeezing as hard as he can.

  Somehow, he does. Somehow, he holds the nozzle in one place, smothering the fire and turning the smoke so thick that for a few seconds he can’t tell the difference between it and the foam. Everything is scorching, slimy, stinging, his lungs about to tear out of his chest.

  Then the fire is gone. He blinks, eyes leaking stinging tears, sure he’s imagining it. But it’s been blanketed in lumps of foam, and he can’t hear the spitting sound any more.

  He tries to shove himself backwards on his elbows, but stops when his feet jam into the wall at the point where the pipe doglegs. He has to get around it … but how? He can’t link the thoughts in his head. His legs are at a strange angle, his knees facing the wrong way in the pipe. He’s still holding the extinguisher nozzle – his fingers welded to it, the cylinder squeezed tight to his body.

  Fingers brush his ankle, someone reaching as far as they can down the pipe. Doesn’t matter. They’re not going to get him out unless he turns, and he doesn’t have the first clue how to do that. He takes a breath, and inhales a blob of foam. His throat clogs instantly. Hacking coughs burst out of him, bracketed by panicky inhales.

  It’s as if his body takes over. He twists, shoving himself around the dogleg, worming backwards, moving on instinct. The fingers at his ankle move up his calf, grip tight. He raises his head, still coughing, and gets a look at Hannah’s panicked face.

  Then his mom and dad are there, and then everyone is hauling him out, into the light.

  Chapter 14

  Hannah always wanted to be a mom. It was something she was quite comfortable daydreaming about – something that would happen far in the future, when she’d paid off her student loans and had a job curating a big museum or overseeing a research programme at a university.

  Her parents had exchanged a fleeting, slightly worried look when she’d mentioned it the first time, before plastering wide smiles on their faces and saying how nice it’d be to have a grandchild. She still thinks about that look at odd moments. Every time, she tells herself that it doesn’t matter what they thought. It’s her life, not theirs.

  She didn’t know who the dad would be – her fantasies bounced between Sandro Sawyer from the Uncommon Valor movies, and a cute guy she’d known in her sociology seminar – but the picture of the daughter was completely clear. She would be a punky, independent little monster who Hannah could take to the park, and build blanket forts with.

  But now, looking at Anita and Everett Livingstone as they hold a coughing, blinking, foam-flecked Corey tight, she’s not sure she could do it. If she was in Anita’s position, she’d just start screaming.

  They’re all back on the main deck. Some of the smoke made it up here, and the air is ever so slightly hazy. Nobody’s saying anything – everyone’s staring into space, or occasionally shaking their heads in disbelief. There are no arguments this time. No yelling. Just a kind of stunned lethargy – as if the adrenaline everyone was running on has drained away. Everywhere Hannah looks, she sees haggard faces and exhausted eyes.

  It’s not hard to see why. There’s only so much anyone can take before they stop being able to respond – it was why people switched off during the war, reports of battles from places like Sigma barely peaking their emotional radar. It’s the same even when it’s up close, when it’s happening right in your face. Eventually, your body shuts itself down. It dulls the world, files off the rough edges as a survival mechanism.

  Everything that’s happened on the Panda – all the arguments, the fire, nearly losing Corey – and it hasn’t changed a thing. Hannah can’t help looking up through the viewport, and as she does so, it’s like the black is pulling at her. Like it’s about to lift her right out of the Panda. Turn her into another piece of debris, drifting until the end of time. The only thing stopping it from happening is that very thin, very clear piece of glass above her head.

  “All passengers, please st-st-stay calm,” says the ship’s voice. “There is a situation in the engine room. The main deck has been sealed for your prrrrrrrr-protection, and the authorities have been notified. Please stay seated, and only move to the escape pod if you are instructed to by a Sigma Destination Tours sta-sta-sta-sta-staff member.”

  The main deck isn’t sealed. Hannah’s not even sure it can be. She’s long since tuned out the message, which has been repeating every couple of minutes ever since they came up here.

  Volkova has already confirmed that one of their thrusters is non-functional, but the other three are still working. They’re still mobile, for now. And yet, Hannah can’t help feeling like she screwed up. She had a plan: a calm, controlled, clear response to an emergency. If the suppression systems really had failed, they were going to find the extinguisher, pull away the panel, deal with the problem.

  But that plan went out of the window the moment they realised the fire was too far back, and it grew wings and vanished over the horizon when Corey Livingstone appeared. If the vent had been just a little bit narrower, if Corey had got stuck or they hadn’t been able to get him the oxygen mask …

  You got lucky, rook.

  Someone sits down next to her, and she looks up to see Lorinda. The old woman is pale, like she’s aged another decade in the past half-hour.

  She looks over at Anita, who is arguing with her husband again. “What am I going to say to her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was supposed to watch her boys, and they both … they were so fast. And I’m not very good with ladders …”

  Hannah licks her lips. “I’m sure you did everything you could.” It sounds lame, even as she says it.

  Licking her lips makes her more aware of how thirsty she is. Thirsty, and hungry. She does a quick calculation in her head – they’ve been on the ship for three hours, and the last thing she had to eat was the night before, a stale cheese sandwich that she’d stuffed in her mouth in the staff canteen. No, wait, there was the apple and a bowl of cereal this morning. Anyway, even if the passengers ate before they got on board, they’re still going to need food before long.

  It would be so, so good to stay here, on this chair, to close her eyes and go to sleep and pretend none of this is happening. Instead, Hannah gets to her feet, moving like she’s Lorinda’s age. Her hands are coated with black particles, and they leave dark smears on her jeans. As she looks back up, she sees a brightly coloured object on the seat next to Lorinda: a little action figure, a dinosaur in a red spacesuit. Its packaging sits next to it, the back torn open.

  “What is … what’s that?” she says.

  Lorinda picks it up. “I thought they might want to play with this. I guess not. Do you have kids at all?”

  Hannah shakes her head.

  “Me neither.” She cradles the toy in her hands. “We tried, but we never quite managed. My sis
ter does, though – I bought this thing for her grandson. My grandnephew. Or nephew twice removed – I never remember which it is. Although I suppose they’re a little younger than—”

  “Reptile formation!” the toy barks.

  Its voice is loud and crunchy, and it’s followed by a series of ear-piercing bleeps. Hannah jumps, and Lorinda yelps, almost dropping the toy. “Sorry! Sorry everyone. It linked with my lens automatically.”

  Jack sighs, long and loud. Lorinda flashes the rest of them an apologetic smile, then looks back down at the toy, turning it over in her hands.

  “You know who I keep thinking of?” she says. “The woman who cleaned my room, in the hotel. She was about the same age as his mother – my nephew, I mean. We talked once or twice, and she said she was from the Colonies – got a special visa for what she was doing. Apparently the hotel brought in a whole bunch of them, and she was telling me about how she had some leave coming up, and how excited she was to go back home …”

  Hannah can’t do this. Even thinking about the people on the station is too much. It fills the Panda with ghosts, drains her energy.

  She straightens up, raising her voice to the others. “I think it’d be a good idea if we figured out how much food we have on board,” she tells everyone, “and where it all is.”

  “What for?” says Anita. “We know there’s some in the bar, and the Frontier’ll be here before long, won’t they?”

  “Right,” Brendan says. “You get hungry, just eat a pack of soychips. Why’re we even bothering?”

  Because I need this. Because I’ve got to be able to do something right, or I’m going to collapse.

  “Because we have to plan for every eventuality,” she says, hating how formal the words sound.

  “Yeah, because the Frontier’s just going to ignore one of their outposts going offline all of a sudden,” Jack says.

  “Unless there was more than one attack,” Lorinda says, not looking at him.

  “Jesus Christ.” Jack’s hands are hanging down between his knees, as if he’s preparing to break his fall when he hits the floor. “It’s not aliens. OK? Fucking … aliens didn’t attack us.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “It’s the goddamn Colony pissed off with her damn treaty.” He points at Anita, who bristles. “Anyway,” Jack goes on. “It doesn’t matter. You watch, pretty soon there’ll be a bunch of Frontier response ships inbound, and then we can all go home and let them figure it out.”

  “And what if they don’t come?” says Seema, giving Jack a look that Hannah can’t quite figure out.

  He raises his eyes to meet hers. “They will.”

  “We still need to eat,” Hannah says.

  “Yeah, so? We just go down to the bar and help ourselves.”

  “Stop acting like this is normal.”

  Seema’s words are almost a snarl, and they bring everything on the main deck to a grinding halt. For a few seconds, nobody moves.

  Brendan takes two steps towards his wife, puts an arm around her shoulders. It’s his metal one, but she doesn’t appear to notice.

  “My cushla,” Brendan says, emphasising each syllable. “Calm. Down.”

  She rips away from him, red eyes flashing. “No. Don’t you do that. Don’t you ever do that to me. Our boy is not going to … to …”

  Seema falters, her face collapsing. Brendan stands, awkward, as if he doesn’t know whether to touch her or not. He glances at the rest of them, as if embarrassed to have an audience.

  “You have a son?” Lorinda says.

  “Yep,” Brendan says, distracted. “Four months. Back on Earth.”

  He takes a hesitant step towards his wife – but it’s Anita Livingstone who gets there first. She pulls the shaking Seema into her arms, hugs her tight. Hannah can see her whispering in Seema’s ear – she can’t hear what’s being said, but, then again, she doesn’t need to. Anita’s a mom, too. And she nearly just lost one of her own sons.

  After a long moment, Anita reaches out for Brendan, pulling him in, almost forcing him into the hug. The three of them stand there for a few seconds before pulling apart. Nobody else has said anything.

  Seema wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, looking Jack in the eye. “Didn’t mean to …”

  “S’alright.” Jack looks too exhausted to complain. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be back with your boy soon.”

  “For sure,” Anita says.

  Brendan flashes her a weak smile. He’s not as emotional as Seema, but there are dark circles under his eyes, and there’s a definite slump to his shoulders.

  Hannah clears her throat. “The Frontier’s probably on the way right now,” she says, less sure than she sounds. “But all the same, we need to know what we’re working with.”

  “Waste of time, you ask me,” says Jack.

  “No,” Hannah says. “We …”

  And suddenly she doesn’t know what to say. There are good reasons to inventory their food, but they’ve popped out of her head, like they were never there.

  Lorinda puts a hand on her arm. “I’ve got some energy bars in my bag. And I think there’s a juice box as well.”

  “And there might be some in the escape pod.” Everett Livingstone pulls himself to his feet. “Emergency rations, something like that.”

  “No,” Anita says. “We need to watch the boys.”

  Everett gives her an exasperated look. “’Nita, would you just—”

  “You know what?” she says, turning away from him. “It’s fine. Just go.”

  He stares at her back for a long moment, then starts trudging towards the escape pod.

  “I can do the bar.” Hannah gives Jack a pointed look. “Can you help me?”

  He holds her gaze for a moment, then shrugs and nods.

  “If you can bring what you find downstairs,” Hannah says to the others. “That’s where most of the food is anyway, I think, so …”

  “Wait. Hold on.” Corey has managed to winkle out from his mom’s arms, standing on unsteady feet. His voice sounds like he has Volkova’s smoking habit. “Someone should tell the pilot before we open the pod. Otherwise she’ll freak out.”

  “I’ll go,” Malik says. Corey gives him a disbelieving look, but Malik just shrugs, heading to the cockpit. Anita pulls Corey in again – he resists at first, then sinks into her arms. Hannah realises she’s shaking.

  “All passengers, please st-st-stay calm. There is a situation in the engine room …”

  Hannah heads downstairs, Jack following a few steps behind her. The bar has got colder since she was down there last, and the air prickles against her bare arms.

  There are three glasses on the counter, one still half full of JamFizz. She’s about to say something about needing to conserve supplies when her thirst ratchets up another notch, her throat going from uncomfortable to excruciating in less than a second.

  She snags a glass from the rack, shoves it under the tap. The water is ice-cold, so cold it hurts to drink. It’s the sweetest, most delicious glass of water she’s ever had in her life.

  “Pour me one while you’re at it,” Jack says.

  Hannah jumps – she’d almost forgotten he was there. He’s leaning on the bar, arms folded, looking expectantly at her.

  She raises an eyebrow. He stares at her for a long moment, then rolls his eyes. “Please pour me some water. Christ.”

  “Here,” she says, filling up a glass. As he drinks, she says, “Sure you’re not going to sue if you spill some down your shirt?”

  He drains the glass, wipes his mouth. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  In the end, there isn’t much to do. There’s a box full of warm JamFizz, minus the three Jack, Brendan and Seema already drank. There are maybe two dozen packets of no-brand soychips, most of them garam masala flavour. At least it’s one I like, Hannah thinks, as she and Jack stack them on the bar. They work in silence, not looking at each other.

  Malik brings Lorinda’s energy bars down, addi
ng them to the pile. He’s followed by a grim-faced Everett. “Nothing in the pod,” he says.

  “You sure?” Hannah asks, dismayed.

  He shakes his head. “Not a damn thing. And there’s supposed to be. Emergency rations, MREs, stuff like that. It isn’t there.”

  “Did you check the—”

  “Storage lockers, yeah, I did. Three of ’em. Refrigeration’s on but there’s nothing inside.”

  “Shit.” Jack drums his fingers on the bar, eyes passing over the suddenly very small pile of chips and chocolate bars. “What kind of tour company skips out on its pod food?”

  One I should never have signed on for. Hannah digs the heel of her hand into her forehead. It’s easy to figure out what happened. Either Sigma Destination Tours forgot to restock their pod, or they never bothered in the first place. After all, the Red Panda and its sister ships would never be more than a short distance from the station – and what inspector was going to bother coming all the way out here?

  Another burst of guilt, one she can’t explain. After all, she wasn’t responsible for stocking the tour ship’s escape pod. The guilt is replaced by anger. With the station intact, launching the escape pod without any food would be a minor annoyance, something a Sigma functionary might get a disciplinary hearing for. Now? It might kill everyone on board.

  No. It won’t come to that. The snacks will keep them going until the Frontier forces arrive, which shouldn’t be more than a few hours. She does a quick count in her head, then starts pulling out chips, making a pile for each passenger, adding a JamFizz to each.

  They’ve got enough for about two days here – three if they ration. And it’s not like they’re going to die of thirst, which is far more worrying than dying of hunger – there should still be plenty of water in the bathroom tanks.