In the Red

by Christopher Swiedler

  Michael climbed inside and sat at the copilot’s console. His eyes landed on the piece of paper where he’d written out the trajectory for Randall. His stomach lurched, and he had to fight the urge to tear it into a thousand pieces.

  What if Lilith was right? Dr. Chapman had focused on panic attacks from environment suits because up until this trip that had always seemed like the cause. But she had stressed that there could be other factors, and that there was often more to panic disorders than it first appeared.

  The more he thought about the panic attack he’d had the day before, the more he realized that the thought of flying to Milankovic in a rusty jumpship wasn’t what terrified him. It was the idea of Randall and Lilith relying on his hand-calculated trajectory that made him want to curl up in a ball and close his eyes. It was too much. They were asking too much.

  He paused for a moment, letting his hands rest on the controls. An idea formed in the back of his head. Maybe there was a way he could help Randall and Lilith without risking their lives. His heart started to beat more quickly. He reached out and flipped on the main control panel. Everything he needed was right here. . . .

  “You just trying everything out?” Lilith said from behind him.

  “Oh—hey,” Michael said, spinning around in his seat. “Just . . . experimenting.”

  Lilith cocked her head to one side. She glanced at the control panel and back at him, and then she banged her fist against the hatchway. “No, no, no. Please tell me you weren’t just about to do the incredibly, ridiculously, impossibly stupid thing I’m pretty sure you were just about to do.”

  “I wasn’t,” Michael insisted. But her angry glare seemed to cut right through him, and after a moment he turned back toward the console and sagged against the seat. “All right. I was thinking about it.”

  “Do you remember what happened the last time you decided to go off on your own?” she demanded. “Torn suit, hypothermia, broken radio? Does any of that ring a bell?”

  “You sound like my mom,” he muttered under his breath.

  “I’m serious! I don’t understand how you could be so idiotic. Do you just have some kind of compulsion to be a hero?”

  “I’m not trying to be a hero!”

  “Then why are you in here, getting ready to fly to Milankovic by yourself, when yesterday you had a panic attack before we’d even left the landing pad?”

  “Because if I don’t, Randall is going to die,” Michael said. “I saw his suit diagnostics. His air filter is almost saturated.”

  Lilith paused. “How long does he have left?”

  “Less than a day.”

  “Oh, god,” she said, leaning her helmet back against the wall of the cabin. “All right—we need to do something. But that still doesn’t explain why you think the right thing to do is to fly alone.”

  “All I need to do is go get help. I can be back here in a few hours.”

  “And what if you can’t? What if this ship blows up when you’re halfway there?”

  Michael set his jaw. “Then at least I won’t have killed you, too.”

  “That’s not how it works! I’m not some fragile doll you get to leave behind when you think it’s too dangerous. If you’re going, I’m going.”

  “I can’t do it. Not with you and Randall on the ship. Didn’t you see me yesterday? I was useless.”

  He was panicking right now, just thinking about it. The taste of bile seeped into his mouth, and he swallowed hard.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice suddenly gentle. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  He locked his eyes with Lilith’s. There was nothing she could do except be there with him, but somehow that was enough. She was calm and steady, like a rock at the center of a whirlpool. He matched his breathing to hers, taking long, deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. His heart rate slowed and the knot in his stomach unclenched. He could feel the panic hovering around him, just out of sight, but for the moment its hold on him was broken.

  “This isn’t just like failing a suit test and disappointing your dad, is it?” Lilith said.

  “No,” he said hoarsely. “I could get us all killed.”

  Lilith shrugged. “So what? It would be better than dying here, in the dark.”

  “If I make even a tiny mistake—”

  “So what?” she said. “We’ll fix it, somehow. You may be ridiculously smart, but you’re still human. You can’t blame yourself for not being perfect. Especially not before it even happens.”

  He nodded, but the voice in the back of his head wasn’t convinced. It would be his fault. He would screw it up, people would die. . . .

  Randall climbed up the boarding ladder and stuck his head into the cabin. “What’s going on here?”

  “Michael was getting ready to fly to Milankovic by himself,” Lilith said. Michael glared at her and she shrugged. “He needs to know.”

  “By himself?” Randall asked.

  “He seems to think that’s easier, somehow.”

  “Not going to happen,” Randall said, shaking his head. “I’ll lock him up in his room if I have to.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Lilith said. “But he’d probably just escape. I think we need to come up with something better.”

  “Hey, I’m right here,” Michael said.

  Randall cocked his head at Lilith. “Why do I get the feeling that you have a plan of your own?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “My plan is that all three of us fly out of here, right now.”

  “We tried that,” Randall said. “It didn’t go so well.”

  “Well, we’re going to try again, for two reasons,” Lilith said. “First, because I think Michael has gotten it at least partway through his thick skull that he doesn’t need to carry the whole world on his shoulders. And second, because we know that if we don’t leave tonight, your air filter is going to die sometime tomorrow.”

  Randall’s jaw set. “That’s my business. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  “Of course we need to worry about it!” Lilith shouted. “You’re being as stupid as he is! In what universe is it okay to risk your own life without even talking to the people you’re trying to save?”

  “She’s right,” Michael said quietly. “From now on we do whatever it takes to get us all home safely.”

  Randall was silent for a long moment. “I’m supposed to be the leader here. But it looks like I’ve been outleadered.”

  “It happens,” Lilith said. “So—what’s our plan? How soon do we leave?”

  “The sooner, the better,” Randall said. “I want us to have as much time as possible before the sun rises.”

  They restowed all of the supplies and sealed the hatchway and climbed into their seats. Randall picked up the piece of paper where Michael had written their course. He looked over at Michael. “Last chance. You’re sure about this?”

  Michael looked back at Lilith, and then he nodded. “I’m sure.”

  Randall flipped a switch and the engines underneath the cabin floor rumbled. White clouds of water vapor billowed out all around the ship. “Takeoff in three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  The engine roared. For a moment, nothing else seemed to happen. Then the ship leaped into the air and Michael was jammed down into his seat by the force of the acceleration. He wrapped his arms across his chest and watched the gauges on the copilot’s display.

  For the hundredth time, his mind reviewed the trajectory he had given to Randall. He knew it was stupid and pointless—if he’d made a mistake, it was too late to fix now—but he couldn’t help it. He breathed in and out, slowly and deeply, and tried to tell himself that everything was going to be okay.

  “Sixty meters per second,” Randall called out. The ship rotated and tilted backward, revealing the vast northern plains, rendered sparkling white by a layer of snow.

  “Course is good,” Randall said. “Speed one sixty. Forty-four seconds of burn left.”

  “Smoke!” Lilith
shouted.

  Michael glanced back. A gray-black haze was filling the cabin. “Nothing we can do about it now,” Randall said. “We have to keep accelerating. Call it!”

  Michael had been so focused on the trajectory that he’d completely forgotten about the possibility of a mechanical failure. Was something on fire? Or was this just more ancient hydraulic fluid burning off?

  “Call it!” Randall shouted.

  Michael turned back to the controls and watched the burn timer. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Now!”

  Randall pulled back on the throttle, and the engines went silent. Michael’s stomach lurched with weightlessness, and he floated up against his safety harness.

  “Speed six twelve, altitude nineteen thousand,” Randall said. He looked over at Michael. “Will that work?”

  Michael thought for a moment, picturing the arc that the ship was now following. “That should put us less than a kilometer away from the colony.”

  Lilith crowed and clapped her hands. “Nice job, Big M.”

  Outside the jumpship, the sky was a deep purplish black, with the full array of stars shining down. At this altitude, the horizon was visibly curved, and there were several clusters of yellow-white lights gleaming brightly against the dark surface of the planet. Michael kept his eyes on a small patch of light ahead of them that grew larger and larger with each passing second. Milankovic, he thought.

  “We’ll be heading back down in a minute,” Randall said. “What are the deceleration numbers?”

  “Thrust at fifteen meters per second squared, starting at twelve klicks,” Michael said. “Total burn forty-five seconds.”

  Randall nodded. The jumpship reached the peak of its trajectory and started to head back down. Michael gripped the arms of his seat. They’d been weightless ever since the acceleration stopped, but somehow it always felt different when you knew you were plummeting back down toward the ground. He leaned forward and watched the lights of Milankovic until they disappeared beneath the ship.

  Was his dad even still there? Did he have any idea that Michael was trying to get to him?

  “All right, let’s swing back for deceleration,” Randall said, typing commands into his screen. “Counter-burns in three, two, one . . .”

  He pressed the execute button on his screen. The attitude rockets on the side of the ship coughed and sputtered. The ship gave a brief shudder and kept falling along its trajectory.

  “More smoke back here,” Lilith called. “Is everything okay?”

  “The attitude rockets aren’t firing,” Randall said. His face was taut. “Michael, take the controls.”

  “Wait, what?” Michael said.

  But Randall was already unbuckling his harness. “Once I give you the word, tilt us back. Lilith, get up here in the pilot’s seat.”

  Michael’s hands went clammy. He looked at the altimeter. They were already at thirteen thousand meters. The later they started the burn, the more thrust they would have to use to make up for it. And if they started too late . . .

  Randall floated out of the cockpit and back into the main cabin. He helped Lilith strap herself into the pilot’s seat and then opened up a hatch in the floor and dug through a tangle of wires and hydraulic lines. Black smoke poured out of the hatch, and he cursed loudly.

  The panic that Michael been keeping at bay pushed at the back of his mind like pressure rising in a boiler. They were off course now, which meant Randall would need him to recalculate a new set of burns. He tried to work out a basic set of course adjustments, but his mind refused to cooperate. What had made him think that he was smart enough to navigate a ship like this? He’d been stupid to try. His heart fluttered and he dug his fingers into the sides of his seat.

  “It isn’t Rosalind Carver!” Lilith shouted from the pilot’s console.

  Michael stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”

  “The girl who thinks you’re so remarkable. It isn’t Rosalind. I just wanted you to know that.”

  His mouth dropped open. Suddenly his mind was spinning for reasons that had nothing to do with panic or jumpships or danger. Was she bringing this up now just to distract him again? Or was she—

  Randall slammed a panel shut at the back of the cabin. “Light the engine!” he shouted. “Push it to one-quarter power.”

  Michael sat up straight and focused on the copilot’s controls. “We’re still tilted the wrong way!” he called back. Without the attitude thrusters, the engine was still pointing back the way they’d come. Turning it on would slow their descent, but it would also push them past Milankovic and out into the desert beyond.

  “I need time!” Randall yelled, pulling open a second control panel.

  Michael started the ignition sequence and slid the throttle forward. The engine roared. The acceleration pushed him back down into his seat. The altimeter, which was now at ten thousand meters, started to drop more slowly. But every second that passed would put them farther from Milankovic when they landed.

  If they landed.

  Randall pulled a hose free of a coupling, and a blast of steam filled the cabin. “Activate the landing legs!” Michael flipped a switch to deploy the three landing legs, but nothing happened. He peered out the cockpit window. The only leg he could see was still in its retracted spot.

  “It didn’t work!”

  “Check the actuators. Do they have hydraulic pressure?”

  Michael glanced at the altimeter—five thousand meters—and then at the pilot’s display screen. “Everything is green,” he said.

  “Then go!” Randall shouted.

  Michael hit the execute button. The attitude rockets swiveled and fired. The ship leaned back until the cockpit was facing up toward the stars again and the engine was pointing in the direction they were falling. Randall slid into the jump seat at the rear of the cabin and fastened his harness.

  “Full power in three, two, one!” Michael yelled, and then jammed the throttle all the way forward. The sound of the engine rose to a deafening roar, and the ship shuddered violently. Michael was pressed down in his seat so hard that he had to fight to breathe.

  Two thousand meters. One thousand. Michael kept his eyes fixed on the altimeter as if he could slow it down by sheer force of will. Five hundred meters. They were still falling way too fast. Two hundred. One hundred.

  “Hold on!” he screamed.

  16

  AM I DEAD?

  Michael opened his eyes without remembering when he had closed them. The only light came from the faint glow of stars through the cockpit window. Everything in front of him was a blurry jumble of metal and plastic. His ribs hurt when he breathed, and his right knee throbbed painfully. He turned on his headlamp and blinked several times, trying to get his eyes to clear.

  Lilith was slumped down in the pilot’s seat with her head lolled to one side. Blood was running down along her chin and smeared on the inside of her helmet, but he couldn’t see where it was coming from. Was she breathing? Was she alive?

  “Lilith,” he mumbled. His tongue was thick, and he tasted blood. Lilith didn’t respond.

  He unfastened his harness and climbed across to her seat. Her scalp had been split open just above her ear. The cut disappeared into her hair, which was matted with blood. She was completely motionless, and even with his hand on her chest he couldn’t tell whether she was breathing.

  Dead she can’t be dead she can’t be dead

  He grabbed her wrist and looked at her screen. Severe concussion, laceration, mild loss of blood, the readout said. Seek medical attention. Recommend 10 mg of perithental-3.

  Concussion. She couldn’t have a concussion if she was dead. He switched the display to her vital signs. Her heart rate was low and her breathing was almost nonexistent, but she was alive.

  “Lilith,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

  She didn’t respond. He looked at her screen again. Perithental-3. Was that some kind of stimulant? Maybe the first-aid kit would have some.
<
br />   “Randall?” he called. “Are you okay?”

  Wincing at the pain in his knees and ribs, Michael slid himself through the short neck of the ship and into the main cabin. He braced himself against the wall and panned his headlamp around the room.

  He gasped.

  The rear of the jumpship was a twisted, mangled wreck. The impact had crushed the starboard side of the ship and split the ship open like a piece of fruit. Randall was leaning back in his seat with a jagged section of the hull protruding from his chest. A frozen froth of blood covered the outside of his suit. His eyes were open and motionless.

  Michael clamped his mouth shut and swallowed hard to keep from vomiting. His head swam. He turned away and clutched the back of the copilot’s seat with both hands.

  “No, no, no,” he whispered. Randall couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t fair. Randall had saved their lives. He’d saved Lilith’s life. He’d been there just a few moments before, shouting instructions at them. And now he was just a bloody, lifeless corpse.

  I killed him, Michael thought. Guilt burned like a fire in his chest. I killed him, just like I thought I would. I didn’t get the calculations right. I didn’t start the thrust in time. If I’d been faster, maybe we could have landed safely.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes, but it hardly mattered. The image of Randall’s dead body was burned into his brain. Even with his eyes shut, it was all he could see.

  “Michael,” Lilith whispered.

  “I’m here.” He blinked away tears and pulled himself back into the cockpit. Lilith looked at him with a glassy expression, as if she didn’t quite believe it was him. She coughed twice.

  “What happened?” she asked in a faint voice.

  “We crashed,” Michael said. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

  Lilith made a motion as if to sit up and winced. “My head,” she gasped, and settled back into the seat.

  “I’ll get you some medicine. Stay here.”

  He looked back down into the cabin. With the starboard side of the ship crumpled inward, there wasn’t a lot of room. He crawled to the back of the ship. Randall’s body was only an arm’s length away. Michael kept his eyes averted. He retrieved the medical kit from its spot on the wall and climbed quickly back up into the cockpit.