by Kate Blair
“Look after my daughter and granddaughter. Tell them I love them.”
My vision begins to blur, but there’s not enough gravity for the tears to fall.
“And look after yourself. I hope you haven’t doomed everyone.”
I can’t move. I clutch the ladder, blinking and staring at her. Her hand moves, and I think she’s reaching for me. But she grabs the floating elevator hatch instead.
“I love you, Little Bear. So much. Now go!” She slams down the hatch, cutting out the light of the engine room and my view of her.
And I’m still. In the dark of the elevator tube. Just breathing. Too fast.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in twenty-five minutes.”
That snaps me out of it. I push myself down the ladder. I don’t need to bother with footholds at first. I’m floating backward, downward, using the rungs, hand under hand, gliding lower as fast as I can. Breathing is hard. I don’t know if it’s the exertion or the panic or the limited air. The fans near the bottom of the shaft spin, sucking the oxygen from the spoke.
Now I’m far enough away from the axis to feel the pull of the centrifugal force. It drags me toward the carriages, getting stronger the further I get. I’m too heavy to use just my hands. I slip my feet onto the rungs. The gash on my thigh aches, stretches into agony with each step. The tears fall now, running down my cheeks.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in twenty minutes.”
A quick glance up at the black square where Astra is working to save my life. I can’t let the betrayal or the grief touch me. There’s no time. Keep going. Down. Hand under hand. Don’t think about anything but the ladder. Focus on the soft sound of my hands on the rungs.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in eighteen minutes.”
My lungs are straining. There’s gray at the edges of my vision.“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in sixteen minutes.”
Panting. The spoke is growing dark around me. It’s not the lights failing. My grip is weak. I’m so dizzy. I stop climbing. Just hold on. I’m going to pass out. I’m going to fall. Just like Vega.
That seems fair, somehow.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in fourteen minutes.”
A click, and the fans go silent, stop sucking air away from me. A few more seconds, then a hiss from above me. Astra, giving me her air. I can hear something else too. A lilting voice, singing in the silence.
“Our ship, our home, our one true place …”
My father’s favorite. I can almost hear his baritone behind Astra’s soft, uncertain soprano.
“Our scrap of safety in outer space …”
The light comes back into my vision, slowly. I can see the spoke again. Still breathing fast. Still light-headed. There’s not much air for Astra to send.
“Our cradle, our grave, our spinning wheel …”
She won’t be able to sing for long. Her voice is already slowing.
“Our ark, our dock, our even keel …”
I can’t listen. Can’t bear to hear her breathe her last. I don’t have time, anyway.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in twelve minutes.”
Get moving, Ursa.
My whole body aches. Breath is coming hard. But I have to move. Hand under hand. I peer between my legs. Still so far to go. No time to be careful. Don’t think about Vega. Don’t think about Astra. Don’t think about Cassius, Orion, or Jovan. Don’t think about Maia.
Keep climbing down. I grit my teeth.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in ten minutes.”
Step, step, step. My feet clanging against the rungs, drowning out Astra’s faint singing. I’m slipping in my hurry.
Faster. Faster.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in eight minutes.”
The Venture’s voice is distorting in my ears. I clutch the ladder tighter as I go. Hands hot. There will be blisters, soon. Down. Down. Down. There’s nothing in my mind now. Just the ladder. Just the rhythm. My thigh aches. My hip aches. My lungs ache. Darkness creeping in again.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in six minutes.”
The Venture sounds like Astra now. But I know that’s wrong. It’s the lack of oxygen. I’m light-headed. I have to climb. That’s all there is. Grabbing the bars. Quickly. Faster. Hands sweaty. I can barely see the ladder now. I’m shaking, dangerously dizzy. But I’m nearly there.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in four minutes.”
Vega’s voice this time. I peer down. Bad move. My foot slips. Sudden weight on my bad thigh. The slash rips wider.
I cry out, let go.
I swing away from the ladder. Clutching on desperately with one hand. My back crashes hard against the metal wall. Something gives in my shoulder. A scream ripped out of me.
Sweaty fingers slipping on the rungs, one by one.
Then I’m falling.
A few seconds of air rushing by. My stomach lurching.
I land on my back. The impact slams through my body. Tools clanging in my gear bag. For a few seconds, I lie in silence, unable to move, unable to breathe.
The shaft is silent. There’s no singing anymore.
“Air circulation failure. Carriage containment in two minutes.”
Then the agony explodes through me. I let myself scream, long and loud.
The door is just a few feet away. I try to roll onto my stomach, then scream again. My lungs straining in the thin air. Stabbing pain in my chest.
Stop. Breathe. It’s hard.
Try again. Roll. Scream. But now I’m on my belly. Knives in my torso.
“One minute to carriage containment.”
I’m clawing at the bottom of the elevator shaft with my good hand, dragging myself along. A few more feet. There’s the door. I pound on it. The elevator doors are thick alloy. Will anyone hear me?
“Thirty seconds to carriage containment.”
I bang again and again. The skin on my knuckles splits. I yell, incoherent. No words left now.
I’m going to die here.
“Twenty seconds to carriage containment. Nineteen, eighteen …”
They can’t hear. They’re busy with Sabik. They’ll have monitors, the buzz of conversation, the hum of machines. But I hammer on the door, ignoring the agony.
“Seventeen, sixteen …”
I’m being stupid. My gear bag. I fumble in it. No time to cut through the door with the blowtorch, and I don’t have the strength to pry it open. But my fingers find the cold metal of my wrench. I pull it out. Bang on the door with that.
“Fifteen, fourteen …”
The sound echoes up the elevator shaft. Loud. Deep.
“Thirteen, twelve …”
I bang again.
“Eleven, ten …”
Nothing.
“Nine, eight …”
Then there’s a crack of light where there wasn’t before. A grunt. Fingers in the gap, pulling the elevator doors open. Someone shouting for help.
“Seven, six …”
Hands, reaching out, grabbing my arm. Dragging me through the narrow space. I scream again.
“Five, four …”
My gear bag catches on the door, but they don’t let go. They keep pulling, then there’s a snap of the catch, the clatter of my tools.
“Three, two …”
People falling backwards, bringing me with them, toppling on the floor in a heap of pain and bodies.
“One. Carriage containment in progress.”
The door slams behind me, and the hands let go. I lie on the floor, closing my eyes against the bright light. Panting. The elevator door hisses as it seals, and the airtight metal barrier whirrs down on th
e other side, shutting off the spoke forever.
“Betafall failsafe activated. Carriage containment in progress. Carriage separation in two minutes.”
I’m still whimpering, eyes screwed shut. My lungs feel like I’ve inhaled splinters of metal. My thigh is wet with fresh blood. But I’m breathing. My head is clearing, and grief is crashing through me.
“Help me!” a familiar voice screams, high and hysterical. “We have to get her to a bed!”
I open my eyes. The blurred silhouette of my mother is hovering above me, dark against the bright lights. “We have to get you secure before the descent,” she says. “Someone help me! For Beta’s sake!”
“Carriage containment complete. Power diversion in progress.”
The lights flicker as the power reroutes away from the engine room.
A medic pulls a stretcher alongside me. “One, two, three.”
Before I can brace myself, they’re lifting me. I scream again as I’m swung onto the bed.
“Get some anesthetic!” Mom’s eyes are glistening. “What’s hurting, Ursa?”
“My chest,” I gasp. “My thigh … my hip.”
“Bring the scanner. Now!” She turns back to me. “What hap-pened to you? What happened to the ship?”
Each breath is excruciating. Still, I try. “Astra. She was behind everything. She … tried to kill me. A pulse gun blast activated the failsafe. Astra’s dead.”
My vision is clearing. Mom’s mouth drops open. Then she glances toward the elevator door, as though Astra’s about to burst in through the metal shielding on the other side.
“Where is she?”
“Engine … room.”
Mom sways.
“Power diversion complete. Checking systems. Prepare for carriage separation.”
Guion is at my side, running a hand-held scanner over my chest and wrist. “Two broken ribs. Her shoulder fracture has reopened. Moderate burn on her right hip, laceration on the right thigh, but she’s not losing significant blood.”
Mom leans on the stretcher. “Get a ten-microgram PainFree patch. We’ll have to wait to deal with the hip and thigh until we’re on the ground. She’ll need a new calcium and collagen injection in her shoulder. Get a chest guard for her ribs, we don’t want a lung to puncture in the descent.” She squeezes my hand. “That should see you through to Beta.”
“Sabik?” I ask.
She smiles. “Recovering.”
“Systems functioning within set parameters. Separation in progress. Brace for Betafall in two minutes.”
Then the noises start. The Venture, screaming. The wail of metal on metal. The shriek of separation. She’s pulling herself apart, shattering into pieces. And it’s my fault.
Guion sticks a pain patch on my neck, and warmth blooms through my blood. Mom lifts me gently as she slides a casing under me. I breathe in hard, eyes squeezed shut, the pain red against my lids. Mom closes the casing over my chest.
“Descent in one minute. All crew members to designated places.”
“Get moving,” Mom says to the medics. “Secure your patients. Strap yourselves in.”
Calm spreads through me from the PainFree on my neck. As the panic recedes I open my eyes and stare at the patches on the white-gray ceiling. Hundreds of years of fixes and mends. Generations working to keep this ship in the sky. All my hard work. Dad’s innovations and hacks. Four hundred years of engineers before us.
I just threw it all away.
Guion wheels me toward the wall. I hear the click of latches and straps. The pain is evaporating, like dry ice. The grief is still there. A weight presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Jovan. Astra. The Venture. I can’t fit it all in my head.
Through my tears, I notice a shape in the next bed. I turn, and there’s Sabik.
He’s smiling, with a doped-up expression that suggests he’s had even more PainFree than I have. He’s sitting up slightly, his bed at an angle. I try to peer at his injured hand, but it’s on the other side. He obviously notices me straining, because he raises a blob of bandages. I can’t make out the shapes of the fingers, but they must have been able to reconnect his hand or I’d be staring at a stump.
He reaches over with his good hand and takes mine. “I overheard. I’m sorry about Astra.”
I swallow.
“Ready to uncouple. Prepare for gravitational adjustment.”
“Now, people!” Mom shouts.
Shoes squeak on the floor as everyone rushes to their seats. Buckles clatter as they are hastily closed. Typical of the medics to stay by their patients until the last moment. A jolt and a clang shake the carriage. There’s a long, slow squeal, then a sickening lurch.
The Venture’s death throes. She’s being wrenched from me. My childhood. My home.
One last, deafening bang.
“Separation complete. Betafall in progress.”
Loosed from the spokes, we’re no longer rotating. Gravity drops from us. Only the straps keep me in my bed, tightening against my chest guard. I gasp, but the pain is already distant. Sabik keeps hold of my hand. He’s floating too, hair drifting around his face. With the doped-up smile he looks a bit goofy, really. Around us things rise into the air. Beakers, surgical gloves, blankets. Bottles rattle in the cupboard. This isn’t a controlled separation. There wasn’t time to stow loose objects.
“Prepare for deceleration burn and adjustment to correct orbital position.”
A scalpel tumbles end over end in front of the porthole opposite. Silver against the black of space. There’s a shining ball in the dark on the other side of the fused silica glass.
It’s the engine room, the heart of the Venture, tossed away into the void of space. Small and so distant already. A part of me strains toward Astra, as though it’s not too late to bring her back. Then there’s a burst of light as the engine room’s secondary boosters fire, starting their long journey to drive the radioactive payload away from the planet.
It must have been a calm death, when she gave me her air. As easy as falling asleep. Maybe more than she deserved, considering how Orion and Cassius died. But it still makes me ache to think of her in there.
Our carriage’s boosters roar as they slow us from orbital speed to entry speed. Things clatter to the floor as we decelerate.
The engine room is gone. Past the boundary of my window. It has enough power to escape this solar system, and it won’t stop there. Inertia will take Astra’s frozen body to the end of the universe in the Venture’s heart.
I’m crying. Body lurching with silent sobs. Tears running down my cheeks.
The medics are strapped into their jump seats on the opposite wall. I catch my mom’s eyes, wide and wet. Sabik’s hand is warm in mine as we fall to Beta together.
It’s slow and quiet at first, except for the occasional purr from the boosters, using the ship’s inertia and the planet’s rotation to bring us into the right position for the main descent. Then, as we go down, the view from the porthole gradually changes from the black of space to a light pink, then a pink-red. The gravitational forces grow as we decelerate.
Then there’s the squealing of metal under pressure, building to a scream as we descend and the atmosphere gets thicker. It’s warmer, the friction on the carriage exterior leaching into the room. Is that normal? Or should the insulation be protecting us? The spokes are designed to burn up on atmospheric entry. Will that happen to us, too? I don’t know what normal parameters are. Even if I did, I can’t stop the descent now.
It’s red-orange through the porthole now. We’re inside a fireball.
“Boosters firing for main deceleration.”
The engines roar again, slowing us, increasing the gravity way beyond normal. The extra weight takes my breath. Stabbing pain in my lungs, strong enough to overwhelm the painkiller.
I peer at Sabik. His eyes ar
e screwed shut, his mouth drawn with pain. But we don’t let go of each other’s hands.
The carriages are using the last of the Venture’s primary fuel to brake. There were debates, calculations in Dad’s time when all the stocks were low. They left the minimum for Betafall. Is it enough? Will we land in the cleared space for the carriages? Will we hit the forest?
I close my eyes.
This is nothing like the slow, smooth descent of the shuttle. This is nearly free fall, barely controlled by hard braking.
Swearing, from the medics. Screams and a whispered mantra. Someone vomiting. I’m glad we’re not weightless anymore. I wouldn’t want that floating around.
What will happen when we land? How will we survive? Astra betrayed us. Jovan betrayed us. I destroyed the ship. This is no way to start a new world. Perhaps we should have stayed in space. Perhaps our ancestors should have stayed on Alpha.
Then there’s a bump. Hard. Two more, in quick succession. The parachutes. Metal dishes and surgical implements clatter around us. Thank Beta for the painkillers.
“Landing imminent.” The Venture’s voice. Still looking out for us.
Gravity normalizes, and I gulp down a few desperate breaths. We must be only a few thousand meters above the surface. Hitting pockets of warm air on the way down. The carriage is spinning, then compensating. The boosters automatically correct our course, steer us toward one of the cleared patches in the forest, steady us down to the medcarriage’s final resting place.
We land with a thump.
I open my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Listen to the deep breathing in the room. Then Guion laughs, breaking the spell. Seatbelts clatter as they are unbuckled. Mom is at my side.
“How are you?”
“Still here.”
“Betafall complete. Main hatch opening.”
I push against my straps. “Can you unbuckle me?”
“Of course. You also might want to … let go.” She nods down at my hand. I’m still clutching Sabik, knuckles white.
I let go. There are red marks where my nails dug into his skin. “Oh! Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Sabik grins. “I’m on some pretty heavy painkillers.”
We hear the clunk of the outside door opening and the hiss of the inside door unsealing. The cold air of Beta fills the carriage. Pine and earth. Mom unfastens the straps that hold me against the bed, then leans over and unbuckles Sabik. I push myself up to a sitting position. My chest aches, but the feeling is at a distance. Like it’s happening to someone else.