by Anne Corlett
“There’s a difference,” he said, when he could speak again. “Isn’t there? Between love and being in love.”
That’s what you heard? she thought. That’s all you heard from what I just said?
He was speaking again, but the screen was beginning to splinter and fragment.
“What did you say?” If they finished this properly and said good-bye, it would be an absolution of sorts. She said his name a couple of times but he was just a blur now, the static scratching and scraping over the airwaves, finally giving way to the gray crackle of a lost connection.
She sat there for a moment, then reached for the switch. Just as she took hold of it, the crackle suddenly fell away, yielding a last snatch of clarity. His voice, distorted but audible.
. . . end of all things . . . meant to be.
Then he was gone.
Jamie lifted a shaking hand to brush her hair back from her face.
We’ll meet here, he’d said. If the world ever ends.
How had something so throwaway become the thing they returned to when everything else was breaking and falling apart?
There was a sound behind her, and she turned, her shoulders already tightening defensively against the look that she’d see in Callan’s eyes. Instead, Rena was standing in the doorway, an odd, exultant expression on her face.
When Jamie got up and walked over to the door, Rena grabbed her arm.
“You heard that.” A blaze of emotion crackled over her face. “Meant to be. You heard.”
“Get off me.” Jamie shook herself free.
“You heard.”
Jamie wasn’t sure the other woman was even talking to her anymore. Rena was staring out at the distant stars, and as Jamie walked away she could hear what sounded like a muttered prayer, a thin rise and fall of sound that barely sounded like Rena anymore.
It’s summer, just like it’s supposed to be whenever you’re in love.
And she is. In love. She’s sure of it.
It doesn’t feel like the books or the movies. She’s not lying awake at night thinking of him. When she sees him she doesn’t run and throw herself into his arms, and he doesn’t swing her around and around in the middle of a crowd while they both laugh and throw their heads back.
But that’s not what love is. Not really.
He’s nice. Not that smothering sort of nice. There’s an irreverence to him, an edge. He believes in the things she believes in, and he laughs at the things she laughs at. They never run out of things to talk about. They don’t do that thing where every conversation spirals smaller and smaller and tighter and tighter, always working its way down to the same thing.
Are we getting this right?
They talk about things that happen on other worlds. New books. New research. Out-there scientific theories someone in her department is trying to prove. They talk about farther out, and far in the future. They talk about things that are bigger than them, wider than them.
And she thinks that maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Close, but not too close. Room to breathe, room to be.
It’s not perfect. There are moments when it’s still too much, when she gets that old, familiar feeling, as if the world’s pressing too hard against her skin. Times when he looks at her and all she thinks is that she wants to be somewhere else. Times when they’re making love and she knows his eyes are open, but she keeps hers closed.
Once, just once, he tried to get her to talk to him while he was moving inside her.
Tell me how you want me to touch you. Tell me what you’re thinking.
It hurled her back into her skin. Suddenly she was aware of his weight upon her, the press of him inside her, all the places his body was touching hers. It was too real, as though they were acting out some clinical instruction manual.
Insert part A into aperture B.
Make sure part C is tight to part D.
Her breath caught in her chest and she found herself shoving and clawing her way out from under him.
I can’t, was all she’d said, shaking her head when he reached for her, his face creased in concern. When he tried to push the point she got out of bed, dressed, and went home, leaving him alone. They didn’t talk about it the following day, and the next time they had sex they moved together in silence once again, both of them with their eyes tightly closed.
CHAPTER
19
It was almost noon when the call came. Jamie was in the galley, just making the third coffee of the day, when Callan’s voice crackled over the intercom.
“Everyone to the bridge, please.”
When they got up there, they found Callan and Gracie engaged in an argument, which they broke off as soon as they saw the passengers. Gracie shoved her hands in her pockets and walked over to stare out at the stars.
“We’ve had contact from Earth station,” Callan said. “There are survivors—four of them—and they’ve spoken to Alegria. They’ve been told to automate the station and come back with us.”
“They can’t make us go back.” Rena’s hands clenched into fists. “We won’t let them on board. We’ll . . .”
“Rena.” Lowry touched her arm. “Calm down. We’ll figure something out.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Gracie said. “They won’t refuel us unless we let them code-lock the helm.”
“You’re an engineer.” Rena took a step toward her. “Can’t you override it?”
“No,” Gracie said. “That’s pretty much the point of a lock. And I can’t imagine the four of them will just stand around watching me try.”
“Can we land?” Lowry said. “Find somewhere to refuel on Earth?”
Callan shook his head. “There’s no central fuel port on Earth. Only the small shuttle points. Large ship refueling is always done via the station.”
“We wouldn’t make it anyway,” Gracie said. “We’re running on fumes.”
Callan leaned over to look at a dial. “We might. We could use a load of smaller dumps to get the tank full, but we’d have to find one with stocks and set down close enough for the first fill-up.”
“It’s too risky,” Gracie said. “We’ll be grounded if we misjudge it, even supposing we land safely.”
The comm alert shrilled, and Callan flicked the respond switch.
The man on the screen looked to be in his late fifties, with a cool, appraising stare.
“We’re waiting for you to transfer control of your helm,” he said. “The link’s open. What’s the delay?”
“Just getting a little closer,” Callan said.
“You’re well within range,” the man replied. “Get on with it. We’ve been stuck here long enough, and we all know you’re not going anywhere without fuel. Out.”
As the screen winked out Rena lurched forward, lunging for the helm. “We can’t go back. If you won’t put us down, I will.”
Jamie grabbed at her arm, but Rena flailed in her grip, catching her across the nose with her elbow. Sharp pain flared between Jamie’s eyes, and she felt the warm spurt of blood. She put her hands up to stop the flow, vaguely aware that Lowry had hold of Rena, who was shrieking something about destiny and the voice of God. Callan pushed forward to join Lowry, and together they managed to force Rena back from the helm. Finn was crouched almost double, his hands pressed hard against his ears. Gracie was shouting something but Jamie couldn’t make out the words. Rena’s screams were a high-pitched throb as she writhed and fought in the grip of the two men.
Callan turned, still holding on to Rena, and looked at Gracie, then at Finn, and finally at Jamie. They stared at one another for a moment, and then he let go of Rena and walked across to the helm.
“What are you doing?” Gracie moved forward.
“Landing.” He sat down at the controls. “Go strap yourselves in.”
“We won’t make it.” Gracie gri
pped the edge of the console. “You’ll kill us all.”
“I can do this,” he said. “Get strapped in.”
“Callan . . .”
He turned on her. “This is my ship. And I’m landing it. Now you can stand there and distract me, or you can do what I said.”
Gracie swore and strode off the bridge.
“Go,” Callan said to the rest of them, turning back to the controls. “And make sure you’re strapped in tight.”
• • •
Jamie’s thoughts were spiraling as she fastened the straps on her harness. One image kept recurring: the set, tight-lipped look on Callan’s face as he’d made that unfathomable decision.
Beside her Rena was praying, eyes screwed up tight. Lowry had his eyes closed too, but if he was talking to his god he was doing it in silence. Finn was on Jamie’s other side, folded as far forward as the straps would allow, hands crushed together on his lap. Jamie hesitated, then reached over to him. He resisted briefly but then allowed her to uncurl his fingers and wrap her palm into his.
The engines were beginning their slow-growing roar, a great heft of sound rising up to swallow Rena’s mutterings and the relentless thudding of Jamie’s heart. Was it her imagination, or were those engines more muted than usual? Was Callan holding back, saving fuel for the final descent? For the first time, Jamie wondered if they would die in this attempt. Would it be quick? Would they black out, before they were crushed in the great burning bulk of the dying ship?
Breathe.
Her chest stayed tight and restricted.
“Breathe.” She said it out loud, trying to give it more force.
The engines peaked, then seemed to fade a little, and the ship rocked. Jamie found herself tipping forward like Finn. Her fingers were numb, but she knew she still had hold of his hand.
Another hard lurch. And then the engines faltered.
For a terrible fraction of a heartbeat, there was silence, and then the ship revved again, harder than before. A picture flared in Jamie’s mind: Callan, his knuckles white on the helm, teeth set, throwing all his hopes into a last desperate burn.
Finn’s hand jerked in hers. She tightened her grip, tried to say, It’s okay, but she couldn’t find the right shape for those words.
The ship was screaming now, racked by forces it couldn’t withstand for long, straining every connection to keep its improbable bulk airborne. Jamie imagined the helm bucking against Callan’s control, twisting in panic like a horse that’s seen the needle coming.
Another brief, dragging crescendo, and then all that bedlam of sound fell away, leaving an echoing void in which Jamie could hear Rena’s short, harsh breaths and her own heart beating too fast, too hard.
The ship tipped, listing to one side, as if it had been caught by a wave. Then they were falling, her stomach forced up against her ribs, bile leaping into her throat.
She should be frightened, but all she could feel was regret. They’d been so very close. And the way Callan had looked at her before he made the call, was it her fault? Could she have said, No, let’s go back, and they’d be alive?
Someone was screaming, but she couldn’t remember any names, or any faces. It was getting harder to breathe or to think through the syrupy fog in her mind. But her thoughts were all she had left.
She felt around for something to focus on, something beyond the moment.
Daniel? She’d left him and couldn’t remember his face.
The baby? He didn’t feel real, not real enough to hold on to.
The sea? But it was cold, and so very far away.
Stop it.
She was losing it. She was losing these last moments.
Callan. He was still up there, at the helm, holding his ship in his arms. Did he believe in anything beyond himself? Lowry did. And Rena.
For a moment Jamie strained inside herself, trying to feel the shape that belief would make if it were in there, but her thoughts kept coming back to Callan.
There was a rending of metal, a last shriek of protest from the ship, and she was flung hard against her straps. It felt like she’d been sliced into pieces. They weren’t falling anymore. They were spinning, side over side, up becoming down becoming up again. Her mind was trying to keep up, but it was a losing battle, and the nausea, the nausea. She didn’t want to die vomiting. Her head struck something hard, sending a silver flare up the back of her skull. Any minute now the ship would crumple around her, like a candy wrapper thrown into a bin.
Another crunch sent her into the straps again, hard enough that she thought she might break in two. Then the ship tipped forward and lay still.
• • •
It was dark and silent for a long time.
Jamie teetered back and forth on the edge of consciousness. One moment she was wondering where she was and how she’d come to be there. The next second she knew, with utter certainty, that she was here, in the carcass of a fallen ship, and that she had to get out.
The darkness was heavy with an incomprehensible array of sharp-throated smells. Engine oil and hot metal, and the low drag of burning machinery.
Burning?
That thought hurled her back to full awareness. She clawed at her harness. She couldn’t undo the catch, and she realized she was using only one hand. The other was still holding on to Finn. She could feel his palm hot and damp against her own. That small awareness was a touchstone, and suddenly she could feel the hard ache in her ribs, and the throb in her skull.
She lifted her free arm and reached over to where Rena should be. Her hand collided with a warm body, and someone said something, but she couldn’t make out the words through the buzzing in her ears.
The smell of hot metal and oil was overpowering.
She tried to extract her hand from Finn’s, but he clung on, gripping so hard that she thought she could feel her bones grinding together.
“Finn.” The words sounded thick and clumsy. “I need to get us out. You need to let go.”
There was no response, but he didn’t seem to be holding on quite so tightly. She extracted her hand and fumbled at her straps until the catch snapped open. When she stood up, the movement sent sharper shards of pain through the dull, constant ache of her body.
She took a few cautious steps forward, then stopped at the sudden clang of metal. When she tilted her head, she could just make out the sound of footsteps through the ringing in her ears. They were somewhere above her, slow and cautious, but not as faltering as her own.
“Anyone there?” It was Callan’s voice.
Through the surge of relief, she had an irrational urge to ask him what he’d believed in as the ship came down.
“Hello?” His voice came again, louder.
“Here.” Her ears were clearing. “I’m here. The doors . . .”
“Stand still.” His footsteps were on the stairs now. “I know the ship. You don’t. Stay there.”
That stay there was shockingly close after the black emptiness of the hold. And it wasn’t just his voice. She could feel him through the darkness, just inches away, another warm body in the void.
“Callan . . .”
He was moving farther away now, and she felt a leap of fear. She needed him close, so she’d know he was real, that this wasn’t just the last oxygen-starved ravings of her dying mind.
“Callan?”
No reply.
“Callan?”
A low thud, then the scrape of metal. For a long moment the gears ground against one another, and then the doors cranked open a couple of feet, air hissing through the narrow gap, light breaking in through a haze of dust.
Callan was crouched by the door release. As Jamie looked at him, he pushed himself slowly to his feet, leaning on the side of the ship.
“Think I might have pulled some stitches,” he said.
She nodded, not sure what
would come out if she tried to speak. Behind her Lowry was leaning over Finn, undoing his straps. Rena’s harness was unfastened, but she was still in her seat, tipped forward, clutching at her knees.
“Everyone okay?” Callan said.
Jamie looked around the hold. “Gracie . . .”
“I’m fine.” The engineer was making her way down the steps, one hand pressed to her side. When she saw Jamie looking, she took the hand away. “How’s the ship?”
“We’ll find out when we get out there.”
“What happened?” Gracie asked. “Fuel?”
Callan nodded. “We were too high for the chutes, so I had to try to glide it in.”
“You can’t glide a T-class,” Gracie said. “You know that. God knows how we’re still alive.”
“Well, we are.” Callan stepped up to the gap and sat down on the edge before dropping out of sight.
Gracie muttered something and followed him.
Jamie walked over to the doors, waiting to feel elation, or relief, or anything at all.
Home, she thought, trying to know it was true. Home.
As she stepped through the gap, she had to screw her eyes up against the glare. There was a perfect blue sky overhead, with a high sun beating down. Hills rose up in the distance, gray-green and craggy, with a narrow road winding up and out of sight. Scrubby grass and gorse stretched out all around them, and where the ground rose toward the foothills, fir trees marched up the slopes in artificially straight rows.
It could be anywhere. Callan had only had moments to plot their course. But there was a smell, or a taste, or something that was neither, but still tangible.