This Shattered World
Page 77
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He’s as tense as I am, maybe even more so, but it’s so hard to reconcile that with the serenity of weightlessness. His faux-blond hair is floating out away from his head. He’s wearing a worn, much-mended, and too-large shirt his friend in town must’ve found for him, to help him blend in. He looks nothing like the Romeo who dragged me off the base, nothing like the Cormac who threw himself between his own people and me. It’s like that guy’s gone, and I killed him.
“I’m sorry anyway,” I mutter. “God, why is everything so fucked up?”
“Because we make one hell of a team,” Flynn replies lightly, his voice a strained tease. I notice his hands are gripping his armrests, and as he shifts I can see the faint outlines of dampness beneath his palms against the plastic.
It’s with a jolt I remember he’s never been in space before—he’s never even been off the ground before. And he’s trying to relax me.
“Hey,” I try, leaning out as far as my harness will allow me, my hair drifting after me in slow motion. “Do you want to see the stars?”
He blinks, his false bravado falling away as he stares wide-eyed back at me. “The—the what?”
“The stars.” I gesture to the covered viewport in front of us. I could tell him that this might be his last chance to see them, but he already knows that. “They’re right out there. Normally we keep the heat shields on, but there’s no actual need for them out here, only when we’re going through atmo. Want to take a peek?”
He swallows, fingers tightening around his armrests. I want to tell him he’s got nothing to be afraid of—for now, we’re safer up here than we ever were on Avon’s surface. But I know telling him will do no good, because it’s not a rational fear. Even I feel a surge of primal adrenaline when I get up here, every time.
It’s like underwater diving, part of the training all soldiers get during basic. The moment the water closes over your head and you take your first breath through the respirator—your body tells you it can’t breathe, that it’s falling, that you’re going to die. And no amount of logic can stop the feeling, you just have to let it course through you and sweep on past. You have to embrace it. I hold my own breath, watching Flynn.
Slowly, he nods.
I lean forward in my harness and reach for the shield controls, hitting the release button with a light thunk. There’s the hum of the shield mechanism, and then the thick sheet of metal dilates outward—and the sky is full of stars.
The air leaves Flynn’s lungs in an audible rush, and he presses himself back in his seat. I look over to see his eyes flicking this way and that, and I reach out to grab his hand. His fingers wrap around mine with the grip of a drowning man.
“Hey, I’m right here.” I shift my hand so I can weave my fingers through his.
Just let the water close over your head and trust your respirator. Don’t fight it.
Gradually his breathing slows and his painful grip eases. I watch his face as the fear fades and his eyes focus. There’s nothing but stars as far as the eye can see, except for the sliver of Avon at the far left, little more than the gentle blue-gray glow of its constant cloud cover. It’s enough to illuminate Flynn’s features, though, as he leans forward against his harness.
He can’t take his eyes off the stars, but I can’t take mine off his face. I can see the stars reflected in his eyes, can see the wonder of it in the way his mouth opens but no sound comes out. His eyes, his face—they’re beautiful.
My eyes start to burn, and abruptly I let go of his hand. Clearing my throat and ducking my head so I can fumble with my harness, I manage hoarsely, “You hungry? We might not get a chance to eat later, and there should be an emergency pack or two somewhere.”
Flynn has to hunt for his voice too, but when he murmurs, “Sure,” he gives no sign that he noticed my inexplicable surge of emotion. Maybe I’m just remembering the first time I saw the stars from space. That’s what I fight to tell myself, anyway.
I shove the straps of my harness away and let myself rise out of my seat, using the handles to gradually walk myself back into the small cargo area. On the big passenger ships and space stations, they use rotating rings to generate gravity, but on the shuttles, we’re stuck dealing with weightlessness.
I turn back to find Flynn watching me, studying the way I move in zero-g. I reach the lockers and hook my toes under the handles on the wall there. From his perspective it’ll look like I’m standing on the wall, but from mine, the lockers are now sunk into the floor and much easier to access.
There’s a full emergency pack in the first locker I try. Two of them, I discover as I pull the first out. “It’ll be freeze-dried rations,” I warn him. “You can come back, if you move slowly. Tiny movements go a long way. Don’t overcompensate if you find yourself moving in an unexpected direction, just let your hand or foot graze something lightly to correct it.”
Flynn unbuckles his harness and pulls himself along with exaggerated care, his face a study in concentration. “Just like poling a boat through the swamp.” His grip slips a little, and I reach out with my free hand to grab a handful of his jacket to steady him. “Well, mostly.”
He’s doing what all the new trainees do, trying to keep the “floor” of the shuttle below his feet, though there’s no gravity to hold him there. I want to laugh at him—but I’m forced to admit he’s doing okay.
I toss him one of the ration bars and then take a few bites of one myself before shoving the rest into my back pocket for later. Flynn looks as worn down as I feel, exhausted and restless at the same time. I know we need to find a way back down to the surface, but now that I’m able to breathe, I’m realizing how tired I am.
I have to keep moving or I’ll never get up again. “Wonder what else we’ve got up here,” I muse aloud, reaching for the next locker over and finding more of the emergency packs, all with their seals unbroken. “Each of these is designed to keep a pair of soldiers alive for a fortnight, with the ship’s H2O recyc system.”
“That’s months’ worth of food,” Flynn replies, finishing his bar and popping open a few more lockers, all stuffed with the emergency packs. “Or even years.”
“There are dozens of them.” My mind is turning over slowly, inching around an idea, unwilling to look at it directly. “It must’ve been set up for a transport mission, so it could take a shuttle full of soldiers somewhere remote.”
“I’m sorry anyway,” I mutter. “God, why is everything so fucked up?”
“Because we make one hell of a team,” Flynn replies lightly, his voice a strained tease. I notice his hands are gripping his armrests, and as he shifts I can see the faint outlines of dampness beneath his palms against the plastic.
It’s with a jolt I remember he’s never been in space before—he’s never even been off the ground before. And he’s trying to relax me.
“Hey,” I try, leaning out as far as my harness will allow me, my hair drifting after me in slow motion. “Do you want to see the stars?”
He blinks, his false bravado falling away as he stares wide-eyed back at me. “The—the what?”
“The stars.” I gesture to the covered viewport in front of us. I could tell him that this might be his last chance to see them, but he already knows that. “They’re right out there. Normally we keep the heat shields on, but there’s no actual need for them out here, only when we’re going through atmo. Want to take a peek?”
He swallows, fingers tightening around his armrests. I want to tell him he’s got nothing to be afraid of—for now, we’re safer up here than we ever were on Avon’s surface. But I know telling him will do no good, because it’s not a rational fear. Even I feel a surge of primal adrenaline when I get up here, every time.
It’s like underwater diving, part of the training all soldiers get during basic. The moment the water closes over your head and you take your first breath through the respirator—your body tells you it can’t breathe, that it’s falling, that you’re going to die. And no amount of logic can stop the feeling, you just have to let it course through you and sweep on past. You have to embrace it. I hold my own breath, watching Flynn.
Slowly, he nods.
I lean forward in my harness and reach for the shield controls, hitting the release button with a light thunk. There’s the hum of the shield mechanism, and then the thick sheet of metal dilates outward—and the sky is full of stars.
The air leaves Flynn’s lungs in an audible rush, and he presses himself back in his seat. I look over to see his eyes flicking this way and that, and I reach out to grab his hand. His fingers wrap around mine with the grip of a drowning man.
“Hey, I’m right here.” I shift my hand so I can weave my fingers through his.
Just let the water close over your head and trust your respirator. Don’t fight it.
Gradually his breathing slows and his painful grip eases. I watch his face as the fear fades and his eyes focus. There’s nothing but stars as far as the eye can see, except for the sliver of Avon at the far left, little more than the gentle blue-gray glow of its constant cloud cover. It’s enough to illuminate Flynn’s features, though, as he leans forward against his harness.
He can’t take his eyes off the stars, but I can’t take mine off his face. I can see the stars reflected in his eyes, can see the wonder of it in the way his mouth opens but no sound comes out. His eyes, his face—they’re beautiful.
My eyes start to burn, and abruptly I let go of his hand. Clearing my throat and ducking my head so I can fumble with my harness, I manage hoarsely, “You hungry? We might not get a chance to eat later, and there should be an emergency pack or two somewhere.”
Flynn has to hunt for his voice too, but when he murmurs, “Sure,” he gives no sign that he noticed my inexplicable surge of emotion. Maybe I’m just remembering the first time I saw the stars from space. That’s what I fight to tell myself, anyway.
I shove the straps of my harness away and let myself rise out of my seat, using the handles to gradually walk myself back into the small cargo area. On the big passenger ships and space stations, they use rotating rings to generate gravity, but on the shuttles, we’re stuck dealing with weightlessness.
I turn back to find Flynn watching me, studying the way I move in zero-g. I reach the lockers and hook my toes under the handles on the wall there. From his perspective it’ll look like I’m standing on the wall, but from mine, the lockers are now sunk into the floor and much easier to access.
There’s a full emergency pack in the first locker I try. Two of them, I discover as I pull the first out. “It’ll be freeze-dried rations,” I warn him. “You can come back, if you move slowly. Tiny movements go a long way. Don’t overcompensate if you find yourself moving in an unexpected direction, just let your hand or foot graze something lightly to correct it.”
Flynn unbuckles his harness and pulls himself along with exaggerated care, his face a study in concentration. “Just like poling a boat through the swamp.” His grip slips a little, and I reach out with my free hand to grab a handful of his jacket to steady him. “Well, mostly.”
He’s doing what all the new trainees do, trying to keep the “floor” of the shuttle below his feet, though there’s no gravity to hold him there. I want to laugh at him—but I’m forced to admit he’s doing okay.
I toss him one of the ration bars and then take a few bites of one myself before shoving the rest into my back pocket for later. Flynn looks as worn down as I feel, exhausted and restless at the same time. I know we need to find a way back down to the surface, but now that I’m able to breathe, I’m realizing how tired I am.
I have to keep moving or I’ll never get up again. “Wonder what else we’ve got up here,” I muse aloud, reaching for the next locker over and finding more of the emergency packs, all with their seals unbroken. “Each of these is designed to keep a pair of soldiers alive for a fortnight, with the ship’s H2O recyc system.”
“That’s months’ worth of food,” Flynn replies, finishing his bar and popping open a few more lockers, all stuffed with the emergency packs. “Or even years.”
“There are dozens of them.” My mind is turning over slowly, inching around an idea, unwilling to look at it directly. “It must’ve been set up for a transport mission, so it could take a shuttle full of soldiers somewhere remote.”
