Chapter Text
(Ryland Grace)
“Cognitive assessment. What is two plus two?” Something about the question irritates me, and I drift back to sleep. “Incorrect.”
A few minutes pass, then I hear it again.
“What is two plus two?” The voice is the exact same as it sounded the last time. It’s a computer. A computer is hassling me. I’m even more irritated now, this thing sounds worse than Siri. “…Lrmln,” I say. That’s odd, I meant to tell this thing to leave me alone (completely reasonable, if you ask me) but I failed to speak. “Incorrect.”
“What is two plus two?” I continue to try to speak, fumbling past the words once again. What’s going on? I want to find out, but I can’t see. I panic slightly when I realize I can’t even feel. Well, that’s not true. I feel something. I’m laying down, I think. Probably in bed.
I think my eyes are closed. That’s not so bad— I try to open them, but nothing happens. That’s… that’s kind of bad. Why can’t I open my eyes?
Open. And…. Open! Dang it, open!
Oh, I felt them move that time! My eyelids are slow to creep up, and I’m blinded by the white of the light above. I force myself to keep them up through sheer willpower.
“Eye movement detected. What is two plus two?” Things are starting to come into vision now. I’m in a bed, but this doesn’t seem like what a normal house would be like. There’s a camera in the ceiling, watching my every move. Creepy.
“Furr…” As creepy as the camera is, I’m much more concerned with the giant robot that’s looming over my head. Can’t say I like the look of that.
Anyways, the computer seems to take my slurring as an answer, seemingly satisfied. “Correct.” I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing I’m wearing a breathing mask. It’s tight to my face and connected to a larger hose that disappears behind my head. At least the feeling’s coming back to me.
Can I get up? No, but I can move my head a little. I look down at my body, connected to more tubes than I’d like to count. There’s one in each arm and leg, one that I assume is a catheter (yikes), and two that disappear under me. I’m guessing one of them is up where the sun doesn’t shine. That can’t be good. Am I sick? In a weird hospital, maybe?
“Wh… where am…I?” I ask, hoping someone is around to hear my growing distress. I don’t get a response— not from anyone human, anyways.
“What is the cube root of eight?” great, back to this? How smart is this thing?
“Two times e to the two-i-pi.” It takes a lot of focus to get my words out clearly. I hope someone’s coming to check on me soon.
“Incorrect. What is the cube root of eight?” That answers my question— this thing isn’t very smart. I wasn’t incorrect, but I suppose I should shut this thing up.
“Two…”
“Correct.” I wait for it to continue its nagging, but I guess it’s satisfied for now. I’m tired. And sore, but mostly just tired. At some point I drift off again, but when I wake up I’m more coherent.
I try to move my fingers, and they wiggle as instructed. All right, now I’m getting somewhere! “Hand movement detected. Remain still.”
“Wha…? Why?” I’m still a bit sleepy, but I doubt I would be faster than those metal arms even if I was fully awake. They move fast. Before I know it, they’ve removed most of the tubes from my body. Only three stay in place: the IV in my arm, the tube up my butt, and the catheter. Those latter two were the ones I was hoping to get removed, but whatever.
I raise my arm and let it fall. Then the other. Everything feels heavy as heck! I repeat the process a few times, realizing how muscular my arms are. Huh. I assumed I’ve been in some sort of coma or medical accident to end up here in the hospital, but that can’t be the case. I’d have muscle atrophy. Why’d they have me hooked up to all that stuff then? Why didn’t they get rid of the other tubes?
I try my best not to whine at the machine. “Take… take the other tubes out too…” It doesn’t bother to hear out my request. How rude. I continue to wiggle my hands and toes to gain the feeling back as I think. “Cmon GLaDOS…”
If I'm not sick, why am I here? Maybe I’m doing a study of some sort? Are there other people here? I can’t tell yet, but I really hope there are. In fact, I’m kind of desperate to find out. This whole thing is uncanny, and I’d like some reassurance I’m not in here alone. I can’t be here alone.
I push my palms against the bed to try and sit up. It’s working! It takes all my strength but I march on, rocking the bed gently as I move. Soon I’m sitting on my butt tube. Not the best position to be in, but when is a tube up your butt ever considered comfortable? At least I’ve got a better view now.
This hospital is weird. The whole room is round. There’s three other beds mounted to the walls like mine, each with their own patient. I let out a breath of relief I didn’t realize I was holding once I see them. Thank gosh, I’m not alone!
I slide one leg off the edge of my bed, making it wobble. I need to make sure they’re okay, they don’t seem awake yet. This seems to make the unnamed robot mad, because it’s ready to grab me if I fall. “Full body motion detected. What is your name?”
“Pff, seriously?”
“Incorrect. Attempt number two. What is your name?”
“It’s… uh…” I can’t remember.
“Incorrect. Attempt number three. What is your name?” Only now does it occur to me that I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I do. I don’t remember where I am. I don’t remember anything at all.
“Um?!”
“Incorrect.” A wave of fatigue hits me. It must be sedating me through the IV line. I try to protest, but I’m cut off as the robot lays me back in bed.
Before I can process I’m awake again the robot’s already pointed it out. “Consciousness detected. What is your name?”
Ugh. “I still don’t know that.”
“Incorrect. Attempt number two. What is your name?”
I’m Caucasian, I’m male, and I speak English. Might as well play the odds. “John…?”
“Incorrect. Attempt number three. What is your name?” It’ll sedate me again on three, won’t it? I pull the IV out of my arm, muttering to myself. “Bite me.”
“Incorrect.” It goes to grab for me again and I roll out of the way. That was a mistake. The other tubes are still connected. The butt tube comes right out— doesn’t even hurt. I don’t really notice, because what does hurt is the still inflated catheter that gets ripped out of my penis. It’s like peeing a golf ball. I scream out, writhing on the floor.
“Physical distress detected.” I could’ve told it that! The arms start to chase again. I crawl on the floor, hiding under one of the other beds to escape it, using the storage underneath to bury myself and hide in what I assume are piles of suitcases. Its arms just wait, giving me a chance to get it together, gasping for breath. After a while the pain subsides and I stop sobbing, only to hit my head on the bed I’m hiding under, tears threatening to well right back up. Right, people! Maybe they know what’s happening?
“Hey! one of you, wake up!” They don’t respond, but the computer continues to nag me.
“What is your name?” Ugh. My crotch hurts so bad I have to laugh. I think the endorphins are kicking in and making me giddy. I really hope someone wakes up to save me soon. I stare at the catheter that just got ripped through my urethra. Yikes. It did some damage on the way out. A small streak of blood sits on the ground, leading to—
Dr. Irina Petrova. St. Petersburg. The infrared line. 25.984 micron wavelength. Venus.
It comes back to me in an instant. Some sort of email I’d received. I see what people mean when they say their life flashes before their eyes, at least somewhat. It’s like I’ve always had the information, even though I’ve just remembered. It just kind of showed up in my head without warning.
Was that supposed to be helpful? I didn’t learn much. I live in San Francisco. I like breakfast. I used to be into astronomy…? Apparently my brain decided it was critical to remember that, but not my own name. No, that’s fine. Of course, priorities. Maybe my subconscious wants to tell me something? The blood must have reminded me of the thin red IR line, but I don’t see what that has to do with me.
Maybe these people know? Time to get a look at my fellow patients. I don’t know who I am or why I’m here, but at least I’m not alone. The one closest to me is a woman. Is she dead? I don’t think so, she just looks like she’s in a coma. She’s got long dark hair, and is a bit shorter than me, though only by an inch or two.
I think in inches? So I’m American, then? I guess I could be from Liberia. I know Liberia uses imperial units, but not my own name? That’s irritating. C’mon, focus.
The other, to her left, is an older Asian man. He seems to be in just as deep of a sleep as the first woman. Across the way is another woman, though she’s significantly smaller and a redhead. I’d say she seems closer to my age, but I realize I can’t remember how old I am. How old am I? There’s no mirror for me to tell.
Are we in quarantine? We don’t seem sick, but I can’t find anything correlated between us. Well, oddly enough, they’re all just as muscular as me, despite looking like they’re in some sort of coma, but I don’t think that’s really the helpful piece I need to figure this out. They’ll wake up soon, right? I’m glad I’m not alone alone, but it’d be nice to have someone to bounce ideas off of.
Does this mean I was in a coma too? I’m pretty sure I was. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but if I can’t remember anything it’s probably been a while. Yeah, the more I think about it, I was definitely in a coma.
I watch the robot scramble to try to reach me, standing just outside of its range as I stare. Those arms are built to manage long term unconsciousness. More evidence I was in a coma. I look around for something else to work with about why we’re locked away in a hospital room this weird, eyes finding the hatch at the top of the ladder.
I take a few steps before sinking to the floor. It’s just too much, I have to take a rest. Why am I so weak when I have these muscles? If I was in a coma, why do I even have muscles? Why do the others? We should be withering away at the moment. Under normal circumstances we’d probably look like corpses.
Time to try the ladder again. Not much else to work with, I doubt these people will wake up any time soon at this rate. I just hope it’s soon enough. I push myself up (it’s a bit easier this time), clinging to the ladder’s lower rungs. I’m just too weak. How am I supposed to climb a ten foot ladder?
Ten foot. Imperial units, once again. I’m definitely American. I mean, I lived in San Francisco after all. It’s the most likely conclusion. I take a deep breath, securing my feet on the bottom rung. I reach up, grabbing the next. Progress! I climb another. Then another. Everything is taking so much effort— I feel myself start to slip. I’m about halfway up by now, but when I pull myself up to the next my grip gives way and I fall backwards off the ladder. This is going to hurt.
It doesn’t. The stupid babysitting robot catches me before I hit the ground and settles me into bed like a mother hen, bed rocking as I accept defeat. Something bugs me about how I fell, but I can’t put my finger on it. It just feels off. Wrong. Hmm.
I think I start to drift off again.
“Eat.” What? There’s a black toothpaste like tube on my chest. The heck is this?
“The heck is this?” I echo to the computer, not really expecting an answer.
“Eat.” I sigh, unscrewing the tube. Ew, gross. It’s more like sludge than anything. Why won’t it give me a real meal? Only now do I realize just how hungry I really am. I squeeze the tube reluctantly and more sludge comes out. Gross. Still, who am I to question the overbearing, bossy, annoying computer? I cautiously taste the contents.
Oh gosh, it’s good! It’s so good! It’s like breakfast gravy but not as rich. I force myself to slow down and savor it. I swear, it’s better than sex. Oh, I get it. When you’re starving, your brain rewards you handsomely for finally eating. The pieces fall into place. If I was in a coma for a long time, I must have been fed somehow. I didn’t have an abdominal tube when I woke up, so it was probably feeding me with an NG tube down my esophagus. It’s the least intrusive way to feed a patient that can’t eat, and it keeps the digestive system alive. Makes sense. It also explains why it was gone when I woke up, since they’re supposed to be removed while a patient is unconscious.
I shudder, trying not to think about it, before I realize I can check my theory. My fellow patients! Sure enough, they each have one, as well as all the other awful stuff I had been connected to when I was still asleep. Theory confirmed. Maybe I’m a doctor? I sure know an awful lot about this kind of thing.
I feel way better than before. I roll out of bed, wrapping a sheet around my naked body toga-style before heading to the ladder.
“Self-ambulation detected. What is your name?”
“I am Emperor Comatose. Kneel before me!”
“Incorrect.” Oh well, time to see what’s up that ladder. I’m still kind of unsteady, but I make it to the top one rung at a time. I make it to the hatch, not expecting it to give as I twist the handle, but to my surprise it actually turns.
“Holy moly!” Holy moly? Is that really my go-to expression of surprise? I mean, it’s okay. I guess…. What kind of a weirdo am I? I continue to turn until I hear a click and the hatch holds itself open. I’m free!
I redo until the new room, pulling myself up to the floor as the lights to the room click on. It’s a lab. There’s a large table in the center, with three stools mounted to the ground. The tables mounted too. Am I in a psych ward? Are the people in the other room crazy? Maybe I don’t want them to wake up just yet… no, I still miss having company. I continue to look around for anything else distinguishable.
Oh! It’s a lab! Since when do wards have well-stocked science labs? Since when do they let patients in? Where the heck are all the people, and what the fudge is going on?!
Fudge? Seriously…? Maybe I have children. Or I'm deeply religious.
Wow, this lab is fully stocked. There’s an autoclave, submillimeter 3-D printer, 11-axis milling machine, laser interferometer, an 8000x microscope, 1-cubic-meter vacuum chamber, a sampler fridge, scanning electron microscope— wait a minute. Why do I know all of these terms?
I’m a scientist! Now we’re getting somewhere! I have no idea why this lab is here or why I’m allowed in, but I pocket a tape measure (metric units, maybe I’m in Europe?) and move onward to the next ladder! Everything still feels weirdly heavy. The tape measure falls from my pocket and I sigh, going to grab it again. It fell way too fast.
I continue to think it through while I climb. What was the rate that fell at? It didn’t seem like 9.8 meters a second. It couldn’t have been. In fact, everything seems to have more gravity. That’s probably why everything’s so heavy. Am I in a centrifuge? I doubt anyone could make one this big.
My questions are quickly answered when I make my way up to the next room. It’s some sort of cockpit, maybe? Huh, weird. There’s not any… windows that...
It….
Space. I’m in space. Holy crap I’m in space. My brain goes silent as I try to process the information. I find a seat to process, cut off by a different, equally annoying voice.
“Pilot detected.”
“Woah— I’m not a pilot…!” I’m quick to stand, the shock bringing me out of my spiral temporarily, but it’s quick to catch up. I'm in space. I’m alone in space. Well, not technically alone, but the only other people I’ve seen are asleep for who knows how long. “Can I speak to the person in charge…? The uh… the captain?”
“Capital Yao Li-Jie under comatose.”
“Yeah…! Yeah, where are the uh… awake people?”
“Dr. Ryland Grace. End of manifest.” Is that me? Ryland, huh? So I am a doctor? Wait, or do I just have a doctorate? That’s not the point! Surely there’s more than just the four of us out here? I don’t even know where ‘out here’ is! One of these has to have a map. I search through the screen, settling on one that shows where we are with a small sigh.
“That’s the sun!” That’s bad, but not super bad. Okay, we’re astronauts, maybe? Where are we going? It must be pretty far if we were in comas. There’s a chance we’re past Saturn! “Okay, okay…. What are we like… Neptune-ish?” I try to dig up any memories of NASA or ESA, but instead only find cheesy sci-fi movies come to mind.
“Call… Huston?”
“Current transmission time to Earth is 11 years, 10 months, 14 days, and 6 hours.” I feel the blood drain from my face again. That can’t be right. That’s… I don’t know what the math on that is off the top of my head, but that’s bad. 11.9 light years away.
Oh no. What’s the fuel on this thing? I’ve seen the whole ship, it’s not that large. I scramble to find a model of the ship. Just as I thought, smaller than the ISS. we shouldn’t have had the fuel to get here, let alone get back. What’s this thing fueled on? How did—
I met Marissa every night for steak and beer at Murphy’s on Gough Street. Always at six P.M., always the same table. This time though, she had a couple of empty glasses in front of her before I’d arrived.
“Pre-gaming, huh?” I teased, dropping the tone as she fidgeted with her glass. “Hey, what’s wrong?” She just took a sip, mumbling about a long day. I made some brash comment about her ‘cushy government job’ that I shouldn’t have. No laugh, she just sighed.
“You know about the Petrova Line?”
“Oh, sure. Kind of an interesting mystery. My guess is solar radiation, since Venus doesn’t have a magnetic field—“
“No,” she’d cut me off. “It’s something else.” After that she’d gotten cagey, hesitant to share.
“Come on, marrisa. Spill it. What the heck’s gotten into you?”
She considered my words for a moment, letting out another sigh before setting down her bottle. “Why not? You’ll hear it from the president in about twelve hours anyway.”
I’d questioned her, but she’d just picked her bottle back up. She’d asked about some probe they’d sent up. I’d heard of it, vaguely, and started to rumble before she cut me off again.
“Yeah, I know. Whatever. According to their data, the suns output is decreasing.” I shrugged it off. I’d physically shrugged, blaming it on the solar cycle like she didn’t know what that was. I’d teased her about coming here early to drink, saying it was ‘hardly worth three whiskeys before dinner.’
“That’s what I thought. But they’re saying the value’s increasing. And the rate of the increase is increasing. It’s some sort of exponential loss that they caught very, very early.” I brushed it off again, blaming JAXA like I knew any better.
“I dunno Marrisa. Spotting an exponential progression that early seems really unlikely. But, okay. Let’s say they’re right. Where’s the energy going then?”
“The Petrova line. It’s getting brighter at the same rate the sun's getting dimmer. Whatever it is, the Petrova line is stealing energy from the sun.” She’d had the papers to prove it. I’d still denied her. The sun couldn’t be dying.
“It’s right. The sun's output will drop a full percent over the next nine years. In twenty, that’ll be five percent. It’s bad. It’s really, really bad.”
“That would mean an ice age, like… right away. Instant ice age.” That couldn’t have been right, I had thought. If something like that were to happen, everything would freeze in the next ten to fifteen years. That’d be right when my students would become adults. My students.
Another memory hits me before I can process the first.
“—sound waves are physical, and at different frequencieeeees…! They make different patterns—“ I stopped myself at the crack in my voice, trying again. “Patterns— no, Olivia can you help me out here?” She nodded, turning up the base to outline the clear pattern in the experiment.
“Woah, look!” I fight back a smile as their faces all light up. I’d long since earned the respect as ‘the cool teacher’, but I intend to keep that title for a long while. I call on a raised hand. “Yeah?”
“Are they really eating the sun? The… space dots?” It felt like ice had been thrown over me.
“That is a great question, uh… Raika, I’d be curious what your parents think about that?” I try to hide my panic, but children aren’t stupid. “Who wants to play a game of— the bean bag is lava?” I’d gotten a chant going, trying to distract them. They’d just tossed it to me, forcing me to play at my own game to answer the innocent question that was “what’s the Petrova line?”
I’d relented, hanging a piece of red tape between my solar system model’s sun and Venus as I explained. “Two years ago…. A radio-teloscope enthusiast named Irina Petrova noticed there was a streak of infrared light from the sun to Venus. That’s all.”
“That’s the dots?”
“They think so.”
“What dots…?” Oh gosh, I couldn’t help but answer and pull up a picture.
“These dots. They sent a probe up to the Petrova line and this is what they found.”
“Are they…” Raika trailed off for a moment, careful with her words. “…eating the sun?”
“They seem to be…. Dimming the sun a teeny, tiny bit.” I remembered their stares as I explained. I remembered how the concern disappeared once I’d told them it would be within the next 30 years. Children don’t have a scope of time— 30 years might as well be a million. I looked out at their little faces. In 30 years these kids would be in their forties. They would bear the brunt of it all. These children were going to grow up in an apocalyptic nightmare.
Once I zone back into my surroundings I realize I’ve sunk to my knees, staring out into space. I’m crying. I can’t tell if it’s for my kids or for myself. I’d do anything to be back with them at the moment, but it wouldn’t matter if I was. Earth is dying because of the Petrova problem (I just remembered that’s what they call it). I’m… somewhere. Out in space. Alone, at least for the moment.
I drag myself back down to the bedroom. Staring out into space isn’t helping me, and I should calm down, or at the very least curl up in bed to cry properly. I’m careful on my way back down the ladders, but once I turn to my bed I catch a glimpse of them again and realize I’ve been subconsciously avoiding the thought process. My fellow patients.
I knew these people. I’m sure I did. I can’t remember their names, or personalities, or hobbies, but before I know it I’ve started sobbing again. They were my friends, my crew. We’re astronauts, and we were in comas for our trip. I doubt the comas are as perfect as science fiction; there’s a chance they won’t wake up again, and I can’t even do them the justice of remembering who they were. Who they are. Who I am.
There’s got to be something I can do to figure this out. If they don’t wake up and I can’t remember them…. Don’t think like that. My eyes wander to the storage under their beds. There was plenty of storage in the other rooms, these must be personal. Keepsakes to bring out to space. I shouldn’t look through their personal luggage, but if there’s a chance it’ll jog my memory like the less than lovely image that provoked the Petrova line, I’ll take it.
I start with the older man’s bag. There’s a name tag on it, but I can’t read it. Looks like Mandarin, at least I think. I hesitantly open it, finding a small booklet filled with photos that racks my body with even more sobbing before I get a grip. He’s got a family at home. A wife and 3 kids, it seems like. I find what seems to be a jade wedding band soon after. His wardrobe seems standard for an older man, but he’s got a shirt from Cats! that I get a chuckle out of. I think I liked musical theater. Maybe we bonded over it. He’s got little figures and trinkets carefully wrapped that I’m delicate in handling. They look to be children’s pottery, and my heart breaks all over again.
It takes me a minute to get a hold of myself long enough to continue onto the next. The brunette woman’s name is also, much to my despair, unintelligible to me. Maybe Russian? She too has a photo album, filled with countless friends in group photos. Parties, probably. There’s one that looks like she’s breaking into the Kremlin. I bet she was funny. Other than the photos, she’s got lots of bright colored outfits, an iPod despite it being extremely outdated, and 3 pouches of vodka. I don’t know how I recognize the writing, considering it’s also in Russian, but I know with full confidence what it is.
I go back to her photos. She has so many loved ones waiting for us to return, and they’re waiting just because I can’t figure out what’s going on past ‘solve the Petrova problem’. No matter how long I stare, her name, too, escapes me.
While I’m packing her things back into their bag I consider stopping. This is a violation of their privacy, after all. Curiosity (and the realization that if I stop I’ll have to look through my own bag to try and figure out who I am) wins, and I move onto the other woman’s bag, expecting the same, only to find she’s got almost no photos at all. There’s one of her playing the violin (which I actually find a bit later into searching), a photo of her and a taller black man seemingly taken without her realizing (maybe they’re married?), and one of some blonde man curled up next to her at a party, clearly drunk.
There’s not much to go off of. Her clothes are both more plain and basic than the others, except for one t-shirt with a horrible pun that says ‘steminist’ buried deep at the bottom that doesn’t match the rest. She’s got the violin, a small crocheted fox, and 3 pouches of something unlabeled that looks similar to the first woman’s vodka. Unsentimental, I suppose. I’d forgotten to check the name tag, assuming by this point it’d also be unreadable to me, but no. Her name was Eva Stratt. Where do I know that—
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
She’d shaken her head. “Not good at jokes.”
“Not good at jokes, who? Hehehe…” my laughter trailed off at her somber face.
“Dr. Grace?” Not a parent, then? She seemed serious. None of my students called me ‘Dr’ anything. It was too formal.
“…maybe.”
“My name is Eva Stratt, I’m with the Petrova Task Force, I need your help.”
“…me?” She’d started reaching into her purse, ignoring my question.
“Did you write this?” It had taken me a moment to process what she was holding. My PhD papers. Oh, crap.
“Oh… um…!” Absolutely not. I’d had my fun with molecular biology years ago. I'd retired to the teacher life. I was already packing my things to run before I had consciously processed the fact.
“I’m interested in this section here, page 31–“
“Uhhhh—“
“—the Goldilocks zone is for idiots, why everyone is wrong about life?” I hadn’t had a defense for that, just chuckling nervously.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Do you stand by what you wrote?”
“I was fired for standing by what I wrote.”
“You were fired for calling the leading scholar in your field a ‘staggering waste of carbon’ at the UNESCO conference in Denmark.” It’s hard to say what happened next. I’d run off, ready to leave. She’d followed, trying to get me to talk to her.
“No one in your field wants anything to do with you because you refuse to back down from a very unpopular view and I can give you a chance to prove them all wrong…!”
“Really, that’s… uh… Kevin, no running.” He’d continued to walk off, refusing to save me from this woman. Great. “Jokes on them, cause…. I don’t even care.”
“I think you do care, you’re just running away because you’re scared. Do you still believe water is unnecessary for life to evolve?”
“Uhhhh… look, there is nothing magical about hydrogen and oxygen. Water is required for life on Earth, sure, but a completely different planet might have completely different conditions— I don’t know why that makes me such a nut…!”
Four government cars had pulled up behind her, along with another man named Carl, all telling me they needed me to come with them.
Stratt. I know her. I knew all of these people, sure, but I remember her. I look back to her unconscious body, completely breaking down. I feel sick. It’s one thing to see people in that condition, but it’s so much worse to recognize them. I get myself so worked up that the ceiling robot takes notice. “Physical distress detected.”
I don’t resist much when it grabs me and pulls me back into bed, still clutching a pouch of the first (still nameless) woman’s vodka. I wait for it to sedate me. For once, I’m not mad about it. I can’t do this; it’d be nice to forget that. It gives no such mercy. I suppose that I’m supposed to be healthy now, so it doesn’t need to. I think we were all supposed to wake up at the same time— even more evidence they might not wake.
What’s the point? I unscrew the cap of the bag, pulling back when I take a sip. Gosh, it’s strong. I doubt I’ll make it halfway through before blacking out. That’s good, if she ever wakes up she’ll probably be mad. A memory of the fiery girl hits me and I take another sip so I don’t have to hear my sobs echo through the ship. After a little while things start to blur. For a moment it looks like the younger of the two women is missing her NG tube, but I drift off before I can figure out if I’m just seeing things. What an astronaut I am. Supposed to be saving the world from whatever the ‘Petrova problem’ is, and I’m getting blackout drunk 12 light years away.
Well, whether doing a good job or not, I’m here. That counts for something, right? I had to be at least a little brave to come all the way out here. To leave everything behind and volunteer to go to space, even knowing the risks. I guess I’ll unpack that (both mentally and physically unpack my own bag) tomorrow. God, that hangover’s going to be horrible.
Oh well. Future problem.