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My hands slip, and I’m afraid—if I lose my grasp, if I fall all the way back to the end of the tether—I’ll never make it back to the ship. I’ll never make it back to Amy.
But if I have to die, I think, at least I can die looking at the planet. Is this what Harley thought? Did he see Centauri-Earth before he died? Was his last thought one of regret—that he threw himself to the stars when the planet was almost within his grasp?
I look down at my hands wonderingly. When did I forget to put one hand over the other as I pull myself along the tether? I’m still floating in the direction of the ship—the lack of gravity ensures that—but I have to keep pulling myself along the rope or I’ll never make it back to Godspeed—to oxygen—in time. I force my arms to move, drag my body closer to the ship. I pull harder than before. Desperation fills my muscles. My mouth hangs open, sucking at nothing. My throat convulses.
I’ve got to get to the ship.
My muscles are shaking, but I don’t know if it’s from exertion or suffocation. Just—one more tug—there. The hatch. My fingers scramble, trying to grip the edge of the opening. On the other side of the door is Amy. I crane my head up and, through my watery eyes, I can see her pressed against the glass. I heave, once, and my body propels up, floating through the zero gravity. I bounce against the ceiling of the inside of the hatch. Black spots dance before my eyes.
The hatch door grinds closed . . . so slowly . . .
I turn in time to see the planet, just barely out of sight, only visible here, at the rim between the ship and space—
—The hatch door locks into place.
And I see nothing but black.
40
AMY
AS SOON AS THE HATCH DOOR SHUTS, I REACH FOR THE handle, but it has to re-pressurize before it can open. Through the window of the hatch, I see Elder’s body thunk against the floor as gravity returns. I pound on the door with both fists, but he doesn’t so much as twitch. He lies there, motionless, his face obscured by the helmet.
An eternity later, the lock clicks and I fling the door open. I drop to my knees at Elder’s side and turn his body over so he’s flat on his back. His arms and legs are limp; the shell of his suit is clunky and in the way.
The helmet first. Elder’s head pours out of it and thunks on the metal floor.
“Elder,” I say. “ELDER. ” I slap him, hoping for something, but—
I jab my wi-com and com Doc. “Get down to the cryo level!” I scream into my wrist as I attack the shell armor of the suit, ripping at the latches and stays around Elder’s torso, breaking it open to reveal his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Doc asks. His voice is breathless over the wi-com, as if he’s already running.
“It’s Elder!” I shout.
“I’m on the Shipper Level, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. ”
“Hurry!”
I bend down to Elder’s chest—he’s not breathing. My hair falls across his face, into his slightly open mouth, but he doesn’t flinch.
I don’t know if this will work—I pray it will, but I don’t know—I tip Elder’s head back—his skin is so cold—pinch his nose, and breathe into his mouth. I did this on a dummy once after swim lessons in Florida when I was a kid, but the dummy was plastic and an unrealistic mix of hard and soft—nothing at all like the warm wet of Elder’s mouth. I do two short bursts of breaths—Puff! Puff! Then I lean back on my knees, fold my hands over each other, and press down on his chest.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push.
Puff! Puff!
Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.
