Into the Black Hole

Chapter 9: Welcoming Hell

It's two and a half days after the EMP attack—I think—and death is a certainty. A couple hours ago, the only symptoms of hypoxemia, low blood oxygen, were a massive headache, coughing, and an increased heart rate. Now I perch by the rear window with my right elbow hooked through a handhold, alternating between staring at Mars—at least, what I believe to be Mars. We're too far away to tell now. Actually, that's probably the Sun—and watching as my hands slowly turn blue.

I don't feel scared. In fact, I don't feel much of anything. Sure, my sweat isn't evaporating nor dripping onto the floor. A film of dampness covers my body. It should be uncomfortable, yet... I don't really care. Wait, why am I here again? I look to the side where wires are poking out of the water reclamation system. Oh, yeah, I've been fruitlessly trying to fix it up for the past day. I'd like to see Timour try to power that monster of a machine without a large source of energy.

My eyelids droop. Gosh, I'm so tired. I haven't slept for days, and there's no way I can concentrate through my disorientation. I could ask Timour how the RTG is coming along, but I know that if he hasn't said anything so far, then it's likely he hasn't succeeded in getting the generator to work. I should ask him anyway. See whether or not he's still conscious.

I'll just rest for a bit first. Then I'll go check on him.

I close my eyes.

* * *

Something pulls on my arm, moving me away from the wall. I tilt my head up, looking through hooded eyes at a stern man. Orange and blue lights cast shadows across his face, electrifying his irises. When did he change our glowsticks? Did I not notice the previous lights dim? At least he had the decency to give me the blue one.

Dark circles plague under his eyes, and I blink in shock as he tries to... put me into his spacesuit?

"What are you doing?" my voice trembles. I attempt to pull away, but his grip is like a vise.

"If you think I'm just going to sit here and watch you die, then you're out of your mind," Timour responds, bending down to wrap his fingers around my left ankle and lead it to one of his spaceboot's inner lining.

I am out of my mind, but so is he. Anoxia is a real bummer. "I'm not following. Your suit doesn't have any oxygen left."

"I never said that. You came to that conclusion yourself after I took the suit off. Adding to the list of Liansan government secrets, our life support systems are designed to only give their occupants the bare minimum of what they need. It's technically illegal, but it keeps you alive in case of emergencies. The gauge says there's forty-two hours of oxygen left." He successfully maneuvers my foot into the boot. When he lets go of my left ankle to take hold of my right, I grab his shoulders and try to shake him. He barely shifts.

"Wha—then—" I reach down to touch his cheek, forcing him to look at me. "Put it on yourself."

He stills, his eyes determined. "No. Our crew knew where we were headed before comms went out. They'll find you. They just need more time. This isn't a negotiation; your lips are blue." Instinctively, I lift one hand to my lips, but there's no sensation of skin touching skin. Everything's numb. Timour's eyes narrow. "Your fingers too."

He relentlessly shoves my right foot into the other boot. My head spins and I lose my balance, causing me to clutch him tighter. I struggle for a second before demanding, "Let me go right now, Commander Orlov! I'm not putting it on."

His jaw ticks. With my arms around his neck and his hands gripping the back of my knees, I grow self-conscious and uneasy with the situation. We enter a silent glaring contest. He finally speaks, "Then I'm not either. What happened to never giving up?"