The Loneliness of Distant Beings

Chapter Thirty-Four

'Yeah,' says Ezra, yawning. 'That's the air filter giving up. I thought that might happen.'

'So what now?' I say.

'Well,' sighs Ezra. 'If memory serves me from emergency drill procedures, this is about the point at which we put our masks on.'

'How much air do they have in them?'

He shrugs. 'Eight hours maybe.'

Dom tries to wipe some of the black space dust off his face with his forearm and just smears it around. 'So really we should see how long we can last without them first.'

'Without passing out,' says Mariana.

Ezra laughs. 'Yeah – it's about to get pretty ugly, basically.'

We all sit with that for a moment, trying to process something that is basically impossible to process.

I sit in one of the back seats and run a finger back and forth along my lip for a minute before I say, 'Look, the way I see it it's a simple case of conserving our energy. All we need to do is chill, keep taking one calm breath after another and we'll be fine.' When I look at Dom, he is watching me, this smile on his lips, and when I say, 'What?' he says, 'Nothing.' But he keeps on watching me, same smile.

'How many hours are we from Huxley-3 now?' I ask Ezra, and he looks at the nav screen and says, 'Eleven.'

Which is more than I expected since it seems like we have been here for ever, but I don't say that. Instead I say, 'Well, look, you know, it's like getting through a long night. A night you're not sure how you're going to get through. In the end all you can do is take each minute. Just get to the end of each minute and say to yourself that you're still here, and just . . . keep doing it.'

Dom pulls my hand down on to his shoulder and then kisses it.

I don't know when or how I fall asleep. I only know I wake up with numb tingling legs and my mouth so dry I can't even swallow, and there is this new noise. Three low honks, then a gap, then the honks again. I lift my pulsing head and see Dom peering round the front seat at me.

'Masks on,' he says, eyes wide while he waves his at me. 'Oxygen level's too low.'

I pull mine on and tighten the straps at the back. Ezra pumps up the volume on music that is already loud, no lyrics, surging noises that make me gaze out at the dark side of Huxley-3 through the ice that is lacing up the windows and think about how close we were.

Finally, over the com, Mariana says, 'What happens now?'

And no one answers, no one moves; we all just sit in our seats, hoods up, quilts pulled up to our chins, until finally Ezra says, 'I used to love that swimming pool, the one on main deck. Back when I was a kid. Got so close to being able to do a whole length underwater. Jonah hated me for it,' and he laughs a little.

'What's that got to do with anything?' asks Mariana.

'Nothing really, just . . . came into my mind.'

'So, I take it you're cracking up?'

'What would you rather I said at this point in time, Moreno? Would you rather I just came out and said that we probably have five hours of oxygen left for a seven-hour journey? Is that the kind of thing you want to hear right now?'

'If it's the truth then yes!' she yells, before Dom says, 'Please, guys, let's just conserve, OK? No shouting right now, please – it's not helping. Let's just . . . think happy thoughts.'

I notice Mariana blinking her eyes and if she was anyone but her I would think she was crying but she's her, so she can't be. But all the same I reach my hand to her and when she sees it she takes it.