Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(24)

And that’s not the only way I can die up here. I have a finite amount of oxygen, food, water, and fuel. Even if I can sustain myself, I need fuel to keep this capsule in orbit—and not burning up in the atmosphere.

I type the only thing I can think to say:

What can I do?





Just rest, Emma. You’ve done your part. Let us do ours.





I have to do something. I inspect the hole that Sergei plugged. I can’t discern any leakage of atmosphere at the periphery. It’s probably okay. To properly repair it, I’d need to do an EVA and patch it. But if the heat shield is compromised, it wouldn’t matter anyway. I can’t think about that. Can’t let my mind run in circles.

To keep myself busy (and awake), I count the food and water—twice. Go through all three med kits. Stare out the window a moment, looking down at North America, then take the stylus and begin pecking out a letter to my sister. It’s a struggle to type this way, but the bigger struggle is coming up with the words. This is probably the last thing I will ever say to her. There’s so much I want to tell her. And so much I can’t.

To Mission Control:



When time allows, please pass along this letter to my sister.



Thanks.



Dear Madison,



There was an accident on the ISS. It was no one’s fault, just a random solar event. Bad luck. I survived. My crew didn’t. I tried to save them.





A tear forms in my eye. When it breaks loose, I lose it. I release the stylus, which drifts to the end of its cord and snaps back, like a running dog that doesn’t realize it’s on a leash.

I float into the capsule and cry and cry some more, all the emotion of the last twenty-four hours hitting me at once.

All I have is time. I am cast away on an island in the sky, no chance of getting home. This is my message in a bottle—my last letter to my only sibling and best friend. I have to get it right.

I erase the last line and continue.

My crew didn’t. They were a good crew. The best crew (but I’m biased).



Don’t be sad for me. I knew the risks when I came to the ISS. Space was my dream. I knew it could end this way, but I’m happy that I lived this dream for so long.



There are some things I want to say. The Tiffany necklace I inherited from Mom—I’d like for Adeline to have it. I can’t really think of a use for the rest of my earthly possessions. They’re likely not worth much in the Long Winter. Don’t spend any time on them. You, David, and the kids need to get to one of the habitable zones. Or underground if they’re building colonies. I know that sounds extreme, but please trust me. Sell whatever you have to and go. Don’t look back. Please. If I’m wrong, you can start over. If I’m not, you all won’t survive.



I love you so much.



—Emma





A reply comes promptly after I send it.

We’ll deliver it, Commander.





I have a request.





Proceed.





My sister is the only family I have. Is the government planning a shelter from the Long Winter? If so, I request a place for her. I assume there would have been a place for me. Please transfer it to her.





You’re talking like you’re not coming home. You are. We just need some time.





Even if I were on the ground, I would give them my spot. Please.





Understood. I’ll take this upstairs as soon as I can.





I float away from the screen. That was worth surviving for. Saving them. All of a sudden, I feel a lot better, even though I know I’ll never leave this capsule alive.





Chapter 18





James





Fowler looks up at the crew, seeming to realize we’re still here.

“Right. Well, that’s a long way to say that there are many variables that go into making sure we reach the Alpha artifact. Ultimately, we have to be sure we’re sending you all up with enough fuel to haul all of the scientific equipment we need to figure out what this thing is.”

Chandler seizes the opening. “Well said, indeed. I believe that’s where we should focus: on the scientific payload. Once we determine that, it seems the balance of the manifest should be crew and provisions, with the remainder dedicated to fuel and propulsion—as much as we can get.”

I agree. The others seem to as well.

Chandler motions to a young man at the back of the room who has the look of an eager post-doc. He passes out stapled sheaves of papers to the crew and the NASA staff. It’s a wish list of equipment Chandler wants—everything from drones to lasers to a robotic arm for the ship. This stuff is going to weigh a ton. Lots of tons, technically. No way we can manage all this and extra fuel.

I skim the list while he talks (which he likes to do). I finish it about halfway through his monologue, and I do what I used to do in his class: ask myself, Is there a better way? The answer is yes.

When Chandler finishes speaking, I raise my hand, as I used to do in his class. There’s a moment of confusion between him and Fowler about who should give me the floor.