Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(42)

Harry opens a cabinet and starts tossing out vacuum-sealed meals. “Kitchen’s open! Place your orders, folks. Steak. Chicken. Mashed potatoes. Shrimp cocktail. Spicy green beans. And freeze-dried ice cream and chocolate cake for dessert.”

James pulls open another cabinet. “And for the night’s entertainment, a plethora of board games. Decided by simple majority vote.”





In every way, it’s a perfect night. No screens. No deadlines. No arguing, just all of us eating together and doing something we’ve never done before: playing.

We’re all stuffed and tired when we finish, but I know there’s one thing on everyone’s mind: a shower. It’s dry in space. We all feel as though we’ve walked through the desert, sweating and accumulating grime, but no one has bothered to shower for over a week. We’ve covered it up with deodorant and kept our heads down, working every spare second.

James extends his hand, palm down, fist closed, holding eight bits of wire. He makes everyone draw. Charlotte, Lina, Izumi, and I draw the longest ones—we’ll get to shower first. Then the four guys. James and Harry are last. They rigged it. I don’t know how, but they rigged it. No one argues. We’re all too tired.

The shower is cylindrical and tight, an enclosed tube with a door. There’s no drain, just a suction device that pulls the water out. My skin feels as if I’ve been rubbed all over with sandpaper and coated in sawdust. The water is like a gentle rain washing it away and coating me in a thin lotion, soothing me.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been sleeping in the lab. Most people have been bedding down near their work. Tonight, I slip into one of the sleep stations: a padded, enclosed cubby like a bunk bed in space. To me, it feels as luxurious as a penthouse hotel suite. It’s soft and comforting, hugging me tight.

There are only six sleep stations on the ship, and there’s not enough room inside for two. But Grigory has already made himself a sleep station in the engine module, and Min has set up a similar alcove at navigation.

I’m almost asleep when James pulls the curtain back. His face is clean, and he smiles. “Good night.”





It’s the best sleep I’ve had since the ISS disaster.

I wake, wash my face, brush my teeth, and float down to the bubble for breakfast. James is there, tapping at a tablet.

“Good morning.”

“Morning.” He hands me a water bottle and a tablet. It’s an exercise schedule. For me. This again.

“I’m not telling you, Emma—I’m asking. Please do this. Or whatever you’re willing to do.”

I study the screen. Four hours a day.

“It’s important to the mission,” he says. “And to me.”

“Okay.”





The days before the launch seemed to fly by. The days after drag on.

When contact day arrives—the moment when we should hear from the Janus scout drone—everyone is nervous. We don’t acknowledge it though. We don’t gather in the bubble at the designated time. We’re not that sure about the artifact’s position, not sure exactly when contact will occur, and no one wants to draw attention to the deadline. But I’m acutely aware of the projected contact time arriving and passing with no messages. I think everyone is.

Another day passes with no messages. We’re all struggling to focus on our work.

On the third day, James convenes us in the bubble. “Well, let’s start with the obvious: there’s been no contact from the Janus scouts. The implication is that the artifact wasn’t at the position NASA projected.”

“Or it wiped the drones out,” Grigory says.

“Or a malfunction,” Min adds.

“All possibilities,” says James.

“What’s the plan?” Lina asks.

“We’re going to figure out what’s wrong, and we’re going to fix it.”





Chapter 28





James





We have problems. And they’re popping up like a litter of kittens.

I’m stressed. Izumi is all over me about it. She’s all over each of us about our stress levels. She’s mandated we take downtime—at least one hour each day for each of us alone, outside our labs or workstations. So I hide out in my sleep station and review design specs and take notes.

We also spend an hour each day together in the bubble, all eight crewmembers, conducting a team-building exercise Izumi designates. Board games, talking about ourselves (which is excruciating for me), our feelings (a form of torture, in my view), and how we feel the mission is going (everyone lies).

Gone is the camaraderie we shared after the Janus launch, that night we ate and laughed and were like one big family.

Somehow, everyone is looking to me for a plan. I guess it makes sense: the drones are our primary method of completing our mission at the moment, and drones are my department.

I feel the weight of the next decision like an entire planet on top of me. Guess wrong, and everyone on Earth dies. If they’re not already dead.

In prison, I felt cut off from the world. And given the way the world treated me before my incarceration, that was fine by me. This is something else entirely. Not knowing what’s going on back on Earth is eating at me. I think that’s true of all of us. It’s part of the tension, and it’s worse for those crew with the strongest bonds to their family and friends. They want to know if their loved ones are alive and well, if they’re safe or if they’re freezing to death in a refugee camp right now. We keep telling ourselves we’re doing the best we can, but so far our best has come up short.