Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(69)

“That won’t tell us anything we don’t know,” he says quietly.

“It will. I need to know if I caused this—if my actions up there accelerated the Long Winter. It won’t affect me. I promise.”

He exhales heavily and types on his laptop.

I scan the data. I was right. The day we attacked the artifact, the climate on Earth changed dramatically—temperatures around the world plummeted. We did this. I did this. I caused the Long Winter to get worse. My actions out there did this. I’m responsible for the death of millions. Maybe billions.

I have to fix this. I might be the only one who can. And I’ll never be the same if I can’t.





Chapter 37





Emma





I’m getting stronger. Slowly. Every day it’s a little easier to breathe, a little easier to stand. And I can walk for longer. They say it will take years for me to regain my full strength. I may have to use a walker for the rest of my life.

It’s an adjustment. It’s humbling. But I feel so lucky to be alive and to be here and to have my family and James so close.

Every day, I ask him what he’s working on. He’s coy. I know he’s meeting with Fowler and that they’re planning a new mission. I want to be on it desperately, but my health prevents that.

“Has there been any communication from the Midway fleet?” I ask.

“Nothing yet.”

Two of the larger drones in the fleet have small rail launchers capable of sending mini comm bricks directly to Earth. So why have we received no communications? Have the drones truly found nothing? Or were they destroyed as well?

“Any word from the Pax?” I dread the answer.

“No,” he says softly.

“What’s the plan?”

“We’re not sure. Fowler and I have talked about launching more probes. But we’re pretty short on resources, and I think we need to wait until we know more.”

“Such as a target.”

“A target would be nice. Midway might give us that.”

“What’s the alternate plan?”

“As of right now, we don’t have one.”





Days turn to weeks. My progress plateaus. The doctors and physical therapists continue encouraging me, but recovering muscle mass is hard, and recovering bone density is even harder.

I try not to think about the crew of the Pax, but it’s impossible. James and I talk about them, speculate about what they’re doing right now—if they’re alive. It seems like with each passing week, we both think about them less and talk about them less. They’re like a ship sailing into the sunset, growing farther away and out of sight, not suddenly, or noticeably, but gradually, the transition subtle and easy to miss until its gone.

For the most part, I’m going stir-crazy in this hospital room. There isn’t exactly TV anymore, and I’ve watched everything stored on the AtlanticNet (the government-controlled local internet, which is highly censored and generally limited).

I need to get out.

I need to work.

I need to feel like I’m contributing again.

I’ve had this conversation with James. Several times now. It always goes the same way: he says my recovery is the most important thing to him and that the best way to help him is to get better. As if I can press the “get better button” all day and everything will be fine. What if getting better requires that I work? I’ve asked. That always prompts a circular argument that ends in a standoff. Who knew that two people caring about each other could be so problematic?

James usually works with Fowler in the morning and comes to visit me for lunch. Today there’s someone with him. A young man in his early twenties with milky white skin and dazzling blue eyes. He reminds me a lot of James, even in his mannerisms—the placid expression, the carefully measured words. And he has the same kindness in his eyes.

He nods slowly when I make eye contact with him.

“Emma,” says James, “this is Oscar.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Ma’am. Do I look that old? Maybe it’s because I’m laid up in this hospital bed like an old maid, weak and feeble. I have got to get out of here.

Oscar looks anything but weak and feeble. He’s young and strong and quietly intense. There’s a serenity about him that’s strange and somehow magnetic.

“He’s the person I mentioned a few weeks ago,” James says. “The person I had to leave to get.”

“Oh. Right.”

And I wonder: What is Oscar to James? His son? That’s my first instinct. It implies James has a wife. Or had a wife. Or at a very minimum, a lover once. And maybe still. It would have been when he was very young, if I’ve guessed Oscar’s age correctly. I can’t resist the mystery.

“Is he your…”

I just let the sentence hang there, unfinished. It freezes both James and Oscar like the Long Winter gripping our planet.

“He’s my…” James begins, but falls silent.

“Assistant,” Oscar adds cheerfully. His voice is mild, almost whimsical. It matches his boyish face, and even seems a little younger than he looks.

“Yes,” James says slowly. “Oscar helps with my research.”