The Loneliest Girl in the Universe(26)

The lights stay on for an hour, then slowly, one by one, start to flicker out. I follow the last traces of power from room to room, until at last I’m in the gene bank, surrounded by floating cells in liquid.

Then the final light goes out, and I’m alone in the dark for ever

they’re moving

eyes opening

staring at me in the darkness and I can’t see

but I can hear them

murmuring

I can feel their fingers touching my face tangling in my hair

their soft fingernails skin pulling away from their bones catching on my clothes the embryos are falling apart around me silently reaching for their mother wanting me

and I’m alone

in the dark

for ever


I wake up gasping for breath.

I swear the shadows move. They lunge across the floor every time I look away, casting the shape of their long bodies around the ship’s walls. All I can do is lie in bed under the weight of their stares, their eyes lingering on me in the corner of my vision.

The dark, blunted shadows hold me under the duvet where the childlike safe place in my brain says they can’t find me. The shadows dart and swell across the room and all I can do is watch them creep closer.





DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:


245


When I check the helm in the morning, the computer’s home screen welcomes me in a glowing, almost-fluorescent blue. The words “Hello Romy” scroll across the screen and smoothly disappear. My inbox opens without me having to do anything, displaying J’s latest email.

I grin, already convinced that this was a good idea after all. It looks fresh and modern, and – in comparison with the old program – almost unbelievably advanced. In an emergency, it’s going to be able to react so much faster. It could end up saving my life.

For the first time, I feel slightly relieved that the UPR are messaging me. Even if it’s not NASA, it’s nice to know that there’s someone looking out for me.

From: The Infinity Sent: 25/06/2067

To: The Eternity Predicted date of receipt: 24/08/2067

J,

I have some bad news. The UPR updated the software on my ship’s computer, and the new program has a censoring subroutine. I can’t swear in my emails any more – look: **** ******* ***** **** ****

It’s ****ing terrible!

Just kidding. When I swore for you before, that was literally the only time I ever have, I think. I’m not sure I’d even know which finger to stick up!

I don’t mind the censoring – and the new program is actually great. It’s the same one you have on The Eternity. The previous version was nineteen years old, so this one is ridiculously good in comparison.

My favourite parts are the little logic puzzles, and the way I can project things on the walls of the ship.

I still don’t trust the UPR – not until I make sure that Molly is OK, at least. But I’d be stupid to let my emotions stop me from taking advantage of the gift they’ve given me.

I hope you’re holding up OK. I hope that by the time you’re reading this, the UPR have finally told you where all of your friends are.

R x





DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:


233


From: The Eternity Sent: 12/08/2066

To: The Infinity Received: 07/07/2067

Hey Romy,

All I’ve been thinking about recently is the UPR. I feel tied up in knots about them.

I can hardly bear to think about what the war has done to my home.

Right now I just want to find some peace. I feel scattered in a million different directions, trying to make sure I’m good enough to do my job properly, trying to work out how to deal with the UPR – not just for myself but for you too.

I don’t want to give you bad advice. I know you’re probably going through exactly the same thing as me. Don’t you give up on me, Romy, not yet. I’m coming – just hold on a little longer. It will be easier when we’re together.

Urgh. It’s messing me up, talking about this. I don’t want every message I send you to be just about the UPR. I’d hate to stop having proper conversations because of them.

J x





DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:


227


I wake up to an emergency alarm blaring from the computer. A memory of my mother flashes across my mind: her kneeling down to look me in the eye when I was just a toddler.

“Now, Romy,” she said. “What do you do if you hear the emergency alarms?”

“Find you and Daddy?” I said.

She shook her head. “No. You find the nearest oxygen mask. You put it on, and wait for us to find you. Don’t do anything until you’ve got your mask on.”

Remembering her words, I reach under my bunk, opening the panel that contains an oxygen mask. I pull it on, breathing in deeply, and tug the canister over my shoulder. I run to the helm to read the message on the new UPR software, already panicking.


SYSTEM FAILURE IN EMBRYO STORAGE SYSTEM 12(c)

AUTO-DEFROST WILL COMMENCE IN 5 … 4 … 3 …

The freezers in the gene bank have crashed. If I don’t do something, the embryos are going to start defrosting. They’ll be destroyed.

Barely breathing, I run down the corridor to the gene bank and reboot the system. The computer slowly powers back up. Every second it takes to load, the warmer the embryos get. I urge it to go faster.