The Loneliest Girl in the Universe(27)

An eternity later, the system comes back online and the error message has gone away. I scan the subsystem for issues, but it comes back clean. I think – I hope – that the problem has been fixed.

The embryos might have been destroyed. Hundreds of potential lives could have been lost.

Pacing back and forth down the corridor, I try to process how this could have happened. This is making me wonder whether there have been failures happening in hardware all over the ship. I need to start running analysis tests. Now.





DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:


221


From: The Infinity Sent: 19/07/2067

To: The Eternity Predicted date of receipt: 08/09/2067

J,

I have done nothing productive today, just worried about the ship, and about the war, and about staying alive long enough to reach the new planet, and about every other thing I can come up with.

I’ve had some issues with the ship recently – equipment crashing, computers malfunctioning, that sort of thing. I can’t tell whether it’s because the new software has a few operating bugs while it settles in or whether it’s just because the ship is so old. I don’t know which I would prefer.

I can barely sleep any more, because as soon as I go to bed, my brain decides it needs to sort through every single issue the ship has had in all the time I’ve been alone and go over them in endless detail until it’s 6 a.m. and all I’ve done for the last eight hours is stare at the ceiling and panic over things that happened five years ago. It’s great.

I hope you’re coping a little better now than you were when you sent your last messages. I’m thinking of you.

R x





DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:


203


The new software thinks that something needs replacing in the air-conditioning units. It has a much finer sensitivity than the old software, and it thinks there’s been a 0.5 per cent decrease in efficiency of oxygen recycling over the last quarter. If something is broken then we could run out of oxygen before we reach Earth II.

Even though I know it’s urgent, I don’t want to do it. The air-conditioning units are in the room next to the sick bay. Just the thought of going there makes me dizzy. I’ve avoided that area of the ship for years.

But the computer tells me that I need to.

I wonder if it can wait until J gets here so he can do it for me. He’s not that far away, after all. We’d only lose a few weeks’ worth of recycled oxygen in that time. But that might be a few weeks’ breathing time that we’ll desperately need one day.

I walk down the corridor towards the air-conditioning room, pressed against the opposite wall, as far away from the entrance to the sick bay as I can get.

As I approach it, I can’t stop myself from breaking into a run. I catch a blurred glimpse of the door as I sprint past, just enough to see that it’s still half-open, the way it was left all those years ago.

I slam my fist against the button to open the door of the air-conditioning room, keeping my eyes fixed firmly ahead. It seems to slide open far more slowly than any of the other doors. Diving inside, I lean against the wall and gasp for breath. I made it.

As soon as I start paying attention, my relief disappears abruptly. Because I can hear movement.

There’s something in the room with me.

Whatever is causing the air-conditioners to lose efficiency is moving. I can hear a low grinding below the quiet hum of the fans, subtle enough that I almost think I’m imagining it.

I brush the thought away and take a step towards the fans. But before my foot hits the floor, every single light shuts off, leaving me in pitch-blackness.

Every muscle in my body freezes.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

I can’t be here, not now, not in a power cut.

My mind immediately goes to the sick bay, to the torpor pods, to the astronauts, and a scream bursts from my throat, shrill and short. I throw myself backwards against the wall, jarring my shoulder.

But pressed against the safety of the wall, I can focus. I can almost imagine I’d be able to see anything that tries to lunge at me from the darkness.

My mouth tastes of vomit. There are glowing remnants of light darting across my eyelids in the blackness.

Why did the power cut have to happen now, when I’m so near the sick bay?

I’m sure I can hear someone coming. The low grinding sound has shifted into the echo of footsteps, progressing down the corridor in a steady, unhurried march. An army of astronauts, coming for me.

Why aren’t the lights coming back on? How long does it take for the computer to reboot the subsystem, to—

As suddenly as they flickered off, the lights return. I twist around, checking all sides.

I’m completely alone. Of course.

I breathe again, for the first time in what feels like hours. There’s a horrible tightness in my chest, halfway to a panic attack. I force it away, blowing air into my lungs.

I’m being ridiculous. It was just a power cut. It only lasted a few seconds.

Everything in me wants to bolt, but I force myself to stay still. I won’t let this hysterical fear get the better of me.

I listen. I wait.

There it is. The creaking. I didn’t imagine it.

I turn my head from side to side, trying to locate the sound. I take a step closer to the fans on the far wall. There – on the right-hand side, low, near the ground.