The Loneliest Girl in the Universe(31)
I can picture exactly what’s waiting inside the sick bay and there’s no way I can go in there. I’m going to remove this tooth old-school style. People have been extracting teeth for millennia without fancy space-age NASA technology. I don’t need machinery to do this – I just need some pliers.
I read through the manual’s instructions on tooth extraction, making a list of essentials. I can create dentistry tools from cutlery and sewing supplies. Just as long as I don’t have to go into the sick bay, anything will do.
I find a scalpel, a screwdriver and a set of pliers in the maintenance toolkit. There’s a medium-strength anaesthetic and bandages in the first-aid kit. I fetch a tea towel from the kitchen, just in case there’s more blood than in the pictures in the manual. I also take the few centimetres of whisky left at the bottom of Dad’s bottle.
After sterilizing the equipment with boiling water, I prepare a clean area of the bathroom for surgery and change into an old pair of dungarees. I rub a capsule of anaesthetic on my gum, and while I wait for it to work I read through the instructions for the seventh time.
When the pain in my jaw has weakened noticeably, I have no other choice but to start.
I pick up the pliers. A dizzy feeling passes through me. I ignore it. I am a strong, independent woman and I can totally do this.
Thinking carefully about anything other than what I’m about to do, I touch the pliers against either side of the rotten tooth. When I press down, a searing pain shoots up my jaw. I drop the pliers, gasping. The tool skitters across the floor, coming to a stop at the base of the toilet.
OK. So, maybe some more painkillers are needed. And another round of sterilization.
Four hours later, there are fragments of tooth, gum and blood all over the sink. My tongue feels dry and thick, pressed against the padding where my tooth used to be. But the tooth is out, and my jaw is numb.
There were a few moments when I almost resigned myself to living with a wobbly, rotten tooth hanging halfway out of my mouth for ever. But I pushed through, knowing that if I gave up I’d never pluck up the courage to try again.
Eventually I managed to lever the tooth out with the screwdriver in only three fragments. I call that a success. I promise myself that I will floss twice a day, every single day, from now on. I am never doing that again.
Ignoring the post-surgery mess, I stagger to my bunk and fall head first into it. I’ve spent so long running on pure adrenalin that I’m exhausted.
I’m sure tomorrow my whole face will be covered in bruises, but for now I just want to sleep.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
136
From: UPR Sent: 14/01/2066
To: The Infinity Received: 12/10/2067
Subject: For Attention of The Infinity
Commander Silvers,
Following previous communications to undertake improvements to The Infinity, we have more requests for lifestyle changes.
To help the vessel survive voyage in maximum condition, we require you to reduce hours of light usage. Please limit effective “daylight” hours to 90 per cent parts of current usage hours. This will allow better energy efficiency.
Thank you for your cooperation.
All hail the UPR! May the King live long and vigorously!
After I read the UPR’s latest email, I open up the landing simulator and fly the ship aimlessly around the planet.
Cutting down to 90 per cent of the daylight hours means there will be nearly two extra hours of darkness a day. I suppose it won’t be that bad. I can just go to bed an hour earlier, and have a longer lie-in in the mornings.
On the simulation, orange flames lick the hull as The Infinity passes through the atmosphere.
It’s definitely worth turning out the lights earlier in the day if it means there won’t be any more power cuts. I’ve got used to the lights going out at random times, but it’s still irritating – especially if I’m in the middle of a run, when it messes up my timings.
As the ship glides down towards a burnt orange desert in the simulation, dust lifting up to greet it, I’m filled with the sudden urge to push down hard on the accelerator. I watch The Infinity crash into the surface of the planet. It explodes in flames, metal shards flying in all directions. The destruction makes me feel satisfied in a way I know it shouldn’t.
I restart the simulation and crash the ship into the ground again, watching the tiny model people drown in ice-coated oceans and crumple under avalanches on volcanoes. My score keeps dropping until I’m at the lowest level, where I don’t have enough control to crash the ship.
Now I can’t even do what I want on a computer game. And my gum is still so sore that I can’t eat without jarring it.
I hate everything.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
131
According to the software’s diagnosis of the mainenance system, there’s a slight blockage in one of the air ventilation panels. The computer tells me that I need to remove it before it begins to affect maximum performance.
The schematic of the vents looks like a cobweb of tunnels, covering every metre of the ship. A blockage glows red on the diagram, somewhere forty metres above the gene bank in the stores. That’s … really high up. It’s closer to the centre of the ship than I’ve ever been before. I’ll be venturing up into the dark core of The Infinity. It has hardly been visited since the ship was built.