In the blue-lit medical bay we moved to separate sides of the room and climbed out of our suits, making two piles of pink silt on the floor. In a T-shirt and tights I splashed water over my face at the sink and scrubbed my itching eyes with a wet towel. Across the room James leaned against the wall and slowly extracted his legs from the bottom half of his suit. Then he sat down on a bench and stretched his injured leg straight.
This module must have been a more recent addition to the station because everything was clean and shining. The air was cold and still, and I was conscious of my sweat-dampened clothes, my burning lips. I poured some water into a plastic cup, lifted it to my mouth—it was so cool on my raw tongue—and drank it quickly, my swallows loud in the silent room.
A task light hung above the metal table in the center of the room; I turned it on and opened drawers and gathered what I thought I’d need. Surgical scissors, antiseptic, plaster, bandages.
You’ve got to lie down, I said.
He eyed the table and the circle of light in its center, then rose and hopped across the room. He pulled himself up but stayed seated.
I waited.
He looked at me sideways and slowly lowered himself to his elbows, making the table creak, and then onto his back. He smelled like salt and sweat and coffee. His helmet had pressed dark curls around his temples, and his face was softer with his hair pushed forward. More boyish. More like the kid I remembered from the doorway of my aunt and uncle’s house, a stack of papers in his hands.
He raised his eyebrows.
I’ll get started, I said.
There was the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
I moved the task light above his foot as if I’d done this a hundred times.
Under his jumpsuit his leg was lean and covered in dark wiry hairs, except for a small patch below his kneecap where he had a scar, a small half circle of mottled skin. The tight fabric of his right sock was damp and clinging. I worked it over the jut of his ankle bone—his skin was slightly tacky—and around his heel.
When I reached his toes his leg stiffened.
I’ll cut the sock off, I said, and carefully slid the surgical scissors between the fabric and his skin, cutting toward the sock’s toe. I peeled the material away to reveal the bent angle of two of his toes.
Broken toes, I said, and ran my hand along the top of his foot, felt the wiggle of his veins, the splay of the thin bones underneath. Then I took hold of the whole foot and gently squeezed the metatarsal bone, and he made a sound, a cross between a groan and a squeak.
I let go. And a hairline fracture, I said.
I ran the plaster under some water, spread it over the top of his foot and across the two broken toes, and let it set for a minute. Then I wound a stretchy bandage tightly around it, cut off the excess, and secured the end with tape.
He watched me intently. He motioned to his face. You look a little like your uncle, he said. The set of your mouth—
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
How did you get the scars? I pointed to his neck and his knee.
Probably the same as you. He nodded at the spray of pink spots around my right eye.
Getting hit in the face with debris in a depressurized cargo hold?
Something like that. He sat up, slowly swung his legs over the side of the table.
A pair of crutches rested against one of the walls and I handed them to him.
Thanks. His slight smile was back.
You’re welcome.
He leaned on his crutches; the curls at his temples had dried and they fell across his face. We stood there looking at each other for a minute. The room was very quiet, very still. We were the only two people here. The only two people for miles and miles.
I need to tell you something, I said.
Okay.
The Sundew and Inquiry use the same liquid waste disposal system.
Wait. He frowned. What?
It has to be vented manually. With four people using it, about every three days.
He leaned away from me on his crutches. Why are you telling me this?
They’re alive, I said. The Inquiry crew. I came here to tell you.
His lip twitched. The patter of silt came from the roof above us.
When the fuel cell is ready we can go get them, I said, and felt a soaring lightness in my chest.
It’s not going to be ready.
You told NSP you were close to a solution.
The expression on his face was strange. I lied.
Why would you do that?
So they wouldn’t send us home.
You and Theresa.
Yes.
But Amelia and Simon said—
Amelia and Simon. His voice was bitter; his bandaged foot swung slightly in the air. What do they know about it?
They helped invent it—
The fuel cell can’t be fixed, he interrupted. I know because I’ve spent the last six years trying.