I’m breathing too fast. I try to slow it down, but it doesn’t help. Each breath sucks icy air into my lungs, slicing through me like a knife.
I don’t bother calling Syria’s name any more. I don’t even know if he’s able to respond. Chances are, he’s probably passed out from the pain.
The wonder I felt at being on Earth has left with the daylight. The sky above me is pitch-black now. I just walk, heading uphill, trying to ignore the fact that nothing around me looks familiar. I laugh, the sound bitter against the wind–it doesn’t matter. This landscape is the same for who knows how many miles in each direction. What were the Earthers thinking, coming down here?
My thoughts wander too far, and I lose control of my water container.
I’m already gripping the fabric so hard that my hands are aching and numb. I catch my right foot in a pile of rocks, or a plant root, or something, and the fingers on my right hand lose their grip.
There’s a panicky moment where I’m scrabbling in the dark, half hoping that I can catch the edges again. Then a deluge of icy water drenches my pants. The leaf-filled shirt flops against me, dripping the last of its load onto the frozen soil.
For a long moment I just stand there, staring out into the darkness. Then I grab the shirt and ball it up, furiously scrunching the fabric. I hurl it away, and it gives a wet thud as it slaps off a nearby rock.
I howl. That’s what it is: an uncontrolled, animal howl. It’s a hot anger, burning bright, as if trying to force back the cold air.
And as my voice trails off, as the howl dies in my throat, there’s an answering sound.
It comes from a long way away–a coughing bark, almost inaudible. I freeze, listening hard. The bark comes again. It’s deeper this time, more drawn out, but then it’s gone.
Seconds tick by. I let out a breath, the cloud dissipating into the night air. There’s not just anger now–there’s fear, too, flooding my mouth with a familiar metallic taste.
Whatever’s out there isn’t a picture in a tab screen or part of a story told by a teacher in some Outer Earth schoolroom. It’s alive.
And it knows I’m here.
I start walking again, reducing everything to the physical motion of putting one foot in front of the other. I don’t know if I’m going in the right direction, but if I don’t keep moving I know that I’ll just lie down and never get up again. I keep the slope ahead of me, keep climbing. Climb high enough, and you can get all the way to the top of the mountain.
I’m so deep in myself, so intent on movement, that I don’t realise I’ve found Syria until I almost trip over him.
He’s lying where I left him, prone in the depression. I get my footing, then drop to my knees next to him.
“Syria,” I say. He doesn’t respond.
My mind is already moving ahead of my words. I lost the water, but I can still hear the stream. I’ll have to take him there, over my shoulders if I have to, no matter how much pain he’s in.
He hasn’t moved. “Syria,” I say again, shaking his shoulder. The flesh beneath my fingers is a gummy crust. Even the lightest touch must cause him excruciating pain, so why isn’t he—
Then I’m shaking him, trying to roll him over, screaming his name.
The screams dissolve into sobs. I sit back, shoulders shaking, breath coming in hitching gasps. It’s almost completely dark now–I can’t see further than a few feet in any direction.
He shouldn’t have died here. He should have died on Outer Earth, in the Caves, the place he protected and watched over. He should have died years from now, surrounded by his friends. Instead, he died alone, in agony. Thousands of miles from home.
Okwembu.
Her name arrives in my mind from nowhere. It’s a strange thought, as if someone else is speaking the word. I react, hammering on the ground, once, twice, a third time, tiny rocks leaving impressions in my skin. I barely notice. All I can see is her face.
She made me kill my dad, she helped destroy our home, she took my friends away from me when she shoved me out of the first escape pod. She didn’t kill Syria, not directly, but she’s why he’s here. Without her, the Earthers’ plan would never have worked. And now she’s taken away the last link I had to Outer Earth.
It all comes back to her. All of it.
I’ve never felt such anger. The thought is so potent that, for a time, it’s all I can hold in my head. When I come back, I realise I’m shivering, shaking so hard that my teeth chatter. Everything below my waist feels like it’s made of ice.
I’ll never find the stream again in the dark. I barely found it in the light. I decide to stay where I am–I can survive a night without water. But I have to get warm. The last time I was this cold was in the Core, back when Oren Darnell had Outer Earth held hostage, and that was a cold that nearly gave me hypothermia. If I don’t find a way to get warm, I’m as good as dead.
I can’t make a fire–or at least I have no idea how to. It’s not the kind of thing they teach you on Outer Earth, where the general idea is to avoid fire of any kind. Besides, there’s nothing to burn.
Inspiration strikes, and I jump up, running on the spot. But it only makes my aching muscles hurt more, and doesn’t generate anywhere near the amount of heat I’d need.
I sit back down again, hard. If he was here, Prakesh would come up with a plan. And Carver… he’d have some gadget stashed away, a portable flamethrower or a miniature electric stove.
I close my eyes. They’re not here. You need to think.
The Core. I was prepared for it then, dressed appropriately, with my dad’s old flight jacket and several sweaters, plus thick gloves. Here, I’ve got nothing on but thin pants and a jacket–a single layer against the cold.
I need insulation. But how?
I could snuggle up to Syria’s body–make use of his remaining heat. I could even take his clothes, or what’s left of them. The thought makes me recoil. I won’t do that. If there’s nothing else, if I truly can’t stay warm, then I’ll revisit it. But there’s got to be another way.
What about the leaves? asks a quiet voice in my mind.
I don’t give myself time to poke holes in the idea. I scramble in the dark, using my hands to feel for the plants. I know there’s one close by, and seconds later I find it, yanking it towards me. There aren’t many leaves, and those that it has are crumbly and dry, falling apart in my fingers. I let it go, and keep searching.
I find another plant, then another, stripping them bare, and soon I’ve gathered enough to start stuffing them into my jacket. They’re scratchy and uncomfortable, but I keep going, pushing them down into the jacket sleeves.
My hands are utterly numb, and the only thing I can see is my breath condensing in the freezing air. I shove more leaves into my pants, which feels even worse. Not that I have a choice in the matter–I do this, or I die.
Something moves against my skin.
I squeal, ripping my hand away. The thing comes with it–I can feel it latched onto my finger. I shake my hand furiously, and then it’s gone. A bug. Had to have been. Asleep in the leaves, until I disturbed it. The idea that there might be others, crawling close to my body…
The cold is making it hard to think–my thoughts are coming in quick bursts, barely coherent. My stomach sends a radiating, hungry ache up through my body, and, right then, I realise just how tired I am. It’s as if all the strength has run out of my legs.
I find my way back to Syria, the leaves rustling against my skin. My thigh is throbbing. I do my best to ignore it, curling into a ball, pulling my hands into my jacket sleeves and jamming them between my legs as I try to get comfortable on the hard ground. At least I’m out of the wind, hunkered down in the depression.
I hunch my shoulders, trying to get my ears into my jacket collar, but the jacket isn’t big enough.
I don’t know how long I sleep, but it’s dark and dreamless. I only wake up when a sound steals into my mind. The sound is a low growl, and it pulls me out of the blackness.
I open my eyes. They adjust to the darkness instantly, as if I’ve had them open this whole time.
The animal is right in front of me, no more than three feet away, its jaws wrapped around Syria’s leg.