Okwembu focuses on putting one hand in front of the other. It’s the only thing she’s capable of doing.
She doesn’t know how long she was out in the water. After a while, there was no feeling left in her hands and arms. The boat kept her above the surface, just. Half the time it felt like it was going to pull her down with it. When she got within a few feet of the shore, a swell finally capsized her. By then, she was so cold that it barely made a difference.
But she’s alive.
One hand, then the other, pulling herself along the sand. She forces herself to think ahead. It’s hard, as if the pathways between her synapses have frozen shut. She has to push the thoughts into being, mould them, concentrate to keep them in place.
First, she’s going to get to her knees. Then her feet. Then she’s going to see if she can stay standing. After that, she’ll find a way to get warm. She doesn’t know how yet, but, right now, that’s all that matters.
She stops, trembling, then gets a knee underneath her. The front of her shirt is caked with sand. She almost falls over, puts a hand out, and winces as her numb fingers take the weight.
The ice in her mind is melting slowly. She’ll have to make fire somehow–she remembers a history lesson, in a distant Outer Earth schoolroom, where the instructors talked about their ancestors making fire. How did they do it? Doesn’t matter. She’ll figure it out. Then, after she’s got fire, she’ll find food, and water. She still has the data stick–no telling if the saltwater has damaged it, but it’s not important right now. The Ramona won’t be the only civilisation out there, and she knows the remaining workers are somewhere on the shore–she caught a glimpse of them as she came in. Would they accept her? Did they know she was with Prophet? Maybe she could—
Running footsteps, hissing on the sand. Okwembu looks up, and then Riley Hale kicks her in the stomach.