Three months later
White clouds of vapor drift in front of Ophelia’s face—her breath turned visible—indicating that her eyes are open and she’s at least somewhat alert. Above her, a smear of light filters down through the fogged-over circular window in the cold sleep tank lid. A faint ambient blue glow illuminates the side walls of her tank. She’s awake. More so than before, whenever that was.
The last thing she remembers is … Julius.
White-hot pain slices through her at the memory of his anguished expression at the threshold to the prep room. But after a moment, it cools to a familiar and bitter disappointment.
It’s just so damn predictable. She should have seen it coming. Allowing him—anyone—behind her purpose-built walls is a mistake. Her family will always find a way to use them. She knows that.
Besides, it doesn’t matter, not now. There was more after that, after Julius. She focuses until it comes back to her.
Ray, holding her arm, which was bristling with sensors and tubes, not in comfort but in restraint, and telling her to lie back in the open cold sleep tank and take a deep breath.
It felt like squeezing inside a coffin, the sides of the tank pressing against her shoulders. Instinctively, her body rebelled against the rational part of her mind, refusing to relax, to lie fully back.
But she did as Ray said, pulling in a deep breath—her last one for months. A searing iciness spread upward and inward from her left arm, so cold it felt like being burned alive.
“No bugs, no bite,” Ray said, giving the traditional R&E team sign-off.
And then … nothing. Not even the vaguely comforting sense of falling into unconsciousness.
Ophelia tries to blink, but her eyelids respond sluggishly. Once, and that’s it. Then they stay closed, leaving her in the dark.
Somewhere inside the tank, a drip, drip, dripping that taps at her brain, like an annoying fingertip drumming against her forehead.
A strained noise escapes her raw throat, startling her. Her mouth feels cold, her tongue like a slab of thawing meat. Foreign, thick, in the way.
Panic chews at the drug-induced calmness still drifting through her veins. Her hands, her legs, don’t seem to exist at all, for all that she can feel them. And when she tries to open her eyes again, her eyelids flutter but remain closed. It is a terrifying feeling, to not be in control of your body when your mind is awake. Like being buried alive, encased within your own flesh and bone.
It’s normal. This is all perfectly normal, she tells herself.
It’s not as if she’s unfamiliar with the waking process; patients talked about it all the time. But experiencing it directly is an entirely different world. And the only other time, she was so young that it—
She cuts off the thought before it can go too far. Focus on the present.
After a few more moments of forced, steady breathing, more feeling returns to her body and the panic recedes, giving her space to think. And when she tries to open her eyes again, her lids obey.
The sensors, tubes, and wires have been removed—the ones she can see anyway—by the system in the early stages of bringing her back to consciousness. The strange pulling sensation on her lower legs is likely the artificial gravity. After months in a horizontal position, her tank is out of the cold sleep framework and tipped vertically for awakening. But her knees ache, as if she’s been standing on an unforgiving surface without moving for months.
She tries to shift to alleviate the pain, the thick layer of bio-gel over her skin squelching around her, but the strap across her shoulders and chest is too tight for much movement. The lower strap, across her thighs, is looser, which is perhaps why it feels as though her knees are pressed against the tank lid. Her feet are tingling with the jabs of pins and needles as circulation works to normalize.
Any moment now, someone will be here to pop the lid, hand in a towel, and help her out. That’s procedure. The only person who wakes alone is the mission commander, the most experienced traveler.
She holds still to listen, ears straining for the faintest sound of voices or footsteps. All she can hear, though, is that dripping. But the light through the window is steady. She’s somewhere. She just needs to wait, stay calm.
Concentrate on something else, Phe. The team.
Reclamation and Exploration team number 356, one of the top-rated R&E teams, assigned to the Resilience, an Aeschylus class, short-duration exploration vessel, with capacity for ten. Modified StarPlus engines, but not the latest upgrades. Hence, the longer cold sleep times. The Somnalia VII cold sleep system, installed two years ago.
Ethan Severin, mission commander. Thirty-eight, divorced, no children. Raised in the Lunar Valley Colony support housing. Lost two siblings in the collapse of ’76. Supports his mother and remaining sisters, who continue to live in the Lunar Valley Colony but in independent housing under the dome now. Recommended for Montrose’s Distinguished Performance award, with over twelve years of unblemished service. Until this last mission.
Birch Osgoode, pilot. Twenty-eight, single, no children. Only child, born and raised on Alterra Station. So unobjectionable as to be virtually unnoticeable. His file contained only the basics of his work history and biographical data. Probably hired during one of the expansion rushes, when there wasn’t time for or interest in a full background check.
Kate Wakefield, engineer. Thirty-two, in a domestic partnership with Vera Wakefield, two stepchildren. Daughter of two British refugees, fleeing the flooding that swamped most of the island in ’83. One minor dust-up in a pub on her home station of Brighton that resulted in an arrest for assault, but the charges were dismissed. Otherwise a clean record. A twin. Her brother, Donovan Wakefield, is currently trying to make it as a farmer on one of the Trappist outposts.
Suresh Patel, inventory specialist. Twenty-seven, single, no children. Raised on Earth in New York. Three human resources complaints from previous team members in years prior for unspecified “inappropriate behavior”—a throwaway Montrose term that could mean anything from an obnoxious sense of humor to right-up-to-the-line sexual harassment—but nothing since he joined number 356.
Liana Chong, scientific coordinator. Twenty-three, single, no children. Aspiring astrobotanist. Working on an R&E team to save money for her PhD.
And finally, Ava Olberman, systems management. Technically, she’s no longer part of the team, but her absence will loom over this mission to such an extent that she might as well be here. Ava was a widow, predeceased by her husband, Deacon, and survived by her adult daughter, Catrin.
In an ideal world, Ophelia would have preferred to talk with each of them individually first, to get a baseline before leaving Earth, but with the unexpected end to their previous mission and the sudden change in her status, the logistics were impossible.
So she’ll be meeting them all for the first time today. Assuming anyone ever comes to open her tank.
“Hello?” Ophelia calls, flinching as her voice immediately rebounds against the tank lid, seemingly twice as loud. “Someone out there?”
It’s possible this is a prank. R&E teams are known for hazing new members. But it seems odd that they would bother with her, a temporary addition at best. Plus, this particular team is mourning the loss of one of their own. It’s hard to imagine a prank fitting in with that dynamic.
Of course, it could also be a message: we don’t want you here, and we’re going to make sure you know that. But if that were the case, you’d think that someone would be nearby to ensure she received said message.
She holds her breath for a moment to listen better, but there’s no muffled giggling or shuffling feet … just silence.
The first deep pang of dread reverberates within her, like the toll of an ominous bell. Did Nova screw this up? Mistakes, miscalculations do happen with cold sleep. Rarely, but still.
Or, is she in a warehouse somewhere, stored until her uncle decides what to do with her?
With that thought, her earlier panic returns, sharper than before. She thrashes against the straps holding her in place. “Get me out of here!” she shouts, ignoring the bounce-back of her voice. “Now!” A cold sweat that has nothing to do with her internal temperature or the defrost setting on her tank settles over her skin. A prickling numbness returns to her hands and feet.
Stuck in here forever. How long will it take to die? To feel thirst shriveling her insides? Or will she run out of air first?
Her breath shortens, pulls tightly in her lungs, and dizziness sends sparks of bright white through her vision.
It’s only then, her mind racing through death scenarios, that the tiny rational portion of her brain manages to break through. The emergency release. Every tank has one. Ray had mentioned it in his overview that morning at Nova. Ophelia had even signed an e-packet that included a diagram of the release lever and where to find it—with a specific line on that page for her to initial her understanding. (Therefore, Nova could not be blamed if she suffocated in place. That was the idea, if not in so many words.)
Ophelia wriggles in the confined space of her tank until she can get her right hand up from where it rests by her thigh. It has to be here somewhere, on the underside of the tank lid.
Come on, come on.
Her fingertips fumble inside a depression, grazing over the lever and slipping off, the first time she tries to pull. The next time, though, she is successful in yanking the piece toward herself.
The response is immediate. The straps around her shoulders and legs retract into the side walls instantly, whipping across her skin in a manner that might have left friction burns were it not for the bio-gel, and the hinged tank lid immediately pops free with a rush of air, opening on the right side.
But she doesn’t have time to celebrate or feel more than a bare second of relief. Free of restraints, her still-weak body obeys the stronger pull of gravity, tipping forward and sliding out of the tank before she can catch herself. She lands on the smooth floor in a heap, with a wet-sounding smack.
Dazed, she lies there for a second, cheek on the cold surface beneath her. Then she forces her wobbly arms to cooperate, propping herself up on her hands to get a better look around.
The automatic overhead lights are on, bright white illumination that hurts her eyes. A pile of plasti-sealed towels with the Nova logo rests on the metal bench screwed to the floor in front of her. Behind that, a series of ten lockers, six of which seem to have labels on them, not that she can read them through her squinting at the moment. A small circular opening on the far wall, no larger than her head, offers a bubbled view to the darkness of space beyond.
She’s on the ship, then, the Resilience. This is the cold sleep room. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
Relief is followed by an immediate spike in embarrassment, like that dream where you’ve arrived for an exam—or the first day of a new job—only to discover that you’re completely naked and people are staring.
Only this is reality.
She shifts into a sitting position, her muscles and joints all protesting, crossing her arms over herself instinctively.
But unlike the nightmare, no one is here to witness her humiliation.
Two doorways on either side of the lockers, both of them standing open and empty, lead to what appears to be a corridor.
It’s quiet, too. No voices. No footsteps, even from the corridor.
The only sounds are the deep thrum of the engines beneath her feet and the hushed susurration of the environmental system, pushing warmed and breathable air out into the room. It smells of burning dust, hot metal, and old meal-paks.
Where is everyone?
Shivering, she reaches up and grabs for one of the packaged towels on the bench in front of her. Out of breath and exhausted from even that small effort, she tears it open with fumbling fingers and wraps the white nubby fabric around herself.
With one hand on her towel and the other on the bench, she leverages herself into a shaky standing position after a few tries. But there’s a prickling sensation, the feeling of being watched, dancing along the exposed skin at her back and arms.
She turns abruptly, nearly losing her balance in the process.
That’s when she sees it. Rather, them.
Two tanks, alongside hers, tipped vertically for awakening. But hers is the only one with the door open. The other two are still sealed.
That sense of wrongness immediately returns, stronger than ever, and her accelerated pulse rattles through her, sending tremors like a mini quake.
I shouldn’t be first awake. Not ever.
Carefully, she edges toward the other two waiting tanks. Dread uncurls within her, like a dark shadow stretching for room. She’s not sure why at first; the tanks don’t look damaged.
Then it clicks: they’re dark. All the status lights and indicators on the front control panel—the panel that indicates the health and status of the occupant—are dead. Blank. Empty.
She moves closer to peer through the round window in the lid of the nearest tank, and her breath catches. The internal illumination system is down, too, but there’s enough light from the locker room to see the shadowy profile of a nose, a chin, the top of an ear, and a sideburn shaved into a sharp point.
Someone is still inside.
“No, no, no,” she breathes, lurching back instinctively. This can’t be happening.
She forces herself forward again, lifting on her toes to peer into the second tank. This one, too, is dark inside, its occupant turned away from the window, like an actual sleeper trying to avoid the morning. Or someone who suffered a faulty awakening and whatever painful paroxysms that induced.
A glossy black braid runs neatly along the side of the head, above the delicate shell of an ear. Liana Chong, possibly, based on what Ophelia remembers of the crew photos.
Ophelia steps back, gripping her towel tighter. The Somnalia VII system operates on a viability standard, meaning it will wake the crew in the programmed order, unless there are … issues. In that case, it prioritizes the occupants most likely to survive.
If these are the first three tanks and only one of them—hers—was viable, that means the three tanks still in the framework are likely nonsalvageable. Along with their occupants. The system didn’t even bother trying to wake them.
Mission failed before she even started. Even worse, Ophelia might very well be out here by herself.
The emptiness of the space outside, visible through that tiny aperture across the room, seems to press inward on her, as if it might crush the vessel and her inside of it.
Lost. Alone. On a ship she has no idea how to control or operate.
Panic is a blade in her chest, scraping at her lungs. She hurls herself toward one of the upright tanks, trembling hands fumbling across the control panel. There’s a reboot option, in case of power failure. It’ll run a shock through the tank system, acting as a restart for both the tank and the human within.
If, if she can remember how to do it. Her head is a swirling mass of anxiety and terror, thoughts sliding through her grasp before she can catch hold of any of them.
Then her gaze latches on to a small sticker above the control panel. Three numbered steps, written in red and excruciatingly tiny print, with an equally microscopic graphic of the control panel. The bold header on the sticker: EMERGENCY RESTART SEQUENCE.
“Please, please, please,” she whispers, scrubbing the bio-gel from her eyes with the edge of the towel until she can see the words clearly.
1. Use only in the event of system failure. Death may result if restart function is applied inappropriately.
(Nova Cold Sleep Solutions and Podrata Systems, manufacturer of Somnalia VII, are not responsible for misuse.)
2. Ensure tank is sealed.
3. Enter the following sequence:
The graphic of the control panel contains a series of confusing numbered arrows, indicating which buttons and touch pads to use in what order.
Ophelia follows carefully, pressing each one in the designated order. She holds her breath with the last one, watching, listening for any hint of the mechanism kicking in.
But the control panel remains dark, and there’s no whine of activity. No sudden jolt of electricity, like a heart restarting itself.
Because she messed it up? Moved too slowly?
She draws in a deep breath and tries again, moving as fast as she can while still being accurate.
Still nothing.
Ophelia slaps the front of the tank, which does nothing but make her palm sting. “Fuck!”
On the off chance that it’s simply a faulty tank, she switches to the other one. But her hope is draining away, like matter being sucked into a black hole. Inevitable. Quick. Violent.
She enters the restart sequence on this tank once, and then twice, with the same results as before.
The adrenaline spike that’s kept her on her feet so far vanishes abruptly, and her knees give way, landing her in a messy heap on the floor again.
“Shit. Shit!” Blood roars through her ears, drowning out everything except her own panicked breathing. What is she supposed to do now? Does this ship even work without a living, breathing pilot to enter coordinates? She has no idea.
Ophelia senses a change in the air, a quick slip of breeze, before hands lock around her slippery arms and pull her upright.
Her throat locks on a scream—she can’t scream, can never scream—and she twists to pull free, half falling, knee scraping against the bench as she turns to face her attacker.
A man in the orange and gray jumpsuit of R&E division glowers down at her. His dark hair is rumpled and too long, curling at the ends, and his beard is growing in, thick and stubbly. But she still recognizes him from his file.
The mission commander. Ethan Severin.
She shakes her head in disbelief. This doesn’t make any sense.
“What is going on here?” he demands, staring at her. “Are you hurt?”
“I…” She jerks her chin toward the tanks. “Dead,” she says hoarsely, staggering to her feet. How does he not know that already? “Something … someone … their tanks…”
He glances at the other tanks, and his expression shifts immediately. Not to grief or concern or even confusion. Just flat-out pissed. Mouth in a flat line, two hard dimples on either side, a mimicry of what he would look like when smiling.
She’s not sure what she expects Severin to do in that moment. However, it’s not to stride forward, around her, and rip open the door to the first tank.
“Wait!” she shouts. The only reason the bodies aren’t rotting yet is because of the tank’s seal, and the moment that changes …
Severin reaches inside and hauls out an arm, followed by a whole body in an orange and gray jumpsuit. Suresh Patel. Who immediately doubles over in laughter. Very not-dead.
Ophelia rears back. They were alive in there?
“Holy shit, you should have seen your face!” Suresh crows, his high cheekbones flushed with color. The central portion of his hair has been bleached and treated to a glittering white so it resembles frosted grass—or one of those wigs with sparkling powder on it. The latest trend.
Severin shoves Suresh back against the tank framework with a loud clank. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Severin demands.
Suresh jerks his chin up defiantly. “It was just a joke.”
“But the lights … your vitals,” Ophelia begins, still trying to process what’s happening.
The tank next to Suresh’s opens, and Liana—her guess was correct—steps out with a sheepish expression. She gives a little wave hello. “It’s a hack. A bit of paper in the latch to keep the tank from sealing. Just a dumb hazing thing.” She grimaces.
Liana is right, Ophelia realizes belatedly; neither of their lids had given off the hiss of pressure releasing, as hers had.
A scrap of paper? That’s all? Dizziness washes over Ophelia, sending her stumbling back toward the bench. She sits heavily, the heat of panic prickling her skin. But then anger boils up immediately in its wake. She could have killed them with the restart. The warning is right there on the tank lid.
Her fists clench in her towel, muscles straining to lash out at someone, anyone.
“This isn’t bio-gel in her bunk, or spiders in her suit,” Severin says, getting into Suresh’s face. “You could have shorted out the whole system, killed yourselves, or her. Did it even occur to you what would happen if we had to try to make it home without cold sleep?”
Not all of them would survive. There are not enough emergency rations for the team to be awake the whole way home. Plus, the strain on the engine to keep environmental systems up and running the whole time …
Suresh pushes off against the framework, stepping into Severin’s space, despite the fact that he has to crane his neck upward to meet the commander’s gaze.
“This was your idea,” Suresh says, flicking his hand at Ophelia. “You were the one who wanted her here. You were the one who said behave normally, treat her as a regular team member. So I did.”
They look inches away from coming to blows, and that’s exactly the kind of thing she’s here to prevent.
Ophelia stuffs down her anger, pulls her ragged edges together by force, and draws in a breath. Transforming herself into the professional she needs to be. “Okay. I’m fine,” she says, standing up from the bench. “Everyone’s fine. Why don’t we take a step back, and deescalate the—”
“Get back to work, both of you,” Severin says, without looking at her. “Now.”
“Yes, sir.” Face flushed and eyes downcast, Liana hastily steps down from the tank platform and darts off to the corridor behind Ophelia.
Suresh holds his position for another moment or two, nose tilted sharply up, as if daring his commander to take a swing at him. Then he steps away, rolling his eyes. “Just a joke,” he says again, not quite quietly enough, as he strolls toward the corridor, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Pod duty. First week,” Severin says.
Suresh spins around, his mouth open in shock. “Are you serious?”
Ophelia grimaces. Pods, the packets of human waste routinely ejected from the toilet to a storage catchall outside the hab structure, were theoretically sealed, but they weren’t always as leakproof as one would hope. And the pods that would be produced when the team ate solid food for the first time in months would not be pleasant. Generally the crew alternated days so no one was stuck with pod duty—or everyone was stuck with it equally, depending on how you looked at it.
“That’s not necessary,” she says quickly to Severin, her voice still rusty from disuse. Severin’s punishment would only make it harder for her to gain the team’s trust. “Ultimately, no harm done.” Other than wanting to slap the bejesus out of Suresh Patel, perhaps.
That draws Severin’s attention back to her, his dark eyes boring into her. A straight-up intimidation tactic, if ever she saw one. But luckily for her, she’s been the recipient of stony looks and even stonier silence for so long now that both bounce off her with barely a dent.
She meets his gaze without a word.
“My team, my decision,” he says to her, biting off each syllable. Then he turns back to Suresh, unrelenting. “First week.”
Ophelia sees the argument building in Suresh’s expression—the ugly twist to his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes. But then he catches her watching, and he shrugs with a forced grin. “Whatever.”
Suresh wanders out of the room, following Liana’s path, in a deliberately slower, faux casual manner. But his shoulders are stiff with tension.
“Get dressed, Dr. Bray,” Severin says, once they’re alone. “Meet me on the bridge.” Then he, too, walks away.