The dripping feels like a finger tapping against Ophelia’s forehead. An index finger playing out an uneven and unknown rhythm on her skin. In her hazy state, she imagines Ethan leaning over her still, checking on a sensor on her forehead.
It’s not until the drips roll down to her neck that cold seeps into her awareness. She gasps at the icy slice of water moving toward her shoulder.
Her eyes open slowly, the lids heavy at first. But she’s been through this before. Breathe, slowly. Wait. Just wait.
She’s awake. She’s … somewhere. Or we’ve been in cold sleep now for so long the tanks have run out and woken us automatically.
Ophelia can’t see anything out the window; it’s fogged over, just like before.
Panic catches her anew. Did she really think that sending that message to her mother would work?
Her breath starts coming quicker, puffs of visible condensation, interrupted by the occasional chatter of her teeth.
Either way, she can’t stay in here. Whether she’s shoving back the lid to discover they’re adrift or trapped in a secret Pinnacle lab somewhere, hiding isn’t going to change that. New day, new crisis.
She can figure it out if she has to. And she needs to find Ethan and the others.
The calm center of resolve and gritty determination pooling in her chest is such a shift that it takes a moment of waiting for the paralyzing fear to catch up before she realizes that it’s not coming. There is something to be said, it seems, for surviving a series of unimaginably horrible experiences. It tests your limits and changes your boundaries. What else is going to compare to confronting her father and living to tell about it?
Possibly, being possessed by the only known extraterrestrial intelligence.
Yeah. That would do it too.
She wrenches her hand up from her side, fumbling for the emergency release.
Shadows move outside the window. Ophelia goes still. Someone’s out there.
Two taps against the outside of the lid. “Ethan?” Ophelia’s voice sounds thick with disuse.
She strains for the emergency release. If it’s Ethan, why isn’t he letting her out? Is the ship damaged? Their tanks?
The fog on the window retreats, curling up around the edges, as the tank warms around her.
The shadow shifts away and another takes its place. This time, Ophelia can see enough to recognize who’s staring in at her.
Her mother. Except younger than Ophelia ever remembers seeing her. Dark eyes, auburn hair cut short, with tasteful blond streaks framing her face.
Ophelia jolts backward in the tank, but there’s nowhere to go. Jesus. Cold sleep didn’t work; they are still making her see things.
Her mother’s mouth moves quickly, frantically, but Ophelia can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears.
Which is strange. Before, Ophelia could hear everything in her head.
Her mother slows her speech down, and this time Ophelia can read her lips. It’s okay, Phe. It’s okay. You’re all right.
Realization dawns slowly. This is not her mother, or even a hallucination of her—neither of them would have bothered to reassure her. Or call her by the “bastardization of a beautiful name.”
This woman is Dulcie. Her younger sister, now older than she was when Ophelia last saw her, by five, maybe seven years … at least.
“Dulcie?” she asks in disbelief.
Dulcie grins at Ophelia, and now Ophelia’s not sure how she ever saw her mother instead. “Holy shit, are you in trouble,” Dulcie says. “You sent that message to Jazcinda and everything blew up. She went public with it, and the board pulled Uncle Darwin and Mom.”
Ophelia shakes her head, ignoring the squeak and squelch of the bio-gel. “Dulcie, we’re infected—”
“Just give us a second,” Dulcie says slowly, careful to enunciate. “You’re okay now, but we’re not quite ready for you out here.”
“Ethan? Kate? Sur—”
Dulcie nods. “It took longer than we thought,” she says. “Eleven years. Cold sleep did most of the work, but it took time for the scientists or whatever to figure out how to clean the residue—”
“We’re here,” a new voice interjects. Ethan peers around the opposite edge of the window, holding up his hand in greeting.
Relief soars through her.
And Ophelia’s sure that, in the process, Pinnacle figured out how to make money from their situation, Lyria 393-C, the tower entities, or all three, but that’s fine.
She’ll deal with that in her own way, as soon as she’s out of here. No more running away from being a Bray. They may not like it, but she hasn’t liked it from the beginning—maybe it’s their turn to be uncomfortable.
“Eleven years?” Ophelia asks, taking in Dulcie anew. She would be—oh my God—almost thirty. They are nearly the same age now.
Amused exasperation fills her sister’s expression. “Yes, well, I’m still younger, and I’ll always be better looking.”
A weak laugh escapes Ophelia, along with tears. She’s missed so much.
The seal breaks on the tank with a long hissing exhalation, and the hinges squeal shrilly in protest as the lid cracks open a few centimeters.
Fresh, warm air drifts in through the small opening, and it’s like the sun coming out after months of gray. Ophelia shivers.
Ethan reaches in through the gap in reassurance. She reaches across her body with her other arm, and his fingertips touch hers.
The lid is wrenched backward with a clang of metal on metal, letting light and air in fully, and Ophelia takes a deep breath. For the first time in years.