Starbridge (27 page)

You may ask why we don't just pop into the nearest system's Oort Cloud (they all have them) and scoop up a few good-sized chunks of embryonic comets. They're made up mostly of ice, remember? Frozen H2O?

We thought of that--but we're not aboard a mining ship. We have no grapples, no way of "scooping" up ice short of sending someone out in a suit. And none of the suits aboard have jet-paks. Even if they did, I doubt that any of us could maneuver around well enough in no-weight to accomplish anything worthwhile. Managing a jet-pak in space requires practice.

But that's beside the point. Rob remembered how one extracts oxygen from water through electrolysis, but we don't have the equipment, materials, or expertise to do it. We'd need to melt the ice, purify the water, then either salt the water, or (better) add an acid or a base to it, then run an electrical current through the resulting ionized solution. Then we'd have to collect the hydrogen (and do what with it? Pump it out into space, I guess). The other product of the process is oxygen.

If we were aboard
Desiree
and had Paul or Ray around, it 171

would be a cinch. But we don't. Believe me, the notion was tempting enough that we spent a whole day ransacking
Rosinante
to see what we might be able to cobble together.

Unfortunately,
Rosinante
is the Simiu equivalent of a luxury yacht, made for relatively short hops. It doesn't have
Desiree's
labs and machine shops. And none of us is an engineer.

Shit.

I feel so guilty for dragging Rob along on this ill-fated voyage. At least Dhurrrkk' and I
chose
to risk our necks--but I shanghaied Rob.

It's a measure of Rob's unusual decency as a human being that he hasn't--

by look or word---implied or said one thing to indicate that he blames me. In a way, it would be easier if he'd lose his temper and scream at me.

But we're all trying to stay calm. Hysteria increases respiration, which wastes oxygen.

This won't be my last entry. I'm going to do an official one, in lieu of a nonexistent log, so that anyone who finds
Rosinante
drifting will know what happened to us. I'll edit this journal and remove all the angst. I can't stand the thought of being laughed at for a lovesick adolescent, even if I won't be around to care.

But right now, I've made up my mind what I'm going to do. I'm going to go pour a cup of water over my head again. At least then I won't have to die with an itchy scalp.

"Rob, can I borrow your surgical scissors?"

The doctor looked up as Mahree entered the control room, where he and the Simiu sat staring morosely at the silent alarm.

"My scissors? What for?" he asked warily.

"Don't worry, I'm not considering anything rash," she reassured him with a grim smile. "One of the hair bands on my braids is twisted. I want to cut it free."

Rob stared at her blankly. "Huh? Why?"

"Because I'm going to pour some water over my head. I can't stand it any longer, it's so itchy. My hair's so long that I can't wash it in that little basin ... I wouldn't feel right using that much water anyway."

He located the scissors in his medical bag, then handed them to her. Mahree stood staring down at them, frowning. "What I really ought to do is cut it, then I could manage to wash it."

She turned on her heel and headed resolutely for the galley.

172

Cut off all that hair? Just to save water?
Rob thought.
When we're going to
die tomorrow, no matter what?
"Hey, Mahree!" he called, getting up and going after her. "Wait a minute."

She stopped at the entrance to the galley. "What?"

"Do you
want
your hair short?"

"Nooooo," she admitted, in a tone of reluctant honesty. "But it's silly to try and keep it long under these circumstances. I wouldn't feel right using the water it would take to wash it. Not to mention that it would be hard as hell to manage in that tiny basin."

"Not if you let me help," he pointed out. "I can use a minimum amount of water, and do it a section at a time. It won't take that much. Our
water
reserve is holding out fine. I hate to see you cut your hair off. It's so pretty, long."

Mahree blinked at him. "Really?" She blushed. "I mean, do you really think I should use the water?"

He smiled at her. "Everyone's entitled to one last fling, honey. Clean hair isn't much to ask. And I promise I'll use an absolute minimum."

She smiled back, gratefully. "Well . . . thanks. I really didn't want to hack it all off.''

She unplaited her braids, grimacing at their lank, oily feel, then, as Rob located shampoo and a towel, she stooped over the little basin. The doctor filled a cup with icy water, then poured it over her head. She gasped. "Watch that," he said, mock-severely. "You used up three extra breaths."

Briskly, he began lathering her scalp, enjoying the way the soft strands slid through his fingers. "That feels soooo good ..." She sighed with genuine pleasure. "This is awfully nice of you, Rob."

"Self-preservation," he said, pouring another cup of water. "If I'd stared at that damned alarm for another minute, I was going to lose it completely."

A hand-span at a time, he washed her heavy mass of brown hair, until it lay, a lank, tangled rope, between her shoulder blades, reaching past her waist.

"There you go," he said. "All clean."

Mahree grinned at him as she wrapped the towel around her head, turban fashion. "It feels great. Thanks again."

Rob sat down on Dhurrrkk's bedding cross-legged, idly watching as she toweled the hair. When the moisture was squeezed

173

out, she began combing it, pulling the thick rope over her shoulder and working up from the bottom, carefully separating the strands with her fingers before she combed them.

"How long?" she asked casually, after a while.

He checked his watch. "Twenty-three and a half hours."

"Exactly?"

Rob grinned at her. "Hardly. I'm not down to counting seconds."

"Yet."

"Yet," he agreed, sobering.

"Rob . . ."she began, then stopped.

"Yes?" he prompted gently. "What is it?"

Mahree couldn't look at him. She picked blindly at the last knot, obviously fighting tears. "If it weren't for me," she said thickly, "you wouldn't be in this mess."

"I asked to come," he reminded her, his voice even.

"I know," she said, finally running the comb the length of her hair without encountering any tangles. She tossed it back over her shoulder defiantly, then looked up at him. "But you ought to hate me. Oh, God, you ought to. I ...

deserve . . . it." Her voice broke, and she took a deep, gasping breath, covering her face with her hands.

Rob's heart went out to her. "Mahree ..." Quickly he scrambled over to put an arm around her shaking shoulders. "You know I don't hate you. I could never hate you, kiddo."

She stiffened, then jerked away. When she looked at him, her eyes flashed angrily. "Dammit, Rob, will you
stop
calling me
kiddo'?
You of all people should have some idea of what it's like to be talked down to because you're young! I'm an
adult,
not your kid sister! I have to fight to be treated with respect!"

Rob felt as shocked as if she had slapped him. "I didn't--" he began, then hesitated . . . thinking, remembering. "You're right," he muttered, finally. "I've been patronizing you right along, haven't I? I'm sorry. You have to believe me, Mahree, I didn't do it deliberately to hurt you."

Mahree ran the comb through her hair again, dividing the thick strands into three parts. "I'm sorry, too," she said in a muffled voice. "I shouldn't have let it get to me like this." She smiled wanly. "I guess I'm feeling the effects of having only twenty-three hours and whatever odd minutes to live."

174

"Come to think of it, they will be pretty odd," Rob agreed, but the attempted humor fell very flat.

She bit her lip. "At the risk of being morbid, what's in store for us? Honestly, will . . . will it be painful?" Her voice was almost steady.

"Not really," he said slowly. "Uncomfortable, but by the time it gets really bad, we won't care anymore. As the oxygen in here gets used up, hypoxia will set in, and we'll feel pretty good, actually . . . like we'd had a few too many. Then we'll just pass out and . . ." He shrugged, snapping his fingers.

"In maybe five minutes, it'll all be over."

"I suppose that's reassuring," she said dryly, then she sobered. "Rob . . . can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure."

"Would you mind if I ... hold your hand? At the end, I mean?" Hearing her own words, she gave a disgusted snort. "God, I sound like that cringing little seamstress at the end of
Tale of Two Cities'.
Forget I asked."

"Hey, that's okay, I wouldn't--won't--mind," Rob said, and now
his
voice cracked. "It'd be comforting to me, too. But ... Mahree ... you told me to be honest. If you're thinking that you'll succumb first, you're almost certainly wrong."

She shivered, despite
Rosinante's
heat. "Why?"

"Because Jolie has a lower oxygen content than Earth, and you've grown up used to breathing less O2 than Terrans. Also, you're smaller than I am. The less body mass, the less oxygen required, generally. So hypoxia--that's oxygen deprivation, the stage where people get to feeling high--won't hit you nearly as quickly as it will me or Dhurrrkk'. The same for apoxia, oxygen starvation."

"Oh," she whispered. "Are you talking about just a few minutes difference?"

"Maybe," he said, carefully not looking at her. "Or it could be more . . .ten, fifteen minutes, perhaps."

"I couldn't take that," Mahree whispered. "I've seen friends of mine die before, during the Lotis epidemic. I nursed a couple of them, even, but . . .

watching you and Dhurrrkk'--I just couldn't. Can you give me something when things get bad that will knock me out? Make me sleep?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I can. I will. Don't worry."

He yawned suddenly, then smiled. "Speaking of sleep, that's 175

the best suggestion I've heard so far. Best way to conserve our oxygen.

C'mon." He held out his hand.

Mahree finished braiding her hair, then let him pull her up. Together, they went into the control room. "Time to sleep, FriendDhurrrkk'," Rob said, dimming the lights. "Conserve air."

The Simiu nodded. "I will see you soon, my friends."

In the cramped space beside the pilot's couch, Rob knelt, pulling their sleeping mats close together. "C'mon," he said again, stretching out himself,

"lie down. You're worn out."

Reluctantly, Mahree lay down beside him. "It seems stupid to waste the time we've got left."

"We'll be
extending
the time we've got left," he pointed out. He reached over and took her hand, his grip firm and comforting. "We've hardly slept at all for the past forty-eight hours, so close-your eyes ..." He watched her face in the dimness. "That's it ... relax ..." Lowering his voice to just above a whisper, he kept up a soothing monotone. "Good ... just let yourself drift ... relax your legs, your shoulders ... that's good, very good. Now you're floating, and that's good, too ..." Her fingers slackened in his, her breathing slowed. "Good ...

relax ... relax ..."

He continued murmuring, watching her drift off.

Rob let his own eyes close. Her hand in his was the last thing he was aware of, as slumber claimed him . . .

Dhurrrkk' wailed, clutching his chest as it heaved, seeking air--but there was none. Mahree's face was contorted and purple as she, too, shrilled a high, keening scream. Both of them tumbled to the deck, thrashing convulsively, their mouths opening and closing, emitting that never-ending shrieking wail--

Rob jerked awake, carrying that last hideous dream-image before his eyes so vividly that it took him a moment to realize that it was, indeed, only a nightmare. And stil the wailing shril ed, that insistent, nerve-wracking wail of--

--of Dhurrrkk's alarm!

He sat up, eyes wide. "What the/w?//?"

Mahree was staring at him. "The alarm," she whispered, finally, in an agony of hope. "That's Dhurrrkk's alarm!"

He blinked at her uncertainly for several seconds. "Then that 176

means . . ." he trailed off and grimaced. "I'm afraid to say it out loud, for fear I'm dreaming," he admitted.

"It means that we've found a world with an oxy-nitrogen atmosphere! It means that maybe we've got a chance!"

A slow smile spread across his face. "If I'm still dreaming, please don't wake me up."

"We're both awake," she said. "It's real ... oh, Rob!" Impulsively, she flung her arms around him and hugged him hard. He returned her embrace so violently that the breath
whooshed
out of her lungs.

"Air!" he whooped, kissing her face ecstatically, forehead, cheeks, left eyelid, nose, then hugging her again. "Thank you, God--
air!"

Her cheeks red with excitement, Mahree pulled herself out of his arms.

"C'mon, let's turn off that thing, then wake Dhurrrkk'!"

"That
rinky-dink little thing?" Rob exclaimed a few minutes later, as he took in the red dwarf occupying the middle of
Rosinante's
main viewscreen.

"Good grief, it's only 170,000 kilometers in diameter--barely bigger than Jupiter! I could pi--" He stopped abruptly at a look from Mahree. "I mean, I could
spit
on that star and put it out!"

Dhurrrkk' nodded. "It is indeed very small," he admitted.

"It's all we've got, so be nice," Mahree said absently, reading a translation of the Simiu characters on her computer link. "It's got two planets--one a frozen hunk not even big enough to be spherical, the other about six-tenths the size of Earth. That's the one with the atmosphere. It orbits the star at a distance of about four million kilometers, and it does not rotate, so it always keeps the same face toward its sun. Its year is a whopping fourteen hours."

"But I
am
getting definite readings of oxygen in its atmosphere," Dhurrrkk'

pointed out, in defense of his discovery. "Not as high a content as we could have wished, perhaps, but at this point, we have no alternative."