‘Who are you even talking to?’ I yell, hearing my voice break. ‘You literally just said nobody’s here!’ My throat’s tightening, my heart trying to shove its way up from my chest. A strange part of me wants to burst out laughing.
Because somebodyishere. I’m here. The number of times I’ve had this exact argument with my mother – she and this recorded announcement would really get along.
What will she think when she figures out what happened? What will my sister, Marguerite, think? Will she grieve, even for a minute?
Life support is gone. Soon – and though I’ve never wished in all my life that I didn’t know the rules and regulations, ignorance would be bliss right now – this place will vent until it’s nothing but a vacuum, removing any airborne toxins, and with them, any air left for me to breathe.
And by the time anyone realizes I was here at all – let alone that I didn’t make it out – it’ll be too late.
4.
CLEO
7 HOURS, 29 MINUTES REMAINING
INEARLY JUMP OUTof my skin when the ragged voice blasts over my headset.
Mayday, mayday. This is Pax Station broadcasting a mayday on all frequencies. The evacuation is incomplete! Orbital Station, please respond!
What thehell?
I’m hunkered down in my storage-space hideout, jammed into a stolen pressure suit, preparing to ride out the venting procedure.
Wondering why I did not proceed quickly but calmly to my assigned evacuation vehicle, secure my straps, and depart this hot mess of a station? I mean, soon there’ll be no breathable air. Not a fun place to be.
Nah. I think you’re smarter than that, imaginary friend. You’ve figured it out: just like the breakfast situation, they onlyassign you a place if they know you’re here. Which is why the first thing I did on arrival was plan for this exact moment.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that if my luck can find a way to disappear down the drain when I need it most, that’s exactly what it’ll do. And nobody else will look out for me, that’s for sure.
Mayday, mayday!the guy on the radio begins again, before sliding into … Arabic, I think. Presumably he’s repeating the message.Help! You left me behind! Don’t take my air away!
I shove my emergency O2tank up against the wall, ducking down to check the gauge one more time. I’ve got emergency ration packs stashed around the station, each with a fresh bundle of clothes – scruffy clothes are what’ll let you down nine times out of ten – but I only have two tanks.
My plan is to ride out the initial vent in my suit, as they flush out whatever toxin has set off the alarms, and then make my way over to the other tank and haul it back here. Shouldn’t be more than a day until the place manufactures enough oxygen for the general populace to come strolling back on in.
Actually, maybe this is my chance to do a little shopping. While the cats are away, this mouse could play …
Damn it, respond!The guy on the radio is splitting to pieces now.You need to get hold of someone who can override the venting procedure!
My friend, these are not very inspiring last words. I doubt Orbital’s hearing them anyway through this dust storm, but—
This is Hunter Graves of GravesUP Industries! Someone respond!
Did he just say …? Nowthat, on the other hand, is compelling. What the hell is a prince like him doing in a hole like this?
Before I have time to think about it, I’m grabbing for my tank and rising to my feet. If there’s even a chance he’s telling the truth about who he is, I have to hurry.
Saving a billionaire could be life-changing.
I mean for him too, I guess.
But mostly for me.
5.
HUNTER
7 HOURS, 26 MINUTES REMAINING
