Exercising great care as she thought I had instructed her to.
Once the bed is empty, the precise folds on the sheets overlapping the top of the comforter are revealed. It’s a simple matter to find and retrieve the pillows from their respective positions on the floor, where they’d fallen.
But I hesitate before drawing back the covers. It’s one thing sleeping on a bed that belonged to someone else; another sleepinginit. And yet, even with the environmentals pumping at full force, it’s plenty cool in here. Maybe it wasn’t such a mock-worthy idea, as Voller had thought, to have a fur coat on board.
“Hang on,” I say. I head back to the closet up front and on the top shelf find a spare soft, fuzzy blanket marked with CitiFutura’s logo, next to—of all things—an emergency oxygen tank and mask. CitiFutura had definitely tried to make sure these people, at least, would survive.
“Here.” I toss Lourdes the blanket, and she catches it.
“Thanks, TL,” she says with a grateful smile. Then the smile fades slightly. “But what about you?”
I shrug. “I’ll be fine.”
Before she can protest and try to give me the blanket, I movearound to the far side of the bed and sit down. The mattress and bedding are soft enough that I sink in several inches.
“Whoa,” I say softly, unable to stop myself as I stretch out.
“Oh, wow,” Lourdes says, wriggling into place on the other side. “It’s like… I don’t even know! I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything this soft.”
“Nothing but the best,” I say, thinking of the oxygen in the closet, the Versailles Contingency backup systems, the ridiculous ornamentation, the one-of-a-kind plants or whatever. “At least for the Platinum people.”
Lourdes is quiet for a few seconds. “Which is us now, right?” She turns her head toward me and gives a grin that holds more than a degree of astonishment.
“I guess so,” I say. If something like theAurorastill existed, we would all certainly be able to afford the highest level of luxury passage once this endeavor is complete.
She hums in agreement or further expression of comfort and then falls silent.
After a moment or two, her breathing evens out and grows quieter. She’s asleep already.
But, despite weariness that is pulling at me, making my joints ache and my eyes burn, the buzzing in my damaged ear is loud and annoying and I can’t seem to make my brain shut off.
Instead, I’m replaying every moment of the last thirty-some hours in my head, looking for mistakes I made, the things I missed but should have caught. Some of that is simply the result of being in charge; some of it is unhealthy, obsessive anxiety. Another of my diagnoses? Compulsive need to control. Not others, necessarily. But myself and the situation around me.
Well, duh. Experiencing a scenario—or multiple scenarios—where your actions have dictated the fate of other people tends to make one a little edgy.
Normal for someone like me, but not necessarily helpful. Especially when I rerun the conversation with Lourdes in the bathroom—I wasn’t talking aloud, was I?—over and over again,not finding anything new except increased levels of paranoia and self-doubt.
And what about those doors opening and closing? What was that? Hallucinations? That would be the simplest explanation, which is certainly telling. It wouldn’t even be surprising, given our current circumstances and what happened on Ferris.
Restless, I turn from my back to my side. Something hard digs into my hip, and I reach into the pocket of my jumpsuit to pull out the green plastic master key and set it on the nightstand. I kept it with me after we changed out of our enviro suits, just in case.
Lourdes slumbers on peacefully next to me.
Eventually, I’m stuck replaying that moment with Kane in the corridor. Only this time, in my mental revision of reality, I pull away from the kiss, tell him I’m sorry but it’s just not a good idea. He accepts without argument, and we go our separate ways. Disappointing but safer. Much safer.
That, of all things, is what finally allows me to fall asleep.
After some time—long enough that I can vaguely feel the stiffness has settled into my muscles from being still for an extended period—my brain dimly registers the sensation of the covers gripping my right ankle too tightly where it’s dangling off the side of the bed and a harsh and uneven hissing sound, as though something is caught in an air vent nearby.
If the effects of Voller’s shitty housekeeping in his quarters have made their way into our vents, I’m going to be pissed.
I kick out until the pressure around my ankle vanishes, turn over onto my side, and make a mental note to ask Kane about cleaning LINA’s air vents. It can’t be that hard, I could help, because that noisehasto go away…
Then I remember: I’m not on the LINA. And I’m not under the covers.
My eyes snap open as adrenaline pours through me. I simultaneously jerk my feet up toward my body and scramble to sit up, panting.
What the fuck was that?
