by A. G. Riddle
Chapter 5
Emma
I’ve lost all sense of time. It could have been hours. Maybe a day. Two, even.
I’m sure of one thing: I have decompression sickness. Not bad enough to kill me, but bad enough that I feel it every second. I’d really like to vomit right now, but it’s not a good time for that.
The science of decompression sickness goes like this. The ISS and space shuttle are pressurized to 14.7 psi—the same atmospheric pressure you’d feel on Earth at sea level. The EVA suits are pressurized to 4.3 psi—the same atmospheric pressure as on the summit of Mount Everest. So in a matter of seconds, I was blasted from sea level to the summit of Everest. Why is that bad? A rapid decrease in pressure causes nitrogen in the body, which is usually dissolved in blood and tissues, to break out and form bubbles. It’s like opening a can of soda. The contents of the can are at high pressure. When it’s opened, the contents are exposed to dramatically lower pressure. The result? Fizzy bubbles. Carbon dioxide released from the liquid. That’s what’s happened to me: fizzy bubbles of nitrogen are racing around my body. I’m like a human can of soda that was at high pressure and has just been opened and is bubbling away.
Scuba divers have known about decompression sickness for a long time and take steps to avoid it. So does the ISS: we have a protocol we follow before EVAs to prevent decompression sickness. But there wasn’t time. In this case, it was decompression sickness or death.
And at the moment, I feel bad enough to second-guess my choice.
I hurt all over. I feel exhausted, but I don’t dare fall asleep. I’m scared I’ll never wake up.
I cling to life, every second of it. I realize now just how much I want to live. That’s what ultimately matters in a survival situation: the will to live.
Except there’s not much for me to do with that will to live right now. I just watch the debris from the station, searching for clues that there are any other survivors—or any move for me to make.
Every now and then a piece of the station falls into the atmosphere and burns up. They’re like glowing pieces of sand falling through an hourglass, counting down to my doom.
I’m in a decaying orbit. It’s only a matter of time before I, along with the piece of the station I’m tethered to, fall into the atmosphere and burn up as well.
There’s another brilliant flash of light. I assume it’s more debris burning up. But this light gets brighter, not darker. Something is coming up.
A rocket. Barreling toward me.
A capsule disconnects, and its thrusters fire.
It’s coming toward me.
For me.
I watch in wonder. Tears stream down my face. I’m going to be rescued.
Chapter 6
James
The wonderful thing about being in a federal prison is that you get, generally speaking, a little better breed of criminal. Not your common robbers and murderers, who are serving their time in state pens. The denizens of Edgefield and other federal correctional institutions are criminal masterminds. Or at least, criminals ambitious enough to perpetrate crimes that cross state lines or violate a federal statute.
The downside is that they’re likely smart enough to find Pedro and me. My suspicion is confirmed when I hear the dryer at the end of the row swing open. Then the next.
I hear automatic gunfire in the distance. The National Guard has breached. The timing makes sense. They were en route minutes ago. There was no negotiation. They came right in, trying to seize the element of surprise.
The door to my dryer swings open, and a meaty hand swats the sheet away. The man draws back at the sight of me, points a gun in my face, and yells, “Get out!”
I show my hands and carefully move to the round opening. My body hurts all over.
The cadence of gunfire grows louder. It sounds like World War Three out there.
“Shut that door,” the gunman shouts to another inmate. “Get the table in front of it.”
I’m about halfway out of the dryer now. I’d like to get back in. I know what’s coming. Man, these guys are dumb. (I would like to withdraw my previous generalization about the average intelligence of federal inmates.)
“I said, get out!”
As much as I’d like to stay, the gun really sells it.
I stagger out on unsteady legs, like a fawn taking its first steps.
They find Pedro a second later. He comes out too, except he stands proud and sticks out his chest. I like him more and more. I really hope we don’t die here, in the laundry room.
They pat him down and take his radio and the little electric gizmo he used on Marcel.
I slouch against the dryer. Standing hurts.
What I don’t hear—gunfire—tells a story. Whatever war was raging out there is over.
A radio crackles to life—one the prisoners must have taken off another guard.
“To the individuals in the laundry. It’s over. Come out with your hands up. We don’t want any further loss of life.”
The leader of the group of rioters is not what I expected. He’s not muscle-bound or tatted up. He’s a middle-aged white guy with a receding hairline and a day’s growth of stubble. The kind of guy you might see on CNBC telling you why you should buy his company’s stock in spite of a recent earnings report with some very concerning data points. That’s probably what landed him in here.
He paces the room, scanning it, seeing what I already know: no other doors, no windows, no way out. Only a couple of small vents in the ceiling. And unlike what one sees in the movies, these are not big enough for inmates to crawl through.
The rioter’s voice is smooth and unbothered when he replies over the radio.
“We also don’t want any further loss of life. We just want a chance to survive. In case you haven’t noticed, winter is coming. We don’t want out. We just want to be left alone. There aren’t many of us left. Enough to farm the prison land and provide for ourselves—that’s about all. And all we’re asking is that you seal us in this prison. Lock the doors and throw away the key. Use AI drones to kill anybody who breaches the perimeter. We don’t want out. We just want to survive.”
This guy must be the leader of the entire riot. And he’s pretty smart. That’s probably bad for my life expectancy.
He eyes Pedro. “We have one of your guards.” He holds the radio out toward Pedro. “Tell them your name.”
Pedro spits on the radio.
An inmate with blood on his chest and a club in his hand rears back.
“Pedro, do what he says!” I yell. The other inmates stop and eye us both. “Tell them. They’ll get it out of you. This is all going to be okay.”
The leader cocks his head and stares at me. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he speaks. “Yeah, that’s right, Pedro. It’s all going to be okay. Go ahead.”
I nod at Pedro. Through gritted teeth, he says his name and position.
The leader continues when he’s done. “If you withdraw your troops from the prison and meet our demands, we’ll return Pedro Alvarez safe and sound. He’ll walk right out of here, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”
The guardsman responds. “We’ll evacuate the prison, but I can’t authorize the rest of what you’re asking for. I’ll have to ask. Give us some time.”
“Well, we’re not going anywhere. And neither is Pedro if those demands aren’t met.”
The riot leader releases the radio button and studies me. “Who are you?”
“The guy who does the laundry.”
“And hides in the laundry.”
“When called for.”
He breaks into a smile, but his associates are not amused.
One holds an improvised knife toward me. “He’s a snitch, Carl. I say we gut him right now.”
Technically, I haven’t snitched, only aided our imprisoners, who, frankly, I consider to have the moral high ground here, at least in the case of Pedro Alvarez. Now isn’t the time to split hairs though.
The leader—C
arl—seems to agree.
“Finey, you can gut him or do whatever you want with him—after this is over.”
Chapter 7
Emma
There are things that stick in my mind. The Christmas morning when I was six, when a brand-new bicycle with training wheels stood by the tree. The day Adeline was born. And Owen. And the day I boarded the Soyuz capsule atop a rocket that would carry me into space.
Space was always my dream. At some point, it also became the reason I had delayed so many things in my life. Marriage. Children. Settling down.
Now it has turned into a nightmare.
But the sight of the capsule rushing toward me right now is one of the moments I’ll remember forever. I’m overflowing with joy. Someone down there sent it—for me. To save me. In a world fighting for survival, they launched a capsule into space to save one life.
That says something about the human race.
The capsule unfurls its small solar array, like a bird extending black wings. It maneuvers with thrusters, puffs of white air blossoming from its sides as it slows and moves closer. I recognize the logo on the side. It’s a private space contractor. This capsule would have been launched in three weeks, to bring a new three-person crew to replace half the crew on the station, including me. They launched it early.
I know the specs, studied them at length. It’s a dual-purpose crew and cargo capsule with room for seven of us. And tons of supplies. From top to bottom, it has a nose cone (now gone), a pressurized section for crew, a service section (unpressurized), a heat shield for reentry, and on the bottom, an unpressurized cargo hold that detaches before reentry. That’s all great, except for one problem: I don’t have a working docking port or berthing mechanism.
The capsule turns its nose toward me, as if it had read my thoughts. The capsule’s berthing mechanism opens. I expect the atmosphere inside to rush out, blowing the capsule backward. But the puff of air that escapes is a gentle push. They depressurized the crew cabin before launch. Smart.
The open mouth of the capsule seems to stare at me, the black of space behind it, as we both orbit the Earth. The ISS was flying at over seventeen thousand miles per hour. We’re likely doing less now. The capsule is matching the velocity of my decaying orbit, but it has to use its thrusters to stay in place, and even that’s a losing battle, like a hummingbird trying to be utterly still. It’s impossible.
What’s their plan? I’m expecting something to extend from the capsule that I can grab on to and pull myself in. A tether. A rope. I’d accept a licorice stick at this point. Anything to get me inside.
But nothing comes.
The capsule stares at me, waiting. The cargo lights begin blinking. I realize it’s Morse code about halfway through. (Thanks to the decompression sickness, I’m not firing on all cylinders here.)
The message begins again.
Dot dash dash dash.
J.
Dot.
I missed the second letter.
Focus.
The third letter: Dash dash.
Or dash dot.
It’s an N or an M.
The next letter: Dot dash dash dot.
P.
J, something, N or M, then P.
Oh. No. Please tell me it’s not—
The sequence starts again.
Yep. They’re saying JUMP.
Chapter 8
James
Here’s what I expect to happen next: tear gas through the vent, National Guard troops through the door, shootout, and then either death or more prison for me.
I’m wrong on all counts.
The inmates left in the prison rally to the laundry, seventeen in all. They probably figure their only leverage—Pedro—is here, and this single room, with only one entrance, is easier to defend than the entire prison.
The radio in Carl’s hand crackles, and the National Guard commander’s voice fills the now-cramped laundry room.
“To the man in charge inside Edgefield Prison, you’ve got a deal. We’ll do the trade.”
Cheers break out. A few high-fives. A not-so-friendly glare my way.
Pedro struggles—they’ve tied his hands behind his back with duct tape. “I’m not going.”
Carl smiles at him. “Oh, you’re going. In case you haven’t noticed, we negotiate with pigs outside the prison. Not inside.” He nods to one of his associates. “Gag him.”
In goes a wadded-up pillowcase, secured with more duct tape.
Carl presses the radio button. “That’s great news!” he says with mock enthusiasm. “Now let’s talk turkey. We need some assurances that our little free state of Edgefield won’t be invaded. And by assurances, I mean guns. And bombs. And a neutral zone outside our fences. Say, a hundred yards.”
“Guns are off the table.”
“Then so is our deal. No guns, no Pedro Alvarez. Alive, anyway.”
A long pause. Then, “Stand by.”
The wait feels like an hour before the response comes. “Okay, you’ll get your guns.”
“Good. And we don’t want any old worn-out pea-shooters. I’m talking semi-automatics with plenty of ammo. One for each of my,” he pauses to do a head count, “seventeen men. And we want any prisoners you took during your act of aggression toward us. Guns for them too.” Another beat. He’s getting wound up now. “And throw in a spare rifle for everybody. Two hand grenades each. And seven RPGs.”
Grudgingly, the National Guard negotiator agrees. Over the course of a few hours, the inmates venture out into the prison to check it for hiding guards and ambushes and booby traps. When they’re satisfied that the prison is empty, we exit the laundry, with Pedro and me doing a perp walk in the middle of the procession.
In the yard, troops are stationed behind a barricade and troop carriers. The other prisoners are behind them. In front of the barricade, a half dozen crates sit waiting.
Carl calls out, “Gun demonstration!”
A National Guardsman with stripes on his shoulder marches forward, opens a crate, withdraws a mean-looking rifle, and fires a shot straight up in the air.
“Dump out the crate. Pick a gun. Two of ’em,” Carl yells. “Show me again.”
Carl definitely has some brains.
The guardsman glances back for confirmation. A man with a silver eagle insignia on his helmet nods. The guardsman marches forward and reaches for a rifle, but Carl yells for him to use the one next to it. Yeah, Carl’s got some brains. The guardsman fires the gun. It works. And so does the one after that.
What are these guys thinking, arming the prison? It’s a nightmare.
I stand in shock as the exchange begins. A prisoner holding a knife marches Pedro forward, stops halfway, and waits as the National Guardsmen release the other prisoners. The convicts rush across the yard, grab the crates, and make a break for Carl’s group. But the guy holding Pedro doesn’t release him.
Over the radio, the National Guard commander yells, “Let him go.”
“We will,” Carl says. But he doesn’t give the order.
I feel sweat cover my palms. Let him go.
Surely, they wouldn’t…
When the prisoners reach Carl, they drop the crates and distribute the guns. The convicts hold the weapons above their heads and shout as if they’ve just won the Super Bowl. Then they train the rifles on the National Guard line in front of them.
Carl holds the radio to his mouth. “All right, release our guest.”
Relief washes over me as Pedro stumbles forward. Just before he reaches the barricade, he stops and turns. He searches the crowd of prisoners and finds my eyes. I can tell what he’s thinking: that if he stands his ground right now, demands they release me, that maybe he can swing it.
I shake my head. They have the guns now. It would be a bloodbath.
Before he can act, the guardsmen surround him and pull him behind the line. Just as quickly, the prisoners retreat, walking backward, guns trained on the troops. They corral me back toward the gate, and I fall in line
. I figure my fate is pretty much sealed now.
Inside the prison, they lock me in a cell. This is a step down in terms of accommodations; I previously lived in a low-security cubicle, sort of like a dormitory, with two other inmates. But I am, for the moment, still alive. So there’s that.
I lie on the bottom bunk. The knife-wielding guy who threatened me in the laundry stops outside my cell, grinning, a rifle in one hand, a cup of homemade wine in the other. He doesn’t say a word, just glares at me, like I’m an animal in a petting zoo.
I start to thank him for stopping by, but I doubt the joke would come off. Best not to antagonize my captors.
Instead I stare at the bottom of the bunk above me. In a strange twist of fate, I am the last prisoner at Edgefield Federal Correctional Institution, a place I could have easily escaped from. My fellow prisoners will kill me, and if they don’t, the Long Winter will.
Maybe I still haven’t figured out this human nature thing.
Chapter 9
Emma
Imagine playing a game of darts where the stakes are your life. And the dartboard moves. And you’re the dart.
That’s what this is like.
The capsule hangs in space, floating side to side, its thrusters constantly correcting its position.
Jump, the message said.
They want me to untether from ISS and jump into the capsule. I get the logic. They can’t bring the capsule closer; if it collides with the ISS wreckage, it could trap me between the two. I’d be cut in half. Or paralyzed.
One option is to untether from the ISS and push off quickly. Let’s call that the “dart option.” If I miss, I’ll simply float out into space. My compatriots on the ground have positioned the capsule so I’m between it and Earth—so if I miss, at least I won’t burn up in the atmosphere. Still, I’m not okay with that.
