Baby, it's Cold in Space: Eight Science Fiction Romances

by Margo Bond Collins

  “All right,” he says softly. “I am sorry, Kear’yl…”

  I ignore him as I storm over to my quarters. I slam the button to open the door and when it spirals open, I step inside.

  Three days in hyperspace. After this whole debacle, I want to put some welcome distance between us.

  Chapter Four

  THE FIRST TIME THE SHIP JOLTS, it tears me from sleep as I hit my forehead on the top of the bunk.

  The second jolt throws me from the bed.

  I snap my head up in shock as the entire ship darkens and stops its usual hum. That’s never a good sign.

  “Sh’vieth,” I curse under my breath.

  I scramble to my feet, and as I do so, I feel my body float for the briefest moment as the artificial gravity flickers on and off. Then the backup generators kick on and I feel my weight slam back into the floor. Alarms trigger as red emergency lights come on.

  “Sh’vieth!” I cry again, slamming my hand on the panel to open the door. With the power surge, it refuses to kick on and I scream in frustration.

  “No, no, no, dammit!”

  I punch it again, even though I know it’s futile. There’s probably a fuse blown somewhere and I’ll have to replace it before the doors will work again. But for now, there are bigger problems that I need to fix.

  Such as resuming oxygen flow. And if we don’t suffocate to death first, hurtling through space without any thrusters or boosters will kill us when we hit an asteroid or a star. And there are 1,548 other problems that I can think of that need to be fixed before I’m sure we’re not going to die.

  First is getting my air supply systems back online.

  I pry the door open with my fingers, cutting myself on the metal and my blue blood oozes out. I don’t care though. I’m on a single-minded mission to save our lives.

  I grunt as I pull open the door, and it irises open just enough for me to fit my body through it.

  Outside my quarters, I sprint to the cockpit. I almost don’t even recognize my own ship as the red lights cast it in an eerie glow and panels that are usually lit up are dead. I pray to the cosmos that it’s just a power outage, although my gut says that this is something bigger. The Sli’vier Biel would have rebooted if it were minor.

  From my captain’s chair, I toggle the switch to turn on the AI.

  Nothing. Panic threatens to engulf me and I keep toggling, knowing that it’s futile.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  I’m going to die on my way to celebrating a human holiday with my stepbrother. I never saw that coming.

  I jump when I hear, “Systems reboot. Running diagnostics.”

  I sigh in relief and press a palm to my eyes. I haven’t cried since I was a child, not even when my Ep’pa died, but I’m close to it right now.

  “Oh, thank Cosmos,” I mutter. “What hit us, Sli’vier?”

  There is a pause, and I know it’s from the computer running slower due to a hard shut down and now it’s firing everything at once.

  “An X-class solar flare from Luyten 789-6 struck us, knocking out all power,” Sli’vier says. “Continuing to run diagnostics, but it appears that our thrusters were blown, internal power has been disabled, life support has been disabled…”

  My entire body goes numb as she continues to rattle off everything that’s wrong with my ship. Sure, there are a lot of things, but it could have been worse. An X-class solar flare is one of the largest kinds of flares, and it could have easily destroyed us. There’s something to be said for the bad luck of being ripped out of hyperdrive from a solar flare. At the same time, we are so damn lucky.

  This is fixable. This is something that I have control over.

  And then I realize that I haven’t heard from Houston.

  “Sli’vier, run diagnostics on passengers,” I say, getting to my feet. I don’t even wait for her to answer as I stride over towards the skipper’s quarters and knock on the hatch.

  “Houston?” I ask.

  No answer.

  “Running diagnostics,” the AI says.

  I bang harder on the metal, the loud noise clanging in the enclosed space.

  “Three normal heartbeats,” Sli’vier says. I close my eyes in relief, and for a moment, I think he’s fine. But then the computer continues and my blood runs cold. “Breathing is normal for both passengers. There is blood loss from one, however.”

  Houston.

  I give a strangled cry and dig my fingers into the seams of the hatch, pulling with more veracity than I did on my own door. The observation occurs to me, but it must be because he is my charge and I gave him permission to board my ship when I knew that he had a heart condition. I am responsible for his wellbeing. I would be responsible for his death.

  I iris open the door and slip through. At first, I don’t see anything, not in the bunk and not on the floor. And then I see the still form on the other side of the room. The blast must have knocked him harder than it did me.

  I roll him over onto his back. In the dim, red light, I can even tell that he doesn’t look good. His tanned skin catches too much of the light and there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow. I see a large cut marring his forehead and a dark, sticky liquid oozing from it.

  He’s breathing, but only just.

  Where do you even check for pulses on human beings?

  I run my hands over his face, checking his nose, his cheeks, and finally finding a place underneath his jaw on his neck where a faint heartbeat greets me.

  Okay, that’s a good sign.

  I look around and find something to press to the wound on his head. I apply pressure and try to swallow back the hearts that have gotten stuck in my throat.

  Wake up, wake up dammit.

  “Wha—?” His eyes flutter open and he grimaces weakly. There’s something endearing about that, something that I don’t want to focus too much on. “What’re you doing here, Kear’yl?”

  I let out a breath and close my eyes, trying to slow down my racing heartbeats. “We are currently floating in space without any power. I think the aftershock knocked you from your bed and you’ve got an open wound here.” I indicate his forehead.

  He blinks up at me confusedly. “Aftershock?”

  “Yeah, we got hit by a solar flare.” I scoff and look around. “I have Sli’vier running diagnostics on it right now.”

  “Anything broken?” he asks. He grimaces. “Other than my head?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He lets out a grunt as he tries to sit up. I grab his arm and bring him to a sitting position and he breathes heavily. He takes the compress from my hand and pushes it against his forehead.

  “This is my favorite shirt that you’re getting all bloodied up,” he says, nodding up to the cloth. He grimaces at the movement.

  I feel the heat in my cheeks. “Sorry.”

  “And I forgot to tell you, Kear’yl.” He manages a wicked smile, and it takes me a moment to understand why. I don’t know the human body all that well, and I just now notice that he doesn’t have anything covering him. “I sleep in the nude.”

  At first, embarrassment hits me, then anger. I try not to look anywhere but his eyes and they are highly amused on my behalf. I huff and get to my feet. “That’s how it is. I worry about you, and then you make a joke about being naked.”

  “It’s not a joke, Kear’yl,” he says, although he’s still smiling. “But it goes to show that there’s always a way of making things more awkward.”

  I shake my head and storm out into the cockpit, leaving him there. If he bleeds out, then fine. One less broken thing for me to worry about.

  With that, I feel more and more sick at the thought of everything that we need to do to even survive, let alone make it to Fl’steri on time. Even worse, our communication systems were knocked out, so we are floating alone in a vast sea of space. I can’t even call for help.

  With a resigned sigh, I turn on the emergency beacon. It’s faint, and if there is a ship within four light years, they’ll pic
k up on it, but we’re at their mercy if they’re feeling charitable. There are a lot of alien species that don’t share the Vzekian view of bringing peace to the galaxy.

  Our odds of survival are very low. At least there is a mechanic on board and I’ve never been so grateful to have one.

  A few minutes later, Houston pads out, wearing a pair of trousers. “Sorry about that,” he says with a mutter. He is still pressing the compress to his forehead. “I forgot that you can’t take a joke.”

  I rub my temples to stem my oncoming headache. “This is a life or death situation, Houston, and you’re treating it like it’s just…a game.” I look at him. “I was seriously worried about you.”

  He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. “You were worried?”

  “My father would kill me if you died.”

  He visibly stiffens and then nods. “Right. Of course.” I hear dejection in his voice and I wonder why.

  Humans. So damn complicated.

  “I can patch that up for you,” I say, nodding to his head wound. “And then if you’re up for it, mechanic, we’re going to need your skills to get the Sli’vier Biel running again.”

  “I’m a car mechanic,” he says slowly.

  “So?” I don’t know what the word “car” means.

  “I don’t work on spaceships. Only on…” he hesitates and casts his eyes up to the ceiling. “Only on Earth-based automobiles.”

  It dawns on me exactly what he’s saying. “So you’ve never done work on a spaceship before?” He shakes his head. “How is that possible?”

  He shrugs. “We have different priorities on Earth. I can get full-time work specializing in just cars.”

  “On Earth…?” My voice trails off and I groan. “Fine then.” I open a compartment and pull out a tablet, one that I haven’t touched in years. I am a trained soldier, have been my entire life. I know the basics about fixing pieces of my ship, but nothing to this scale. If the two of us can’t figure it out, then we’re doomed. I storm over to him and hand it to him. “That’s the manual for the Sli’vier Biel. I’m going to patch you up, but you need to start reading it.”

  Our eyes connect. How do humans have such blue eyes? How can they express so much in those eyes?

  He smirks and then looks down at the tablet, breaking our moment. “Heh. Merry fucking Christmas.”

  I have no idea what that means.

  Chapter Five

  “THIS DOESN’T MAKE ANY DAMN SENSE.”

  I crane my head up to look at Houston. I’m underneath the center console in the cockpit, trying to reconnect some wires to get our communications systems up and running while he reads the manual. The gash in his forehead is medi-soldered together, giving him a permanent scowl. I try not to pay attention to how it gives him a more rugged appearance. I think humans call it “character”. I call it an irritation.

  “What doesn’t make sense?” I ask, pushing myself up to my feet.

  “This.” He thumps the tablet and I fight the urge to take it out of his hands to keep him from dropping it. I have some of my “romance” electronic books on it, and I don’t want to lose them. My sudden protectiveness over them surprises me. “I think this translation software is borking the instructions. How is toggling the headlights supposed to turn on the oxygen?”

  I peer over his shoulder at it—and I try not to breathe in too much of his scent—and select the Vzekian language option. The letters on the screen change from English to my own native tongue and I read slowly.

  “The translation is correct,” I say with a shrug.

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  He looks at me incredulously. “How does that work? The two have nothing in common with one another.”

  I give him a cool look. “This ship used to be my mother’s. She built it herself. Repaired it herself. Did everything that you see on there. She cobbled everything together to make it fly. It’s her life’s work. If the manual says that turning the headlights on and off will restore oxygen, then that is correct.”

  He glances back at the tablet. “And she made an instruction manual over it?”

  “No. Sli’vier keeps documentation of her parts at all times.”

  “Right, a sentient ship that writes her own instruction manual.” He shakes his head with a guffaw. “So, you don’t know how to fix it? I thought you said your mother built it.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “And my father flew it. He was the pilot; she was the mechanic. It’s a traditional Vzekian relationship, a symbiotic one.” And then I freeze, realizing how close that tradition is to our current arrangement and gulp down some precious air uncomfortably. “My Ep’pa died before she could teach me how to repair ships. And they don’t teach you that in the Space Corps. You’re a soldier, not a repairman.”

  Houston nods, not catching my awkwardness. “Got it. Well, here goes nothing.”

  He leans over the captain’s console and toggles the light switch. I hold my breath, hoping that please, dammit something go right on this trip.

  And we both hear the sigh of the ship, and the stale air that filled the cockpit begins to move with a slight current.

  Houston gives me a wide grin, like he just discovered Wuxilia. “Fixed it.”

  “I could have done that,” I mutter. And I would have too, if I hadn’t just assumed that he would understand it better, being a mechanic and all. It just goes to show that I can’t make assumptions about everything.

  Or everyone.

  “If all the repairs are like that,” Houston says, “then we should be on our way to Fl’steri in no time.” He looks down at the tablet and scrolls through a few more sections and shakes his head after a moment. “No, that seems like it was by far the easiest one. Shit.”

  “Well,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, “at least we won’t suffocate.”

  But I know there are far worse things that can happen in deep space. Millions of them. We’re a target, just waiting for something to kill us.

  ***

  Time ticks by both too slowly and too quickly. Slowly, because the repairs seem to be taking forever. Quickly, because we are running out of time. Some of the fixes, like the oxygen flow and the interior lights, are incredibly easy, while others, like the thrusters and the engine, require a lot more thought and work. We finally get the boosters working, if only to keep us from spinning out of control, but that’s about it.

  We work around the clock. I don’t know how long we’ve been working, but blind determination keeps us going.

  At least, that’s what I try to exude on the outside.

  I don’t tell Houston, but my hopes of getting out of here diminish by the Planck time. How do you stay optimistic when situations like this kill space travelers all the time? I think about the solar panels, which have not been functional for years. It’s an antiquated technology; if they worked, we could have an extra supply of power, although the ship has been running fine without it ever since my mother died. Fixing it would require spacewalking at this point, which I refuse to do. Nothing scares me more than spacewalking.

  I should have repaired them a long time ago, but I haven’t. Mainly because it feels like it would tarnish my mother’s memory. Call me proud, but if I can function without it, I won’t do it.

  And really, with so many other parts of the ship not working, it should be the least of my worries.

  After trying a bunch of different combinations of buttons and crossed wires to fix the comm, I sit back with a groan and tousle my headtentacles in annoyance. I don’t have the parts that we need to repair it and send out a signal. While the oxygen was an easy fix, this is something I just can’t do.

  And it would be all right if I didn’t notice one of my meters running low.

  “Houston, we have a problem.”

  His reaction is not what I think it should be, and for a moment, while he’s chuckling mirthlessly, I wonder if he’s become victim to space madness. He shakes his head and clears his throat. “What is
our problem, mission control?”

  I will never, ever understand humans. Maybe humor is some sort of defense mechanism for them.

  I tap on the gauge. “We are leaking fuel.”

  He frowns and comes over. “There’s gas in space?” is his first question.

  “It’s a cold fusion reactor. We’re leaking particles from a fissure in the fuel cell. I shut the valve, but we don’t have enough fuel to make it to Fl’steri now.”

  He pales. “Were those radioactive particles that leaked into space? Can they come in here?”

  I frown. “Nothing worse than that solar flare we got hit with.” And then I remember that radioactivity changes human DNA, causing cancer and other health-related problems. “Shi’vieth,” I mutter.

  He curses under his breath as well and turns away from me, running his hands through his hair. “Well, this is just dandy. Maybe we can both get cancer, sprout wings and fly ourselves back to Earth or Fl’steri or wherever the fuck they have parts for your ship.”

  None of what he said made any sense—cancer in humans doesn’t work that way. Then I realize that he may be acting sarcastic.

  “This isn’t a laughing matter,” I tell him.

  “Oh, I’m not laughing.”

  “And Vzekians can’t get cancer.”

  He snickers. “No, of course not. Because you all are perfect and everything, right?”

  “We’re not perfect,” I say evenly.

  “You believe you are, right? That’s why you go around the universe or galaxy or whatever, trying to keep the peace between planets? Because you think you’re better than everyone else?”

  I detect more sarcasm, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying something that we’ll both regret. Because, surely, there must be something else to his words.

  He doesn’t speak more though, he just looks at me with a strange expression, one that I can’t read, and I don’t know what it could mean.

  “What?” I demand.

  “You’re crying,” he says softly before he averts his gaze.