The Survivor

by BRIDGET TYLER

  “What you’re afraid of isn’t out there, Jo,” Mom says. She gently taps my helmet. “It’s in here. The only way to escape it is to jump. Trust yourself, not the fear.”

  I want to. I need to. I’m not sure I can.

  I take a step toward the airlock anyway. Then another. And another.

  I grab the doorframe. The ship hums under my fingers. The gentle buzz of reality coats the burning memory.

  I breathe.

  Then I look outside.

  The endless glitter swims in my vision as vertigo slams into me again. My body jerks away, but Mom’s hand is planted on the small of my back this time, holding me in place.

  “Just do it, Jo,” she says. “Jump. Once you’re out, it’ll pass.”

  I believe her.

  I tighten my grip on the airlock. I bend my knees. I tense my belly. Then, just as my toes start to push off the hatch, a suited figure bursts over the golden horizon of the Prairie and surfs down the great disk like a little kid sledding a big hill.

  “What the—”

  “You stay right where you are, Joanna,” Grandpa’s voice on the comms feed blows through Mom’s expletive. “We’ve got this.”

  “Dad!” Mom protests. “You’re less than twenty-four hours out of inso and you’ve got high blood pressure.”

  “And I’m seventy-four,” he adds, chuckling.

  “Exactly,” Mom snaps. “You are not cleared for EVA!”

  “So we’d better get this done quick, eh?” Grandpa counters. “My heart and the future of the human race are hanging in the balance.”

  Mom’s sigh is halfway to a growl. She tugs me back into the airlock. “Since he’s out, we might as well do the repair and leave you to pilot Trailblazer,” she says.

  “It’s not safe to just let your shuttle drift on autopilot, anyway,” Grandpa tosses in.

  “I know, Dad.” Mom grinds the words between her teeth. A red blinking light pops up in the bottom corner of my screen, indicating a private feed has been opened.

  “Don’t worry, Jo,” Mom says, for my ears only. “We’ll be fine. And Dad’s right, it’ll be good to have you at the helm here. You’ll be our spotter. When we’re done, I’ll follow him back into the Prairie and you can dock the Trailblazer with her and join us, okay?”

  “No, Mom, I . . . Yeah,” I say, the protest slipping away before I can get it out. “Okay.”

  Then she hurls herself out of the ship.

  Two

  My gaze clings to Mom as she hurtles through the void. Her form is perfect, arms and legs tight against her body like a diver plunging into the vast, golden sea of the Prairie.

  I hold my breath until she says, “Extending second tether . . . contact!”

  That’s step one. Mom is tethered to the Prairie and the Trailblazer now.

  A few seconds later she says, “Magnetizing.”

  Then I hear the thunk of her boots snapping down to the big ship’s hull.

  She made it.

  “Releasing, Trailblazer,” she says. “You can close the doors now, Jo.”

  I pull the hatch closed and seal it, which takes me straight from agoraphobia to claustrophobia. I don’t want to be out there, but I don’t want to be in here, in this impossibly small airlock, either.

  I want to help Mom.

  I can’t.

  Instead, my seventy-four-year-old grandfather is out there, doing an EVA he isn’t even cleared for because of me. Because I’m too afraid to do it.

  “Repressurizing,” the computer informs me. “Please wait.”

  I want to scream. My suit feels like it’s shrinking. Suffocating me.

  “Atmospheric pressure restored,” the computer announces.

  I rip off my helmet and pop the seals on my suit. It doesn’t help. I still feel itchy all over. Hot. It’s like my skin is too small for all the self-loathing stuffed in there along with my uselessly healthy body.

  I go back into the main cabin.

  It’s already in three-sixty mode, so I watch Mom and Grandpa work while I change back into my regular uniform, dragging the soft gray flight suit up over my body stocking and snapping my regular utility harness into place.

  They look so small—just tiny dark specks crawling over the gleaming carapace of the Prairie. I wish I could help them. Then I immediately feel a billion times worse, because I could be helping them. I could be out there right now. I should be. But I can’t.

  Mom and Grandpa end up having to extend the sail by hand. Of course. Plan A isn’t a thing on Tau. The job takes hours, but I hardly notice time passing. I just sit there, watching and listening to them talk over the open feed, like if I pay close enough attention, it’ll help them somehow.

  I report their progress to Dad hourly. At least he’s stuck on Tau and has an excuse for being a useless observer. Jay and Leela and Chris text me, too. They’re all freaked out and shocked about what happened to Earth. What’s going to happen to Tau.

  Dad decided he shouldn’t wait for Mom to get back before they broke the news to the rest of the team. The Prairie is so big you can see her from the ground, even during the day. There was no hiding this.

  I reply to my friends, but I’m not sure what I write. I can’t focus on anything but the tiny figures slowly but surely unfolding the last of the Prairie’s busted solar sail.

  “Jo?” Mom says over the open feed.

  I reflexively jump to my feet, like I could run to her. “I’m here!”

  “We’re done,” Mom says, exhaustion lowering her voice. “Wait for the Prairie’s orbit to stabilize before you dock.”

  “Understood,” I say. My voice is small. I feel small.

  I watch them clamber back up the golden disk and disappear into the ship.

  Then I wait.

  I’m hungry.

  I’m thirsty.

  It’s been hours since I last ate or had any water. I should grab a hydration bag and a ration bar.

  I don’t.

  I just sit there, watching the Prairie.

  After what feels like an eternity, the enormous ship’s wobbling progress steadies. It’s working. As soon as she starts to rotate, I can dock.

  Then what?

  There are ten thousand people on the Prairie. They’re almost all still in inso, but they can’t stay that way for long. The human body can’t withstand deep sleep for more than a year, and the survivors on the Prairie have been asleep for at least six months. We’ll have to wake them up soon and bring them down to Tau.

  A new strand braids itself through my guilt.

  Tarn.

  What am I going to say to Tarn?

  Tarn is leader of the Sorrow, one of the two native sentient species on Tau. But Tarn wasn’t “the Followed” when my friends and I accidentally made first contact with the Sorrow. He was just Tarn. His brother, Ord, was the Followed then.

  Ord almost destroyed Tau by weaponizing our Stage Three terraforming bacteria to wipe out the planet’s other sentient species, a race of predators we call phytoraptors. I promised Tarn that humans would leave his world if he stopped Ord. Tarn had to kill his brother to keep his end of the deal. I convinced Mom to help me hold up my end of our bargain. We were going to leave. Go back to Earth. Start over and search for a new planet to pioneer.

  We can’t do that now. Earth is gone. None of the other planets the ISA has scouted for colonization are close to ready for civilians. We have to settle on Tau. We have nowhere else to go.

  Ten thousand people.

  That’s not just breaking a promise. That’s a betrayal.

  On the wall screen in front of me, the Prairie finally starts to rotate.

  Finally.

  My hands dart to the navigation app to press the shuttle into motion. But I’m moving too fast. I accidentally trigger the landing thrusters and send the Trailblazer shooting off course for about three seconds before I manage to turn them off again.

  Thankfully, my mistake sent the shuttle away from the Prairie, instead of crashing in
to it. Wouldn’t that be spectacularly ridiculous? Watch Mom and Grandpa fix the colony ship for six hours and thirty-two minutes, then slam the Trailblazer into her and wipe out the human species by accident.

  I force myself to slow down as I reach for the nav app again. I very deliberately bring up thrust control and just tap the maneuvering rockets. Once. Twice. Then I give the shuttle just a little extra momentum from the boosters. And just like that, I’m on course to the Prairie’s docking ring.

  So easy, and I nearly screwed it up.

  Maybe it’s a good thing that I didn’t go out there with Mom. Who knows how much damage my stupid, nervous hands might have done?

  I put the shuttle on autopilot to dock.

  I never do that. Docking is one of my favorite parts of flying. It always has been. But now all I can see are the hundreds of mistakes I could make.

  Autopilot is so slow.

  I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin, waiting for the computer to find alignment and bring us in. But I’m too afraid to do anything else.

  So I wait.

  The second the Trailblazer’s computer announces that it has a hard seal with the Prairie, I hurl myself into the airlock, slam the inner hatch, and demand that the computer “Match pressure and release outer door seal!”

  “One moment, Joanna,” the computer replies. I know I’m imagining the mildly injured tone in its too-perfect-to-be-real voice. The Trailblazer’s AI doesn’t have empathy subroutines like the educator does. Its feeling can’t be hurt.

  I add a thank-you anyway.

  “You’re welcome, Joanna,” the computer says. Green light starts to bleed through the red of the exterior hatch. A little stab of fear comes with it. I smack it away. It’s one thing to be justifiably afraid of deep space. It’s another to be afraid of airlocks. I refuse to be afraid of airlocks.

  I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until the hatch goes green and I shove it open. Air explodes from my lungs in unison with the sigh of warm, humid air that rushes in from the Prairie.

  The ship’s docking ring is huge—a two-story-wide tube that runs as far as I can see in both directions. The air is so humid, it almost feels like it’s going to rain. The Prairie uses the same algae-based purification system the Pioneer does, and it must be working overtime now that the ship is back on full power.

  I expected Mom or Grandpa to be here, but they aren’t. So I wait. I wait so long that I’m nearly in tears again before it occurs to me that I can find them.

  I rip off my flex and press it to the wall screen beside the airlock. The moment it syncs with the Prairie’s computer system I say, “Locate Commander Watson’s flex, please.”

  “Certainly, Joanna,” my flex replies. “Located. Commander Watson’s flex is in the ISA Colony Ship Prairie’s sleep center.”

  That’s weird, but I’m too anxious to be curious.

  I just want my mom.

  “Please show me the fastest route to the deep-sleep center,” I request as I pull my flex off the wall. A glowing green line snakes across the floor tiles, starting at my feet and slipping across the floor ahead of me.

  I follow it for what must be half a kilometer. Just when I’m starting to think something’s wrong with the Prairie’s computer, a bulkhead melts out of the seemingly infinite gray ring ahead of me.

  The green guidance line runs up to the single door in the center of the bulkhead. I step through it into a more human-size hallway that’s bustling with activity. Men and women in dark blue Marine Corps uniforms and pale gray ISA uniforms, calling out requests and dirty jokes as they pass each other and completely ignoring me.

  The green line keeps going. I follow it past a locker room and through the Prairie’s bridge, which is surprisingly small—about the same size as the one on the Pioneer, despite the ship being a hundred times bigger.

  The green line leads me past the Prairie’s medical center. It’s full of people who are fresh out of deep sleep—still bald and covered in insulating gel. I’m surprised they’re waking so many people so fast. Doesn’t Mom want to at least tell Tarn what’s going on before we start pouring humanity all over his planet?

  By the time I reach the doors labeled Sleep Center, I can feel my pulse racing against my clenched jaws. My anxiety collection has gotten so big, I don’t even know what I’m freaking out about. There are too many things to choose from.

  The door to the sleep center slides open as I approach, and I step inside.

  The Prairie’s insulated deep-sleep center is another long, elliptical tunnel. According to the schematic, it wraps all the way around the ship and spirals inward, filling most of the enormous craft. Row after row of transparent insulated sleep crates are strapped to the curved walls. Each crate contains a single person in a medically induced coma, floating in the opalescent goo that kept them from getting fried by radiation when the ship went superluminal.

  “Joanna!”

  My grandfather’s voice rushes ahead of him as he hurries around the curve of the sleep center. I race up the tunnel and throw myself into his arms.

  He’s tall and broad, but too thin. I can feel the sinews and bones of his arms and gently bowed chest, even through his uniform.

  “Grandpa,” I whisper.

  He sets me away from him so he can take me in. “Hello, Little Moth. How are your wings?”

  The old nickname takes my breath away. I thought I’d never hear his voice again. Or feel his arms around me. I’m so glad he’s here. Which is just . . . horrifying. How can I be glad? My grandfather is only here because Earth is dead.

  “I . . . I think I’m . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence. There are too many thoughts and emotions stuck in my head, trying to get out.

  “I see them there,” he says, skimming a hand over my head and shoulders. “Still beating.”

  Tears roll down my cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry.” I sob. “I should have—”

  Grandpa clucks his tongue, cutting off my apology. “Nonsense, Little Moth. Besides, it makes an old man feel useful, being able to take care of his family.”

  “Commanding the ship carrying the last remnants of humanity isn’t enough, Dad?”

  I look up to see Mom emerging around the spiral of the sleep center. She’s glaring at Grandpa. If she were looking at me that way, I’d apologize. Even if I didn’t know what was wrong. But Grandpa smiles at her fondly, like he thinks it’s sweet. “Still nice to get my hands dirty, every once in a while.”

  “In other words, your delegation skills are poor at best,” a tall woman in fatigues with a long blond braid says. I didn’t notice her before. She’s leaning against the wall by the door, reading something on her unfolded flex. There’s a pistol holstered on her belt. The sight of it makes my stomach clench.

  Grandpa chuckles. “Everyone has a weakness.”

  “We aren’t done here, Dad.” Mom grinds the words out between her teeth.

  She’s furious. What happened between them?

  “I realize that, dear heart,” Grandpa says, turning away from me to face her. “But until you can present me with a reasonable alternative—”

  “Anything!” Mom almost shouts back. “Literally any other plan would make more sense than this.”

  “Hyperbole isn’t helpful, Alice,” he says mildly.

  For a second, I think Mom is actually going to punch him.

  “Jo, Lieutenant, can you two excuse us for a moment?”

  “Sure thing, Commander,” the blond woman, who is evidently a lieutenant, says. “C’mon, Junior.”

  She strides through the door without waiting to see if I’m following.

  “Mom—”

  “Please, Joanna,” Mom says. She sounds vaguely frantic, which makes my stomach twist with nausea. “Just . . . go. Okay? I need to talk to Grandpa.”

  Eight hours ago, she said she needed me by her side. But eight hours ago, we both thought I was something I’m not.

  “Okay.”

  I f
ollow the lieutenant out into the hall.

  The door slides closed behind us. The lieutenant resumes leaning against the wall and texting on her flex. The raised voices that immediately hammer at the closed door don’t seem to concern her.

  I can’t hear the words, but Mom sounds angry. And afraid.

  “Chill, Junior,” the lieutenant says without looking up. “I can feel you stressin’ from here.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t find the circumstances relaxing,” I snap, more indignant than I mean to be. “And my name is Joanna. Not Junior.”

  “I know that, kid,” she says mildly. “But mocking the admiral’s nepotistic tendencies amuses me.”

  And I’m being a jerk to this complete stranger for no good reason. It isn’t her fault I’m freaking terrified.

  I take a deep breath and try again.

  “Admiral,” I say. “That sounds so strange to me. He’s supposed to be retired.”

  “Nobody’s retired anymore,” she says. “End of the world, remember?”

  A sob catches in my throat, even though I’m not crying anymore.

  “I can’t believe Earth is gone.”

  “Eh, you’ll get used to it,” she says.

  I doubt that. How can anyone get used to the idea that ten billion people are dead and our planet is ruined?

  “What’s going on?” I say, gesturing to the door. “Why is Mom so . . .”

  “Royally pissed off?” the lieutenant supplies.

  I nod.

  “Deep-sleep system is screwed,” she says. “Apparently forcing the solar power back online fried a circuit somewhere. Now the sleep center is sucking in way more juice than it’s meant to. We have about eighty-two days, give or take, to get everyone outside before the excess power draw fries the engines and the ship becomes purely decorative.”

  “That’s only twelve weeks!” I cry. “We can’t bring ten thousand people down to Tau in twelve weeks!”

  “Since the other option is extinction, I’m pretty sure we’ll figure it out,” the lieutenant drawls.

  Ten thousand survivors in twelve weeks. That would be nearly impossible even if we didn’t have to deal with the Sorrow. Or the phytoraptors. We still don’t know what triggers their hunting instinct. How many of those ten thousand humans will get eaten before we figure it out?