Just kidding. When I swore for you before, that was literally the only time I ever have, I think. I’m not sure I’d even know which finger to stick up!
I don’t mind the censoring – and the new program is actually great. It’s the same one you have on The Eternity. The previous version was nineteen years old, so this one is ridiculously good in comparison.
My favourite parts are the little logic puzzles, and the way I can project things on the walls of the ship.
I still don’t trust the UPR – not until I make sure that Molly is OK, at least. But I’d be stupid to let my emotions stop me from taking advantage of the gift they’ve given me.
I hope you’re holding up OK. I hope that by the time you’re reading this, the UPR have finally told you where all of your friends are.
R x
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
233
From: The Eternity Sent: 12/08/2066
To: The Infinity Received: 07/07/2067
Hey Romy,
All I’ve been thinking about recently is the UPR. I feel tied up in knots about them.
I can hardly bear to think about what the war has done to my home.
Right now I just want to find some peace. I feel scattered in a million different directions, trying to make sure I’m good enough to do my job properly, trying to work out how to deal with the UPR – not just for myself but for you too.
I don’t want to give you bad advice. I know you’re probably going through exactly the same thing as me. Don’t you give up on me, Romy, not yet. I’m coming – just hold on a little longer. It will be easier when we’re together.
Urgh. It’s messing me up, talking about this. I don’t want every message I send you to be just about the UPR. I’d hate to stop having proper conversations because of them.
J x
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
227
I wake up to an emergency alarm blaring from the computer. A memory of my mother flashes across my mind: her kneeling down to look me in the eye when I was just a toddler.
“Now, Romy,” she said. “What do you do if you hear the emergency alarms?”
“Find you and Daddy?” I said.
She shook her head. “No. You find the nearest oxygen mask. You put it on, and wait for us to find you. Don’t do anything until you’ve got your mask on.”
Remembering her words, I reach under my bunk, opening the panel that contains an oxygen mask. I pull it on, breathing in deeply, and tug the canister over my shoulder. I run to the helm to read the message on the new UPR software, already panicking.
SYSTEM FAILURE IN EMBRYO STORAGE SYSTEM 12(c)
AUTO-DEFROST WILL COMMENCE IN 5 … 4 … 3 …
The freezers in the gene bank have crashed. If I don’t do something, the embryos are going to start defrosting. They’ll be destroyed.
Barely breathing, I run down the corridor to the gene bank and reboot the system. The computer slowly powers back up. Every second it takes to load, the warmer the embryos get. I urge it to go faster.
An eternity later, the system comes back online and the error message has gone away. I scan the subsystem for issues, but it comes back clean. I think – I hope – that the problem has been fixed.
The embryos might have been destroyed. Hundreds of potential lives could have been lost.
Pacing back and forth down the corridor, I try to process how this could have happened. This is making me wonder whether there have been failures happening in hardware all over the ship. I need to start running analysis tests. Now.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
221
From: The Infinity Sent: 19/07/2067
To: The Eternity Predicted date of receipt: 08/09/2067
J,
I have done nothing productive today, just worried about the ship, and about the war, and about staying alive long enough to reach the new planet, and about every other thing I can come up with.
I’ve had some issues with the ship recently – equipment crashing, computers malfunctioning, that sort of thing. I can’t tell whether it’s because the new software has a few operating bugs while it settles in or whether it’s just because the ship is so old. I don’t know which I would prefer.
I can barely sleep any more, because as soon as I go to bed, my brain decides it needs to sort through every single issue the ship has had in all the time I’ve been alone and go over them in endless detail until it’s 6 a.m. and all I’ve done for the last eight hours is stare at the ceiling and panic over things that happened five years ago. It’s great.
I hope you’re coping a little better now than you were when you sent your last messages. I’m thinking of you.
R x
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
203
The new software thinks that something needs replacing in the air-conditioning units. It has a much finer sensitivity than the old software, and it thinks there’s been a 0.5 per cent decrease in efficiency of oxygen recycling over the last quarter. If something is broken then we could run out of oxygen before we reach Earth II.
Even though I know it’s urgent, I don’t want to do it. The air-conditioning units are in the room next to the sick bay. Just the thought of going there makes me dizzy. I’ve avoided that area of the ship for years.
But the computer tells me that I need to.
I wonder if it can wait until J gets here so he can do it for me. He’s not that far away, after all. We’d only lose a few weeks’ worth of recycled oxygen in that time. But that might be a few weeks’ breathing time that we’ll desperately need one day.
I walk down the corridor towards the air-conditioning room, pressed against the opposite wall, as far away from the entrance to the sick bay as I can get.
As I approach it, I can’t stop myself from breaking into a run. I catch a blurred glimpse of the door as I sprint past, just enough to see that it’s still half-open, the way it was left all those years ago.
I slam my fist against the button to open the door of the air-conditioning room, keeping my eyes fixed firmly ahead. It seems to slide open far more slowly than any of the other doors. Diving inside, I lean against the wall and gasp for breath. I made it.
As soon as I start paying attention, my relief disappears abruptly. Because I can hear movement.
There’s something in the room with me.
Whatever is causing the air-conditioners to lose efficiency is moving. I can hear a low grinding below the quiet hum of the fans, subtle enough that I almost think I’m imagining it.
I brush the thought away and take a step towards the fans. But before my foot hits the floor, every single light shuts off, leaving me in pitch-blackness.
Every muscle in my body freezes.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
I can’t be here, not now, not in a power cut.
My mind immediately goes to the sick bay, to the torpor pods, to the astronauts, and a scream bursts from my throat, shrill and short. I throw myself backwards against the wall, jarring my shoulder.
But pressed against the safety of the wall, I can focus. I can almost imagine I’d be able to see anything that tries to lunge at me from the darkness.