Boone's Journey Read online

The lights above the round dashes flickered in warning, as her drink seeped between the cracks.

  “No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” she protested. She swore loudly as she wiped down the instrument panel, watching as the liquid disappeared into the dash. Her fingers dripped with her favorite drink, a sticky mess.

  Red, red, red, red.

  She had no idea what to do. A knot tightened in her stomach as she watched the colored lights stutter in false patterns, no longer connected to the outpost. Her fingers found a way to her mouth, but the sweetness of the drink had soured.

  “Base command, can you read me? Base command, come in. Dammit!” She slammed her fist onto the panel as the sporadic flickering slowly faded and the interior of the cruiser turned black.

  “This is not happening.” She flicked the controls up, down, and sideways, bruising her palm. “Dammit!” she cursed again.

  Leaning back, the lights from the outpost taunted her. Red, green, blue, red, green, blue.

  Tears stung, brimming at the edge of her eyes. Her chin quivered uncontrollably as her mind raced. Silent accusations hit her. How could I be so stupid? And more importantly, she thought, noticing the darkness around her as the cruiser began to drift and spin away. How long would it take for someone to find me?

  Get yourself together. She closed her eyes, letting the darkness fill her senses and realign her sight. Their suits, although garish and constricting, were lined with reflective strips. When she held her arm forward, she could see a few feet in front of her. The phosphorus light emitted enough to differentiate between the color-coded wires.

  Deep breaths, slow breaths, she reminded herself, slowing her heart beat to dull thumps as her basic training resurfaced. There was nothing to this – a simple, systematic approach was required. This wire to that wire, and repeat. Backup systems were programmed into the cruiser for cases like this. She would get the lights up and running, probably with just enough time to find her hidden stash before realigning with the outpost.

  Clearing the seat of the fallen manuals with her forearm, she wedged herself into the floor compartment, tracing the floor until she found the small ridges outlining the tool area. The box should have all the tools she needed, and access to the main control panel.

  The squeak of the door broke the silence, following by the clanking of tools as she pulled and discarded most until she found what she needed. Even in the dim light she saw the clouds of her breath, reminding her that the heating system was connected to the main computer as well.

  Time was running out in more ways than one.

  The screwdriver slipped beneath her grasp, clattering as it fell to the floor. Her fingers froze from the stress and falling temperatures. Her mind conjured up repair processes her body could not carry out. Her second attempt to operate the screwdriver worked better, although the tip jumped out of its designated groove. Even in the panic-inducing darkness, she would not admit her ineptitude to be due to her trembling from fear. A ruse needed to be a ruse, even to herself.

  And lying to herself had become like breathing. Especially when fear wrenched up the one memory that continued to paralyze her. She remembered the tears, the weak quivering voice as her mom tried to explain their reasons, the way her father closed the door behind them without looking back. They didn’t even look back. Not that it mattered, Talia hid her tears. Every day, she denied their release, until they stopped. Isolated in her own body, she trained with abandon, relishing the solitude of the chambers, and the echoing silence. Isolation made her, gave her an identity. She assimilated easily, she didn’t have another choice.

  She learned long ago in her trainings within the dark tunnels, and isolation chamber, that fear was not tolerated. Precise, calculated, fearless. Those were the qualities the Academy wanted. Wearing her suit, that is what she had learned to be. Her suit enabled her to disassociate herself from any predicament long enough to resolve the problem, sometimes longer. Maybe that was why she had volunteered so readily for this mission, and shed her suit so quickly on Amiliba.

  She licked her fingers, waiting for the familiar burn to come. It didn’t.

  Sweat dripped down her cheeks, despite the cold temperature of the ship. She read the red line on the temperature gauge: forty-five degrees, and dropping. If she didn’t get the power on soon, she would need to get in her full suit, and there would be no room to maneuver in that. She needed the control panel open, and now.

  With concentrated effort, she turned the screwdrivers until a faint click sounded. Anticipation flooded her as she gripped the loosened edges. Prying open the door, she jumped back as a mess of wires fell into her lap.

  Her head hit the seat in frustration. The pit in her stomach widened as she pulled out each frayed wire. Her last string of hope diminished as the silver and copper frayed tips scratched her fingers. She threw the tangled mess against the wall.

  Now what am I going to do? She shuddered, and pulled the cuff over her hands for warmth.

  She reached forward in desperation, hoping something would hold, feeling her resolve crack as sobs slowly burst forth, shaking her to the core. She snatched recklessly, yelling as shorn wire after shorn wire fell limp to the floor beside her.

  Her cries changed to delirium as her hand held still. Something was still connected.

  Into the tool box past her elbows, her face hung close to the ground, she smelled the sickly sweet drink that had spilled. The pull was stronger than her disgust, and despite being tangled in the wires, her tongue found a way to the ground. Despite the slightly altered taste, the familiar burn returned.

  Hanging upside down, sticky pink on her cheek, she probably would have laughed, had the circumstances been different. Resisting another taste, she dove further into the cramped space, cringing as the metal edges dug into her arms.

  The silence broke with an alarm. A shrill buzzer filled the quiet, followed by her scream. She jerked her arm back feeling something burn her forearm. The rancid stench of burning skin quickly mixed with the ammonia stench of the coolant.

  One quick look showed her mistake. In her clumsy attempts, her grabbers had slipped into the coolant capsule, breaking the protective seal. She watched in horror as the coolant sprayed out of the compartment. A pang of disappointment hit her, as the bottom disappeared under a layer of purple syrup. Before she could pull herself up, it had coated her shoes, the discarded wires, and the palms of her hands. The acid stung as it burned the outer layer and worked its way up her nose. The pain, although awful was tolerable. The smell was not. She pulled herself out of the tight compartment, and stared at the dark dash, praying that something would illuminate the darkness.

  She could no longer hold back the tears. Banging her head back against the seat, she rocked back and forth, cursing her bad luck.

  Red, green, blue, red, green, blue.

  She wanted to scream at the lights outside. Those infuriating lights laughed at her with each pulse. This was supposed to be simple. Her teeth began chattering, a drumming accompaniment to the new buzzing from the coolant alarm. This was going from bad to worse, fast. Taking off her boot, she lugged it at the dash, regretting her action immediately as it landed with a splash below.

  “No!” she yelled, watching sparks fall from the one active wire into the purple coolant. A new whirling siren blared in her ears. Before she could register what she had done, the cruiser burst into alarm as sparks flew around her.

  She winced as she pounded on the buttons, and flicked switches, hearing her voice crack as she called out into radio silence.

  “Delta Foxtrot Turin 434, electrical malfunction onboard, stranded, requesting backup at the Turinth Outposts. Can anyone hear me?”

  She held her breath, waiting for something, any form of acknowledgment.

  “Come on,” she yelled. “Answer me, dammit. Delta Foxtrot Turin 434, electrical malfunction onboard, stranded, requesting backup. Turinth Outposts.”

  Nothing, not even static responded.

 
“Delta Foxtrot Turin 434, electrical malfunction onboard, stranded, requesting backup. Turinth Outposts.” Her words jumbled together as she repeated her call.

  “Delta Foxtrot Turin 434, electrical malfunction onboard, stranded, requesting backup. Turinth Outposts. Save me, I’m not ready to die.” Her chin quivered.

  A flash of light blinded her as her instruments burst into flame. Terror punched her in the gut. Smoke filled the lower chamber and worked its way up quickly, choking her breath.

  “Delta Foxtrot Turin 434, fire onboard, abandoning ship,” she said through a cough as she grabbed her helmet and gloves.

  Silence answered. The communicator was out, the computer down, and she had no locator for tracking. Without that bleep, she was adrift, lost in the wide sea of stars. Forgotten, or presumed dead. No more than thirty minutes of air.

  “I can’t die,” she whispered into the fizzing background. “Not like this.”

  She looked around the dark cabin, searching the corners for anything that would put the fire out, or start the engine.

  Her chest heaved as smoke filled her, burning her throat and lungs. Each second she delayed her escape, amplified the misery. Swinging her hands to clear the smoke, she felt her gloves slide over something. A soft undulating light flickered at her as the light from her suit highlighted a chain.

  The emergency chain. How could I have forgotten about