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  For Pokey. We can be everything.

  Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.

  —MAYA ANGELOU

  I don’t believe in God, but I’m very interested in her.

  —ARTHUR C. CLARKE

  1

  Bournemouth, UK

  April 2045

  “You’ve gone too far.”

  Eve stood at the edge of the garden pond in the fading summer light. The worry lines on her young face were put there by her daredevil daughter, ten-year-old May, who was splashing in the green water wearing her favorite lemon-colored swimming cap and matching goggles. She smiled when she saw her mom’s look of concern, a confirmation that what she was doing truly did present a risk. Eve was not an overprotective parent, but swimming the length of the murky pond—underwater the entire way—did not strike her as either fun or smart. She held up May’s towel.

  “It’s nearly time for dinner, anyway, so please climb out of that muck and—”

  “Meet me on the other side!” May cried out, and plunged in.

  “Shit,” Eve said.

  Under the surface, May was thrilled at the sound of her mother’s muffled exasperation and further driven to prove she was up to the task. She kicked along energetically for what she thought was a great distance and rose to snatch a quick look at her progress. She was dismayed to find that she was already feeling exhausted after having made it only a third of the way across. The cold pond water was stiffening her muscles, and her breathing was increasingly shallow. To make matters worse, her brief rise to the surface elicited angry calls from Eve to do as she said and get out of the pond before she drowned.

  Drowned.

  From an early age, May had been an excellent swimmer, talented and strong beyond her years. The idea of dying in a world in which she felt so at home and confident, perhaps even more so than on land, had been absurd . . . until that day in the pond. With every stroke, her limbs felt heavier and her lungs ached more. She’d taken a quick gulp of air when she surfaced before, but its benefits had quickly dissipated. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her mother’s warnings about swimming in the garden pond began to resonate. The water was always cold, even in summer, and the weather never offered enough sun to warm it more than a few inches below the cloudy, nonreflective surface.

  But I am extraordinary, May thought firmly. I am exceptional.

  Her inner cheerleader had been effective in motivating her before, but it all sounded hollow in her achingly cold little ears. Throwing pride to the wind, she surfaced again for a breath, but found she still had the final third of the way to go to make it to the other side, a distance that seemed as vast as the English Channel. She gulped air and attempted to catch her breath by treading water, but the exhaustion she felt was spreading numbness over her entire body.

  With limbs weakly fluttering, expending their last measure of strength to keep her mouth above water, she felt a wooden rage at her stupidity in ignoring Mom’s warnings. She tried to lay eyes on Eve one last time, hoping she would understand her silent call for help in lieu of the yell for which her shivering chest held no breath. She saw nothing but the iron-gray sky hinged against a dull, mocking landscape, and then she sank like a stone. Holding her last breath was all she could manage, and she could feel her ability to do that slipping as well. Her body felt blue with freezing death, like a hand plunged into snow, and the darkness of the weedy depths enveloped her. Then she felt a sharp pain in her chest and heard a commanding voice call out, pulling her from the abyss.

  “Breathe.”

  2

  Hawking II Deep Space Research Vessel

  December 25, 2067

  May’s naked body lay suspended atop hypothermic gel in the spectral silence of an intensive-care isolation pod. Intubated and attached to every imaginable resuscitation device, her only sign of life was a chirping chorus of robotic noise. The pod, a bulbous cocoon with a milky-opaque skin, pulsed gently in time with her shallow breaths. Aside from the dim amber flashes of emergency lighting, its glow was the only significant source of light in the darkened infirmary. Her gaunt face, framed by the frosted observation window, appeared dead.

  Sensors detected rapid eye movement, the first hint of consciousness, under a barely perceptible flutter of lashes. The pod responded, its white skin blushing, and gradually increased its warmth while administering neurostimulants. Vague flashes of light and muffled, distant sounds were all May’s dulled senses could perceive. Her fingers clawed the air feebly as a galaxy of neurons fired throughout her sluggish brain. Her skin flushed under a thin layer of sweat. Every bone in her body hummed with agony, and her blood boiled in her veins.

  Despite her rapidly rising vitals, May struggled to grasp lucidity through a seemingly impenetrable mental fog. She desperately needed a shove if she were to avoid death by asphyxiation from the ventilator tube as the pod’s life-support systems cycled down. It came in the form of a blast of holiday music that erupted over the ship’s PA, followed by a canned greeting bellowed festively in multiple languages. With the piercing swell of a child choir singing “O Holy Night,” May’s weakened kidneys released all the epinephrine they could spare. The effect was similar to jump-starting a car that had been sitting for weeks in subfreezing temperatures. Her autonomic nervous system quickly followed suit, stimulating her muscles into a violent shiver to warm up her core. As fragmented awareness sputtered across her mind, the choir hit its shrill crescendo, and May opened her eyes.

  3

  “Patient revived. Deactivating isolation pod.”

  The calm female voice of the ship’s AI rose over the fading sounds of the machines cycling down, and May’s respirator slowed to a stop with a weary sigh. The top of the pod slid open, and condensation from the inside walls ran out onto the floor. Completely disoriented, unable to focus her vision, and barely able to move her weakened limbs, she panicked. Her screams couldn’t escape the ventilator and feeding tubes, which were making her gag forcefully. She clutched them with her slowly thawing fingers and fought back the simultaneous urges to cough and retch as she pulled them out.

  When they were finally clear, she started to sink back into the hypothermic gel, which had become warm and viscous. It crept up onto her chest and circled around her neck, threatening to suffocate her. An electric shock of panic sent waves of painful spasms through her muscles and set her skin on fire with pins and needles. The stinking gel slithered up to her chin, and May lurched and rolled to one side. The pod rocked with her and toppled over. When it hit the floor, she was violently ejected, sliding and thrashing across the room, her IV needles ripping out of her skin. She rolled into something that felt like a wall and lay there in the fetal position, retching watery vomit tinged with blood.

  May’s mind was a broken hive, swarming with questions. What she could see in the dark, through her semiblurred vision, was nondescript. She knew she was in a hospital, but where? She had no recollection of being hospitalized or even sick. But she felt very sick, as if she might be dying. Panic coiled around her and constricted, stealing her breath. She wanted to sleep, the whisper of death coaxing her to simply close her eyes and release her grip on life. It was compelling to the point of sedu
ction, but she somehow knew it would prove lethal. She could feel it. Her hands reached blindly for anything solid to hold as the room spun sickeningly. With the clumsy squirming of a newborn, she began to crawl.

  The counter along the wall was almost close enough to touch, so May zeroed in on it, clawing at the floor and shuffling her rubbery feet. Her knuckles rapped against one of the cool metal storage cupboards, and a weak current of relief gave her the confidence to press on. Up onto one elbow, then the other, using all her strength to push, she found herself on her hands and knees, her weak, quivering muscles barely supporting her frame.

  She had no idea what to do next, so she waited there until a decisive thought crossed her mind.

  Water.

  Her tongue was so dry that it kept sticking to the roof of her mouth, which still tasted of blood. Dehydration. That was the name for what she was feeling. She’d felt it somewhere before, several times. Low blood pressure. That caused the dizziness and feeling of weakness.

  Move.

  Her mind was shaking off the cobwebs, bringing the world into soft focus. At the top of the counter next to her was a medical exam station with a scrub sink three feet off the ground. The thought of standing was ludicrous, but she reached up and grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled herself up onto one knee, wincing at what felt like hot knives in every joint and muscle. Transferring power back and forth from legs to arms, allowing one to rest while the other worked, she managed to get into a squatting position. That small victory gave her the confidence to persevere. She pulled herself up high enough to throw her other hand into the sink and grasp the faucet. With all her might, she pushed with her legs and pulled with her arms until she was able to stand.

  Staring into the metal sink, May smiled proudly. Her lips cracked and bled, but she didn’t care because water trickled out when she held her hands under the faucet. She bent over and let it run over her mouth, swallowing every drop she could catch. It tasted so good that she would have cried if she’d had the tears to spare. After a few more long drinks, the water sparked her light of survival. Her vision became much clearer, as did her mind. An emergency flashlight was cradled in the wall behind the sink. She pulled it out and switched on the dimly flickering beam, cautiously surveying her surroundings.

  What the hell happened here?

  The infirmary was in complete disarray, the contents of its drawers, cabinets, and sealed vaults strewn about, seemingly torn from their housings by the hands of desperation. Desperate for what? Gurneys were stained and stripped. May thought it looked like war zone triage. How do I know what that looks like? She attempted to deduce causes, but the glaring deficiencies in her memory and cognition induced a bristling anxiety she was determined to avoid. She told herself to focus on getting her body back to some semblance of normalcy before attempting to do the same with her mind.

  “Keep it simple.”

  Her whisper of a voice sounded hoarse and foreign, but she was pleased to hear it. And she agreed with the sentiment: Keep it simple. She grabbed a gown from the floor and slipped that over her head, enjoying its immediate warmth. The water had been a godsend, but she felt the weakness and dull headache of dehydration creeping up again. Her flashlight beam passed over a cabinet with IV bags behind the glass. That was what she needed: a massive infusion of fluid to replenish what was left of her. Only ten paces away. She shuffled sideways, careful to maintain her grip on the counter so she wouldn’t stumble on debris.

  When she reached the cabinet, it was locked. Trying to recall a pass code was a torture she refused to put herself through. As she looked around for something to smash what she was sure was bulletproof glass, she saw a hand-shaped scanner next to the keypad and put her palm on it. A small screen next to the hand scanner flickered and displayed:

  Commander Maryam Knox, Stephen Hawking II Research Vessel

  “Hello, Commander Knox,” the AI said cheerfully.

  “What?” May said, startled.

  “Hello, Commander Knox.”

  “I’m . . . I’ve just woken up, and . . . What did you call me?”

  “Commander Knox.”

  “Commander?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  The fear May had felt flowering was now terror in full bloom. “I’m sorry. I can’t . . . remember. My memory. I’ve been very ill, I think. I’m weak and need fluids . . . and food. Will you please help me?”

  “Of course. What is your illness? Currently, I am unable to access the ship’s network to review your medical files.”

  “I don’t know,” May said sharply, punishing her tender vocal cords.

  “I’m sorry to upset you. There is a rapid-scan unit just behind you. With that I can help assess your condition.”

  May turned and pulled the scan-unit cart over to her.

  “Exhale into the pulmonary tube and place your finger on the blood-test pad.”

  May breathed into the tube and fell into a coughing fit. The test pad pricked her tender finger, and she yelped from the pain.

  “I am not detecting any known pathogens,” the AI reported. “However, you are severely dehydrated and malnourished, and your lung functions are well below normal.”

  “You’re a genius,” May said sarcastically.

  “Thank you. We will begin intravenous therapy immediately.”

  Guided by the AI, May pulled a vitamin-rich electrolyte hydration bag and steriline pack from the cabinet, along with two epinephrine pens. She slowly transferred these items to an empty gurney, and the AI instructed her to administer the epinephrine pens first before lying down to receive the IV bag. Pulling back the sleeve on her gown, she looked for a decent vein among the tracks of bruised needle entry points. Her arms were dotted with strange red blotches, which she also found on her back and legs. Some had scabbed over. Perhaps they were associated with her illness? Her head ached.

  “Commander Knox, please insert the IV needle.”

  “All right, all right. Jesus.”

  May grunted and found a vein that had not yet been abused on her thigh and slowly and carefully pushed in the IV needle. It felt as if she were being impaled with a searing fire poker. Then the drip started going strong, and the rush of energy that washed over her was so invigorating that she was finally able to squeeze out a few tears of joy. The icing on the cake was putting on the breathing mask and deeply inhaling the oxygen-rich air mixture. She instantly felt stronger and more alert.

  “I’ll give you a mild sedative to help you sleep,” the AI said soothingly.

  May shook her head.

  “No. I’m . . . afraid I won’t wake up. And I need to know what’s—”

  She yawned and laid back, out of breath.

  “It’s imperative you allow your body to rest. I will monitor your vital signs closely and wake you up with a stimulant if there are any issues. Also, the epinephrine you’ve had will prevent a deep sleep. Does that allay your fears?”

  “Yes, thank you,” May said reluctantly.

  She had no reason to trust the AI. Who was to say it had not been the cause of whatever disaster had befallen the vessel? Maybe the sedative was not going to be so mild? If the AI wanted you dead, you would never have gotten out of the intensive-care pod. But it became aware of you only after you woke.

  May shut down her internal dialogue and chalked it up to paranoia brought about by whatever affliction had beaten her into submission. Of course she felt vulnerable. But if the AI was not to be trusted, she was lost anyway. And she had no recollection of having had a problem with it before all of this happened. Before all of what happened? She prayed that when she woke up, she would realize it was all just a nightmare. She could joke about it with her crew, and they would all have a good laugh.

  Her crew! She closed her eyes and concentrated. She could see some of their faces. They were blurry, but bits would come in and out of focus, along with partial names. A memory of them slowly assembled itself. They were together, looking at something. Their
mouths moved quickly as they spoke, but May couldn’t understand what they were saying. Eyes were narrow with concern, maybe even fear. Briefly, the scene sharpened. The crew was looking down at May, hands probing, feeling her neck for a pulse. A man moved in closer and listened to her breathing. The name Jon came to mind. Had she stopped breathing? They were shouting “Commander Knox?” and clapping their hands in front of her face and shining a light in her eyes.

  They were trying to revive me.

  4

  “Commander Knox?” the AI called out.

  May woke back in the infirmary with a start. The scene from her dream lingered. I was dying. My crew was trying to revive me. My crew. She tried to hold on to the memory of their faces, but they kept slipping out of her grasp. I was dying.

  “How was your rest?” the AI continued.

  “What? Fine.”

  “Do you feel better?”

  “A little. Stronger.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Please remove your IV needle and dispose of it in the proper receptacle.”

  May slowly drew the needle out from under her thin, tender skin and felt strong enough to walk it to the medical waste container. “Silent Night” was now piping through the PA—some sort of polylingual falsetto pop version sung by what she pictured was a chorus of eunuchs in red turtlenecks. All was not calm, and all was sure as hell not bright.

  “Could you please shut that horrible music off?”

  “Yes.”

  When the music stopped, May could think a little more clearly, but more questions arose, demanding her attention. She fought to clear the cobwebs. I am Commander Maryam Knox. Hawking II Research Vessel. NASA. Where was Mission Control? Why weren’t they helping? How could they have let this happen? What is “this”? She tried to recall what happened, but her memory was like a television with an intermittent signal cutting through static. Random fragments danced mockingly on the tip of her tongue, just out of reach.