28

The Same Deep Water

It's dark, and I can't breathe. My chest heaves, but there's nothing. My suit is breached, mask is open to the void, and there's nothing to inhale. I'm sucking vacuum.

How did I get a breach? What happened?

I know I need to exhale, I need to exhale now, or the vacuum pressure differential will shred my lung tissue, but there's nothing to exhale. My chest is frozen, and my chest is on fire, and I can't get air, and I can't see. Why can't I see?

I grope for my mask, but it's not there, it must have come off altogether. Okay, find the exchange pack on my back, follow the hose.

Marcus, stop.

Stop what? I have to keep fighting. Get my mask back. Make sure I'm not off the tether. Where's the damn tether? Why isn't my radio working?

Marcus, please. I need you to hold still.

Why does my brain want me to hold still? I have to work the problem, fix the leak. If I hold still, I'm going to die out here.

Marcus, I can't hold you down and do this. I'm not strong enough to fight you. Please.

Wait, I didn't think that. I heard that. But I'm in vacuum. How did I hear anything? Am I in vacuum? But if I'm not, why can't I breathe?

“Marcus, there's blood in your chest cavity, and it's compressing your lungs from the outside. I need to drain it. Will you please for fuck's sake hold still?”

It's Miranda's voice. I think I know all those words, but somehow, they don't make sense. Don't fit together. Pieces that aren't from the same jigsaw puzzle.

What does she mean? Where am I?

“Marcus!”

Something shakes me.

My eyes snap open, and I can see, a little, there's gray mist everywhere, and there's… something… sitting on my chest, crushing the breath out of me. A shadow, a demon, a figure sculpted of pure darkness and methane ice, straddling my chest, brutally heavy and cold as the void, holding a shining silver knife in its hand. Tip downward.

It stabs down at my chest, hissing. I throw my arms up to stop the blow, fumble at its wrists, trying to get control of the knife, but there's no air, I can't get air, and I feel so weak and my fingers are made of wood, and every inch of my body is on fire.

“Marcus, please, please, please listen to me. I have to do this, or you'll die.”

Weird, if she doesn't want me to die, why isn't she helping? Why isn't she trying to stop this thing from killing me?

“Marcus, please, I'm begging you. Snap out of it. Just please hold still!”

Why does she want me to hold still? I'm fighting for my life. I try to call for her help, try to twist my hips out from underneath the monster, to create some distance, but the gray mist is clouding my vision and my hands fall away, numb.

And the demon stabs me. The knife enters my chest just below the collarbone, and I die.

I'm dead.

I'm dead, and there's no afterlife, no heaven or hell, only non-existence, only oblivion. Only the void.

And then something pulls at the knife in my chest, no, it's pulling at me through the knife in my chest, and it hurts, pain beyond anything to which the name of pain is given.

I suck in air to scream.

I suck in… air.

It's cold and it's raw and it burns my throat like acid and it's the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.

I'm alive.

The world comes flooding back, and I still can't scream regardless of the pain, because I'm too busy panting to scream, and the gray mist fades from my vision, and the shadow sitting on my chest shrinks until it's tiny, and it's warm instead of cold, and it barely weighs anything at all, and it's Miranda.

It's Miranda, sitting on my chest, and she's covered in blood. I think it's my blood.

Why did she stab me with a knife?

Except it's not a knife, is it? It's a syringe, a needle, the biggest needle I've ever seen, a needle that looks like it was designed by professional sadists working for the United Nations, and it's lodged deep in my chest, and the syringe is full of swirling pink fluid.

I try to ask what the hell she's doing, but all I can manage is a sort of croak.

“Oh, thank God. Shhh, don't try to talk. I put a chest seal on and drained the fluid, but you're losing a lot of blood. Just stay with me, okay? I'm going to take care of you, but I need to get you to medbay, okay?”

Wait, I know what happened. I was shot. Those guys boarded us, and I killed them, but the last one fucking got me.

And Miranda's doing… well, doctor stuff. But how the hell is she going to get me to medbay? I don't think I can walk.

And then this tiny little Barbie doll just picks me up off the floor in her arms and hoists me as if I were a child. There's still a giant syringe sticking out of my chest, waving back and forth with the jolt of each footstep.

That can't be good.

How is she carrying me? I'm almost three times her mass. Oh, wait, we're in spin gravity. I don't weigh much more than a sack of rice right now. She's struggling a bit, wobbling back and forth as the sheer bulk hauls her this way and that, but still managing to carry me towards somewhere, I don't know—still talking, rambling, words tumbling over each other.

“Marcus, can you hear me? Just hang in there, you hear me? You're a fighter. I've never seen anyone fight like you. You don't give up. You never give up. You fought my drones. You fought me. You fought all those Starlight ships. You fought all those men, you just went through them like they were barely even there. I just need you to keep fighting, okay? Just a little longer.”

I lie back and watch the lights go past. Her voice is so nice. So musical. So pretty. Like the rest of her. If only she were nice all the time, instead of all her weird mood swings and cold sarcasm. Except she doesn't sound cold and sarcastic now.

She sounds scared.

Maybe I'd understand if I could just think straight, if I didn't feel so sleepy. That would be the blood loss, I think.

Pixie, I hope you're good at this, because it's getting dark again, and suddenly I'm really cold. Tell me you got this, please tell me you got this, because I gotta leave it to you. I don't have a choice.

I'm just going to shut my eyes for a minute, okay?

Miranda's face isn't exactly the worst thing in the world to wake up to, especially when you don't expect to wake up at all. She's looming over me wearing a slightly worried smile and what must be the mother of all industrial strength hair caps. A surgical mask dangles from one ear.

“Hey.”

“Hmmmmm.”

For some reason, I just don't feel like talking. Whatever I'm lying on is soft and warm and I feel… I dunno. Fuzzy. Like a… thing. Made of fuzz.

“Hey.”

“Mmmmm.” I just want to sleep. I don't feel sick, though. I feel… good. Sort of a floating feeling. The universe is warm and soft, like a big warm blanket, and nothing hurts. At all. Not even a little bit.

Where am I, exactly? My vision is coming into focus.

Medbay. The gravity, super light as it is, is still all… sideways. But I'm lying flat, with everything else at crooked angles all around me. She's rigged the medical bed, somehow, adjusted it to stay level in the wonky gravity, like the acceleration chairs do. Didn't know they could do that. It's pretty comfortable, though.

The universe is all… floaty.

And Miranda's tired, worried face is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I want to keep looking, but I'm sleepy, too. Really sleepy.

I close my eye.

“Hey, Marcus, wake up for a second. Can you open your eyes for me? I need to check your pupils.”

“Mmmmm. 've only got just the one. And it wants to sleep.”

“Yeah, I know. That's the drugs. But I need you to open your eyes, okay?”

She's talking to me like I'm a child. Why is she talking to me like I'm a child? She'd be terrible with children. No patience. Better hire a nanny. Her kids would sure be cute, though.

“Hey, Marcus, c'mon.”

She's got her hand on my face, and she's trying to shake it back and forth. Like a kid trying to wake dad up on Christmas morning. Can't she just go open her presents without me?

“Marcus!”

I open my eye to see what the fuss is about and immediately regret it as a bright light stabs me in the eyeball. “Hey, ow! Whyja do that?”

“Sorry. I needed to see if your neural reflexes were normal. I didn't have an anesthesiologist or the right drugs, so I had to give you lots of opioids. Fentanyl. I needed to see if you were okay.”

“Why would you care?”

It just slips out, but I can't put any heat into it. I'm too sleepy, and too drugged. But it's just nagging at me, and it won't go away.

Her eyes go wide, shocked. Looking slightly left. Making contact with my living eye.

“Marcus, that's not fair. I just spent four hours patching you up, by myself, in a ship that's all sideways. I'm tired, and I just—”

“Yeah, but why? Not tryina fight. Issa question. M'not useful to you anymore. Why not just take th'other ship an' go?”

She gives a small, choked noise, high and thin, and I don't know what it means, but I just keep going.

“I mean, hell, you'd even get to keep a hunnred percent for yourself, 's what you wanted, isn't it?”

She's blinking furiously, staring, and then she just whirls, turns away from the bed, turns her back on me, shoulders hunched. I think she's rubbing at her face with one hand. She's not answering me.

“Miran… da?”

“Look, I'm sorry, okay! I'm sorry I tried to blackmail you! I'm sorry we kept fighting! I tried to say that! I tried to apologize, and you just wouldn't listen, and I… you don't have to be so…”

She stops. Her voice breaks off, and her hunched back just heaves, over and over, silently. Finally a little sobbing noise escapes her. Just one. She's… crying? The ice princess is crying?

I don't know what to think anymore.

So I don't think. I just reach up and rest one palm on her back, between her shoulder blades. It nearly covers them both—I can't get used to how tiny she is. I scratch her back, gently, not saying anything. I don't know what I've unleashed here, but whatever it is, it seems too fragile to bear the weight of words.

She lets loose one more little sob, like she's fighting hard, but it clearly isn't working. She's facing resolutely away from me, making more choked little noises… but she hasn't pulled away from my hand.

I don't know exactly why I even care about this… after all the things I have to hold against her, it doesn't make any sense. Maybe it's the drugs, or me being a sucker about crying girls, or the way she's a carefully designed bioweapon aimed at every protective male instinct. Maybe it's just that we're both in the same deep water, trying to stay afloat?

I don't know.

I just watch myself, as I roll to make a little space on the bed, and pull her back towards it. Towards me.

She resists. Sort of. She won't move or turn, but she won't pull away, or shake off my hand, either. She just sits there, hunched in her little ball of misery. And suddenly I get it.

She's humiliated.

“Shhh,” I murmur. “Don't be stubborn. Relax. Come here. And if you need to… do what you did before, if you need to pretend it never happened, I won't say anything this time. Okay?”

These aren't, of course, whatever magic words I would need to make her unwind, or open the floodgates, or even tell me what the hell is going on. Life isn't a movie, it isn't neat like that, and in the real world, crying, like sex, involves a lot fumbling and isn't pretty.

But she inches back towards me, and allows me to guide her awkwardly down onto her side, lying with her face away from me. She resolutely refuses to look at me, to let me see her eyes, as if it somehow weren't already obvious she's crying.

“Marcus… stop… you're hurt. You need to—”

“Shhh. So are you. Just relax.”

It's when I put my arm around her shoulders from behind, hug her against me, that she finally lets go, weeping like a broken-hearted child, fast, deep chest sobs that leave her gasping for breath in between. I still don't know what set her off exactly, but it's obvious what's really wrong.

We've been hunted across half the solar system, beaten to exhaustion by hard acceleration, by fear, by constant setbacks. We've been shot at, shot up, and finally just plain shot. And now we're drifting helpless towards the big empty, just waiting for the next blow to fall. And she's had enough. Couldn't stop it coming out.

I don't say anything. I just hold her. Funny thing is, I don't even mind.

And I mind even less when she reaches both hands up to hug my encircling forearm against her. And tilts her head down to rest her cheek against it. Something melts inside me, and I reflect, idly, still cushioned by a warm cloud of opiates, that if this woman knew how to be nice to people, if she could act like a fucking human being without needing to be beaten to exhaustion first, she'd be an unstoppable force of nature.

It's a long time before the tears finally stop.

“I'm… sorry. That was totally… I'm sorry. I should just… I'll leave you alone now. Sorry.” she says.

Now that she's gotten that word past her teeth, it's like it's all she can say. She pushes against my arm, moving to get up, but I don't let her budge.

“Hold on a sec. What are you apologizing for this time?”

“That was… selfish. I know you must hate me even more now. I'll just go and… will you let me go?”

She's struggling against me, against my arm, but very gently, in slow motion. Symbolic. I think she's trying to not to hurt me, but I'm not feeling any pain at all. I feel fine. I feel… lighter… like something has been lifted off my shoulders. A sixteen ton… um… heavy thing.

“Miranda, I don't… hate… you. I'm just… was angry about what you did, that's all. I know we're eventually going to have to get along. If we get out of this somehow. But you never even apologized.”

She sinks back into the bed, stops struggling. “I told you,” she says, her voice still cracking a bit, “I tried. After you saved my life. But you just… you shut down, and wouldn't talk to me, and I didn't know what to say, and…”

She sobs, again.

“Shh… shh… easy. I'm sorry. That's my fault. I just… that thing I did with the ship, to pick you up? I tried it once before… during the, ah, the accident. When an asteroid came apart. I don't know if you know…”

“Leela told me. Your father…”

“Yeah, I tried to catch him, and I screwed it up. And thought that it was impossible, so it wasn't my fault, but then you were… well, you needed me. And I tried again. I thought I would fail. I thought I was going to make a mistake and kill you. But I didn't. It wasn't impossible. I just didn't do it right. I just wasn't… good enough. To save him. And there you were alive, and he's still dead, and it was my fault.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That doesn't make any sense. It was two totally different—”

“I know. Doesn't help.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault. You do know that, right?

“I… try to tell myself that. A lot.”

“You loved him, didn't you?”

“He was my dad.”

“That doesn't necessarily…” she starts, and stops, tries again. “Yeah, I suppose. Must be nice.”

“Must be nice? He was—”

“No, no, no,” she breaks in, quickly, hugging my forearm again. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it like that. That came out all wrong. I mean he sounds like he was a good father.”

“Yeah, of course, but why would you even have to ask… oh. Your parents.”

“Yeah.”

I probably should just let it lie, but a hunch moves my lips for me. “Did they hit you?”

“No, they never laid a finger on me.”

“There's a lot of things you can do to a kid without laying a finger on her.”

“Yes,” she says, slowly. “Yes, there are.”

I don't ask. I don't suppose I need to… I can feel fresh tears on my forearm, and there's nothing I can say that'll fix her childhood. Or the mess we're in now.

So I just hold her, cradle her against my chest, nuzzle my face into the side of her neck. Murmur something wordless and soothing. I know I shouldn't be doing this. I should be resting, not putting pressure on my ribs. But I don't move. I just lie there. The air is full of her vanilla and floral scent. Her hair is like silk.

Minutes tick past. It feels like forever and no time at all, and I'm starting to get sleepy again.

“I should get up,” she says, not moving. “I'm sorry. That was really selfish of me. I'm not… like this. I'm better than this. I'm sorry you had to see me this way. It won't happen again.”

I let her pull away a little bit, this time, so I can roll onto my back. I just hold her by the wrist. She turns over on her back, stares at the ceiling, her expression soft. I can't read it.

“Hey, Pixie. Ease down. I'd rather see this. It's… human. No, stop making that face. You just needed a little help, that's all. Look, if you hadn't done what you just did, would I have died?”

She relaxes a bit, doesn't try to flee. She pulls out of my grip, gently, then takes hold of my hand. It feels… strange. Her fingers are so tiny.

“Without medical care? Ah… yes. I mean, it would have taken a while, but… yes. You would have.”

“Okay, well, thank you. Thank you for saving me. But now it's your turn to need help, okay? That's why Belters are the way we are. Yes, I know, you think it's dumb, all this stuff about solidarity and not leaving each other behind, but out here, in the black, we need friends. Space is enough of an enemy already. So we look out for each other.”

“I don't have any friends,” she says, softly.

“Yes, I know, I know, 'friends are for losers,' I get it. But you at least have to admit that—”

“No, Marcus. I… uh… I lied. When I said that. I wanted to sound tough. I just… people don't like me.”

Yeah. No kidding. Spoiled. Entitled. Ruthless. Erratic. Whatever brand of crazy her parents left her with. But right now, I don't care. I'm not mad at her. Maybe it's the drugs.

“Well, you could try being a little nicer. But I'm talking about people you can lean on. Family? Boyfriends, maybe?”

Why'd I say that?

“Never had any,” she replies.

'What? Never? But how do you… I mean do you just hook up with—”

She cuts me off, not with words, but by squeezing my arm. She's right. Now is not the time to bring up her sex life. Probably any other time isn't the right time, either. But then she answers.

“No, that's… eww. I don't do that, either,” she says.

“Oh.”

I should say something more than that. But I don't know what.

“I know, “she says, “it's pathetic. I'm twenty-two years old. And I'm still a—”

“Hey, you're right, sorry. Not my business, I know.”

She doesn't say anything at all. So I just pull her close again and hold her. Minutes go by.

“It's just… it makes me feel bad,” she finally says.

“What does?”

“I mean, men just see me and they want me. Like I'm genetically engineered catnip. Women, too, sometimes. They just react, and I know it's instinctive, and it doesn't have anything to do with me. They don't even like me. Makes me feel like a… thing.”

She trails off.

Crap. I'm doing exactly the same thing to her, aren't I? I haven't been able to stop looking, either. I wanted to touch her. Even now.

I have to admit I probably would have just let her cry if she were ugly. Definitely if she were a dude. And we wouldn't be lying cuddled against each other holding hands, which we are both very carefully not noticing that we are doing.

Damn it. I'm just like them. I want her, too. Even when I hated her, I wanted her.

And I can't hate her. Not now. Not after we've been through the fire together. After we've saved each other's lives. After she's started acting all… I don't know, human, even nice.

It's going to be hard to pretend indifference. To… not humiliate myself.

Thank fuck the injuries, or the opiates, are mellowing me out, because all that genetically engineered catnip is nestled right up against me, curvy bits against sensitive ones. I try hard to think about something—anything—else.

“Sorry,” she says, again, after the silence has stretched for… I don't know. Minutes, at least. “That's kinda self-pitying. I'll stop. What about you? You must have a girl in every port, right?”

She's rolled on her side to face me, and is trying to smile. I notice, apropos of nothing, that she isn't one of those lucky girls who can cry without making herself ugly, although in her case, despite a somewhat red-faced and sniffling run in that direction, she doesn't make it all the way there.

“Well, those kind of girls tend to have a man on every ship, but, well, I've been around a bit. Maybe less so now that I keep spending all these months out here in the black. Tends to make things a bit short term.”

“Oh, so no one waiting at home?”

I don't know why she's asking this. Maybe she's still embarrassed, wants it to seem like a normal conversation by asking me the same questions. If that's what she needs to be comfortable, okay. I play along, prattling of girls I've known, my upbringing on Venus, moving to the Belt, working with my father.

All the while our hands are twining about each other. For me, I suppose it's as much curiosity as comfort. It's fascinating. Her thumbs are smaller than my littlest finger. I don't want to think about why I'm really doing this. But it's no mystery, and Leela is going to be so fucking smug when she grinds my face in it.

I want her, and I hate that I want her, because I hate that she'd be repulsed if she knew. I don't want her seeing me like… like all those men she talked about. It's humiliating to feel this way about someone who isn't interested, who thinks I'm… ugly. And she doesn't have idea how much worse she makes it when she keeps stroking the fingers of her other hand up and down my forearm. Like it's fascinating to her for some reason.

Just keep reminding yourself she's a spoiled neurotic drama queen with probably at least two or three separate personality disorders, Marcus. You're dodging a bullet here. Really.

But she's still doing it as I fall asleep