The Leak, Part I

THE LEAK, PART I.

One hour after the explosion and already down to 15% oxygen. Where was the goddamn leak?

It didn't matter, really. Peter and Ingrid had already resigned to the fact that they were going to die on the ship, out in the cold invading blackness of space, their young bodies all but immobilized, the numb blue entering their extremities and aiming for the heart. The only thing left to do was sit together.

The corridor on C deck was the largest single space on the ship and thus had the most available oxygen. They'd gathered some blankets and put on their suits, leaving the helmets off for now so they could commune for a time. Peter sat with his back leaning against the wall, staring up at the corridor's white light ceiling trying to detect any warmth radiating from it on his dry blue lips. Ingrid straddled his lap facing him, resting her head on his shoulder. The metal neck hole of her suit pressed against both of their clavicles, but there was no urgency at this point.

***************

"We could have sex, you know," Peter rasped into the silence. Ingrid felt the vibrations of his voice on her cheek.
"Don't use up the oxygen," she mouthed back, wanting to smirk.
"Just trying to think of things to do."
Ingrid pressed closer to him, readjusting her legs, wiggling for his benefit.

***************

Peter roused her from a dreamless doze. Touching her chin with his gloved hand, he took a big sip of air, pressed his mouth to hers and exhaled slowly. Ingrid felt her lungs fill, the cloudiness in her head clearing slowly. She pulled his air in, took more and more, felt blood return to her eyes, her ears, her lips. It only lasted a moment.

When she separated from him, Peter's head fell back against the wall with a thud. His eyes were empty and open. She saw the rounded vein in his neck sag, the blood flow subsiding.

She shook him gently, a rising panic in her limbs. "Peter."

"Peter, come on." The corridor lights flickered.

"If you come back to me, we can..." she spoke to his nose but couldn't finish.

"WAKE UP!" she screamed at his mouth.

"I'm pregnant." Blinked her dry eyes.

She shook his shoulders, smacked his face. The exertion was exhausting. He was gone.

Slowly, deliberately, Ingrid stood up from his lap and straightened the neck hole of her suit. She was panting lightly. Air too thin, air too thin, oh, air too thin. Peter's slumped body looked heavy, his eyes preternaturally blue.

He's still alive, she thought. He must be faking it. Playing games with me.

She straddled his body once again, pressing her forehead into his. He feels warm enough. He just needs...some encouragement, she thought. You wanna play, huh? She smacked him on either cheek.

Nothing. She reached down and punched his groin, then collapsed against him.

God damn him! Head resting on his chest, she pulled the knife out of her belt and held it tremblingly up to his neck. Her husband's eyes stared out past her, as if witnessing something shocking occurring just behind Ingrid's back.

"Wake up, you son of a bitch." She pressed the metal edge into Peter's stubbled skin. "I'll kill you for this, don't think I can't do it."

What black void he was caught in? To rouse him out of his state of shock, she would need to take drastic measures. She slid the knife lightly over the skin of his neck. A light stream of blood dripped out and soaked the collar of his shirt, then more poured out, thicker and faster.

"Come on, baby, time to get up," she cooed. She stood up to allow him room to rise. Was someone there? she looked around.

A loud clang of metal on metal came from the rear end of the ship, followed by a violent shudder. Slowly, Peter's blood lifted off his skin and drifted into the air in little red beads.

Ingrid found herself floating. She scooped up her helmet and placed it over her mussy blond hair, sealing it onto her suit. As the suit pressurized, the oxygen pack released and flooded her with air. She sucked it in through her nose, laughing and giddy. Memories of impossible happiness came back to her in flashes. Her first kiss with Rohan, the mechanic on her father's ship. Her officer's stripes. Running her hands through Peter's thick hair. She reached down and felt the soft bump of her abdomen through thick layers of the impregnable pressure suit. Succumbing to her exhaustion, she closed her eyes and treasured each slow, deep, vital breath.

***************

She opened her eyes as a single drop of blood landed on the faceplate of her helmet, then three more drops landed in succession. Then Peter's body floated by, and Ingrid screamed hysterically.

"Whaaat, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..." She flailed her arms and legs, hitting her helmet to the ceiling of the corridor with a thud. She scrambled to grab a hold of the railing, not daring to look back at the body of her dead husband, wrapped in their bunk blankets.

Ingrid had to get off the ship, away from the scene of this crime, not her crime. Couldn't be her crime. She pulled herself rung by rung up the main tube to Deck B and over to the airlock. She swung open the lock and closed the door behind her. The intermediate chamber was tight. Her eyes swelled with tears as she held her finger over the button to release the chamber.

With the 10-second countdown to airlock release playing over the speaker in familiar feminine neutrality, she read the gauge on her sleeve indicating her suit's status. She acknowledged it in horror -- oxygen time remaining: 39 minutes.

"Three...two...one, the airlock is released."