‘Maybe,’ allowed the man, apparently thinking about this. ‘We’re gonna get some rest,’ he said, turning to push off back towards the shuttle. ‘Both of us. Come on — stay close or this thing’ll kill you.’
And without further warning the crazy dragon-man launched himself towards the tube. Although he didn’t push off too fast, Carver still had to scramble to unhook himself in time to follow within safe range of the restraining device. He couldn’t for the life of him remember exactly how far that range was, but he knew he’d get a warning shot of pain if he began to go outside of it, before it actually finished him off. Bastard! he cursed the guy. Don’t make it easy for me, will you?
They swam together down the grey artery of the tube and into the bleak interior of the shuttle. They wended their way back to the bridge where Carver had been allowed to rest before. Every push and pull along the handlines sent fresh aches and pains through Carver’s cramping muscles, but despite this, and his new concerns about his companion, he was immeasurably glad to be out of the asteroid. It had been weirding him out a little.
Once inside the bridge the crazy dragon-man adhered the restraining device to the flight console and went to a locker in the far corner, passing the turned-away chair that had become the grave of the unfortunate pilot without so much as a glance. Carver took the liberty of seating himself in the same place where he had previously been allowed to rest, strapping himself down with the thick Velcro bands. He watched warily as the crazy dragon-man took a space suit from the locker and began to put it on over his pyjamas, expertly keeping himself in place with little touches and shoves against the walls and ceiling. Carver heard him muttering under his breath — presumably to the dragon that had somehow infiltrated its way into his head. The conversation didn’t sound particularly happy, at least from the crazy dragon-man’s end.
When he was done, the man swam over to the cupboards under the main console and rooted around in one of them. ‘Here,’ he said simply, throwing a couple of ration packs to Carver and retaining a few for himself. The packets spiralled slowly towards Carver, who caught them easily, making his wounded hand hurt afresh.
‘Thanks, man,’ he answered, turning his attention to the shuttle’s window. He watched the tumbling, rolling play of the rocks out there, feeling utterly alone and hopeless. He was just another speck of debris lost in this horrible stellar wasteland now. His hopes of ever leaving this blighted place were at an all-time low.
The man sat himself in the next seat along, strapping in, and bit the corner off one of his own packets. ‘Okay,’ he answered without looking at Carver.
Carver mentally shrugged and bit the end off one of his ration packs (CURRIED MEAT, allegedly) as he watched the silent ballet of ice and stone outside. He chewed the spongy powder with some difficulty, wondering absently why the fucking things had to be so dry.
‘I’m not sure what’s going to happen now,’ said the man suddenly, startling Carver from his reverie.
‘What d’you mean?’ Carver asked warily, turning his head to face the man, who was staring back at him with those empty, distant eyes.
‘I mean, it might get rough here soon,’ replied the man. ‘They know about the shuttle — they may want it back.’
Carver considered this information carefully, crumpling his now-empty packet into a ball and casting it away over his shoulder. ‘The people on the station?’ he asked.
The man nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Them. They do not understand the value of what we’re trying to do here.’
Carver resisted the urge to point out that what he was trying to do, actually, was survive, escape, hopefully even kill this crazy fucker. ‘I can see that they might not,’ he said neutrally. Man, he was so tired. The food actually seemed to be having a soporific effect on him, and he suddenly found his arm too weary to even lift the second packet and look at it.
‘You,’ said the man in weary tones, ‘do not understand either. You help because you must. That is all.’
Carver judged it best not to answer this accusation. It was true — he didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to, either. He did, however, fear for his future more than ever. The crazy dragon-man had the air of the defeated about him. If something had gone wrong, maybe the bastard would just decide to burn the business down and claim on the insurance, so to speak. And Carver would just be a little mark in the losses column. If that.
The man produced a small strip of plastic from down the side of his seat and held it up, regarding it critically. It looked like a strip of pills to Carver — twin lines of little blisters.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’ said the man. ‘Oh, it’s fader.’ He shot Carver a sideways glance. ‘Why?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Fader?’ repeated Carver, both surprised and really not surprised at all. In a way, it made perfect sense. The guy was a fucking fader junkie. Of course. ‘You take that shit?’
‘It is not shit,’ said the man, as if explaining this to somebody who, no matter how many times they were told, was simply incapable of comprehending. ‘It’s. . . a lifeline,’ he elaborated. ‘You ever done it?’ A sly little smile was spreading across his face now. He wiggled the plastic strip.
‘No,’ said Carver. Illegal drugs were one of the few criminal pastimes he actually had never been into.
‘Do you want to?’ asked the man. ‘The dragon said you might want to. That I should let you if you did.’
Carver heard his own voice, unbidden, say, ‘Okay.’ He supposed that if the end was nigh, he might as well meet it intoxicated. Despite never taking fader himself, he’d had friends — or at least, people he knew — who had done. Right now, he saw no reason not to join them. He tiredly checked his second ration pack — PUREED FRUIT, it said — and discarded it unopened. It drifted off like a leaf in the wind. His raging hunger of earlier had seemingly deserted him.
‘All right,’ said the man neutrally. ‘Why not.’ He held up the strip of pills and turned it over a few times, inspecting it seriously. Carver thought he might be having second thoughts. But then he turned the strip over and pressed a single pill out of the blister. He released it into the air and let it spin in front of his face for a moment, looking from it to Carver, then back again. ‘I don’t know. . .’ he said slowly, his brow wrinkled. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ he finally concluded, and he batted the pill gently towards Carver, who caught it deftly in the palm of his hand.
Carver looked at the pill for a moment, suddenly unsure. He had seen people fucked up pretty badly by this stuff back on Aitama. But then, did it really matter? That sense of finality was almost palpable, a property of the air itself. Something had gone wrong. It quite possibly spelled the end for him. So why not?
He popped the little pill onto his tongue and it dissolved instantly. It actually seemed to partially vapourise, and his sinuses filled with a sour chemical tang. A rank, bitter taste filled his mouth, unlike anything he had experienced before, making his face contort, and he almost gagged and spat the shit out without swallowing what was left. It had become a thick, cloying gel at the back of his throat, seemingly ten times the volume that it should have been. But he managed, just about, to choke it down. ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed vehemently, spluttering and spitting.