Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 12912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 65(@200wpm)___ 52(@250wpm)___ 43(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 12912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 65(@200wpm)___ 52(@250wpm)___ 43(@300wpm)
Her rigging had failed, the snake-like hiss of rope slipping through her belay loop attachment pulley.
She didn’t have time to scream.
Plummeting head first toward the ever encroaching vegetation, the backup catch snapped.
She was going to die.
Twisting in the cables as she fell, a sudden sharp wrench left her in screaming pain. Jerked to stillness, her arm was caught, her shoulder joint torn from its socket.
Sounds of misery gurgled in her throat, the smallest of breaths almost impossible. The world was upside down. She had fallen so far, hundreds of meters, her dangling arm almost touching the ivy scaling the concrete foundation of Bernard Dome.
Blood rushed to her head, vision going to a pinpoint.
Amidst the crackling call of her tech for a status update, she found herself distracted. She could see them, diminutive simple flowers, her arm reaching towards their vines as if they were a rope and she might pull herself to safety.
She could smell them…
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, hot drips running into a damp hairline.
“Unit 17C, your vitals register as erratic and your bio-suit is broadcasting damage to your helmet’s visor.”
She wanted to answer but couldn’t move her lips. She could do nothing but stare at the nine-petaled flowers and try to breathe.
“Report, Brenya!”
Hearing her name, the break in protocol, startled her out of waning consciousness.
One croak, the sound of labored breath, that’s all she could offer.
It was as her tech had claimed. More than her body had been damaged; a massive chunk had been knocked from her visor. Brenya had been exposed to open air—could smell the world, the dirt, her sweat. She could even smell her blood where it trickled from a split cheek and into her eye.
“Brenya… you know procedure.” There was a hedging desperation the tech tried, and failed, to keep out of his voice. “Without a status report, you’ll be cut from the rigging. I need you to talk to me.”
She had one final thought. I’ll miss you too, George…
Her stomach rolled and unconsciousness won out.
It was dark by the time her swollen eyelids blinked apart. Body rocking in the breeze like a spider at the bottom of its silk, Brenya hung limp. She couldn’t see from her right eye, it was too gooey with blood, but if she squinted, she could just make out shapes in the moonlight.
Warm air brushed her cheek.
For the first time in Brenya’s life, she recognized what real weather felt like. It was humid and soft. She could even taste it when she swallowed around a fat tongue.
Teeth chattering despite the heat, she managed one word. “George…”
Nothing.
Sweat saturated her hair, dripping up pounding temples. “Thiiis is… this issss Unit 17C. I require assistance.” She tried to move to see if she might turn her body right-side up. “I’m caught in the rigging, and I can’t move my left arm.”
It was a different voice that cracked through the static. “Your suit shows an increase in body temperature. Exposure to outside contaminants must be considered.”
The Red Consumption?
No…
She’d slipped midday. That infamous disease killed in a matter of hours. It was night now. If she’d been exposed to Red Consumption, she’d already be dead.
Another, blessedly familiar voice interjected. “Sir, her temps were up prior to the climb. Unit 17C is documented as running hot.”
Oversight would never believe she was uninfected if her every breath continued to rattle. She had to get herself stable if she wanted to survive. She had to prove she was viable, that she could still serve.
Shoulder aching, she could feel how swollen it was, but in a very unnerving way it didn’t hurt. With a left arm that would be useless and a right arm caught to her chest, only her legs might set her free. Straightening them was harder than expected. First her right leg wrapped around the traitorous cable, left leg pushing off from Bernard Dome’s foundation.
She unrolled so fast, Brenya was in a scramble to find a grip before she fell to her death. Bloated fingers caught air, tore at her suit, and finally, finally, a glove found the friction of sliding rope. Where the strength came from, she could not tell, but she found herself holding on with one hand so close to the ground, her boots could feel the spongy give of the white flowered ivy’s leaves.
The sound of her own heavy breathing echoed through her earpiece, a strained grunt all she could offer the team listening in on the other end. Feet to the wall, Brenya began to climb, one handed, until she found a way to loop her only lifeline back through the harness.
Arm burning, panting in huge gulps of tainted air, she let go. The moment she sat back safely in the rigging, the strangest thought crossed her mind.
It was jasmine… the white flowers were jasmine.
She’d never smelled anything so beautiful.