Chapter 9: The Thin Air

The substation was a cage of cables and heat. The welded breakers glowed red, their casings too hot to touch. Kaito put on insulated gloves and slid a cutting tool into the seam.

The metal spat sparks. The lights flickered. The corridor went black for a breathless second, then returned in a dim, trembling glow.

The latch popped. Kaito hauled the breaker down. The hum eased.

They returned to the core bay to find the austerity phase deepening. The ring was a twilight of blankets and slow breaths. Children were kept close. The vaults held most of the sleepers, but a few elders refused to return and sat by the windows, watching the distant star grow larger.

Mara walked the ring with the Wake Circle, counting oxygen tanks, soothing panic, holding hands. The ship felt thin, like a skin stretched over bones.

A comm crackled. “Ignition sequence begins in six hours.”

Kaito rubbed his eyes. “Six hours of thin air. That’s the worst stretch.”

Mara looked at the Night List, now folded in her pocket. “We’ve lived through worse,” she said, and knew it was half a lie.

In the final hour, a coolant alarm shrieked. Kaito dove into the maintenance shaft without hesitation. Mara waited at the console, hands shaking. The oxygen indicators dipped, then steadied. Kaito emerged pale, his hands shaking, but the loop held.

The ignition countdown began. The ship’s lights turned red. The air tasted like copper.

Mara took Lysa’s recorder and spoke into it. “We chose this,” she said. “We chose to be here, in our bodies, in our breath.”

“Ignition in ten seconds.”

Mara closed her eyes and held the rail.