not saving my knees from a scraping impact leaving my stasis suit ripped at the knees.
I looked up at the broad corridor ahead and smiled.
“Looks like Module 4 has gravity,” I muttered.
I took a moment before pushing myself upright and experiencing my own weight for the first time since I’d awoken—all two-hundred and twenty-five pounds of it. Even though the stasis process had essentially frozen every cell in my body, preserving my strength, it sure didn’t feel that way. It felt a little like getting out of the tub after a long bath, although many times worse. But I stood up okay, so convinced myself it was just the post-stasis weightlessness that had taken its toll.
Module 4 was the same diameter as all the other modules measuring around a three hundred feet. Lengthwise, they varied—this being one of the longer ones at three hundred and fifty feet. I’d never worked it out, but the floor space was similar to that of a large skyscraper, apparently. And that was per module.
No wonder they needed to build it in orbit, I thought.
The module’s top half was devoted to quarters—all two-person rooms except for senior crew, senior military and so-called VIPs like the mysterious Reichs. This was where people slept when not in stasis. With around six thousand rooms, the Juno Ark would have made the top ten of the world’s largest hotels—had it been a hotel and had it been on Earth or even in the same star system. I guessed that disqualified it on at least two counts. The lower half of the module contained refectories, three shops selling basic supplies, two gyms, a sports hall, a training center, admin offices, a civilian shooting range, two bars and even a small swimming pool. Where once one might have expected a cinema, there was a virtual-reality center. The VR rooms could simulate environments from sand dunes to the tropical ocean to outer space. Used for both training and leisure, this was a vital resource for getting the colonists ready for Aura. I very much doubted it still worked.
“Never say, never,” I whispered at my own thoughts.
The corridor ahead ran the length of the module, converging on a point far in the distance. The walls and ceiling were standard white paneling punctuated regularly by the gray doors either side. The panels were once glossy but were now matte and dull with signs of mold and dirt around the edges. The lights flush to the ceiling were dead. Only glow strips provided illumination, making it badly lit, although better than the stasis module. The metal grating deck of the link tunnel gave way to silvery-gray alloy covered all over in a geometrical anti-slip pattern. Some of the doors—perhaps one in ten—were open or ajar. The rest were closed. Scanning to the end, I noticed signs of charring on the walls and ceiling about halfway along. Before I started walking, I listened for signs of life. There was nothing but the quiet sounds of the air ducts in the ceiling and the creaking of the hull under external forces unknown.
“Hello! Anyone there?” I called.
All that came back was a faint echo. After not speaking much since awakening, my voice sounded alien to me. Like listening to your recorded self, it seemed almost as if it belonged to another person.
I passed the first open door on my right, peering into the room. Layers of dust and some mold spoiled the otherwise pristine cabin. The bunks were both clear; all the room’s surfaces clear of personal effects. I stepped inside and poked my head into the tiny en suite—nothing. Turning on the faucet, I suddenly realized how dry my mouth was. Not as dry as the faucet. It all looked like a cruise ship cabin ready for its next excited passengers to arrive. One of the smallest, cheapest, budget cabins at that—no space, no porthole and decor with no flair whatsoever. I know because I chased a wanted felon all the way to the Port of Los Angeles and the cruise ship docked there. The guy tried to hide on board. Not the
I looked up at the broad corridor ahead and smiled.
“Looks like Module 4 has gravity,” I muttered.
I took a moment before pushing myself upright and experiencing my own weight for the first time since I’d awoken—all two-hundred and twenty-five pounds of it. Even though the stasis process had essentially frozen every cell in my body, preserving my strength, it sure didn’t feel that way. It felt a little like getting out of the tub after a long bath, although many times worse. But I stood up okay, so convinced myself it was just the post-stasis weightlessness that had taken its toll.
Module 4 was the same diameter as all the other modules measuring around a three hundred feet. Lengthwise, they varied—this being one of the longer ones at three hundred and fifty feet. I’d never worked it out, but the floor space was similar to that of a large skyscraper, apparently. And that was per module.
No wonder they needed to build it in orbit, I thought.
The module’s top half was devoted to quarters—all two-person rooms except for senior crew, senior military and so-called VIPs like the mysterious Reichs. This was where people slept when not in stasis. With around six thousand rooms, the Juno Ark would have made the top ten of the world’s largest hotels—had it been a hotel and had it been on Earth or even in the same star system. I guessed that disqualified it on at least two counts. The lower half of the module contained refectories, three shops selling basic supplies, two gyms, a sports hall, a training center, admin offices, a civilian shooting range, two bars and even a small swimming pool. Where once one might have expected a cinema, there was a virtual-reality center. The VR rooms could simulate environments from sand dunes to the tropical ocean to outer space. Used for both training and leisure, this was a vital resource for getting the colonists ready for Aura. I very much doubted it still worked.
“Never say, never,” I whispered at my own thoughts.
The corridor ahead ran the length of the module, converging on a point far in the distance. The walls and ceiling were standard white paneling punctuated regularly by the gray doors either side. The panels were once glossy but were now matte and dull with signs of mold and dirt around the edges. The lights flush to the ceiling were dead. Only glow strips provided illumination, making it badly lit, although better than the stasis module. The metal grating deck of the link tunnel gave way to silvery-gray alloy covered all over in a geometrical anti-slip pattern. Some of the doors—perhaps one in ten—were open or ajar. The rest were closed. Scanning to the end, I noticed signs of charring on the walls and ceiling about halfway along. Before I started walking, I listened for signs of life. There was nothing but the quiet sounds of the air ducts in the ceiling and the creaking of the hull under external forces unknown.
“Hello! Anyone there?” I called.
All that came back was a faint echo. After not speaking much since awakening, my voice sounded alien to me. Like listening to your recorded self, it seemed almost as if it belonged to another person.
I passed the first open door on my right, peering into the room. Layers of dust and some mold spoiled the otherwise pristine cabin. The bunks were both clear; all the room’s surfaces clear of personal effects. I stepped inside and poked my head into the tiny en suite—nothing. Turning on the faucet, I suddenly realized how dry my mouth was. Not as dry as the faucet. It all looked like a cruise ship cabin ready for its next excited passengers to arrive. One of the smallest, cheapest, budget cabins at that—no space, no porthole and decor with no flair whatsoever. I know because I chased a wanted felon all the way to the Port of Los Angeles and the cruise ship docked there. The guy tried to hide on board. Not the
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