Jack and Anne, 39.
The lights in Spaceship hurt her eyes. They always had, butfor some years she’d gotten used to them. Then everything went wrong andeverything went dark, and she’d gotten used to the darkness again. But now theyhad Spaceship hooked up to a backup generator – one that wouldn’t spark andcatch fire and maybe explode. She’d paid enough attention to make sure everyoneknew that she didn’t want Spaceship to explode. She’d made sure they knewseveral times. Loudly.
But now the lights were on, and her eyes hurt, and Jack wassitting on the little cot in the bio lab. Every time she peered toward himthrough the glass and translucent liquid of The Tank, she could see the slumpedcurve of his shoulders but couldn’t see his face. This made it easier to lookat him.
She’d almost forgotten why she was upset.
“Just lemme help you!” She stomped one foot and hit theglass and screwed her face up like she was going to cry. She didn’t cry, butshe wanted to – or she thought she should. Jack had said he was dying after all(well, he had said he was sick and there was nothing they could do), and she couldn’tput him in the tank with Andrei. She couldn’t.
“No, Anne.” Jack shook his head. “It’s just how it is.”
A single eye, arteries bulging where they disappeared into anindistinguishable mass of flesh, stared at Antimony. She didn’t look at it,instead pushing her forehead against the glass, and she heard a rough, whiningsound without connecting it to its source. She dug her fingers into the sidesof her head. Her throat hurt.
“Don’t care what you say!” Antimony – Jack called her Anne –twisted away from the tank and stomped over to the scanner. She didn’t look atJack as she jabbed at the console, glaring defiantly into its light.