Steel Helix

1 Rameau knew that something was wrong. He was watching the colors dance. Streaks of many hues drifted past his face--deep red, magenta, and bubbles of frothy pink, as if someone had been washing their hands of the whole mess with a bar of ruby soap. The bubbles slow-danced, coalescing into faceted clusters, surfing in slow motion to their silent extinction against a ventilation grid. A film of deepening red layers grew against that grid and the wall around it, clotted purple-black in the center, surrounded by a corona of red. As if the walls could bruise. The colored circle drew his gaze like a mandala. It was the one focal point in a spinning world. For he was spinning slowly with the colors. The brightest ribbon of all trailed past his face as he spun, and the bubbles burst against his face with a soft wet kiss, and a smell-- Blood. It's blood in free fall. His face intersected with the ribbon of droplets, and he choked. His body twisted in a spasm of agony, retching the choking moisture out of his lungs. He gasped. Why is there no air? Because the Dome is holed! His transient bubble of calm burst. He was fully conscious again, just in time to die. The trajectory of the blood ribbons showed where the holes were. The blood, the other tumbling bodies like Rameau, and what was left of the air, all aimed inexorably toward the pinpricks and gashes in the Dome's crystal skin. The fluids and the air would escape out into space. Solid objects would remain behind, dancing their foolish dance in an empty bubble. Dance. I was watching the dance when--I was up on the light bar-- He thrashed against the current, trying to change direction. When he turned his head, his entire body turned in a slow pirouette, and the stream of red bubbles crossed his face again. Something red and wet bumped against his side, and he tried to brush it away, but couldn't move his arm. My arm! The limb came into sharp focus. He could view it clinically, as if he were diagnosing someone else. That's my arm. Crushing injury. The bones are smashed. Severe blood loss-- His chest heaved in involuntary, gasping spasms that he recognized as the precursors to asphyxiation. Air--where? Emergency suits-- He knew where the suits were. He hadn't been that far from the locker--perched on the bar that supported the colored lights, the perfect vantage point to see the dance, to watch over the dancers. And then--how far had he drifted? Catch hold of something-- But all was in motion. Smashed and jagged objects waltzed past him. He might be crushed before he suffocated. Gathering speed, a clump of debris flashed toward him, and for a moment he glimpsed arms outspread--an offer, or a plea for help? Then he saw the face, frozen in pop-eyed, eternal surprise. He lashed out with both feet, connected with a soggy thump. The body tumbled away, and Rameau cartwheeled on a new vector, toward the wall. He scraped along its curve, staring for a cold moment into the void that lay just beyond the transparent skin. Then he crashed into a projecting bracket and threw his good arm over it before he could bounce off. He clung, and gasped, and the spinning in his head slowly stilled. He shifted his grasp from the bracket to the beam it supported, and kicked himself along the beam, sliding like a bead on a wire. He reached the utility locker and slapped it open. His movements were wide and spastic now. He could no longer coordinate his fingers. His field of vision narrowed to a graying tunnel through which he could barely see the glimmer of helmet stripes. One-handed, he jammed the helmet onto his head and bit down on the mouthpiece. Oxygen blasted into him like cool fire. His sight returned. Too bright! Too bright! The pain came back with it, blazing up in his arm like a blowtorch in his veins. The suit was full-zip; heZeddies, Ann Tonsor is the author of 'Steel Helix', published 2003 under ISBN 9780345418739 and ISBN 0345418735.