I Fell From The Dark

9

More walking, stretching, lifting, crouching. She was propelled from a reserve of bitter determination which, at first, she was surprised at. But, as she pushed her aching limbs through yet another exercise, parts of her mind seemed to click together, and her sense of self resolved, like a thundercloud building over a great plain.

That face is mine, she thought. But there's something wrong, some part of that appearance which didn't fit.

The discomfort wormed in her mind, a feeling which she couldn't resolve but couldn't ignore. Her sense of self spun, like a boat flung around a whirlpool, unstable and lost.

But the woman in the chair was her. There was no question of it.

After several hours of stretches, she sat down, and ate more paste while Pilgrim wittered. As she did so, she listened to her body; she observed the way that she held up her hands, her posture, the tilt of her head. She touched her lips, and felt the shape of a familiar crooked smile. Simply having control of her muscles meant that she was able to slip into old physical habits, each one bobbing to the surface like a cork from an ocean.

As well as a pouch of paste, Pilgrim had given her little green wafers, and something which seemed to be seaweed in a sweet, vinegary sauce. It was tangy and the closest thing she'd had to comfort food since waking up.

The robot was standing next to her as she lounged in an acceleration couch. It didn't always seem to be active; sometimes Pilgrim's attention was elsewhere, and the machine was inert. Other times it fussed around her, a constant chattering presence. At the moment it was still.

I need something to get my mind off all this, she thought.

She pushed her plate aside.

'Pilgrim, is there anything useful I can do?' she asked. 'I'm feeling a lot better, and I think I'd like to get to work. I'm not sure I remember much, so I don't think I could do anything skilled, but is there anything manual that needs doing?'

A tiny white light on the side of its head lit up. The robot turned to look at her.

'Sorry. I was dealing with something else. What's the matter?'

'I'd like to know if there's anything useful I could do with my hands.'

'Actually, there is. If you get up, I'll show you.'

'Sure.'

Pilgrim took the tray from her, and lead her into one of the other side rooms.

'What happens to the pouch?' asked Mia.

'I sterilize and refill it. We don't have many. I'm pretty sure I know your next question, too: where does the food come from? I'll show you later, although you may not regret asking... But here's what I'd like help with: this couch has something stuck in one of the joints. Your fingers are better than mine. Can you get it out for me?'

Pilgrim span the couch round so that the back was facing her. She crouched down on the soft white floor, and stared at the black skeleton which held up the cushions. Her muscles grumbled.

'Down there,' said the robot. 'You can see, there's a tiny fragment of metal in that hinge. It means that this couch won't go fully flat. I think it's been there since we launched.'

She frowned, and leaned closer. There was indeed a sharp splinter of red metal wedged into the mechanism. It was the only bright colour that she'd seen since she'd woken up. She ran her finger over it, and looked up at the robot.

'Yeah, it's stuck pretty good. Do we have any screwdrivers? And maybe some tweezers?'

'There's a tool compartment behind you, just there.'

It felt good to have a purpose, even one as simple as this. She took the toolbox from its little compartment, and laid out anything that she thought that she could use. It took a little time to figure out how she was going to get the little fragment, but a fine, strong screwdriver and a mechanical grip meant that she was able to ease it out.

'There,' she said, holding it up. 'I must have earned my keep now... Where did this come from? Look how sharp it is... ow!'

She'd stupidly ran her finger along it, and a point snagged the skin. She yanked her hand away, and sucked on the cut.

It tasted salty and sweet, like an expensive chocolate. It didn't have the dull, iron taste of blood.

She took her finger out of her mouth, and held it up. Liquid welled up, a tiny bead. But it wasn't dark and red: it was a pale pink, a tiny rose pearl budding from her hand.

My blood is weird, she thought, watching it run, drip onto the floor.

Her first instinct was that this was another dream, some lost part of her mind throwing nonsense at her. But the pain was real, the floor was real, the tension in her limbs was real.

'Oh!' said Pilgrim. 'Don't worry about that.'

'Pilgrim, I...'

And then the robot was at her side, and the floor flung itself upwards at her, and nothing mattered any more.