C6 – Transmissions
though i'm past one hundred thousand miles
i'm feeling very still
and i think my spaceship knows which way to go
tell my wife i love her very much
she knows
Jonah's digital watch bleeped. Six o'clock – time to send his observations. He excused himself from the strangers and took his seat at the front of the rocket.
Outside, it was black. As usual. No different colouration in the sky. The stars were similarly shaped and patterned to how they were yesterday. And the day before. And the day before.
No obvious changes to the naked eye, he typed into the computer. Star alignment normal. No discolouring of sky. Feels normal.
He leant back for a moment. Feels normal. Something he'd put on every one of his transmissions to date. Dylan and the others knew to trust him when he said 'feels' normal. Jonah could feel when things were different.
For instance, now he knew that the woman – Amy – was standing directly behind him. The Doctor and Rory (he was a nurse, Jonah could tell) were chatting in the living area about NASA and space travel in the 21st century.
"I'm sending my transmissions," he announced. "You're welcome to watch."
"How'd you know I was here?"
He shrugged, not turning to face her. He brought up the readings on the screen in front of him – temperature, any atmosphere, traces of anything unusual, that sort of thing. He sent his transmission under Amy's keen eye, leaving out any details of his mystery visitors.
Eventually, he and Amy met up with the other two in the living area. Rory was looking perplexed, and the Doctor's grin had been replaced with a worried frown.
"Jonah, is there any way off this ship? At all?"
He avoided the Doctor's eyes. "Afraid not. Sorry. And with you guys here, the oxygen, water and food supplies will run out quicker. I estimate two months, three tops. And then we're done for."
The others didn't seem to absorb this information immediately, so he elaborated. "Dead. Gone. Nada. Deceased. Like a doornail."
"Jonah." Amy shook her head, looking . . . disgusted, was that?
He bowed his head, realised he'd gone too far. As usual.
"So we're stuck here?" Rory asked. "We're going to die in a tiny rocket, after all we've been through?"
"What about that wrist gadget of yours?" demanded Amy. "That . . . vortex thing?"
"It was almost broken when I found it," frowned the Doctor. "It's dead. Completely dead. I had a go with my sonic, but . . ." He shook his head. "We're just going to have to hope for a Plan B."
Jonah wrung his hands. So these strange people were stuck with him? He had so many things to ask, but none of his questions were necessary.
"I'm sorry," he apologised, scuffing his socked feet on the blue carpet.
"It's not your fault," Amy whispered. "You didn't drag us here or anything."
"Doesn't mean I'm not sorry," he pointed out.
She looked at him for a very long moment – they all did. Jonah couldn't help but think of Scarlett. Though her hair was blonde – her name implied otherwise – this Amy reminded him a lot of her. She had the same . . . energetic air about her.
"I'll get you off this ship," he stated, without realising he'd said anything. He felt immediately embarrassed. His tongue had spoken without consulting his brain, and it obviously hadn't taken into account that he had no plan whatsoever. "No matter what it takes, I'll get you guys out of here."
"How?"
He blinked at Rory's simple question, and his mind went blank. "I have a plan," he lied. "Wait here. Give me ten minutes."
When he was away from their scrutinising eyes, he could think clearer. He did have a plan, though it was deep in the back of his mind and he couldn't quite access it. Without really thinking, he began tapping commands into his computer.