134. Giving Up
134
Giving Up
W illow
“I’ll carry you,” Valor offers Braveheart before Zedd stops talking. She’s going to shout “go” any minute. We’d better figure this shit out, and in a damned hurry.
Braveheart, to his credit, doesn’t argue. These males have titanic egos, but he’s not stupid enough to think, even for a minute, that he can run this race.
We’re standing on the rim and as Zedd blabs on about how easy this is going to be, I’m visually picking the best route from here to the flat soil at the bottom of the bowl. If Braveheart wasn’t injured, we’d have a chance. It looks almost as easy as Zedd promised—pick our way down into the canyon, run like the wind, and try to slip past the competition.
“Go!”
The other teams take off, racing down the steep, loose soil as Valor crouches in front of Braveheart. Braveheart wraps his legs around Valor’s waist and grasps his furry forearms around his friend’s neck. This gives Valor the ability to still use his arms as long as Braveheart has the strength to hold on.
Valor urged me to hurry ahead, so I’m already picking my way down. The Tortoise and the Hare have no place on this shitty asteroid. Slow and steady will not win the race.
Fuck. The rocky soil is so loose I half scurry, half fall my way down the escarpment. I keep going as the guys make their way behind me.
Valor overtakes me when we’re about halfway down. Braveheart is still holding strong. The two look like they are fused into one being.
Every other team is already in the bowl. They’ve spread out, but I have no doubt that at some point things might get more aggressive. It might turn into more Roller Derby than marathon race. I’ll just keep going, keeping my head down and putting one foot in front of the other.
I’m not in the greatest shape. I never was. I didn’t have the most active job back home, but it kept me busy enough I didn’t need to go to the gym. The last five years with Mistress consisted of cooking and light housekeeping. I’m in no shape to run a two-mile race against all these tall, fit prisoners who, just like on Earth, look like they’ve been doing nothing but working out for the last few years.
Guys? Valor?
Hmm?
Do any of the three of us think we have a snowball’s chance in hell?
What?
Does anyone think we can beat 20 teams to the finish line to win this race?
Valor pulls Braveheart into the conversation, and he’s the first one to say, No. I’ve been telling Valor it’s hopeless since he hoisted me onto his back. He just keeps telling me he doesn’t want to sentence you to death. I’m sorry. This is my fault.
I look toward the flag and see all the teams pulling away from us. I feel certain to the marrow of my bones that this is a fool’s errand. The answer seems clear to me.
I stop my forward movement and say, “We’re walking dead men. We all know we’re not going to make it. We could keep pretending, pushing on, fighting our bodies in this shitty dustbowl until the tenth team makes it to the flag and a drone comes to mow us down. Or… we can go back to the top, grab a chair and a cool bottle of water, and hold hands.
“If all we can do is wait for our demise,” I continue, “I’d rather do it in a chair while I finally hear the story of how Braveheart got his name. If we’re voting, that’s my vote.”
“That gets my vote too,” says Braveheart.
Valor keeps slogging forward. I’m not giving up. It would sentence you to death, Willow. I… can’t.
Poor male. I don’t need our psychic connection to know this is gutting him.
Sorry, Valor. I’m giving up.
Did I just sentence us all to death? No. It’s no one’s fault. Just shitty circumstances that aren’t fair. I could cry over it, but time is so short. I just want to make the best of the few moments we have left.
I turn and jog to the rocky wall, then begin the hard scramble back up.