Don't Save Me Without You

Ruth Okafor dragged a cloth beneath the orchard handrail, stripping away yellow beads as Denise Bell lifted the leaves Ruth had tucked across a pruned branch. Under the peach dusk lamps, Ruth folded the stained side inward and set her inspection record beside Denise Bell’s elbow, its destination-berth box still unsigned. “Hold the torch underneath,” Denise Bell said, pushing the record aside; Ruth angled the white beam beneath the foliage, then rubbed her wrist against her cuff.

Felix Tran caught Ruth’s cloth before she could make another pass along the rail and turned her wrist palm-up, exposing a reddened strip above the cuff. “That stings, doesn’t it?” he asked, loosening the damp fabric while Ruth closed her fingers around his hand and kept them there after he finished. With the spoiled-pear taste catching in her throat, Ruth finally released him and pointed toward his green tool pocket: “Did you bring the short brace wrench for the latch?” Felix Tran withdrew his hand instead of reaching for the wrench. “You could finish saying hello first.”

Denise Bell reached farther beneath the arranged leaves, and Ruth took back the cloth as another yellow bead gathered on the wiped rail. “If the ship swallows me fixing that latch, at least tell it to sign my hours,” Felix Tran began, but retching sounded through the ceiling before Ruth could answer. Denise Bell lowered her checklist without signing it and held out her hand for Ruth’s stained cloth.

Denise Bell caught Ruth Okafor’s stained cloth as the swollen airway heaved against its collar and jolted the service grating beneath all three of them. “Isolate the lung,” Denise Bell ordered, bracing against a terrace while Felix Tran hauled down the valve control; the indicator stayed open, and he released the handle before its mounting tore loose. Ruth Okafor hurried to the lowest maintenance hatch, pulled its latch, and spread her hands from Felix Tran’s shoulders toward the narrow rim. He stepped out of her reach: “You haven’t finished saying hello, and now you’re measuring me for a hole—what aren’t you telling us?”

Ruth Okafor lowered her hands, climbed to the apprentice bunks above the highest terrace, and returned with the sealed jar held away from her jacket. Yellow tissue slid against the glass as she knelt beside the inspection branch and offered it to Denise Bell; Felix Tran reached toward her reddened wrist, but she shifted her grip and put the jar into Denise Bell’s hand. “Where, and when?” Denise Bell asked, pulling aside the arranged leaves, and Ruth Okafor pointed to the broad cut beneath them: “This afternoon, before inspection.”

“Every cut,” Denise Bell said, holding the white torch steady while Ruth Okafor lifted two smaller stems and named the same afternoon’s pruning sequence, swallowing hard against the spoiled-fruit taste. Denise Bell unclipped Ruth Okafor’s clearance badge, placed it beside the unsigned record, and directed Felix Tran’s light along a strip of tissue beyond the last exposed scar. “Not this branch,” she said, pushing the isolation marker away from the clean-looking band. “The growth you removed crossed that line.”

Denise Bell planted her boot across the wet maintenance hatch when Ruth Okafor crouched beside it with a pruning hook. “You have no clearance,” Denise Bell said, and Ruth Okafor gripped the rim, swallowing against the fermented sweetness rising from the opening. Instead of pushing past, Ruth Okafor pointed to Felix Tran’s name below the measuring frame’s limit: “You can’t fit, and he hasn’t seen the blister before I cut it away.”

Felix Tran lowered his work light toward the opening while Ruth Okafor traced the missing growth’s breadth across her palm. “The folds underneath were flattened, not split,” she told Denise Bell; “I can show you which ones, but I don’t know how far it’s spread.” Denise Bell lifted the service cylinder from its bracket and pressed it into Ruth Okafor’s hands: “Eleven minutes of continuous flow for both mouthpieces—leave it shut until you need it, and report before you cut.”

Ruth Okafor laid the cylinder between herself and Felix Tran, then stopped her hand short of his sleeve. “The passage closes every eleven minutes, and I can’t promise we’ll reach a recess if the swelling’s worse inside,” she said; “Neither of us can take this away without disconnecting the other—will you come with me?” Felix Tran took the second mouthpiece from its clip and held it up: “Yes—and ask me before you change that plan.” Beside the cylinder, Ruth Okafor opened her empty hand and kept it still until Felix Tran reached across and took it.

Ruth Okafor twists open the cylinder beneath the infected lung and wedges it between herself and Felix Tran as yellow droplets fall across their sleeves. “Eleven minutes to contraction,” Denise Bell says over the radio; Felix Tran seats his mouthpiece and angles his work light beneath the valve. Ruth Okafor lifts a swollen fold with the blunt back of her hook, then gags as fermented-pear fumes leak past her mouthpiece seal.

Felix Tran catches her forearm before the blade drags sideways, keeping his other hand on the cylinder so its hoses cannot pull them apart. Ruth Okafor presses her mouthpiece back into place and speaks through the radio pickup: “Outer fold yellow, flattened underneath; the next one is white, but I can’t see its edge.” “Then don’t cut it,” Denise Bell answers. “Lift it toward your light—tell me whether the layer beneath is clear or cloudy.”

“Clear, with a white thread along the bottom,” Ruth Okafor says, holding the fold up while Felix Tran shifts his light closer. “Above that thread, blade flat,” Denise Bell directs, and Ruth Okafor makes a shallow cut that exposes a narrow band beneath the swelling. Felix Tran slides his wrench into the uncovered fitting and pulls; the valve snaps free, dragging its collar toward the airway wall. Before either apprentice can crawl backward, the wet passage cinches around their calves and traps Ruth Okafor’s boot against Felix Tran’s.

Felix Tran twists Ruth Okafor’s trapped boot sideways and pulls her into the reinforced recess, dragging the cylinder over the lip between their knees. “If the ship swallows its mechanics, it could at least leave elbow room,” he says, squeezing into the second shoulder-width hollow beneath the slate-blue braces. Ruth Okafor gags around her mouthpiece; he reaches for a folded clean cloth, then stops with it extended between them.

She takes the cloth and wipes yellow droplets from a rectangle of polished inspection glass facing the observation slit, uncovering two adjoining thumb-sized clear patches along its lower edge. “You moved these for me?” Ruth Okafor asks, touching the fresh bolt marks beside her shoulder. “For us,” Felix Tran says, then catches the cylinder before her shifting knee tips it toward the entrance. Ruth Okafor sets the cloth carefully back beneath the glass and reaches toward his hand, but Denise Bell interrupts over the radio: “Check your return clearance. Now.”

Felix Tran pushes his work light into the exit and tries to follow it; the displaced valve collar catches him across both shoulders, forcing him backward against Ruth Okafor. “The collar won’t pass us—these braces will have to hold it apart,” he reports, placing his wrench against the nearest fastener as Denise Bell says, “Then that recess cannot protect you through closure.” Ruth Okafor braces the loosened strut with both hands while Felix Tran turns the wrench, and the first support comes free across their knees.

Ruth Okafor pushes the freed brace toward Felix Tran and pulls her mouthpiece loose inside the stripped refuge: “Take the cylinder—disconnect mine and go.” Felix Tran plants his boots across the entrance and holds her mouthpiece beneath her hand instead of touching the connector. “Ask me before you change the plan,” he says, keeping it there until she seats it again and closes her fingers over his.

Together they lever the first brace across the displaced collar; Felix Tran releases the remaining support while Ruth Okafor holds its foot against the slick membrane. Behind them, the unbraced hollow folds across the clean cloth, and Denise Bell’s radio cuts through their breathing: “Two minutes—bring the cylinder between you.” Ruth Okafor crawls beneath the crossed supports, shoves the cylinder ahead, then reaches back to keep Felix Tran’s hose clear of a bolt.

At the hatch, Denise Bell catches Ruth Okafor’s wrist while Felix Tran pushes from behind, and Ruth Okafor turns on the grating to haul his sleeve until both his elbows clear the rim. The braces buckle beyond his boots; Denise Bell drags him free and throws the hatch latch as the opening contracts shut. Overhead, the leaves lift together, and Denise Bell presses her radio: “Lung sealed—confirm cabin airflow.” Ruth Okafor leans against Felix Tran’s shoulder, gagging into her elbow as he steadies her with both hands. Beside Denise Bell’s knee, yellow film gathers across the water in a passenger’s cup, and Ruth Okafor catches her sleeve before she can lift it.

Denise Bell pulls a gutter screen free beneath the next terrace and tips it over a specimen jar; yellow sludge stretches from its underside while Ruth Okafor kneels beside the service grating, gagging at the sour smell. Ruth Okafor pushes herself upright and reaches into the open pruning cabinet, but Denise Bell closes its door against her fingers before she can lift a hook. “Your clearance is still suspended,” Denise Bell says, waiting for her hand to withdraw before locking it. “Hold the light, not a blade.”

After Denise Bell takes the inspection torch farther along the gutter, Felix Tran crouches beside Ruth Okafor and offers water in a clean service cup. “You could check the next drain—” Ruth Okafor begins, then catches his cuff as he starts to rise. “No, that wasn't what I meant—will you stay?” Felix Tran sits close enough for their knees to touch and keeps his hand beneath the cup until her trembling fingers hold it steady.

Ruth Okafor drinks, lowers the cup against another gag, and steadies herself on Felix Tran’s forearm, turning his elbow toward the cabinet light. Yellow sap coats the slate-blue fabric around its polished reinforcement, but the metal itself is bare; she holds his arm away from her jacket and says, “Don't wipe that off.” Felix Tran sets the cup safely behind them and rolls his elbow upward into her open hand.

Ruth Okafor guides Felix Tran’s elbow over a specimen tray on the service grating, catching a yellow drop beside an already exposed living root tip while he places a bare spare collar beneath another. “No cutting,” she says, keeping both hands above the tray as the root develops a pale swelling and the metal remains unchanged. Felix Tran closes a clear sampling sleeve around the root tip without detaching it, then offers his clean hand; she squeezes it before asking, “Will you carry the tray with me?”

At the specimen shelves above the terraces, Denise Bell stops their tray against the counter and asks, “Which gutter, and how long?” Ruth Okafor names both while swallowing against the fermented smell, and Denise Bell draws an old sealed jar down beside the sleeved root, turning its yellow sediment toward their light. “I cut here,” Denise Bell says, setting her thumbnail against the preserved branch. “Kept the next compartment breathing, then lost it anyway.”

“Then show us what runs past the metal,” Ruth Okafor says, leaving the tray beneath Denise Bell’s hand instead of reaching for a tool. Back beside the gutter, Felix Tran releases the drainage-cover fasteners while Ruth Okafor holds the torch; when she gags into her sleeve, he waits until she nods before helping Denise Bell lift. Beneath the cover, translucent roots pass through a polished collar and knot into the neighboring terrace’s bundle, and Denise Bell draws her probe beneath the crossing strands and lifts them clear of the supposedly separating rim.

Denise Bell places a pruning hook in Ruth Okafor’s palm above the open gutter while Felix Tran prises a root-choked fitting apart beneath the terrace. “Only the strand I lift,” Denise Bell says, raising a crossing root with her probe; Ruth Okafor cuts beneath it, then holds the specimen jar while Denise Bell seals the lid. Felix Tran pulls the separated bundles onto opposite sides of the collar, and Ruth Okafor gags into her sleeve as the disturbed gutter releases its fermented-pear smell.

Over the next hour, labeled jars fill the service grating, and the leaves above each stripped bundle settle lower. When Ruth Okafor reaches past the next fitting, Felix Tran offers his hand; she sets down the hook, takes it, and asks, “Can this be just holding hands?” “Until she needs the jar,” he says, keeping their fingers linked while Denise Bell checks the cut ends. An oxygen alarm interrupts them, and Denise Bell reads the falling number aloud before pressing her radio: “Confirm that compartment is empty”; after checking the evacuation indicator, she closes its air-supply control.

Ruth Okafor releases Felix Tran’s hand and carries the inspection torch back beneath the first cleared terrace, its severed bridges sealed in jars beside her knee. The white beam catches a yellow bead swelling under the gutter rim; she holds an empty jar beneath it instead of wiping it away. “Denise Bell—this is the one we finished,” she says, and the drop falls into the jar as a second bead forms above it.

Denise Bell grips Ruth Okafor’s jacket and pulls her toward the orchard stairs as yellow drainage climbs the swollen central trunk. “Lower orchard abandoned—up, both of you,” she says, but Ruth Okafor catches her wrist and lowers her hand onto a manufactured collar beneath the nearest bed. “These hold the shelves, not the trunk; we can lower the infected beds into the basin before it pushes that water upward.”

Denise Bell keeps hold of the jacket while Felix Tran kneels beside them and prises roots away from an orange release handle. “Drop them together and they tear through the service walk,” he says, pointing beneath the grating; Ruth Okafor gags into her sleeve, then directs the inspection torch along the basin lip. “Then release this side first, settle the shelves inside the basin, and leave the trunk collar until last.” Denise Bell makes Felix Tran trace the fittings in that order, then releases Ruth Okafor’s jacket: “I cut, Ruth seals, Felix releases—nothing moves until all three answer.”

Felix Tran swings onto the access ladder before Ruth Okafor can reach for his sleeve, then climbs back one rung and holds out his empty hand. “Ruth, pass me my wrench,” he says; she lifts it from beside the specimen jars, closes her free hand around his offered fingers, and asks, “Stay where I can reach you?” “Pass the light down after it,” Felix Tran answers, squeezing back before taking the wrench and descending beneath the beds.

Ruth Okafor climbs off the ladder beneath the terraces and passes the inspection torch into Felix Tran’s hand while Denise Bell draws a supporting root clear of the first orange handle. “The ship could at least stop drooling,” Felix Tran says, ducking the yellow runoff; Ruth Okafor wipes his cheek with her cuff, then leaves her palm against it until he turns to kiss its clean edge. Denise Bell holds the root between her hook and probe: “Hands back here—I need this sealed before he releases anything.”

Ruth Okafor presses a sealing pad over the severed root end, swallows a gag at the rotten-fruit smell, and answers, “Sealed,” before Felix Tran turns his wrench. The first shelf tips into the basin and showers their sleeves with yellow water; Denise Bell catches Ruth Okafor’s elbow before her knee slips off the narrow footing. At the next fitting, Felix Tran waits through both their answers before releasing it, and the connected shelves descend far enough to expose the last collar behind his shoulder.

“Still where you can reach me,” Felix Tran says, offering Ruth Okafor his free hand across the newly opened gap. Before their fingers meet, the central trunk draws tight; Denise Bell snaps, “Early—leave the handle!” Felix Tran pulls away from the collar, but the terrace twists against his hip and drives him sideways into a milk-white structural rib. Ruth Okafor drops onto her knees and catches his wrist as he tries to lift his leg; his boot stays wedged beneath the shelf, its sole turning while his foot cannot.

Denise Bell drives her shoulder beneath the sagging grating beside Felix Tran, lifting just enough for Ruth Okafor to slide closer to his trapped boot. Felix Tran catches the shaft of Ruth Okafor’s hook and pushes its blade toward the root stretched across his ankle: “There—cut there.” Ruth Okafor follows the taut root to the shelf above Denise Bell’s back, then turns the blade away.

“Lower it together—onto the wrench,” Ruth Okafor says, reaching into Felix Tran’s green pocket while yellow runoff spills over her wrist and she gags against her sleeve. Denise Bell braces both feet against the basin lip: “Set it across the rib, not the gutter; tell me when.” Felix Tran guides the wrench beneath the shelf with Ruth Okafor’s hand over his, then says, “Set,” and Denise Bell eases down until the handle bows under the weight. With the shelf held, Ruth Okafor slices through the boot’s upper, peels its split sides apart, and pulls Felix Tran’s foot free while he grips her shoulder.

Denise Bell catches Felix Tran beneath one arm while Ruth Okafor takes the other, and together they drag him across the basin lip, leaving the empty boot pinned behind them. Ruth Okafor kneels against his uninjured side and presses her lips to his temple; Felix Tran catches her jacket and keeps her close while Denise Bell retrieves the bent wrench. “Both clear,” Ruth Okafor calls, and Denise Bell shoves the wrench into his green pocket before reaching back with both hands to wrench the final orange handle loose. The lower terraces fold into the basin with a wet crash, and the trunk contracts above the wreckage, scattering clear droplets over their upturned faces.

Two days after the collapse, Ruth Okafor shakes Denise Bell awake beside the surviving upper terraces and sets the inspection checklist within reach of her bedding. “Another cut?” Denise Bell asks, pushing herself upright; Ruth Okafor points to the unchecked branch number and leaves the hook on its painted cabinet silhouette until Denise Bell takes it down. On successive shifts, fresh signatures fill the checklist while the empty badge fastening stays exposed on Ruth Okafor’s jacket.

At the specimen station, Ruth Okafor labels the last of the recent samples, then draws the first concealed jar out from behind the completed row. Yellow sediment slides across the glass; she sets it down hard and bends over her knees, gagging without opening it. Denise Bell catches the jar before it rolls and places a blank label beside it: “Branch, time, gardener—the same as the others.” Ruth Okafor writes the location and time, adds “removed before inspection; not reported,” and signs Ruth Okafor beneath the entry.

Felix Tran shifts his injured leg onto a folded jacket, the bent wrench lifting the edge of his green pocket, and holds a cup across the station. “No valve attached,” he says, and Ruth Okafor accepts the water before pulling her stool beside his instead of returning to the opposite end. “Stay for the next label?” she asks; Felix Tran lays his hand palm-up between them, and she puts hers into it while Denise Bell signs the witnessed entry and slots the first jar into its dated place.

Ruth Okafor slides her completed record across the receiving habitat’s clearance counter, catching its binding against a scuff in the lowered edge. Denise Bell steadies the open pages while Ruth Okafor places the first specimen’s attributed entry beneath the reader; across the dry concourse floor, Felix Tran shifts his outstretched leg aside to keep the route to their bench clear. “Include that page,” Ruth Okafor says when Denise Bell reaches to turn it.

The display returns **QUALIFICATION SUSPENDED**, and Ruth Okafor clamps one hand over her mouth, swallowing against a rising gag before gripping the counter with the other. “Does that stop my passage?” she asks, pulling her jacket straight around the empty badge fastening. “Your qualification stays suspended,” Denise Bell says, then places her signed account of completed work beside the specimen record and feeds both beneath the reader. A passage authorization emerges from the counter slot; Denise Bell puts it into Ruth Okafor’s hand without covering the suspension notice.

“Room for someone without a badge?” Ruth Okafor asks at the bench, holding both documents where Felix Tran can see them. “Saved you the side without my foot,” Felix Tran says, moving his folded jacket; Ruth Okafor sits close enough for their shoulders to meet and lays the papers across her knees. Denise Bell returns the bound record to her, and Ruth Okafor clips the passage authorization inside it, leaving the suspension page attached.

Ruth Okafor lowers her packed bag beside Felix Tran’s boots at the service-walk window, her bound record tucked beneath its strap for their final departure. Felix Tran shifts his injured foot to make room, and she reaches beneath the rail to move the bag closer. Her fingers stop above an old yellow stain; she jerks her hand back and gags against her closed lips.

“Bag or hand?” Felix Tran asks, holding his palm between them instead of reaching across her. Ruth Okafor swallows, sets the bag upright herself, and says, “Hand—but first, will you watch Jupiter with me?” He glances through the patch of glass he polished, then back at her: “No valve to fix?” “No valve,” she says, and takes his hand.

Behind them, Denise Bell lifts the last inspected leaf, marks her checklist, and closes the pruning cabinet with the hook inside. Felix Tran eases his shoulder against Ruth Okafor’s as she draws their joined hands onto the sill beneath Jupiter’s broad stripes. Denise Bell gathers her inspection kit; beside the empty lower supports, the scarred trunk expands and releases a slow, clean breath that lifts the surviving leaves.