Anna can’t get control of the escape pod.
She’s wrestling with the stick, willing it to do what she wants, but every time she tries to correct her course she overcompensates, sending the pod into a flat spin. The destroyed dock revolves around her, tugs and debris orbiting like miniature planets.
With an enormous bang, Anna’s pod collides with the wall of the dock.
It hits rear-first. Anna lurches forward in her seat, and that’s when she sees the crack.
It’s spreading slowly across the cockpit viewport, moving in tiny jerks, growing larger and larger. She can’t take her eyes off it, can’t focus on anything else.
She doesn’t know whether the crack came from the impact on the wall or when she collided with the astronaut. Doesn’t matter. Her fingers scrabble at her seat belt, digging into the catch. It snaps back, and she floats upwards, feeling a fresh wave of nausea roll through her. The crack is bigger now, almost to the other edge of the viewport.
Space suit. I have to get to a space suit.
She pulls herself to the back of the craft, hammering on the suit locker’s release button. She has no idea of the right way to put on one of these suits, and there’s no time to find out.
An alarm starts beeping on the escape pod’s console. It’s not like the proximity alarm–this is the harsh cry of a machine that knows it’s dying. Anna ignores it, pulling the suit out of the locker. It’s made of tough, rubber-like material, with the seam running down the torso. She forces it open, then tries to spin her body so she can jam a leg inside it. She misses the first time, her foot grazing the outside of the suit. She’s breathing too hard, using up too much oxygen, unable to think of anything but zero gravity, of being lost in space, floating forever.
One leg. Then the other. Then the arms. It’s like being entombed. The material holds her body fast, and she has to make an effort even to move her fingers inside the gloves. Anna knows enough about these suits to be aware that the helmet is integrated–all she has to do is activate it.
There’s a control panel on her wrist. Slowly, she moves her other hand around, pushing at the large buttons. A second later, there’s a hiss, and the faceplate slides up and over her head, using the rigid arches on the suit’s shoulders to guide itself, locking into place with a heavy click. The heads-up display winks to life in front of her. Oxygen, power levels, a thousand other things she can only guess at.
She doesn’t hear the cockpit viewport give way. The first she knows about it, she’s tumbling out the front of the escape pod, sucked out by the pressure loss, rolling end over end. The fear is potent now, like a toxic gas that she’s sucking deep into her lungs with every breath.
A piece of debris heaves into view, a piece of a mechanical arm, and Anna smashes into it before she can stop herself. It knocks her sideways. Fingers fumble at her wrist controls, fat and useless.
With a thud that jars her body inside the suit, Anna comes to a stop. It takes a confused few seconds to understand what happened. She’s ended up in one of the top corners of the dock–somehow, she’s wedged in it, as if the oxygen pack on the back of her suit is being held by the walls as they join up.
She can see the tug. The heat shield is hanging off the bottom of the vessel. It’s a thin sheet, dull gold in colour, wrinkled and malformed. It’s been joined to the main body by a series of ugly-looking welds.
The rear ramp of the tug is open, surrounded by space-suited figures. A few of them are looking in her direction, although they’re too far away for her to see their faces. She has to get to them. She has to stop them.
But how? What exactly is she supposed to do? Drag each one of them out of the tug? It’s absurd.
What if she could talk to them? Persuade them not to do it? It’s a million-to-one shot, but it’s the only one she has. She prods at the wrist control. Seconds tick by before she works out which one turns on the radio–she hesitates half a dozen times, unsure about what each button does.
Static swells in her helmet, and then voices penetrate, coming over the suit radio.
“—anybody see that?” It’s Arroway, sounding more panicky than ever.
“Jordan’s gone.”
“We’ve got someone else in a suit out here. Who is that?”
And then Dax: “Identify yourself.”
Anna can’t help it. She screams Dax’s name, the sound reverberating inside her helmet. It’s only when he doesn’t respond, when the chatter continues, that she realises she doesn’t have her transmit button activated. It takes her another few seconds to find it.
“Dax,” she says, quieter now, but still determined. “Don’t do this.”
“Anna?” he says. “What are you doing out here?”
“I can’t let you leave.” Her voice is husky, her throat tight with anger.
“I don’t—”
The words cut off. She has a horrible moment where she thinks her suit radio has died on her, but then the static returns, fizzing in her ear.
“Say again?” she says.
“I don’t see how you’re going to stop us.”
Arroway cuts in. “Dax, maybe we should—”
“No, Anna. You come with us. You’ve earned that much.”
What would Riley do?
Easy. She’d find something. She’d make it work.
Anna makes herself stay calm. She lowers her breathing, pushes back against the fear, and starts looking around the dock.
“Anna,” Dax says. “Come with us or stay, but we’re gone in three minutes.”
She sees nothing but debris. Torn metal, bullet casings, strands of broken mag rail. The mechanical arm she smashed into. Bodies, too: frozen, twisted, curled in on themselves. Keep looking. There’s got to be something.
Anna’s eyes track along the far wall of the dock, and come to a sudden halt.
There’s no way. It’s not possible.
But it is. It’s right there, caught on a ceiling support.
The long gun.
Her rifle. The one she used during the siege of the dock. She thought it was lost. She thought she’d never see it again. But there it is. Anna doesn’t know if guns work in space, if the gunpowder will even ignite, but she has to try.
Slowly, she brings her wrist control to her face. The moment she pushes the THRUST button, her suit springs to life. She feels pressure in her shoulder blades and at the base of the spine, like she’s being punched from multiple angles, and the suit launches forward. The heads-up display changes, displaying a diagram of the suit with six thruster points highlighted. She senses mechanical movement at her stomach, and when she brings her right hand there, she finds a joystick has popped out from the suit’s midsection.
“Anna, be reasonable,” says Dax. “We’re offering you a way out. It’s more than anyone else on this station will get.”
It takes more than a few false starts to get the hang of it. Anna goes into a spin more than once, aware that she’s attracting more attention from the tug, aware that a couple of the suited figures are moving towards her. But she’s too far ahead of them, and within a minute she’s at the gun. She can pick out the details: the thin black barrel, the fake-wood-grain stock. The scope, perched on top. It’s wedged into the wall, at the bottom of the triangle formed by the roof support. She reaches out for it, fingers questing.
Too fast. You’re coming in too fast—
Anna slams into the wall, so hard that her head bounces off the back of the helmet. The gun is knocked away, spinning out into the void.
Anna grips the joystick at her stomach, propels herself off the wall. She’s running out of time. The rest of Dax’s group have given up on her–they’re heading back to the tug. If she can’t grab that rifle soon, it’s over.
She boosts herself towards it. Three yards. Two.
“I’m sorry, Anna.” Dax sounds almost regretful.
Her hand touches the barrel. She clenches her fingers, gritting her teeth as her skin scrapes against the inside of the suit glove. But she’s got hold of the rifle.
She’s still moving, heading towards the gaping mouth of the dock. No time. She turns the rifle round, welding the stock to her shoulder and using her right hand to steady the barrel. She jams the finger of her left hand in the trigger guard. It is a tight fit, almost too tight, and her stomach lurches again when she realises that she didn’t even think about that. If she hadn’t been able to pull the trigger…
The rifle is bolt-action, but the bolt itself is gone, sheared off. She won’t be able to load another round.
Sighting down the barrel is impossible. She can’t move her head. She’s going to have to do this on instinct, trusting her arm to find the aim.
She finds the tug, then the heat shield, glimmering in the light from the sun. Slowly, she brings the gun towards it.