The shuttle’s landing gear has barely touched the deck before I’m out of the flight chair, blowing through the airlock and cycling the hatch open.
I’m down the ramp, halfway across the shuttle bay, Dude fuzzing against the back of my neck and my HUD screaming vacuum warnings, all of my attention focused on one thing.
Warn Core.
The control panel beside the inner door is a solid red. Locked. Of course it is.
A glance back over my shoulder, at the gapping rotten hole the fug has eaten in the bulkhead.
The inner bulkheads will be all that’s stopping the last of Citlali’s atmosphere shooting into space.
My brain is whirring, trying to recall Citlali’s layout, the small maintenance tubes as I punch up my bio-computer. If I go back through the ice hull, I can find the aquifer that supplies Med and—
The inner doors open.
The gale of escaping air pushes me off my feet.
I scramble for purchase even as my mag boots activate and I steel myself to get blown into space.
And then it stops.
Citlali has more atmosphere than that. I glance up and into Core’s floating gold face.
Her mouth doesn’t move but her voice plays through my helmet’s comms. ‘Hurry, Kuma, the emergency airlock will not hold for long.’
Beyond her a sparkling blue energy field is strung between temporary pylons. I move.
The airlock is barely big enough for me and I can’t help but suck my gut in as the bulkhead rolls closed. The energy field dissolves and I’m ripping off my helmet, turning to tell Core about Aeotu and Citlali and—
She’s already halfway down the corridor, a disembodied head floating along in the wake of the drone. I stare at her for a second, mouth open.
‘Hurry, Kuma.’
I hurry.
Dude’s clinging to the neck of my envirosuit, fuzzing his fuzz off and I’m not merely hurrying, I’m jogging, boots THUMPING down the corridor.
‘I need to tell you—’
‘I know, Kuma.’
I stop. ‘What?’
Core/drone disappears around a corner.
Shit. I run to catch up.
As soon as I’m in sight, Core starts talking. ‘The fug stopped disassembling the ship. It now appears to be repairing it.’
Confusion slows my steps; Core continuing hastens them again. ‘Outer hull breaches and structural deformities are being repaired, but sensors have detected several abnormalities.’
‘Your sensors are working?’
‘Yes, Kuma. The new critters are proving effective against the fug and I have been able to restore several systems, including drone control.’
Grea. ‘Stasis?’ Hope lifts my heart even as exertion makes it pound.
‘Not yet.’
And there it goes, crushed under the weight of fug. I stop dead, hands on my knees as I drag in air.
Core/drone appears in my line of sight.
‘Kuma, we must hurr—’
‘Aeotu’s going to swallow Citlali.’
It’s Core’s turn to look like a stunned qwan, mouth gaping open.
‘Aeotu’s the source of the fug. It believes Citlali is its sister ship and it’s coming to take us home.’ I pause. ‘Its home.’
Core’s frozen, mouth still open.
Three heartbeats. Four. Six. Ten.
This is more than the pause when she’s trying to process telepathic impossibilities.
My breathing’s back under control, sweat cooling on my forehead. I straighten.
Core’s still frozen, but now there’s cubes of static shivering through her head.
Alarm blooms in my chest.
‘Core? Core!’
What if the fug got her? She said it was modifying things, what if—
A blink and Core/drone zips to eye level.
‘Aeotu has appeared on short range sensors. I’ve analysed the modifications the fug is making and the other ship’s trajectory. It would appear you are correct. Come with me.’
Core/drone led me to Engineering.
Main engineering, where Jim Engineer pulls shuttles and workbees apart, is at the top of the ship – only the Atrium, a tiny pocket wedged in the ice hull, is above it – but there are small engineering sections on every deck, running the stern of the ship.
The section Core/drone takes me to is one of those. A small, cramped space that resembles a closet more than a workspace.
There’s fug damage all over the place, holes in the bulkheads, the benches, the floor. A whole section at the back is gone, opening onto a maintenance tunnel, and beyond that a freight tube and beyond that—
I swallow and point through the fug-eaten ship to the almost-dead miniature sun beyond. ‘Are those the engines?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a hole in the plating,’ are the words that come out of my mouth, but what I’m really wondering is how soon the engines are going to come on and fry my brain.
‘Emergency shielding continues to function. Kuma Darzi, I need you to focus here.’
A light shoots from the drone, highlights another fug-eaten bulkhead, this one more like Mac’s favourite swiss cheese than steelcrete. Through the hole, platform gleams; snitches of red and vibrant blue, interspersed with white.
A storage unit. The wall pops out, fragile bits of decayed steelcrete crumbling with the sudden movement.
The gleaming colours and shapes are tools, three solid rounded bodies the length of my forearm, surrounded by a wall of silver attachments.
‘What am I meant to do with this?’
Core/drone hovers at my side. ‘You’re going to make a Franken-laser.’