"Sir? Mr. Sinclair?"
"Yeah, Chief."
Meyer pointed inside the
Maury
. "I'm pretty sure we need to head inside, now."
Paul checked his position, trying to remember exactly where the next survival bulkhead would be located. Once seen, the survival bulkheads were impossible to mistake, with their extra armoring and damage control equipment. But from outside the
Maury
, with her hull torn ragged and internal compartment arrangements jumbled, Paul couldn't get be sure of the distance remaining. "How sure is pretty sure, Chief?"
"Real sure, sir."
"Okay. Let's go." Paul led the team deeper into the
Maury
, wending past obstacles and wriggling through some tight spots. He reached a relatively clear passageway and followed it forward, his team following.
Funny. When I led that damage control team into a fire on the
Michaelson
, there wasn't time to think. And I couldn't see a thing because of the smoke and all. Now there's too much time to think and way more to see than I want to see
.
The survival bulkhead was easy to recognize when they reached it, both because of the scarred armor still protecting it, and the three bodies floating near the sealed hatch leading forward. Paul wanted to hang back, wanted to let someone else go close, but knew he had no right to demand that of anyone. Steeling himself and trying to tighten his throat against any urge to throw up, he pulled himself forward to the hatch. One of the sailors had somehow survived the blast for long enough to grab a survival suit which remained clenched within one of her frozen hands. The other two had apparently died in the explosion, judging from the injuries visible on them. "Chief." Paul felt his voice squeaking, swallowed, and spoke again. "Chief Meyer. Detail someone to secure these remains. We want to make sure nothing happens to them."
"Yes, sir."
Paul examined the bulkhead, trying to ignore the feeling that the
Maury
's dead sailors were watching him accusingly.
It's not my fault. Whatever happened here isn't my fault. I'm trying to save your shipmates
. "Chief, it looks to me like the survival bulkhead is damaged but holding. There seems to be atmosphere on the other side, but the airlock here looks too damaged to use. What's your assessment?"
Meyer made a careful examination himself before answering. "I concur, sir."
"Okay, then, let's break the team into sections, two sailors per section. I want them to work to all sides from here, checking for damage to the survival bulkhead, pressure on the other side, and any working airlocks leading forward. Everybody is to exercise caution. Understood? Report in every . . . five minutes."
"Every five minutes, aye."
Chief Meyer quickly divided up the team. Paul found himself paired with Petty Officer Velos. Despite the circumstances, he found himself trying to remember what she looked like underneath the survival suit, then felt a wave of self-anger.
How can that thought even cross your mind
? He knew the thought was born of anxiety, a desperate need for distraction, but he still felt sick over it.
More wreckage blocked paths along normal routes, but openings were available where there shouldn't have been openings. "Sir?" Petty Officer Velos pulled herself down near deck level. "There's a hole here."
A hole. In a survival bulkhead. Whatever had made that hole had to have been traveling very fast. Paul grabbed a nearby tie-down and pulled himself next to Velos, then frowned as he checked the damage. "It's been patched. From the inside."
Somebody's still alive in there. Thank heavens for that, at least
.
"Yes, sir. I bet it could still use some reinforcing from this side."
"Good idea. Go ahead." Paul swung away as Velos pulled out some materials from her backpack and went to work. "Chief? Any luck?"
Chief Meyer's response sounded faint due to the interference of the transmission from the wreckage. "No joy, sir. A few teams report finding holes in the bulkhead. They're patching any that haven't been already taken care of."
"Roger, Chief. Your transmission's weak. How do you read me?"
"Weak but readable, sir."
"Same." Paul looked around, finally spotting a compartment number. "I've just about reached the inner hull going this way. We'll be heading back your way in a few minutes."
"Aye, aye, sir."
As Paul had predicted, he and Petty Officer Velos ran into a dead-end at the inner hull only a few meters farther on. Paul thumped the inner hull sections nearby, trying to determine if they remained intact and still held water inside them. When that method failed, he checked his suit's radiation readings.
Radiation is being blocked. Water must still be in there. Good
.
The return journey went quicker, since they knew the way. Chief Meyer and half the damage control team were already there when Paul arrived. "Sir? Lieutenant Kilgary wants to talk to you soon's as you got back."
"Thanks, Chief." A quick circuit switch. "Lieutenant Kilgary, this is Lieutenant Sinclair."
"Paul. This is Colleen. What's your team found up forward?"
"It's a mess, but progressively better as we got farther forward. Number Two survival bulkhead held. We patched some holes in it, and found other holes had been patched from the inside."
"From the inside? Great. Any communications with the
Maury
's crew?"
"No, ma'am. None of the internal airlocks we found were judged safe to use."
"I was afraid of that. The damage near the engineering compartments is unbelievable. I've got my team and Lieutenant Sindh's team bracing the remaining structure so the
Maury
doesn't rip herself apart. I need two things from you. First, I want your team to check your area again, but this time for structural stability. Tell Chief Meyer to look for places that need to be reinforced. Second, can you find the forward external airlock on the
Maury
if you move along the outside of the hull?"
Paul pondered the question for a moment. He knew exactly where to reach that airlock from the inside, but the outside of the
Maury
provided few clues to your location when you were crawling along it.
Still, if I orient myself using the parts of the Maury's insides that have been exposed, I should be able to find it
. "Yes. I think so."
"There's still no communications with the
Maury
. We need to know what's going on inside her. Leave Chief Meyer in charge of your team and get to that airlock. Bring along a portable power unit so you can open it up. Find out what the survivors need, and make sure they know not to try to power up anything, especially any maneuvering systems."
"Aye, aye, ma'am." It wasn't until then that Paul realized he'd volunteered to crawl along the outside of a crippled spacecraft.
Okay. I can do this. Just keep my eyes on the
Maury
's hull. The friction pads on my hands and feet should hold me to her
. "Chief Meyer, this is Mr. Sinclair. I've been ordered to find the
Maury'
s forward external airlock. You've got the team until I get back." He quickly passed on Kilgary's instructions.
"Aye, aye, sir. If we spot anything, do we try to fix it?"
Paul hesitated. "Try to report it to Lieutenant Kilgary. If you can't, use your judgment. Err on the side of keeping this ship together."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"I'll need a portable power unit with enough juice to cycle that airlock."
"No problem, sir."
No problem. Paul kept repeating that phrase to himself as he moved along the damaged portions of the
Maury
, peering into compartments ripped open to space so he could tell where he was relative to the airlock. Clouds of debris floated and spun through the wrecked areas, some of the larger pieces identifiable as the remnants of equipment or personal items, and occasionally one that was probably a remnant of one of the crew.
That's . . . one of the passageways through officer's country. I guess all the staterooms got taken out, too. I sure hope no one was in their bunk when it happened. Or maybe that would've been a mercy. Okay, that means the airlock should be about . . . that way
.
He paused, watching a rectangular piece of paper twisting through the airless ruin of the officers' staterooms. The paper's front came into view as it rotated, revealing it to be a photograph of a smiling woman, the seashore at her back a weird contrast to the deadness of space.
Girlfriend? Mother? Wife? Sister? Whichever, I hope your someone gets safely home to you. Or that they never knew what hit them
. The memory of the dead sailor at the survival bulkhead haunted him. She'd lived long enough to get the suit, feeling the cold and the emptiness as the compartments around her decompressed, knowing at some point that she'd never make it into that suit before she died.
The torn portions of the hull came to an end. Paul let go his last grip on the wreckage and began moving across the outer hull. Like all warships, the
Maury
's hull had been kept smooth to minimize the chances of being spotted. Corners and edges caught things like light and radio waves, creating visible signatures for unfriendly eyes searching space. Right now, feeling a bit like a fly crawling over a sheet of glass, Paul wished someone had figured out how to install hand grips on a ship's outer hull anyway.
His friction pads gripped well, but the circular motions required to lift each pad before moving a hand or a foot began to fatigue his arms and legs rapidly.
How much farther
? The hull presented an almost featureless expanse on all sides.
If I miss it, how will I know which way to go looking for it
?
His arms and legs were aching now, but Paul stubbornly kept moving, trying to keep his eyes focused on the
Maury
's hull for the small features which would reveal the presence of the airlock from up close. It occurred to Paul that he was probably being watched from the
Michaelson
, as if he were a bug on the expanse of the
Maury
's hull. "USS
Michaelson
, this is Lieutenant Sinclair."
"
Michaelson
, aye."
"I'm been ordered to reach the
Maury
's forward external airlock. Can you give me an idea how close I am?"
"Wait, one."
Paul kept moving as he waited, wondering how long it would take to urge his screaming muscles back into motion if he stopped.
"Lieutenant Sinclair, we estimate you are within three meters of the airlock and slightly above it."
"I understand I am within three meters, slightly above." Paul moved over some more, angling downward now. One foot slid against something the friction pad wouldn't hold on.
That's the airlock rim. Got you
. A little farther over and down. His hands crossed the slick rim, then Paul saw the location of the external power plug. "I am at the airlock. Plugging in my portable power unit, now."
"Lieutenant Sinclair."
Paul recognized the voice even through the rasp of the communications circuit. "Yes, Captain."
"Try to find the captain of the
Maury
if you can."
"Aye, aye, sir." Paul cautiously tried to attach his portable power unit, but the jack kept wobbling away from the plug, until Paul cursed and rammed it home. Using his suit's systems, he activated the airlock, waiting impatiently as it cycled, then as the hatch inched open. Swinging inside, Paul felt his limbs trembling with exhaustion and relief.
At least I'm not hanging on the edge of nothing anymore
.
The inner door swung open more smoothly. Paul pulled himself inside the
Maury
, looking either way down the passageway.
No one here. Anyone left is surely involved in damage control or repair. Air's okay in here. Pressure's a little low, though. I need to get to the
Maury'
s bridge
. He knew the way, though as always traveling through one of the
Michaelson
's sister ships felt odd, as if he were simultaneously in a familiar and an unfamiliar place.
Paul checked the bridge hatch, finding it sealed. Paul released the hatch, opening it to swing inside.
The
Maury
's bridge was crowded, something which brought Paul great relief after the eerie feeling of abandonment in the passageways he'd gone through. In the dim illumination of the emergency lights, sailors were working on equipment while officers huddled together. In their focus on their immediate tasks, in a compartment full of personnel in survival suits, no one seemed to notice Paul. He made his way over to the captain's chair, and found her seated there with a data pad on which a diagram of the
Maury
could be seen, watching the activity around her with an intent and agonized expression.
"Ma'am? I'm Lieutenant Sinclair, from the
Michaelson
."
Heads snapped around. The
Maury
's Captain gave Paul a brief nod of greeting. "Captain Halis. How'd you get here, Mr. Sinclair?"
"The
Michaelson
's sent over three damage control teams, ma'am. I came in through the forward external airlock to establish contact with you."
A commander, probably the
Maury
's executive officer, pointed brusquely toward the data pad held by the captain. "What's the damage look like from outside? We can't tell, and we've been focused on trying to maintain air-tight boundaries in the forward part of the ship. All of our systems are off-line. Even a lot of the emergency gear. We took a helluva shock."
"Yes, sir." Paul noticed for the first time that the commander had one arm in a splint bound tightly to his body to keep it from drifting. He probably wasn't the only member of the
Maury
's crew with broken bones or other internal and external injuries. Paul came forward a little more and pointed at the diagram of the
Maury
. "There's massive damage here and here."
Captain Halis stared grimly at where Paul had pointed. "The engineering compartments."
"Yes, ma'am. Damage spreads outward from them. We're still trying to assess damage, but so far there don't appear to be any airtight spaces left between the number two and number four survival bulkheads."