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."
The commander tried to rub his forehead, his survival suit glove sliding over the surface of his face shield, his eyes glazed. "No wonder we can't talk to anybody back there."
"What about my engineering personnel?" Captain Halis demanded. "Massive damage, you said. What does that translate to in terms of my people?"
Paul felt a sudden tightening of his throat, but forced the words out. "Lieutenant Kilgary, our officer in charge, estimates… very serious casualties in engineering."
Captain Halis closed her eyes as if unable to accept the news. "Any idea what very serious means, Lieutenant? Were those Lieutenant Kilgary's exact words?"
"No, ma'am. She…" The tightness grew, reaching down into the hollow space in Paul's guts. "She said she thought they'd been wiped out."
"Dear God." Captain Halis covered her eyes with one hand for a moment. "Dear God." She slowly lowered the hand and looked back at Paul. "Tell your Lieutenant-" Her eyes finally focused on Paul's face. "Sinclair. From the Michaelson. You're Lieutenant Shen's sierra oscar, aren't you?"
Paul nodded mutely. The use of the Navy phonetic alphabet to spell out the initials for "significant other" had for some time struck him as an amusing in-joke. But not now.
Captain Halis raised one arm and gripped Paul's shoulder so hard he could easily feel the pressure through his survival suit. "Sorry," she whispered. "So very sorry." Then the arm fell and she was captain of a stricken ship once more. "What else can you tell me?"
Paul forced himself to concentrate only on his job. "Lieutenant Kilgary has our damage control teams trying to reinforce your ship's internal structure. It's badly ripped up. She asked that you be certain not to light off any maneuvering system, or anything else without coordinating with us."
The executive officer's jaw worked. "You think we could tear the Maury apart?"
"Sir, she's… really hurt bad, sir."
The commander grimaced, but Captain Halis merely nodded. "Bad doesn't mean hopeless. We'll save her. Don't worry, we won't try to get any navigational or maneuvering systems going. Why is your Lieutenant concerned about other systems?"