Packed in tight on the gig again, Paul no longer had anything at all to divert his attention. No looming hazardous mission, no constant work with his hands and mind, no oversight of his team's work. All he could do was sit in the dimmed interior of the gig, feeling the survival suits around him press in from all sides, feeling the hollowness in him, and wondering if he'd ever feel anything but empty again.
Bumps and lurches announced their arrival back at the Michaelson. A wait followed, only minutes long but seeming an eternity for those inside the gig, as the gig's dock was pressurized. Finally, the hatch cracked open and sailors began pulling themselves out of the gig. Lieutenant Kilgary hung at the gig hatch, waving the sailors onward. "Everyone clear the gig area. Get into another compartment and get out of your suits. No bunching up. No ass dragging. Keep moving."
Paul's turn came. He moved automatically, swinging out of the hatch, then feeling a hand on his arm. He looked to see Lieutenant Kilgary motioning him to the side. "How are you doing?"
"I…"
"That's what I thought." Kilgary had already pulled off her suit's helmet and now she assisted Paul in getting his helmet off. Her own eyes were haunted by fatigue and sorrow. "I don't want to risk you wandering around in this state oblivious to your own danger readings."
"I'm not that bad off."
"Can you hear your own voice? You held up great out there, Paul. I'd have never known you had such a personal stake in this. But now that pressure's off and you're feeling it."
Paul hung against the nearest bulkhead, staring at nothing. "I guess I am. Are you sure…?"
Kilgary's face sagged. "Damage to the after survival bulkhead hadn't been patched. We couldn't get in there, back into the less damaged sections aft of that bulkhead, but that says something."
"Yeah." A last very slender hope gone. "I guess-"
The comm panel in the compartment blared an attention signal. "Is Lieutenant Sinclair still down there?"
The sailor nearest the panel glanced at Paul, then pushed the transmit button. "Yes, sir. He's listening."
"We've received a Personal For message for him from the captain of the Maury."
Paul blinked in confusion, then felt the emptiness growing inside once more. They found her. That must be it. Found what's left of her. I don't want… But, as if of their own accord, his legs pushed him toward the comm panel and his arm raised so his hand could push the transmit key. He stared stupidly at the panel for a moment, the hollowness spreading to his brain, before he remembered to talk. "What is it? I mean… this is Lieutenant Sinclair."
"Personal for Lieutenant Sinclair from Captain Halis. Quote: Contact has been established with Lieutenant Shen and twenty-one enlisted who remain alive in the after section of the ship. Unquote."
Paul's vision hazed. As it cleared, he realized he was drifting limply against the bulkhead, one arm still raised toward the comm panel. Someone was yelling at him.
"Paul! Come on!" Hands grabbed Paul's arms and brought him around to face Colleen Kilgary. "Don't lose it, Paul."
He tried to straighten his body, his arms and legs still feeling rubbery. "Jen-"
"I know. I heard. Somebody up there really loves you or her or the pair of you. Can you make it to your stateroom? How about sickbay?"
"I don't need sickbay." Paul looked around, blinking as if the lights in the compartment had just come on. Some of the enlisted from the damage control teams were grinning at him, not in derision at his weakness, but clearly in shared happiness at the news he'd received. "Thank you. Thanks all of you. I can make it now, Coll."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Yes, I can make it now." In more ways than one. I can't believe it. Jen's alive? Not that I'm complaining, but how?
Chapter Six
He went back to the Maury six hours later, in charge of another team responsible for patching up what was left of the ship. He assumed Jen was somewhere in the forward part of the Maury by then, but didn't ask. He'd already grasped how incredibly lucky he'd been. Paul couldn't look anywhere on the Maury without being reminded that a lot of other people hadn't been lucky.
Back on the Michaelson, Paul staggered to the wardroom for coffee. Commander Sykes wasn't there, but Mike Bristol was on his way out, coffee in each hand.. "Suppo's working nonstop to get anything the Maury needs out of our supply stocks," Bristol confided.
"He's going to ruin his reputation if he's not careful," Paul suggested as he slid into a chair.
"Strap yourself in, Paul. Since when does a line officer need a supply officer to tell him that?"
"Sorry." Paul fumbled with the straps and got them fastened just as Captain Hayes entered the wardroom. Figures. He tried to unfasten the straps so he could "stand" to attention, but Hayes waved him back.
"Carry on, Paul." Hayes grabbed some coffee himself, hanging for a moment near the dispenser. "You've been doing good work over there."
"Everybody has, sir."
"Yeah. Damn good job." Hayes took a big drink, his face weary. "We're bringing her back, you know."
"Sir?"
"Fleet's already decided. They're sending some tugs to take Maury in tow. That's why the damage control teams are concentrating on reinforcing her structure now. The bean counters probably want to just leave the wreck out here, but we'll bring her home." Hayes drained his coffee. "Captain Halis and a skeleton crew will ride the Maury back. She insisted. I would've done the same thing in her place. Helluva thing. The rest of the Maury 's survivors will be brought over here and we'll take them back to Franklin."
Paul nodded, not quite able to absorb all the information.
Hayes' eyes had gone distant. "The chief engineer on the Maury and I served together once. We were shipmates on the old John Glenn."
"I–I'm sorry, sir."
"We live in a small professional world, Paul. I hope you realize how lucky you are."
"I do, sir."
"Well." Captain Hayes looked at his empty coffee for a moment, then grabbed another. "Still a lot to do today." Paul watched him go, then sighed, unstrapped, and headed for Combat. Like the captain said, there was still a lot to do.
The Michaelson had been designed to have just enough room to carry her crew, with some means of emergency accommodations for a limited number of others in the event of emergency. She hadn't been designed to hold nearly as many extra personnel as were coming from the Maury. After using every available space, some of the sailors on the Michaelson still had to hot-bunk with survivors from the Maury, with two sailors sharing the same bunk, one sleeping while the other stood watch or worked. The only complaint Paul personally heard came from Seaman Fastow. Chief Imari had leaned close to Fastow, her face a devil's mask, and asked if Fastow would be happier if fewer members of the Maury 's crew had survived so she wouldn't have to be inconvenienced.
"Paul." He looked up at Kris Denaldo's hail. "Got a minute?"
"Is it important?"
"Very."
"Okay."
Kris led the way back to her stateroom, pausing a couple of meters from the hatch. "Old home week, Paul."
"What?"
She gestured. "Jen's in there."
"Jen? I thought they'd keep an engineer onboard the Maury."
"They don't need an engineer. It'll all be portable life support systems. Engineering doesn't exist on that ship anymore. And Jen, well, I'm no expert, but she's not doing well."
Paul stared at the hatch. "Shell-shocked?"
"Worse than that, I think. She's lost a lot of friends. Lucky she's still got you. But be careful with her. I can't believe even Iron Jen can shed this kind of thing without being really hurt inside."