Nemesis Games

A coldness spread through her, but the colors came back as the sip of hyperoxygenated blood poured through her. An extra bit of breath without having the luxury of breathing out first. The airlock indicator on the Chetzemoka’s skin blinked, the emergency response received, the cycle starting. The ship loomed up. She was going to hit, and she couldn’t afford to bounce. She put her hands out fingers first, and prepared to crumple as she struck. There were handholds on the surface – some were designed, but others were the protrusions of antennae and cameras. She hit with all the same energy she’d kicked off with, the ship slamming into her. She’d known to expect that. She was ready. Her fingers closed on a handhold. The force of the body wrenched her shoulder and elbow, but she didn’t lose her grip. One thousand thirteen.

Across the gap, the umbilical was in the Pella. Maneuvering thrusters lit along the warship’s side, an ejection mass of superheated water glowing as it jetted out. Cyn’s body – he would have lost consciousness by now – was out there somewhere, but she couldn’t see it. He was already lost, and at least Sárta and Filip and maybe others had seen them both. Cyn and Naomi in the airlock without suits, and then gone. Spaced. Dead.

Not dead yet. She had to get moving. Her mind had skipped a fraction of a second. She couldn’t do that. Naomi pulled herself carefully, skimming along centimeters from the skin of the ship. Too fast, and she wouldn’t be able to stop. Too slow and she’d pass out before she reached safety. All she could do was hope there was a golden middle ground. One thousand… She didn’t know anymore. Fifteen? Her whole body was a confusion of pain and animal panic. She couldn’t make out the stars at all anymore. The Pella was a blur. The saliva in her mouth bubbled. Boiled. A high, thin whine filled her ears, an illusion of sound where no sound was.

A lot of things happen, she thought, vaguely aware she’d said it to someone else, not long ago. Even this. She felt a wave of peace wash over her. Euphoria. It was a bad sign.

The airlock was there, five meters away. Then four. Her mind skipped, and it was flashing past her. She shot out her arm, grabbing for it, and the frame hit her wrist. She clutched for it, snatching the way Cyn had. She was spinning, the impact turning all her forward momentum angular. But she was over the airlock. Its pale mouth rose up from under her feet and vanished overhead, and back again, and back again. When she reached out, her hand was actually inside the ship, but she couldn’t touch the frame. Couldn’t pull herself in. The Pella was drifting away, losing its color as her consciousness began to fade. So close. She’d come so very close. Centimeters more, and she might have lived. But space was unforgiving. People died there all the time. The Pella loosed another plume from its maneuvering thrusters, as if in solemn agreement.

Without thinking, she drew up her leg, the spin increasing as she bent tight. She pulled off the shoe that Sárta hadn’t gotten. Her hands felt weird. Clumsy, awkward, more than half numbed. When she stretched back out, the spin slowed to what it had been. She tried to judge the timing, but too little of her mind was left. In the end, she saw the Pella at the end of a distant and darkening hall and threw the shoe at it as hard as her failing strength allowed.

Ejection mass. The spin slowed. Her hands reached farther into the airlock. She was drifting in. Her heel hit the steel frame and the pain was excruciating and very far away. Her mind blinked. She had an impression of the airlock control panel, the lights trying to impart some critical information. She couldn’t see the colors or the symbols on the pad. Her consciousness faded and was gone.

Naomi woke herself up coughing. The deck was pressing against her face. She couldn’t tell if she was desperately weak or under high burn. The edges of the airlock around her were fuzzy. She coughed again, a deep wet sound. Images of hemorrhaging lungs filled her mind, but the fluid she brought up was clear. Her hands were almost unrecognizable as hands. Her fingers were thick as sausages, filled with plasma and fluid. Her skin was too hurt to touch, like a bad sunburn. Her joints ached from her toes to the vertebrae in her neck. Her belly felt like someone had kicked her in the gut a couple dozen times.

She forced a breath. She could do that. Inhale, exhale. Something gurgled in her lungs. Not blood, though. She told herself it wasn’t blood. She rolled onto her side, tucked her legs up, rose to sitting, and then lay back down again as the world swam. That was more than a g. That had to be more than a g. She couldn’t be that weak, could she?