Another voice. Filip on the other side of the airlock door. She could hear him shouting, telling her to open the door. He sounded frantic.
How the hell did she keep getting into these situations?
“Be strong,” Cyn said. “For Filipito, be strong.”
“Okay,” she said. She pushed her jaw forward in a yawn, opening her throat and her Eustachian tubes. Cyn yelped as she hit OPEN OUTER DOOR. Air tugged at her once, hard, as it evacuated. Adrenaline flooded her blood as she was assaulted invisibly on every square centimeter of flesh. The breath in her lungs rushed out of her, trying to pull her lungs along with it. Cyn grabbed at the airlock frame to keep himself inside, spun, screaming, was gone.
With her lungs empty, there was no reserve. She wasn’t holding her breath, surviving off the gas held inside her. Someone could hold their breath for a couple minutes. In the vacuum, she could make it maybe fifteen seconds unaided.
One thousand one. Naomi shifted, hand over hand, to brace against the inner door and look out. The void was there, the great dome of stars. The Chetzemoka glowed in sunlight brighter than the Earth had ever seen. The umbilical hung to her left, too bright to look at directly and more than halfway retracted. Her ribs ached; her eyes ached. Her diaphragm tugged at her gut, trying to inflate lungs squeezed to knots. If she’d had an EVA suit, it would have had attitude thrusters. Without them, she had one chance and no time to think about it. One thousand two. She launched.
For a moment, she saw Cyn in the corner of her eye, a flicker of pale movement. The sun was below her, vast and bright. Radiant heat pressed against her throat and face. The Milky Way spread out, arching across the endless sky. Carbon dioxide built up in her blood; she could feel it in the burning drive to breathe. The Chetzemoka grew slowly larger. One thousand five. Shadows streaked its side, every protrusion and rivet cutting the sunlight into strips of darkness. Everything fell slightly out of focus as her eyes deformed. The stars shifted from diamond points of light to halos to clouds, like the whole universe dissolving. She’d thought it would be silent, but she heard her heartbeat like someone hammering in the next deck.
If I die here, she thought, at least it’s beautiful. This would be a lovely way to die. One thousand eight.
The lines of the Chetzemoka’s airlock became clear enough to make out. Without magnetic boots, she’d have to reach it with bare handholds, but she was close. She was almost there. The world began to narrow, lights going out in her peripheral vision even as the bright ship grew larger. Passing out. She was passing out. She plucked the black thumb out of her belt, twisted it to expose the needle, and slammed it into her leg. One thousand ten.
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.