Zoric
The solar radiation warning arrives without preamble.
“Captain, we're detecting a Class M solar flare from the nearby star system.” Morris turns from his navigation console, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. “Radiation front will reach us in approximately six minutes.”
I pull up the sensor data on my command screen. The flare erupts from the star's surface in a cascade of charged particles and electromagnetic radiation. Beautiful. Deadly. And headed directly for our position.
“Shields to maximum. All non-essential personnel to interior sections.” I run trajectory calculations. “Can we alter course to avoid the radiation front?”
“Negative, sir.” Fletcher inputs new parameters. “We'd need at least twelve minutes to change vector sufficiently. The front will hit us in minutes.”
“Radiation impact in five minutes,” Tanaka confirms. “Shield generators are at full capacity, but we'll still experience significant interference with external systems.”
The calculations are clear. The shields will protect the crew and ship's interior, but any equipment on the hull will sustain damage. Including our primary communications array.
“Communications.” I turn to Lieutenant Morris. “Status on external arrays?”
“Primary array is exposed on the dorsal hull, Captain. Secondary is retracted for maintenance. If the flare hits the primary array directly, we'll lose all subspace communications until we can repair it.”
“Time to retract primary array?”
“Seven minutes, sir.” Morris's expression tells me he's already done that calculation. “We don't have enough time.”
The radiation front appears on the viewscreen. A wall of charged particles racing toward us at a significant fraction of light speed. Soon, it will wash over the ship like a wave breaking against rock.
“Damage assessment?” I ask.
Tanaka pulls up projected models. “The array will survive, but connection points will likely fuse from the radiation surge. We'll need an EVA to manually disconnect and reconnect the primary couplings before we can restore function.”
An EVA. Extravehicular activity. Someone will need to go outside the ship, vulnerable to the residual radiation and the raw vacuum of space, to repair systems that should not have been damaged if we'd had adequate warning.
“How long until radiation levels drop to safe EVA parameters?” I'm already running the calculations, but I need Tanaka's confirmation.
“Approximately forty-seven minutes after impact, sir.”
The bridge doors open. Chief Engineer Martin enters carrying her tablet, moving directly to my station.
We haven't spoken since last night. Since the moment in my office when we’d nearly crossed a line I'm trained never to approach.
Her proximity now creates the same physiological responses as before.
Elevated heart rate. Increased skin temperature.
Attention narrowing to hyperfocus on her location.
“Captain.” Her voice is professional, but I detect the slight tension underneath. She's aware of me too. “I heard about the solar flare. If we need EVA repairs, I should suit up now.”
“You're volunteering?” The words emerge more sharply than intended.
“I designed the modification specs for those coupling points. I know exactly where to cut and reconnect without damaging the array.” She pulls up schematics on her tablet. “Anyone else would need my diagrams and twenty minutes of briefing. I can do it in half the time.”
The logic is sound. Efficient. Exactly the kind of thinking that makes her an exceptional chief engineer.
But the idea of her outside the ship, exposed to residual radiation and the void of space, produces a sensation in my chest cavity analogous to physical constriction. Fear, I become aware. Specifically, fear for her safety. The intensity is disproportionate to the situation.
“Radiation impact in four minutes,” Morris reports.
I make the calculation. She's correct. She is the most qualified. Sending anyone else would extend EVA time and increase risk. The logical choice is clear.
Logic and what I want are in direct conflict.
“Approved.” The word costs something. “Report to airlock three. Full radiation suit. I want triple-redundancy on all safety tethers.”
“Yes, sir.” She turns to leave, then pauses. Looks back at me. Our eyes meet briefly. Something passes between us. Acknowledgment of last night. Of the risk she's taking. Of things unspoken but present.
Then she's gone, and I'm left attempting to suppress the dread spreading through me like poison.
I arrive at airlock three as she's running equipment checks.
The EVA suit is bulky, designed for maximum protection rather than mobility. It makes her look smaller somehow. More vulnerable. She's checking seal integrity on her gloves when I enter, and she looks up at my approach.
“Captain.” Surprise elevates her vocal pitch slightly. “You don't need to be here. I know the procedures.”
“I'm aware.” I move to the equipment station and pull up her suit diagnostics on the control panel. All systems showing optimal function. “I wanted to verify personally.”
“That I won't die out there?”
“That the equipment will function as designed.” The distinction is important. Equipment I can control. Her survival depends on too many variables that I cannot.
She secures her gloves and reaches for her helmet. “I had my lucky Christmas sweater on this morning. Before the alarm went off. It's in my locker now.” She's attempting humor. Deflection. “Stupid superstition, I know.”
“Not stupid.” I move closer before logic can intervene. “Whatever brings you back safely.”
Her hands pause on the helmet seal. I reach out to assist, and our hands meet on the locking mechanism.
The suit gloves prevent direct skin contact, but I feel the warmth of her anyway.
Close enough to see the exact amber patterns in her eyes.
Close enough to notice her breathing has changed rhythm.
“Zoric...” She drops my title. The intimacy of it strikes me.
“Come back to me.” The words escape before I can stop them. Too revealing. Too honest. I attempt correction. “To the ship. Come back to the ship.”
But she’d heard what I said first. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate. In the flush spreading across her visible skin. In the way she doesn't pull her hands away from mine.
“I will,” she says quietly.
The helmet seals with a soft hiss. She activates her internal comm, and her voice comes through the speakers with slight distortion. “Comms check.”
“Confirmed.” I step back, creating appropriate distance. “I'll be your primary comm contact during the EVA. You report directly to me every thirty seconds.”
“Every thirty seconds?” Even through the helmet, I can see her slight smile. “That's excessive, Captain.”
“Those are my parameters.” I move to the airlock control panel. “Radiation levels are dropping to acceptable EVA range in four minutes. You'll have approximately eleven minutes before they rise again. The repair must be completed in that window.”
“Understood.”
I want to say more. Want to tell her the statistical probability of EVA accidents is low under optimal conditions, which these are not.
Want to calculate and communicate every risk factor so she understands the danger.
Want to order her to stay inside where I can maintain visual confirmation of her safety.
Instead, I say, “Be careful.”
“Always am.” Her voice carries that edge of humor she uses when stressed. “Well, mostly. Sometimes.”
Despite everything, I feel my mouth curve slightly. “That is not reassuring.”
“Good thing you trust me anyway.” She enters the airlock chamber. Turns back to face me through the inner door. “See you in eleven minutes.”
The airlock seals. I watch through the viewport as she moves through the outer door and into space beyond.
Then she's gone, and I'm walking back to the bridge trying to remember how to breathe properly.
“Captain on the bridge.” Tanaka's announcement feels unnecessary. Everyone can see me arrive. Can see me move directly to the communications station where I can monitor Chief Martin's suit telemetry and maintain audio contact.
“Chief Martin, status report.” I keep my voice level. Professional.
“I'm outside. Magnetic boots engaged. Moving to the primary array now.” Her breathing comes through the comm, slightly elevated but steady. “Visual confirmation of radiation damage to the coupling points. I'll need to cut through three fused connections.”
I pull up her suit camera feed on my screen. The view shows the ship's hull stretching out in harsh light and shadow. The damaged array rises like a skeletal structure against the star field beyond. Beautiful. Terrifying.
“Proceed. Mark your time.” I'm acutely aware that every person on the bridge can hear this exchange. “You have ten minutes remaining.”
“Plenty of time.” Tools clank in her hands. “Starting on connection point one.”
I watch the camera feed. Watch her hands move through practiced motions, cutting away fused metal, separating components that should never have been welded together by radiation. Each movement is efficient. Confident. Exactly what I've come to expect from her.
Eight minutes remaining.
“Connection point one complete. Moving to point two.”
“Confirmed.” I monitor her vital signs. Heart rate elevated but acceptable. Oxygen consumption normal. Suit integrity at 100%. “Radiation levels remain within safe parameters.”
“Good to know.” There's that humor again. “I'm not keen on glowing in the dark.”
Behind me, I hear Lieutenant Morris suppress what might be a laugh. Even in crisis, she finds ways to reduce tension. It's effective. Inefficient, perhaps, but effective.
Six minutes.
“Connection point two complete. Moving to three.”
I notice Tanaka glancing at me, then away. She's observing my physiological responses. The analysis is logical. The implications are concerning.