Chapter 27 #2
“If I seal too far, we block launch clearance.”
“Seal enough to keep him off the hull and not enough to trap us completely.”
“That’s a terrible range.”
“Welcome to biology.”
“He’s pushing harder,” Dutch says.
Kevin’s body fills the feed. Bay lights flicker across his armor. Water roils around the partition. He applies pressure, feels response, adjusts angle. The shield groans.
The emergency pod shifts in its cradle by three centimeters.
The status icon flashes. Amber.
Reyes opens a chemical deterrent pulse manually through the restored backup line.
The bay water clouds with a faint mineral bloom around the emergency pod recess.
Kevin pauses. For one second, nothing moves. Then he turns his head toward the source of the pulse.
Toward the line Reyes and I repaired.
“Cut the pulse,” I say.
Reyes cuts it.
Kevin remains near the shield. Considering.
“Dutch,” I say, “get Reyes and Marta out of that corridor if the partition fails.”
“Already on him.”
“I’m not leaving the control,” Reyes says.
Dutch’s voice goes flatter. “Wasn’t asking.”
“Kevin is evaluating the deterrent source,” I say. “If we keep pulsing, he learns the line. If we stop, he may continue mechanical testing. We need a non-pattern interruption.”
Holden says, “Lights?”
My eyes flick to the bay lighting system. “Yes,” I say. “Yes. Holden, you beautiful terrible man. Reyes, kill bay approach lights on my mark, then bring emergency strobes on random cycle, low-to-high, no repeat. Dutch, get everyone in that corridor braced.”
“Copy,” Dutch says.
Reyes’s hands move over the partition control. “Ready.”
I run the sequence manually. “Mark.”
The bay goes full dark. For half a second, every camera loses him.
My heart stops.
Then the emergency strobes fire. The bay becomes fragments.
Kevin appears in pieces. A sweep of armor. A fin. Appendages curling away from the partition. His head turning toward nothing consistent.
The emergency pod shield stops shuddering.
“Status?” I demand.
Reyes answers, breathless. “Pod hull intact. Shield damaged. Launch clearance compromised but possible with manual assist.”
Kevin withdraws from the recess. He moves back through the bay, pausing at each disabled vessel as if confirming work completed. L-3. L-4. Maintenance craft one. Maintenance craft two. The destroyed cradle arm. The severed propulsion assembly drifting in a slow spin.
He ignores the vessels already dead.
The emergency strobes paint him in pieces as he turns toward the outer gate.
The full size of him crosses camera one, and the image catches more than any brochure, any model, any reconstruction ever did.
I wait for the awe. All night it’s gotten there first, and I’ve hated it and trusted it because it’s the truest thing I have.
It doesn’t come this time. I look at the most extraordinary organism I’ll ever see closing the door I built to keep him on the correct side of wonder, and there’s no wonder left to be on the wrong side of.
Just the math, and the vessels, and the amber light.
The awe is the first thing he’s taken that I’ll actually miss.
Then he leaves through the bay gate into the basin.
Finished.
The alarms continue after he’s gone.
No one speaks.
The bay feed shows wreckage drifting in the light. Broken thruster housings. Twisted cradle arms. A maintenance vessel listing against its rack. Fluid leaking in dark ribbons through the water. The emergency pod icon blinks amber in the corner of the schematic.
One amber light.
Everything else red.
I look at the vessel status list.
L-3: disabled.
L-4: disabled.
Maintenance craft M-1: disabled.
Maintenance craft M-2: disabled.
Guest bay cradle: damaged.
Emergency pod: hull intact, shield compromised, manual launch assist required.
One chance. Barely.
Not enough for everyone unless we make it enough by force, cruelty, math, and prayer, and I’m currently short on prayer.
The channel remains open. I hear breathing. Dutch’s, maybe. Reyes’s. Mine. Holden’s silence.
Then Lina’s voice from operations, soft and horrified. “Dr. Vale?”
I look at the amber icon.
My mother’s voice rises from somewhere beneath the alarms.
Too much, Maren.
The facility seems to agree.
Kevin’s icon returns to the basin map outside the approach corridor, moving back toward the dark shelf.
I touch the console with my bandaged hand. It hurts.
“Reyes,” I say. My voice sounds calm enough to belong to someone else. “Can the emergency pod launch?”
There’s a pause. “Maybe. Not from here.”
“Dutch,” I say. “Secure bay access. No one enters except Reyes, me, and whoever he names.”
“Copy.”
“Holden.”
“I’m here.”
“Update topside. Tell them the bay has sustained vessel loss and emergency pod damage. No independent launch capability confirmed. Request immediate external extraction support, but assume delay.”
“Copy.”
“Lina. Keep everyone in the atrium. Tell them there was a bay incident, no additional injuries, and we’re assessing the remaining exit.”
“Understood.”
The words move through me, clean and functional. Proof that a person can still lead while something in her is being crushed in the bay beside the vessels.
Too much, my mother says again.
This time, something in me answers.
Not enough. Not yet.
But the answer is small, buried under alarms, and I don’t know if it is defiance or another kind of denial.
On the bay schematic, the emergency pod keeps blinking.
Amber.
Amber.
Amber.
The last soft light in a room full of red.