Chapter 29 #2
Maren answers. “Returning. Distance forty-nine meters. Still outside bay.”
Dutch says, “You have three minutes before I start getting rude.”
“Start?” Holden asks.
Nobody laughs.
I fit the regulator to the pod’s damaged coupling. Not clean. Of course. “Adapter,” I say.
Holden digs in the kit and hands it over.
The adapter doesn’t seat. The crack has warped the housing by a few millimeters.
I pull the portable grinder from the kit.
Marta’s eyes widen. “That’s loud.”
“Yes.”
“No,” Dutch says.
“I need to shave the adapter,” I say.
“Noise draws him.”
“So does failure.”
“How long?” Maren asks.
“Twenty seconds.”
Dutch says, “You get ten.”
“Fifteen,” Maren says.
Dutch goes silent for one beat. “Fifteen. If Kevin accelerates, you stop.”
I start the grinder.
The sound tears through the bay. Sparks snap against the wet floor and die. Marta flinches but keeps the light steady. Holden shifts his body between the work and the open bay.
The grinder eats the edge of the adapter.
Five seconds.
Eight.
“Kevin reacting,” Maren says.
Ten.
“Stop at fifteen,” Dutch says.
Twelve.
The adapter edge smooths enough.
Fourteen.
I cut the grinder. “Done,” I say.
“Kevin closing,” Maren says. “Thirty-eight meters. Angling low.”
“Move,” Dutch says.
“No,” I say.
The channel goes still.
I fit the adapter. This time, it seats.
“Reyes,” Maren says. Not director voice. Mine.
I lock the regulator into place. “If I leave this unsealed, we come back and do the same thing again with Kevin closer.”
“You have thirty seconds.” Dutch’s voice is flat enough to cut.
I tighten the first coupling. Marta holds the line.
Holden reads pressure rise from the tablet. “Ballast line accepting flow.”
Second coupling.
“Thirty-two meters,” Maren says.
“Reyes,” Dutch says.
I torque the seal.
“Pressure stable,” Holden says.
“Manual release?” Marta asks.
“Not now.”
“Kevin at twenty-eight,” Maren says.
The bay lights flicker as a large shadow crosses the approach.
I look up.
For one second, Kevin fills the outer feed.
I close the housing and slam the latch. “Out.”
Nobody argues.
Marta first, then Holden with the kit, me last because I need one look at the pod status before leaving. The indicator still blinks amber.
Less insult. More dare.
Emergency ballast: functional.
Hull integrity: holdable.
Navigation: operational.
Launch assist: damaged.
Propulsion: partial.
Manual release: impaired.
Possible.
We reach the service hatch as Kevin enters the bay approach.
Dutch is waiting on the inside, one hand on the hatch controls, the other on his weapon because he’s emotionally attached to useless gestures that might still buy a second. Marta slips through. Holden follows. I step through last, and Dutch hits the seal.
The hatch closes. Not a second early.
On the monitor beside the door, Kevin enters the bay and moves to the emergency pod.
He touches the ballast housing.
The repaired ballast housing. Just once. A test.
The seal on the hatch completes. Bay access locked.
Kevin’s head turns toward the camera. Toward where the work happened.
“He knows.” Maren’s voice is very quiet in my ear.
“Yes,” I say.
For five seconds, Kevin remains beside the pod. Then he moves away. The bay has answered another question. He does not need to spend more force yet.
Dutch looks at me. “Assessment.”
I strip off one glove and flex my fingers. My hands are steady. My body isn’t as interested in that lie as it used to be. “The emergency pod can launch,” I say.
Marta closes her eyes.
Holden exhales.
I continue before hope gets too comfortable.
“Once. Maybe. Hull will hold for a surface run if nothing else hits it. Ballast is functional. Propulsion partial. Navigation operational. Launch assist damaged. Manual release needs repair. Cradle alignment is off four degrees. It needs six hours minimum before I’d put people in it. ”
“We have more than sixteen below,” Holden says.
“Yes.”
No one fills the silence after that.
They can’t.
There are too many living people for the one damaged way out, and four unknown people already somewhere in the dark.
“Six hours,” Maren says.
“Yes.”
“Can you do it?”
“Yes,” I say. “If the parts hold, Kevin stays outside the bay, the cradle doesn’t shift again, and nothing else becomes true.”
“So no,” Dutch says.
“So maybe.”
Maren’s breath catches. “Reyes,” she says.
“I can do the work.” That is the only promise I can make.
I look at the emergency pod status.
“Six hours. If everything holds.” I strip the other glove. “Six hours buys a working pod. It doesn’t buy enough seats. That’s not an engineering problem and I can’t fix it with the kit.”
“That’s my decision. I’ll make it,” she says.
The channel stays open. I can hear all of us not answering. Twelve seats. Six hours to make a pod that launches once, maybe, into water that’s started keeping a perimeter.
I look at the amber light.
None of us tells her she shouldn’t have to decide. We’d be lying, and she’s the only one in the facility who’s never needed that particular lie.