Her hands blocked his peripheral view, and the endless nothing around him disappeared. He could see nothing except her face, lit by the blue and white flashes of her suit’s display.
“You’re fine,” she said quietly. Wisps of hair hung across her eyes. Her black eye. Why had Puck punched her? “You’re safe. I promise.”
He swallowed hard. The knot of tension in his chest loosened, and he found his breath back. His throat and chest ached from the stress, but he believed her.
“Can you do this, Cavalon?” she asked seriously. It wasn’t a challenge, but an offer. This was his way out, if he wanted to take it. She would let him.
He cleared his throat. “I can do it.”
“Good.” She released his helmet and drifted back. “Now, let’s get this over with.”
Slowly, meter by meter, Rake pulled them along the arc of the hull to the port quarter of the ship. He knew she continued to take it easy for his sake—that she’d have rocketed right over there and latched on in two seconds if she didn’t have to tote his incompetent ass behind her.
Finally, with a high degree of relief, he saw it—a crumpled panel on the shell of the warp drive’s exterior housing. “That’s it,” he said.
“Good. Heading up. Hold here.”
She released the winch and palmed her way up the side of the ship, toward the bar closest to their destination, though it sat over a meter too far away. They’d have to perform the repair without holding onto the hull.
Rake pulled him up to her, then switched his tether from the front to a hook on his lower back. She then fastened a short tether from the back of her own harness to the bar. Rake let go again—completely—and floated away from the hull, taking him by the shoulders and guiding him toward the broken panel. She placed him right in front of it, and let go.
“Remember, slow and steady.” She remained hovering just off his right shoulder.
“Got it.” He gave a short nod, then carefully gripped the loosened panel.
It didn’t budge, a fact which relieved him greatly. Something probably hadn’t ripped off entirely if there wasn’t an open, gaping hole in the side of the ship.
“I need the—” Rake’s hand appeared, holding the zero-g impact driver. “Thanks.” He slowly took it from her grip. How was everything so fucking hard without gravity? It made no sense.
Cavalon moved the drill toward one of the bolts on the bent panel, and as he pressed down, his body floated away from the hull. His hand shook, and his grip loosened. The drill began to float away, but Rake grabbed it and pressed it back into his hand. His breath started coming in shorter gasps again.
Jackin’s voice crackled through. “Rake, kid’s vitals are spiking again.”
“Cav, just relax. Pretend you’re back at university.”
He took a wavering breath. “Which one?”
“Whichever you did astromech at.”
Cavalon secured the drill onto the bolt, then began unscrewing. “Altum Institute.”
“Okay, then. You’re back on Elyseia.”
“Shit, I don’t want to be back on Elyseia,” he grumbled. He finished removing the first bolt, and it floated away. Rake grabbed it, and he moved on to the next.
Even if he could go back, even if the full force of the Mercer Guard wouldn’t come down on him the second he hit atmosphere, he’d die a happy man if he never had to breathe a single lungful of that scrubbed, over-oxygenated air again. The news vids, propaganda poorly disguised as SC tourism initiatives, and even the historic records would have everyone believe Elyseia was the closest example of a utopia humanity had yet to have the good fortune of witnessing. Though each of the royal families’ home planets had their own unique offering of sins, Elyseia alone embodied everything Cavalon hated about the Allied Monarchies and then some: a rampant and worsening caste system; systemic oppression; an unbalanced, wildly corrupt legal system; the list was endless.