“Extravehicular activity?” she said. “You’ve never spacewalked?”
Cavalon’s eyes widened. “Oh, right. No.” He shook his head fervently. “I worked on engines with my feet on the ground, full of gravity.” He grinned and let out a nervous laugh. “Might be the only certified astromech that can say they’ve never been in space.”
Adequin forced out a steadying breath. She could imagine it now: their only hope at repairing the warp drive, slipping his tether and bumping off the hull or triggering his thrusters, then rocketing off into the depths of space, spinning endlessly until he ran out of air.
“I’ll tandem with him,” Puck said.
She quirked a brow, eyeing the circitor carefully, though the offer appeared genuine. He certainly seemed to be trying to make up for jacking her in the face earlier. “You sure, Circitor?”
“Sorry, ‘with him’？” Cavalon tried to interject, but Puck ignored him.
“Positive, sir.”
“How many times have you walked?” Adequin asked.
Cavalon cleared his throat. “As in Puck and Cavalon…”
“Just in basic,” Puck answered.
“… go on a spacewalk?” Cavalon continued.
She shook her head. “I’ll go. We can’t risk this.”
“Shit, Rake—” Jackin started, but she held up a hand.
“I’m going. End of discussion.” She grabbed a discarded helmet off the table and shoved it into Cavalon’s chest. His face paled to a rather unhealthy shade of white. “Suit up, soldier.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For the third time that day and the third time in his life, Cavalon stepped into a space suit. He’d started to wonder if he should just keep it on all the time.
The rest of the crew had been sequestered into the other sections, and he stood alone with Rake in the common room. She’d already suited up except for her helmet and gloves, and now strapped a multitude of tool holsters to her arms and legs.
Cavalon withheld a groan as he bent to lift his suit over his shoulders. Despite the short, fitful nap he’d taken on their ride back from Kharon Gate, his skin and muscles still throbbed from overworking his Imprints during their Drudger encounter.
Rake finished tightening down the last of the tool holsters, then crossed the empty room toward him. He began to carefully overlay the folds of the suit, but she pushed his hands away to do it herself. Her fingers flew up the seam with practiced proficiency, and the pearlescent, nanite-infused fabric stitched itself together seamlessly as the folds met. The swollen bruise on her cheek had started to darken.
“Where’d you get that shiner?” he asked.
“Your CO.”
Cavalon scoffed. “Puck?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes remained focused on sealing up his suit.
“Punched you?”
“Yeah.”
He lowered his voice. “Did you deserve it?”
She gave him one of those glares that made his stomach flop, and his cheeks burned.
“Joke. Sorry, sir.”
She finished with his suit then gave the seal a pointedly firm pat, and he had to take a step back to catch his balance. She picked up a mess of black strapping, untangled it, and held it up in the proper shape.
“The tandem harness,” she explained.
He took it and shimmied it up around his hips.
Rake grabbed his shoulder and turned him around, then pulled the loose straps up his back. He felt like he was being dressed by a valet—a rather harsh valet—to attend some Allied Monarchies formal affair. He honestly wasn’t sure if that would be more or less fun than what he was about to do.