Page 17 of Starlight, Starbright
“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.”
