kind of thing that encouraged Life to think of Weapons and Intel as deluded schmucks. She should have taken the drills more seriously. There were so many safety protocols. There was something she should be doing, right now, to save her life.
“Life,” Jackson said, from far away. “Respond.”
What had she said in her last feed post? She couldn’t remember. Nothing too trivial, she hoped. Service would fake up something appropriate, of course, splicing together pieces of her clips and outtakes. She wished she had replied to her sister.
She felt an explosive impact across her back. Translucent sheeting slapped across her face. Air filled her lungs, bright and rich. Fabric slid along her limbs, inflating. Her survival core had deployed. Every day for two years she had worn that thing for the sole purpose of making the crew believe it meant something. And look at this.
“Life, come back.”
She found her voice. “I’m here.”
“What’s happening?”
“I’m okay,” she said, but then something moved in the hole.
She stared. The wind had eased, she sensed. It was hard to tell from inside the suit. But yes. Less wind, but more something crawling toward her from the hole.
“Life?”
Was she prepared to die? She had thought so. It was a job prerequisite, after all. Before she left, there was much talk of sacrifice. She had stood before cameras and spoken that word, often, and in great seriousness, with a slight frown, to let her viewers know it was for real. She had been asked straight-out by three different Service psychs whether she was prepared for the possibility that she might not make it home, and she had answered yes. She had made a will. But there was only twenty feet of hull between her and an ocean of anglerfish and had she known that? That she was one small hole away from an actual universe of death? That when the air left, the ship groaned? Nope. Nope. Nope.
“There’s a salamander,” she said. “My station is breached and a salamander’s coming in.”
Gilly: “What?”
Jackson: “Repeat that, Life.” But she couldn’t. She was transfixed by little glinting limbs in the hole. It wasn’t big enough for a salamander to fit through. It must be pushing, squeezing, frustrated. “Life,” Jackson said. “There are no hostiles anywhere near physical contact range. Restate your status.”
A crab crawled from the hole. Its pincers moved over the torn metal. Strand by strand, it began to unweave the metal flower’s petals.
“It’s a crab,” she said. “It’s repairing the breach.”
“There’s no salamander?”
“It’s . . .” she said. “There’s no salamander. I was confused for a second. My survival core has deployed.”
“You sure you’re fine?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Thank you, Life. Can you give me a ship overview?”
The crab had dissolved the metal flower and begun rapidly spinning up dull yellow threads. She looked behind her. In the other hole, another crab moved. As she watched, a third crawled out of the hole to join it.
“Life?”
She ran her board. “Damage everywhere, across all Life systems. But it’s contained. Pressure is stable. Thermals are stable.”
Gilly said, “Did we get them all?”
Jackson: “Awaiting confirmation. Lot of debris out there. We’re sifting. Hold tight.”
Anders: “We got them. I saw it.”
Jackson: “Confirmed. All hostiles are down. Battlefield is clear. Commencing scouring. Good work, everyone.”
“Fucking hell,” Gilly said shakily. “Fucking hell.”
The crabs were disappearing into the holes, filling them from the inside. Her station looked almost the same as before. The only difference now were two round areas where the metal was the dull yellow of bruised skin.
“Sixteen thousand two hundred eleven kills,” Jackson said. “I believe we just set a record.”
“Request to meet for debrief,” said Anders, “and talk through what the fuck just happened.”
“Granted,” said Jackson.
* * *
—
They went through the engagement second by second, analyzing what they could have done better. This was slightly ridiculous, because one of the main things they could have done better was to not