Chapter Ten

Lhari found herself in the auxiliary chamber, surrounded by vibrant holograms, the most prominent being a live image of Vadym's face displayed from a kilometer away. Behind a cluster of charts and graphs was everything Vadym could observe through his helmet. Still suited up, helmet secured, she remained in the vacuum environment as a precaution against potential hazards.

"Head to the agro-pod immediately, Lhari," came Phaedra's urgent voice through the communicator.

"What’s the rush?" Lhari questioned.

"Just do it," Phaedra insisted.

Gliding back through the central hub of the habitation module, Lhari suddenly felt the air pressure shift dramatically. Phaedra had breached safety protocols, flooding the space with air. The protective filament shielding the garden drooped and swayed in the gust. She detached the filament and entered the darkened space.

Lhari's suit activated its lights, revealing a lush array of plants laden with fruits and berries, yet the grow lights remained off. The holographic displays had vanished, and the service panel lights were dark. As her suit rebooted, indicators began to flash: temperature was normal, and breathable air was confirmed inside the ship. She opted to keep her helmet on.

"Vadym?" she called, activating the communication link.

Silence.

She raised her voice, hoping for a response.

Still nothing.

"Phaedra?" she tried again, but there was only silence.

Taking a calming breath, Lhari pushed onward toward the bridge. Everything was inoperative; the crystal shielding the bridge appeared foggy and indistinct. Shadows danced as her suit's lights flickered around her. Phaedra's brain-like device, usually glowing with a blue diode, was dark. After unplugging and replugging the power cable, she was met with unresponsiveness.

Her heart raced as she searched for something—anything. Where was Vadym?

With limited visibility from the bridge, she recalled the two other windows on Theseus, located at the habitation ring's ends. She dashed through the corridors, entering the workout room, where elastic bands floated ominously, resembling tendrils reaching out for her.

The ring was still, but its angle felt off. She couldn’t see Aaloo. The bridge had been aimed at the moonlet, leaving her in a disorienting position. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the exercise bands and casting elongated shadows.

Panic surged. No—she needed to think. Going outside to look was an option, but the ship was pressurized, and without power, she couldn’t create a vacuum.

Power. The reaction wheels always spun like batteries; she could tap into them. But how? Phaedra?

Lhari glided to the machinery room, where the reaction wheels awaited—but there were no plugs. Just a cable extending from the back. There! A small plate beside it displayed voltage information: 2,240 volts, 100 amps.

"Fantastic," she muttered in her childhood tongue. That was far too much for anything other than Theseus. Why weren’t the ship's batteries operational? No signs of power anywhere... except her suit. Why was that functioning?

She made her way to the hydroponics bay—the garden. Vadym always referred to it as such. As she rummaged behind the plants, she discovered a service panel—active and functioning. She removed it, wedging it between a rack of potatoes and the ship's hull. Aaloo, she thought of the potatoes. Searching her pockets, she found a data port and connected it to the wall socket. Charging. Her suit drew power from the wall—a good sign. It was at 96%, but she decided to continue charging. The data port was also operational, yet there was no holographic interface or Phaedra to consult. Had Vadym taught her how to access the data?

She needed a keyboard. A quick trip to her quarters yielded her personal computer, which she plugged in. Theseus operated on custom software and hardware, courtesy of Vadym’s relentless tinkering, and the connection was successful. Life support readings indicated breathable air, though the temperature had already dropped two degrees in just ten minutes. Still, it was comfortable. No circulation, no CO2 scrubbers, no oxygen generation. As long as the plants thrived, they would maintain air quality for one occupant.

Although some power remained, the garden alone couldn't keep the entire ship comfortable. She checked the reaction wheels' energy levels—seven megawatt-hours. Impressive, she thought. They must be spinning rapidly. It was beneficial to have ample power, but concerning if they became unstable.

Vadym. Life support. I can’t assist him if I’m dead, she reminded herself. Lhari proceeded to gather two airtight seals, securing the hatches to the habitation wing. This would alleviate the garden’s life support system and possibly warm part of the ship. If the plants perished, they would be in dire straits.

Phaedra's box had various ports. Perhaps it could draw power through a data cable like her suit. She retrieved the box from the bridge, took it to the garden, and plugged it in. Nothing happened. Did it require a charge first? Did Phaedra have batteries? She left it connected.

Searching beneath maintenance panels, she discovered a spare suit for both herself and Vadym, multiple temporary vacuum seals, small hand tools, and various filaments for the printers, ranging from metal to plastic to some unfamiliar biological threads. Useless, as the printers were nonfunctional. Could she connect them?

Yes. The interface was active, but they lacked enough power through the data cable to print anything. Good to know. She didn’t have any ideas for what to print either.

Returning to the bridge, she rummaged through the overhead space where Phaedra had been, cautiously plugging in the older version of Phaedra. It remained unresponsive. She left it connected. The crystal sphere was dim, yet not uniformly so. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be coated in a layer of dust from the outside. Where had that come from? Had Aaloo accelerated, leaving debris that flung Vadym into the unknown beyond radio range? The last recorded movement had been precisely perpendicular to the Sun’s direction and Saturn’s. Was that significant?

Dust in the solar system gained a positive charge from the solar wind, implying that if dust clung to Theseus, the ship must possess a negative charge. Yet, she couldn’t conceive a safe method to positively charge the vessel. The alternative was to act as a window cleaner.

Lhari donned her backpack, securing it tightly, wishing Vadym were present to verify everything. She had never used it for real—only practiced in simulations on the bridge.

The first rule of spacewalking was to tether oneself to something. She located thin carbon cable and carabiners, attaching one to her belt. Opening the inner airlock, she squeezed into the cramped space, shutting the inner hatch behind her before opening the outer one. As the first crack appeared, she secured the carabiner around a handle next to the hatch.

The vista was breathtaking.

Aaloo had vanished. Where it once was, a massive black ring loomed a kilometer away, thick in all dimensions, resembling a hockey puck with the center removed. From above, she viewed a swirling mass of fluorescent colors—a whirlpool of light and wonder. The center was blinding white, transitioning through the rainbow spectrum to a deep red at the edge of the hole in this giant ring. Beyond the red lay a cloud of dust and rock, extending to the inner rim.

The puck itself was solid black, substantial, and wide, its matte surface exhibiting squared edges between its top and sides. Judging scale in space was challenging, but if it was a kilometer away, it was nearly the size of Aaloo—approximately three kilometers across and one kilometer thick.

Lhari felt an inexplicable anger at this sight—it was mesmerizing, more beautiful than anything had a right to be.

To avoid distraction, she blacked out the image on her HUD. Details emerged that the radiant light had obscured. The starfield beyond the puck had vanished. Saturn was gone. Titan and its moons were absent. Then she noticed— the solar sail had inflated, blocking her view like a massive blanket. It wasn’t fully deployed yet, the mirror-like inner surface rippled and folded, but for a moment, she glimpsed Theseus, distorted by the unfurling fabric. Vadym had mentioned it would take hours to fully deploy. Vadym. Where was he?

The puck wasn’t as solid as it seemed, covered in cracks and small craters, random depressions marking its surface. The outer edge was not smooth and black but gleamed with a glossy sheen at the inner rim, dotted with ice, dirt, and rock patches.

Observing the puck felt like staring at a flashlight while looking directly into the light; details eluded her. With the HUD blacked out, she could see the tiny cross of the solar sail mount at the puck’s edge. A small white light flashed in a long-short-long pattern—a signal. Or perhaps just a navigation beacon? But why would a solar sail require a navigation beacon? Once inflated, it would be impossible to miss on radar, reflecting nearly all wavelengths of light. Such a beacon would only be useful too late.

Attempting to contact Vadym via her suit radio yielded no response. She had never felt so isolated.

One step at a time, but quickly, she reminded herself.

Letting go of Theseus, she drifted freely in space, tethered by the cable attached to her belt, testing her suit controls. Forward, up, down, left, right, turn left, turn right, rotate forward, then backward. Carefully, she practiced for five minutes, finding that a gimbal could be added to her heads-up display to maintain focus. The more data displayed, the easier it was to forget her task, which was beneficial.

Maneuvering toward the ship's bow, she scrutinized the crystal shell Vadym adored. It was coated in dirt, and when she attempted to brush it off, the debris floated back down, adhering again. Scooping it aside worked better, leaving streaks of brown and black dust, but she could now see into Theseus. A faint glow emanated from deep within the ship’s central spine—the garden's illumination. A few hull-mounted telescopes remained clean, their reflective surfaces nestled deep within dust-collecting tubes.

Hovering before Theseus, she reflected on her home of many months, a vessel of memories and experiences. Now, it appeared lifeless, dark, and chilling, as indicated by her suit's multispectral imager.

Turning her attention back to the puck, she spotted the flashing light again—three short, three long, three short. A brief pause, then it repeated. It had to convey something important.

Lhari oriented herself toward the light and activated the thrusters on her backpack, accelerating to twenty meters per second. Colliding with anything at that speed would be akin to falling from a fifth-story building on Earth, but she was careful in gauging distance. The suit’s rudimentary radar helped sense objects and distances—many spacewalkers had been misled by the lack of perspective in space.

Remembering conversations from months ago about 'suicide burns,' she noticed the red indicator light on her heads-up display counting down from thirty. She slowed, trying to keep the number at ten until she accurately determined her proximity.

There! Vadym floated near the solar sail anchor framework. His suit was on, and his headlamp flashed the same signal she had seen earlier. The brightness obscured his face, but the light extinguished when she touched his suit. He was unconscious, asleep, or... not dead. Critical but stable vital signs flooded her display as her suit linked with his.

Vadym's eyes fluttered open—green and bright. He closed them again, overwhelmed by pain. A weak moan escaped him, and moments later, Lhari's face loomed over him, her hair floating like a dark halo, blocking out the light. He smiled before slipping back into unconsciousness.

When he awakened again, some time later, the brightness was dimmed, and only half of him throbbed with pain. He recalled the approach to the asteroid, then a rush of dust, a blinding light, and agony. That was all. Lhari's hand clasped his, and as he squeezed it, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. His suit and hers were absent, but he was cocooned in blankets. The temperature was cool.

Here, it turned out, was the garden. Temporary seals were visible at both ends, and the lights were dimmed for the plants' required short sleep cycle. He was home.

"How?" was the only word that escaped him. His voice felt parched, and his facial skin hurt with movement.

"I went out and got you, you fool," Lhari replied, pounding her fists gently against his chest and burying her face within them.

He attempted to embrace her, but his left arm refused to move. Glancing down, he noticed it ended just below the elbow, swathed in bandages.

"Uuuhhghgh," he mumbled.

"It was burned off completely. Somehow, you managed to patch your suit before passing out, and you didn’t lose too much blood."

Burned? The light. It was...

"There are radiation burns all over your left side. The sail absorbed most of it and shielded you, while your suit absorbed the residual heat, but the radiation…"

"Pill," he managed, then added, "Water." The words scraped like sandpaper.

Lhari’s expression flickered with dismay before she retrieved her suit, rummaging through her pockets and producing two CRISPY pills.

"I had these ready for when you returned," she said, handing him one and offering a squeeze bottle of water.

The water tasted brackish, straight from the hydroponics, but it was divine. He drained the entire bottle before surrendering to the alluring call of sleep.

Upon waking again, Lhari was asleep beside him, both wrapped snugly in a blanket and then encased together in a third blanket, floating between the plant trays. He cautiously wriggled his arm free and unwrapped the outer layer, careful not to push Lhari into the plants. How were they suspended there? Normal breathing would have pushed them against the spinning trays swiftly.

Observing the situation, he realized she had accelerated the trays to double their usual speed, creating a whirlpool effect in the center of the chamber that held them in place. Ingenious, he thought.

The seals at both ends of the chamber were loose, allowing air to flow through, but that implied it was likely very cold elsewhere in the ship. She had preserved the plants. Clever once more.

She truly was an exceptional partner, he mused, watching her sleep. Her beauty radiated, with her long black hair floating around her like a halo in the heart of the jungle.

Vadym examined his left arm, slowly unwinding the bandages she had wrapped around it. Healing well and quickly, thanks to the CRISPY pill, it ended in a stump halfway down. He would have a remarkable story to share if he ever reached a place where tales could be told.

What had Phaedra said? It was me. What did that signify? Spotting Phaedra's white box affixed to the bulkhead, he brought it down. Lhari hadn’t tampered with it, as far as he could tell. Locating his suit, he noted the left hand had almost entirely burned away but was covered with a patch. However, his multitool remained in his pocket, and when he opened the case, everything was melted. The chips had warped, and the biologics were reduced to ash.

Phaedra was gone.

He noticed Lhari's laptop on the wall beside her suit and plugged it into the wall, but he lacked the password or biometrics to access it. Removing the neck ring from his suit, he placed it over his head. The display lit up, and he connected it to the wall panel with the data cable. Struggling with his left hand proved difficult without it.

Theseus was relying on power from the reaction wheels, holding just over six megawatt-hours left. Enough to last weeks if they utilized it carefully. The drive was unresponsive, and the electrical systems were inactive outside of the garden. Why was it functioning here but not elsewhere?

He examined the logs, noting everything ceased sixty-one hours prior—no data recorded post that point. That must indicate how long he had been unconscious. Just before the cutoff, all readings spiked off the charts—the entire electromagnetic spectrum surged far beyond safety limits, as if they had traversed the magnetic pole of the Sun for a fleeting moment, but more than that. Not the Sun, but a neutron star. Had it lasted longer than a millisecond, Theseus wouldn’t have survived.

Controlling the HUD with only one hand felt akin to learning to play guitar with one arm. It was feasible, but barely so. Reprogramming it would have to wait.

That task was far down on his priority list at this moment.

Vadym Chevalier inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Patience. Calm. Think.

"Vadym," Lhari's voice interrupted his meditation.

"I didn’t intend to wake you," he replied, noticing the pain reflected in her gaze—an empathic pain.

"You’re alive, and that is all that matters to me," she said, slowly unwinding from her position, gently pushing off the opposite wall and gliding toward him.

Vadym found himself falling in love with her elegance and grace all over again. Every movement was as natural as the sunrise.

She inspected his left arm, meeting his gaze. She appeared hesitant, even frightened. "You’re healing well."

"It doesn’t hurt anymore," he replied as she caressed his face, her fingers gliding from his left temple to his collarbone. He lifted his hand to follow hers, noticing the skin felt rough and scarred. "Oh damn," he whispered.

"It doesn’t appear that bad," she quickly assured him.

Feeling the outlines of the scars that began just below his hairline and stopped just above the helmet's ring, he realized he must have exposed his face to the light. How had he managed to patch his arm before losing consciousness?

Lhari enveloped him in the cool air of the compartment, wrapping her arms and legs around him, burying her face in a cloud of hair. The embrace felt revitalizing, resonating deep within his soul. She was warm, kind, and alive—the only other life for millions of kilometers. He had never felt so accompanied in solitude. Only after many minutes passed did she break the silence.

"What are we going to do?"

"We will eat, think, and talk," he answered decisively. "Then, we will work."