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Oh, thank gods, this was something she knew. "I'd patch the leak, Staff Sergeant."
"You'd patch the leak, Private Kerr? That's it?"
Torin had no idea what he was getting at. "Yes, Staff Sergeant. I'd patch the leak in the suit." Since he seemed to be waiting for more, she added, "Or I'd die."
"And you don't intend to die, is that it?"
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "No, Staff Sergeant, I do not."
His eyes darkened further and she wondered how much more there was for him to see. After a long moment he nodded, and said, "Good."
Wait…
She frowned. She had a leak in her HE suit?
Not good.
Leak in suit…
As soon as the pressure dropped, the internal patching material would have been released. If the leak was large enough, a further drop in pressure would release the secondary IPM.
Conscious perso
"Command! Patch release!"
Better.
It was cold. She remembered that from training. Cold and a little slimy.
"And then what, Private Kerr?"
Staff Sergeant Beyhn's red eyes were blinking. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Torin blinked when the lights stopped and the surrounding stars came slowly into focus. The surrounding stars and quite a bit of moving debris. Calming her breathing, she worked back from what she knew.
She was in an HE suit. In space. Surrounded by moving debris. There'd been an explosion. Frowning, she opened and closed her right hand. She'd been holding something.
Craig. She'd been holding Craig. The tethers had been cut.
She couldn't see him. Not even with the helmet magnification on full.
"Craig! This is Torin, do you copy?"
A ship had come out of nowhere, shot out Promise's cabin, cut the tethers, and blown up the clump of wreckage she and Craig had been tagging.
"Craig! Damn it, answer me!"
The wreckage had blown as spectacularly as it had because the shot had set off the eight small charges they'd set to free up that piece of Primacy tech.
"Command! Run diagnostics on communication unit."
By tucking her head down, she could see Promise's lights flashing in the distance and her own cut tether pointing back the way she'd come. She was moving away from the ship. Diagnostics told her there was nothing wrong with the comm.
"Craig!"
No answer.
No sound at all but her own breathing. Usually, Torin found that comforting.
She'd been carrying twelve hours of air when they left the ship. They'd been out for ninety minutes when the shooting had started. Her suit said she had four hours and twenty-three minutes left. The leak had not been a hallucination. Or not only a hallucination.
Four hours and twenty-one minutes before the scrubbers were no longer effective and the oxygen levels dropped below what the suit considered air. She could manage for another ten to fifteen minutes after that as long she didn't need to do anything too complex
Even more fun, two layers of internal patching hadn't quite stopped the leak.
"Shit."
Had she been wearing jets, it wouldn't have mattered; she'd be back to the Promise before she ran out. But she'd been wearing a safety line. Jets and a safety line were redundant.
Apparently not.
Had she been in Craig's suit instead of one of the new military tested designs, she'd have been screwed and this was not the time to think about Craig in Craig's ten-year-old suit, unconscious, unable to make repairs. "Command! Foam release."
The foam-more or less the same material that protected Navy fliers in disabled pods-filled in all the space between Torin and her suit, started warm, got very hot for seven seconds, then semi-solidified, becoming, in essence, a second suit. She could still bend her arms and legs but not without effort. Design flaw-fix a leak, but then make her work harder, breathe harder. To add insult to injury, the foam itself was a brilliant pink. So was the skin under the foam. On the other hand, insulted beat dead. The collar seals bulged up against the bottom of her chin but held.
Giving thanks that she'd bothered to hook up the plumbing this trip, Torin considered her next option.
She wasn't moving particularly fast, but she was moving away from the ship. Fortunately, the tagging gun was still strapped to her leg and…
Her tanks hit first.
Given the amount of debris around her, moving at differing angles and speeds, it was inevitable she make contact with a piece of it. This felt like a big piece. And, in this instance, make contact was clearly a euphemism for full body impact.
Her tanks, or tanks like them, had been dropped out of a low orbit and continued to work when the defense contractors dug them out of six meters of dirt. Torin had seen the vid; she wasn't worried about her tanks.
Instinct said, brace for impact.
Training said, relax
Torin had seen Marines thrown about like rag dolls by unexpected explosions, ending up bruised and battered but without major injuries. Rag dolls didn't break.
The foam pressing against the collar seal held her head in place.
Her brain, unfortunately, continued moving until it was stopped by the inside of her skull.
"If the collision is relatively elastic, then object A is going to rebound much like a rubber ball, traveling now back along its original course." Sergeant Roper paused, turned away from the formulas on the screen, swept a weary gaze over the training platoon and said, "Here in the Corps, we call inelastic collisions crashes. Try to avoid them."
"Yes, Sergeant!"
Torin really wished people would stop shouting. She had one fuk of a headache.
Opening her eyes, she squinted her surroundings into focus and slowly realized something was wrong.
No, right.
Most of the wreckage continued to follow the blast radius, moving out and away.
She was on her way back.
That was good.
Four hours and six minutes of air.
Okay, the concussion she seemed to have wasn't optimum, but as long as she could avoid slamming into anything else that massed out significantly higher than she did, she could work around it.
Evidence seemed to suggest an HE suit full of semi-solidified foam made collisions remarkably elastic.
Unfortunately, because her tanks had hit first, she'd lost enough energy during the crash that she'd slowed considerably. She pinged the Promise-114 kilometers-then waited five minutes and pinged again-113.27 kilometers. She'd traveled.73 of a kilometer in five minutes,.146 in one minute, so in sixty minutes she'd travel 8.76 kilometers.
"These things need a fukking speedometer," she muttered, redoing the math.
Math never lied.
When she ran out of air, she'd be a little under 80 K short of the ship.
She needed to be moving three times faster. Roughly three point three times faster, but who was counting.
Not entirely convinced she could keep it down, Torin took a sip of tepid water and swallowed carefully. Ignoring the unpleasant reality of-she glanced down-three hours and forty-one minutes of air-the two liters of water would recycle for days until the laws of diminishing returns caught up to her. The concentrated sludge in the emergency food pouch would keep her from starving. Craig had mocked her when she filled it. His was empty.
Mouth moistened, she tongued his codes into her implant. Her comm was working, but his might have been damaged in the explosion. "Craig! Answer me!"
Still nothing.
Torin ran her magnification back to full, trying to see between the pieces in the thicker parts of the debris field, but she had a bad feeling she wouldn't find him without the ship's sca