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The parachute flapped open. The fabric strained against the violent stream of air, cords snapping just before impact.
The water erupted like a geyser. The ship skipped across the surface like a flat stone flicked at the right angle. Steam hissed around the floating vessel as the icy water cooled the hull. A shockwave rocked Roy’s boat, throwing him sideways.
Roy steered right as the chaos ebbed. The spaceship floated on the dampening waves. Dark, viscous fuel trickled from her side.
“Just hold on,” Roy whispered, pulling on the accelerator.
As he reached the wreck, he hooked the anchor on the wing and banged on the hull. “Hello? V-20A? Are you okay?”
No response.
Roy cursed silently. His fingers brushed over the smooth surface until they found a latch. He pulled on it. To his relief, it yielded.
“Careful,” Neri called. “The patch is spreading fast. Looks slippery.”
“Hop aboard,” Roy said, rolling out the rope ladder. “Don’t let the fuel touch you.”
Neri pulled herself up, her tail flapping on the planks. “Go. I’ll help you get back.”
Roy nodded, his jaw tight. He grabbed a ladder from the cabin and hooked it below V-20A’s hatch. As he stepped on it, the old, sun-bleached wood groaned in protest. Waves splashed beneath, reminding him of the immense depth below.
The pilot’s words echoed in his head. Two passengers aboard.
Roy’s knees trembled as he descended the ladder. A decade back, this would have been easier. Now, his muscles held only the memory of endless military training.
His fingers slid along the hull, the metal still unpleasantly warm. He found a lever and pulled. Pneumatics whistled as a door opened to the ship’s dim interior.
Roy entered. Cold water splashed around his ankles, trickling into his boots. “Hello?”
In the darkness, Roy’s eyes had to adjust before he could recognise shapes. The fluorescent emergency lights pulsed around the back, illuminating a panel of analogue indicators, levers and knobs—the manual safety system. Some of the levers were pulled down.
A muffled sound tore through the dark. Roy blinked and stepped toward the passenger seats, his gaze landing on the control dashboard.
Nausea surged up from Roy’s gut at the sight of a body sprawled across the cockpit displays. Waves of blue hair obscured the pilot’s face. The seat straps were loose—he must have been unbuckled during the crash. Perhaps the parachute opened too late for him to navigate back. Blood dripped from his nose, tapping a steady, slow rhythm against the altitude indicator.
Roy fought the urge to touch the purple jumpsuit and feel for a pulse beneath the fabric.
The passengers, he reminded himself.
The water level rose again, now reaching his shins. He waded toward the row of passenger seats. Two were enclosed in a thick shell of kinetic foam. The one on the right wobbled, the protests growing louder.
Roy tore away the layers of foam, revealing the first passenger. A boy—a teenager, almost an adult—stared at him with wide eyes, blue hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He yanked his nasal tube away and took a hitching, raspy breath.
“Hey,” Roy said, as calmly as he could manage. “It’s okay. Your ship crashed, but I’m here to help.”
“Where’s Cally?” the boy asked, clawing his way out of his seat.
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Cally!” The boy launched himself toward the pilot and sniffled, brushing blue strands from the pilot’s face. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, his fingers pressing onto the pilot’s neck. “There’s a pulse!”
“Let me see?” Roy stepped closer. He’d seen that in combat too many times—the wishful thinking that Death had turned her back, the projecting of one’s own pulse onto a soulless body. With two fingers over the pilot’s carotid, Roy closed his eyes.
Under the soft, milky-white skin, a heartbeat fluttered.
“You’re right.” Roy’s gaze snapped back to the passenger seats. “Can you help—”
The boy was already moving through the water, muttering under his breath. While he ripped the layers of foam apart, Roy focused back on the pilot. His eyelids twitched, which Roy interpreted as a good sign. Taking a delicate hand into his calloused, seaweed-stained palms, Roy hesitated.
