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Nonetheless, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “Computer, status of shuttle.”
Fresh tears burst forth when an electronic voice miraculously answered him. “Shuttle’s helm and navigation are offline. Communications relay is offline. Backup power is damaged, but able to sustain life support systems.”
“For how long?” Ilid sniffled.
“At current levels, one week. Levels are at minimal for the sole occupant’s needs.”
One week, if his internal injuries allowed him to live. It wasn’t impossible a ship would happen along if he were in sensor range of a well-used travel route. Lacking navigation, he couldn’t confirm he was anywhere near the usual lanes of space traffic. He hadn’t learned if the hijacked spyship had been using such a lane when it had blown up. Even if it had, there was no telling how far the shuttle had drifted on the blast wave.
It left him only one option. “Is the vessel’s distress signal functional?”
“Affirmative.”
“Activate it.”
“Distress signal activated.”
He’d done what he could to invite rescue. Bereft of other distractions, the torture of his injuries returned. He needed those pain meds.
First, he’d have to discover whether he could reach them. Ilid concentrated on his legs, flexing his toes in their knee-high boots, then his knees. Nothing there felt broken as far as he could tell. Just sore, as if he’d run several miles the day before.
Checking his hip joints by lifting his thighs an inch or so from the seat assured him his upper legs were also not badly injured, but the movement set off horrific agony in his stomach and lower back. Ilid yelled to the red-tinged surroundings a string of expletives fit to shock his mother.
His mother. He didn’t want to think of her worrying about him. The message he’d managed to send prior to everything going to hell must have made her frantic. Or maybe his Nobek father hadn’t told her of it, though Ilid had no doubt Gruthep would have understood something was terribly wrong with his situation.
Had Gruthep been able to convince the fleet? Surely another spyship would be sent to check when Ilid’s failed to check in. As a lowly ensign, however, he had no idea how often they would have done so. Who knew how long before they were reported as missing?
A week until life support ran out was abysmally long to be in such pain…and woefully short to be found. Tears welled in his eyes. He resolutely knuckled them away. All he could do was concentrate on a single step at a time. For now, he’d focus on getting the agony under control.
He had one good arm. The other was bent wrong, and he couldn’t make his fingers on that side move. No matter. He could walk, if his back would support him.
Bracing for terrible pain, he set his feet and readied the hand of his unbroken arm on his chair’s armrest. He drew a slow breath, as deep as his busted ribs and tormented insides allowed. Clenching his teeth and holding the breath, he used his legs and arm to thrust himself to standing.
He screamed as his guts threatened to rip apart. His stomach heaved, and he puked blood-tinged threads. His existence was hellish torment. Blackness crept in from his peripheral vision, and for a nightmarish instant, Ilid thought he was surrounded by the alien shadows that had taken over his ship.
A wave of dizziness comforted him. There were no Darks, but he was on the verge of passing out. For a moment, the pain receded, and he nearly gave in to unconsciousness as he wavered.
If you go down, you won’t get up. You didn’t fight this far to give up, did you?
The thought, spoken in Gruthep’s voice, forced him to fight the blessed oblivion. Ilid wanted his parents, especially his Nobek and Dramok fathers, to be proud of him. If he were found, whether dead or alive, he wanted them to know he’d battled until he no longer could.
He managed to stay on his feet despite his head pounding as if it would explode, despite the waves of faintness, despite the feeling his guts and lungs were being raked by claws. He held onto the backrest of his chair with a white-knuckled grip. His knees wobbled, but he remained standing.
He concentrated on his breathing, willing it to calm the thundering pulse in his ears. As he did so, he looked in the shuttle’s passenger cabin.
A simple carrier for the spyship’s away missions, it possessed eight seats, separated in two rows. Along the rear wall was a large, built-in floor bin. Smaller cabinet storage hung over it. Having never been on an away team, Ilid was unsure what supplies were on board beyond an emergency medical kit. For the moment, the kit was all he cared about.
The cabin was damaged, part of its ceiling caved in, chunks of its lighting panels dumped on that side’s seats. The metal of the inner hull showed, dented but apparently unbreeched. Had the merest pinprick of a hole been present, Ilid would have been dead.
Considering the pain, it might have been a kindness if the vacuum of space had filled the shuttle.
He took a lurching step, still holding onto his chair. He moaned, but the jab of various pains in response to movement were minor compared to the blast of agony he’d suffered standing up. He grasped the doorframe between cockpit and cabin and lurched his other foot forward.
He had a bad moment when he had to walk two steps without anything to hold onto. His balance shifted, and he staggered sideways between the cockpit and the first of the seats in the cabin. He flailed as his surroundings went topsy-turvy. Only by using the grimmest concentration was he able to lunge forward and grab a seat.
The violent motion woke agony, and he screeched. His knees threatened to buckle. He leaned hard on the back of the seat, though it pressed painfully against his battered chest. He spit blood again.
Ilid slowly recovered enough to resume. A few steps, each affording handholds, and he’d reach the bins. Just a few steps.
