The impact smashed the ballistic glass of the cockpit, sending the shuttle into a dead drift.
Elias, dazed, looked around for some kind of bearing.
He turned on his helmet light. Sparking terminals and smashed gauges filled his view. Glass shards, cast loose, drifted through the cabin, glittering in the dark. The front of the cockpit was caved in from the impact.
He was still strapped in. The chemical stimulant held pain back. If he felt anything, that was bad.
He breathed once.
Drew his knife.
Cut the straps.
Move.
He drifted down the dark corridor, opened a locker, and pulled a spare flight suit and helmet free. He stuffed them into the cockpit seat without slowing.
From the top bunk, he grabbed his bailout pack.
Oxygen. Sealant. Ammo. Explosives.
The rest didn't matter.
The corridor ended in ruin.
The storage bay. If you could still call it that.
The floor had been torn inward where the energized round hit. The ceiling was gone entirely, replaced by drifting debris and the asteroid belt beyond.
He glanced at the scorched wall and saw it.
Good. Still intact.
The torpedo autoloader's service hatch tore free, revealing a single warhead sleeping quietly on the belt.
He cracked open the guidance core. No safeties worth mentioning. He repurposed a breaching charge and cold-wired it directly into the core.
An arming light flicked to life.
Awake.
He exhaled slowly and sealed the hatch.
The weapon stayed quiet.
He killed his helmet light and glanced up at the void.
Then pushed up.
Gripping an exposed cable at the edge of the opening, pulling his head out first.
A pause.
Then his torso.
Don't let go.
His legs left the shuttle, boots hovering above the hull.
He looked away for just a moment.
Endless black.
Something gripped his chest.
Breath caught in his throat.
Untethered, in a thin suit. He reached out, fingers hooking a seam.
The cold metal stung his fingers, then searched for his next hold.
Grip.
Pause.
Breath.
Move.
Repeat.
It was all he allowed himself to think as he moved along the metallic corpse.
Centimeter by centimeter.
Checking the grip before releasing a hand.
He reached the flare housing at the wing root and locked an arm through a structural brace.
For a moment, he stayed there. Let the shaking settle. Let the cold stop screaming.
Then he saw it.
A distant point of white light slid across the debris field. Slow. Methodical.
A search drone.
Not close enough to see him, but close enough to matter.
No time.
He tore into the flare cartridge.
Too hard.
It came free in his hands, lighter than expected. His arms jerked up with it, and for half a second, there was nothing beneath him. No pressure. No resistance.
He wasn't touching the ship.
Panic hit like a fist.
His arms flailed once, useless, the stars wheeling in his peripheral vision. Then instinct won. He dropped instead of reaching, slammed a forearm into the hull, fingers clawing for anything that would bite.
They found a seam.
He froze.
Didn't move.
Didn't correct.
Just clung there while his breath went ragged and loud inside the helmet. Short pulls. Sharp exhales. The suit heater whined, struggling to keep up.
Don't drift.
Don't push.
He counted breaths until his hands stopped shaking.
One.
Two.
Thr—
The light turned.
Closing.
He set a thermal charge, remote activation. He braved a look towards the back of the vessel. Towards the cold boosters.
Two meters.
His grip adjusted.
Arms loosened.
Just a little force.
He released.
Momentum carried.
The hull slid past. He reached out.
[CARDIAC: 132 BPM]
A hand found a hold. "Shut up."
He had reached the cold booster and pulled himself along its length, then folded into the narrow space behind it, pressing close to the hull. Out of sight. Barely out of room.
The drone found him.
Its light swept across the forward hull, lingering near the cockpit. Red bands unfurled and fanned outward, slowly and deliberately. Scanning.
Too close.
It would see the heat bleed from his suit's heating element. Thin insulation. Minimal shielding. Enough to survive. Not enough to hide.
He looked at the suit readout.
[EXTERNAL TEMP: LETHAL]
[THERMAL REGULATION REQUIRED]
[WARNING: HEAT LOSS WILL RESULT IN RAPID HYPOTHERMIA]
[ORGAN FAILURE IMMINENT]
He didn't answer it.
He killed the power.
The cold hit instantly. Not gradual. Not creeping. Like being plunged into ice so sharp it stole his breath. His body tried to inhale and forgot how. Short, panicked pulls followed, each one burning worse than the last.
The edges of his visor frosted over in seconds.
His fingers screamed. His jaw locked. His chest seized as his heart stumbled, confused by the sudden drop.
Don't move.
Stay awake.
The drone lingered.
Seconds stretched. His vision narrowed. Stars bled into white smears through the frost. Somewhere in his peripheral display, warnings stacked and died as systems shut themselves down.
Then the red light folded in.
The drone drifted away.
It had what it came for. A cold ship. A dead cockpit. No life worth reporting.
He waited three more seconds.
Then he slammed the suit's power back on.
Heat flooded him, violent, painful. His muscles spasmed as sensation rushed back in. His breath broke loose in a ragged gasp, and he curled in on himself, riding the adrenaline dump as his heart tried to claw out of his chest.
He stayed hidden. Shaking. Alive.
A shadow loomed over the wreckage.
Sun-bright floodlights ignited, washing over the broken shuttle and bleeding into the booster housing.
The impact of the grapplers came next. Not violent, but absolute. A deep reverberation that traveled through hull, suit, and bone.
Debris drifted away as the ship moved again.
Not under her own power.
She was pulled forward, swallowed by the open hangar. Elias with her. Cargo now.
The jaws sealed shut with a hiss.
Gravity returned in waves.
Sound followed.
Warmth crept back in, slow and artificial. Just enough to make the space usable.
Boots hit the deck.