Yili peered over the edge of the control station she was resting on and saw the only practical way she was going to get to the floor of the aft section of her corvette was to either climb down or jump. The light was too dim to be sure, but based on her knowledge of the vessel’s internal geometry, she estimated the drop would be roughly fifteen feet, which wasn’t lethal by any stretch, but it wasn’t going to do much for the injuries to her shoulder, side and hip, to say nothing of the ice cubes she had for feet.

The good news was she wasn’t bleeding badly. At least not yet. The cold temperatures were very effective in slowing her metabolism. Her flight suit had apparently helped to blunt the sharp edges of whatever had scraped her side. The wounds weren’t critical, but there was likely at least one cracked bone somewhere in her right arm and an open wound on the back of her neck. Some quick mental calculations told her if she could hang by one hand, she might cut the drop to roughly ten feet and be able to roll away from landing too hard.

A furious blast of wind howled past the narrow hull breach Curtiss had navigated to squeeze her way inside. The interior of the corvette wasn’t in any better condition than the crater wreckage. Yili couldn’t find any mechanisms that had power. Every control panel was dark. Every light fixture was inoperative. It was like pawing her way through an abandoned house. The deck of the corvette even looked haunted, and the wind outside only added to the spooky atmosphere.

Curtiss slid across the control console and tried to steady herself by planting one foot against the nearest bulkhead. Cargo harnesses made from strips of graphene-reinforced polymer fabric hung down from the overhead storage compartments. Yili briefly considered tying them together and using them as a ladder, but quickly discarded the idea after realizing there were no non-powered blades aboard that could cut or puncture the material. She held her breath as she worked her feet off the edge. More and more pressure settled into the material of her her tac-suit’s glove. She gripped the edge of the control unit, still unwilling to put all her weight at the mercy of only four fingers. The slightest slip on the icy surface would send her straight into a dense metal floor at a painful speed. As she imagined the distance to the deck, she made a mental note to rig some kind of line or rope gadget into her standard gear loadout at the earliest opportunity. At this point, pennies worth of nylon rope could be the difference between a concussion and a five second trip from one place to the next.

Finally she started letting real weight settle on her grip. Only her foot was distributing any of the pressure on her gloved hand. She took one more look down, desperately trying to get some kind of idea just how far away the corner junction of the floor and bulkhead were. Unfortunately there was just no way to tell. Yili gritted her teeth, frustrated by her lack of proper equipment. She gently let her foot slip a little more and then a little more. Finally, she dangled by one hand. Miraculously, her grip held as her feet swayed back and forth in the dark void between the bulkhead and the floor. She closed her eyes and silently hoped her feet wouldn’t hurt too much when she landed.


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