Page 14 of Nebula Hearts
Our situation. Right. Because we’re not just dealing with my catastrophic loss of control.
“The ship.” I push to my feet, ignoring the way my legs protest. “If the facility’s energy surge hit our systems...”
“We could be stranded.” She stands too, steadier than I am. “‘The relay is still broken,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘And we’re a man down.’“
The practical reminder helps. Gives me something to focus on besides the horror. We have mission parameters. Objectives. Five thousand people depending on us to restore power transmission before Christmas Day.
Can’t do that if we’re trapped here.
“We need to check the ship’s status,” I say. “And we need to...” I look at Sarpi’s body. Can’t finish the sentence.
“Bury him.” Aris’s voice is gentle. “I know. But ship status first. We need to understand our resources before we make decisions.”
She’s right. Emotionally, I want to take care of Sarpi immediately. Give him proper respect. But practically, we need information.
I start toward the entrance, carefully stepping around the dead hunters. My body moves normally now despite the exhaustion. Whatever the facility did to me, it’s not affecting my motor control anymore. Just my neural patterns. Just my ability to maintain the emotional suppression that keeps me stable and controlled.
Just the fundamental foundation of Zephyrian psychological health.
Aris falls into step beside me. Doesn’t say anything. Just walks close enough that I can reach out and touch her if I need to. The thought shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.
“I could have killed you,” I say quietly. “If you’d been in front of me instead of behind. If I’d turned the wrong direction during the episode.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Pure chance.”
“I don’t think so.” She glances at me. “You were feral. Operating on instinct. And your instinct was to protect what was behind you. Me. Whatever that facility did to you, whatever state you were in, you still knew I was there. You still kept me safe.”
I want to argue. Want to explain that instinct is unpredictable and dangerous and she’s attributing intentionality to what was likely random chance. But I remember something. A fragment from the gap.
The word “protect” blazing through my consciousness like a command I couldn’t ignore.
And her name. Aris. Surfacing through the chaos as the single coherent thought I could hold onto.
“Maybe,” I concede.
We emerge from the ruins into pale moonlight. A sharp cold that cuts at my exposed skin.
The relay station sits a kilometer away. The ship beyond it, another kilometer distant.
The damage to our ship is visible from here.
The communication array is bent at an unnatural angle. Wrong. Broken. And one of the landing struts has buckled, the ship is listing slightly to port. Ground shift. The secondary quake must have destabilized the landing site.
“Fusion hell,” Aris whispers.
She stumbles on loose regolith. My hand shoots out, catching her elbow.
“Thanks.”
I should let go. My hand stays where it is.
We walk the rest of the distance like that. My hand on her elbow, ostensibly to steady her. Actually because I can’t bring myself to break the contact. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t comment on it.
Just walks a little closer to me than strictly necessary.
The simple trust in that. The fact that she’ll let me touch her after what she witnessed. It does something to the guilt crushing my chest. Doesn’t fix it. Makes it bearable.
