The Entanglement

3

Cira opens her eyes. When had she closed them? Doesn't matter. Grenadier Station is now a tiny shining speck. It's suddenly eclipsed by something metallic and angular. A civilian craft that has no business being in Regulus System. She can see the insignia of United Sol Research and Survey fleet on its side. When its lights slide overtop her, it feels like rain. Tingling, pelting, even warm. A shape emerges from its belly. It takes a second for that to register. A person. Something in their hand. A machine. It flashes red and another shiver passes through Cira's body. Her visitor takes exaggerated care to avoid the blue streamers around her.

Something bonks her helmet. It doesn't hurt, but it's getting old. She spins a little so their faces are visible to one another. A man stares back at her. Frightened. Familiar. It's.... She frowns. It takes a while to put all the concepts together. Gunther? He's talking at her. Babbling, really. Offers her a section of heavy-duty insulate meant to go around power cables. Gun (she's pretty sure it's Gun) bonks her with it again. He looks worked up. If he's not careful, he's going to overexert himself.

Another face burbles up from memory. A scared middle-aged man. Brakes. She touched him and he nearly fried right then and there. And with one memory comes two, then four, then eight, until the entire farce bubbles back into awareness. She wishes everything would piss off, but it's too late now. She's a doctor. She can intervene. To stay out here, to not act, is itself an act.

Cira heaves a long sigh and grabs a hold of the insulate. Blue threads curl around and through it. A snap of light results in a multitude of fine little fractals. More lightning flowers. Gun's eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. If he sees that again, she's going to have to resuscitate him, too. Her radio may be out, but she gives him a look that hopefully says all that it needs to say. Quit whining.

He blinks slowly and looks up like he's looking for some divine strength. Whatever goes through his mind must be enough because he activates his suit jets in controlled bursts. They float towards the ship's underbelly a lot faster than Cira would like. The exterior airlock yawns open and light pours down on them both. Gun doesn't react, but it's like a downpour to her. All her blue little offshoots withdraw. Hot strings yanked through her skin. She shudders. It doesn't hurt, but it's as viscerally unpleasant as swallowing hair. The lights go back to normal. Or maybe they were normal all along.

Gun pulses his jets again, but they have too much momentum. He smacks against the inner door and she smacks against him. They proceed to bounce around the airlock as the exterior door close. Air floods in. A loud grinding sound reverberates through the door. They reenter a spin to simulate gravity. It's slow at first, but it feels like a mountain settles on top of Cira. She slides to the floor and lays there. Gun stays in the far corner for a while. He takes another few pictures, the tingling of which barely registers, and slowly approaches her. He touches her helmet and jerks back. After he confirms he isn't dead, he disengages the lock underneath her chin.

Fresh air floods Cira's suit. She inhales reflexively and starts coughing. Her lungs and diaphragm feel weak, unfamiliar with exertion. It actually takes concentration to keep going. She puts her hand over her mouth to mime an oxygen mask. Her arm feels like it weighs more than the entire ship. Gun stumbles over to the medical kit and rips it apart. All the components fall onto the floor. She winces on principle. He finally grabs the emergency O2 tank and rolls it to her. Looks like she's going to have to treat her goddamn self. She gives him the evil eye and picks it up. The mask seals over her nose and mouth. It takes her a few tries to unlock her gloves, but she manages. The pulse oximeter clamps around her grimy index finger. Well past time for a shower, too. She eases the valve open and takes measured breaths.

A thin blue streamer forks up toward the tank, which takes on a curious low-frequency buzz. She imagines the explosion that would result from that particular scenario and the streamer immediately withdraws. The hot pulled-through-the-skin feeling is still as weird as ever, but the threads respond to stimulus. Even abstract concepts and visual cues, which threatens to dredge up questions of how much this thing knows and is in control of. Something else to scream about later. What's most important, it (whatever it is) can perceive risk and act appropriately.