Page 55 of Rogue Starfighter

“Patch the ship.”

The breach ran along the starboard seam where the wing had torn away. The emergency bulkhead had sealed the largest opening, but two cracks continued to leak atmosphere around it. I passed Priya a pressure membrane.

“Adhesive side toward the hull,” I said.

“I figured that out.”

“You were holding it backward.”

“I was inspecting it.”

“Professionally?”

“You’re learning sarcasm too fast.”

She pressed the membrane over the first crack while I braced her against the canted deck. The material expanded, hardened, and stopped the leak. The second crack was behind a crushed conduit. I cut the conduit free. Priya reached into the gap and sealed the fracture with both arms buried to the shoulder.

“Pressure is rising,” I said.

“How much?”

“Enough. Pull back.”

Her flight suit caught on a sharp piece of hull. The bond flared with alarm before I understood why.

“Stop moving.”

“I am stopped.”

I crawled forward, cut the material loose, and drew her back against me. My hands went over her arms, ribs, hips, checking for blood.

“It’s the suit,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“Do not say fine.”

“I’m unpunctured. Is that acceptable?”

“Barely.”

I kept one hand on the back of her neck until we returned to the cockpit. The pressure stabilized. The core did not. Its output continued to fall. I rerouted life support and the passive recorder to separate cells, then isolated the damaged engine circuits. The work bought us several hours and cost us almost all remaining cabin heat. Priya found two ration packs, a container of water, and one emergency thermal layer designed for a single scout.

“Dinner,” she said, handing me a ration.

I opened it. “This pack is four years old.”

“Is that bad?”

“It may taste better.”

She bit into the compressed ration and immediately regretted it.

“This tastes like the tea.”

“Nothing tastes like that tea.”

“You’ve been holding out on me. This is definitely boiled fence.”

I ate mine. She watched with horrified fascination.