Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(31)

Fowler’s voice sounds in my earpiece. “James.”

Something in his tone tells me this is a private channel. A glance at the closest screen confirms it.

“I read you.”

“Your capsule is in close proximity to Commander Matthews.”

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to.

“Good. I’m ready.” I drift back to the harness and strap myself in.

“We’re going to drain the atmosphere in the capsule slowly. Her capsule is depressurized. That will prevent unexpected complications when you dock.”

The capsule lurches. The environmental screen shows the atmospheric pressure dropping. A critical alert is silenced.

The ground control tech’s name is Martinez, I think. His tone is more business-like than Fowler’s. “Status, Dr. Sinclair?”

“Nominal. Suit is good.”

“Stand by for docking in sixty seconds.”

Through the porthole, another capsule comes into view. It’s white and cylinder-shaped like mine, but with black marks dotting it, a Dalmatian print. I realize the dark marks are the stains of debris impacts. I lean forward, trying to catch a glimpse of Matthews through the other porthole. Nothing.

“Brace for impact, Dr. Sinclair.”

The words no astronaut wants to hear. Ever.

The impact, as it turns out, is a soft bump.

Even through the suit, I can hear the clumps of the airlocks meeting and joining.

“You’re clear, Dr. Sinclair. Good luck.”

I unsnap myself from the harness and push off hard toward the hatch. I turn the handle quickly, sensing that time is of the essence. If a debris field collides with us now, I figure we’re both finished.

My heart races, the sound thumping in my ears. I feel like a man digging up a grave where someone has been buried alive.

The hatch swings open, revealing the exterior of Matthews’s capsule, black pockmarks and all. This is where it gets dicey. I float out and grab the wheel of the other hatch. If it doesn’t turn, that’s it: no getting Emma Matthews out of this airless grave in the vacuum of space.

I pull, but it doesn’t budge. I try again, and it still won’t move. The hatch must have been hit by debris.

“Status, Doctor?”

I’m panting now. “Call back later.”

I strain again.

“James.” Fowler’s voice stops me. I pant and listen.

“Is it the hatch?”

I glance back at the cameras. They said they were going to disable them because the data moving between the capsules and the ground could put us at risk like the ISS. Fowler must have guessed.

“Yeah. It’s jammed.”

“There’s a tool that could help. Find the case marked ‘Supply 1A.’ You’ll know the tool when you see it.”

I drift back into my capsule, throw open the case, and see it immediately. It’s like a tire tool for space capsules, angled to lock on to the hatch wheel. It has a long handle with a wide plate for my feet. There’s no instruction manual, but I don’t need one. The gluteus maximus is the largest muscle in the body. One of the strongest, too—responsible for hip extension, which occurs every time we run, jump, or climb stairs. The average person can leg press a great deal more than they can bench press or curl.

I return to the hatch, hook the tool to the wheel, and plant my shoulders against the wall and my feet on the plate, trying to optimize my position for maximum thrust. I push.

Nothing.

“James?”

“I found the tool. Working on it.”

“Understood.”

I wait to catch my breath, then push with all my might. My glutes burn. Legs shake. And slowly, metal groans.

The hatch gives, my legs fly off the plate, and I spin. I panic for a moment, afraid I’ve ripped my suit in my depressurized capsule. But there’s no rush of air. Nevertheless, I do a quick inspection. The suit’s okay.

That was close. I need to be more careful.

When I catch my breath again, I try to calm my voice. “Got movement on the hatch.”

I can turn it with my hands now, though there’s a hard part with each rotation.

I stand clear as it swings open, but no atmosphere escapes.

I peer inside. Two bodies. Neither moving. Or acknowledging me.

They didn’t tell me there were two of them. Only about Matthews.

“Entering other capsule.” I pause. “I see two suits. Neither has responded to the hatch opening.”

“Understood, Dr. Sinclair. We’ve been unable to communicate with Commander Matthews for ninety minutes. The other crewmember died during the ISS catastrophe.”

“Should I…”

Fowler saves me from asking. “No, James. You’ll have to leave him. Space constraints.”

“Copy that.”

I study the two suits. It’s clear now: one is sunken in places, like a deflated balloon.

I grab Matthews and turn her toward me. Her suit looks fine. Through the clear glass, I see her face, eyes closed, blond hair framing her face. Even seemingly frozen in place, she has an irresistible aura, one that draws you in.

I push her ahead of me, through the connected airlocks. I close the one to my capsule behind me.

“We’re back. Matthews is still unresponsive. Suit is pressurized. What should I do?”