COMING AROUND
2416 CE
Desperate, Doug launched himself furiously at the gap between the bulkheads, trying to jam himself between them, force a widening of the gap.
“That’s useless, MacNee. Get out of there. I’ll get a team to free his body next shift.” A hand gripped Doug‘s leg, pulled him easily away.
“You’re gonna let him die? You can’t!” Doug thrusted to face Wenrock.
“He’s dead already. Let him go.”
“Doug.” Geordie‘s voice, fainter. “Get me to the Hole.”
“Okay, Geordie, we’re doing what we can.” He grabbed Geordie‘s gloved hand, squeezed it, felt its limpness. Geordie‘s torch floated at his chest; Doug grabbed it, transferred its tether to his own suit, fingered the controls to set the beam, and turned on Wenrock. “Get him out or I’ll cook you right here.”
“Go ahead,” Wenrock said, his hands outstretched and empty.
Doug pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He tried again, with the same result.
Wenrock chuckled. “Broadcast safeties work fine, I see. I’ll take that torch, penman. Now you’ll see what happens when you try to kill the boss. Kiss Uranus goodbye.” He jetted once, and slowly drifted toward Doug, flexing his fingers.
Doug flung the torch away, and it reached the end of its tether and snapped back, thumping him in the gut. Now he’d end like Luther. He steeled himself, his mind racing. Geordie‘s head was tilted back, his mouth open and slack, a few spheres of spittle shining like the dim and tiny stars far beyond.
Fragments of bone, glass and steel slammed into Doug‘s suit. In his earset, the roar of escaping air, the rasp of a deep screech; Wenrock receded, clutching at his face, kicking. Gradually his movements ceased.
A starlike gleam shone from the ruin of Wenrock‘s face. Jetting nearer, Doug stared; it was the unicorn of Jan’s ring. The last thing Wenrock had seen, just before it blew through his faceplate and killed him, had been Doug‘s lost and orbiting hand.
