Chapter
One
Elena
The trick to crawling inside a live power conduit was convincing yourself you were already dead.
I wiggled another six inches through the maintenance shaft, my shoulders protesting the tight quarters while electricity hummed inches from my face. The conduit walls glowed faintly blue, energy signatures pulsing like a mechanical heartbeat. Beautiful, really. If you ignored the part where one wrong move would fry every nerve ending in your body.
My headlamp flickered. Again.
"Come on," I muttered, smacking the side of the unit with more force than necessary. The light steadied. "Not the time to quit on me."
Nothing was supposed to quit on me. Not equipment, not power systems, and definitely not my ability to focus on work instead of the fact that I'd just spent three hourswatching my best friends celebrate their bonding ceremony while I stood in the back corner like some kind of emotional vampire feeding on their happiness.
The power coupling I needed was another fifteen feet ahead. I could see it through the lattice of conduit supports, a junction box that had been flagged for maintenance weeks ago but kept getting deprioritized because it required someone small enough to access it and stupid enough to do it while the system was active.
Enter Elena Vasquez, electrical engineer and professional bad decision maker.
My comm unit crackled. "Vasquez, status report."
I recognized the voice. Krev'al, one of the junior engineers on the second shift. Probably assigned to monitor my work from the safety of the control room, where smart people stayed when dealing with potentially lethal electrical systems.
"Still alive," I said, inching forward. "Making progress."
"Your vitals are elevated. Heart rate is?—"
"Within acceptable parameters for someone crawling through a death trap at 0200 hours." I reached the junction box, pulled my diagnostic scanner from my tool belt. "I'm fine, Krev. Just let me work."
Silence on the other end. "Security Chief Vaxon requested hourly updates on your status."
Of course he did. Because apparently my workload, my schedule, and my complete disregard for self-preservation were now the personal concern of Mothership's Head ofSecurity. As if he didn't have actual security issues to worry about, like the raiders spotted near the debris fields last week or the weapons systems that needed recalibration.
But no. Vaxon had decided that tiny human Elena was his new project.
"Tell the Commander I'm touched by his concern," I said, not bothering to hide my irritation. "Also tell him he's not my supervisor anymore, so he can take his hourly updates and?—"
The junction box sparked.
My brain registered the danger half a second before my body reacted. I jerked backward, tool belt catching on a conduit support, electricity arcing across the space where my hands had been moments earlier. The smell of ozone filled the tight space, sharp and acrid.
"Vasquez!" Krev's voice pitched higher. "Are you?—"
"I'm fine." My heart hammered against my ribs. Fine was a generous interpretation ofalmost died again, but accurate enough for present purposes. "Just a surge. I've got it under control."
I didn't have it under control. The junction box was degrading faster than the diagnostics had indicated, which meant this repair needed to happen now or the entire power distribution system for Section Seven would fail. Section Seven, where three hundred crew members currently slept in quarters that would lose life support if the junction went critical.
No pressure.
I pulled my insulated gloves tighter, checked my grounding strap twice, and reached for the junction box again. Myhands were steady despite the adrenaline spike. That was the thing about being terrified, do it enough times and your body stops bothering to tell your brain about it.
The panel opened smoothly. Inside, a nightmare of degraded wiring and failing components greeted me. Whoever had installed this junction had done decent work, but Mothership was old by ship standards. Things failed. Things wore out. Things needed constant, meticulous attention from engineers who gave a damn.
I gave a damn. About the ship, anyway. About the three hundred crew members currently sleeping in Section Seven. About making sure systems worked the way they were supposed to work.
Just not about myself.
Bea's voice echoed in my head, her therapist tone slipping through despite the weeks since our last real conversation:You're punishing yourself for something.
