Flotsam

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Quin and Zoe had swept away the orbiting debris field and were almost back to the Mary Shelley airlock when Jill broadcast her warning over the corporation’s open radio band.

“Heads up out there! We’ve got incoming.”

Zoe canceled her momentum right away. Quin slid past her, managing to stop his own progress just three meters from the lock. He spied a streak of light beyond the leading edge of Mary Shelley, movement against the matte black of space that could be nothing else but sunlight thrown back from a fast-moving object, and the thirty-meter-long extended-range work vehicle shuddered as if it was a great bone caught up by some invisible Brobdingnagian mutt. Everything was still for one long instant and then vapor and debris spewed into space at the edge of Quin’s vision.

It was from the life support and propulsion module.

“We are hit, Cayley Station.”

Jill’s transmitted voice was dead calm now, and at the sound of it a chill skittered down Quin’s spine. He sucked in a deep breath of pure, cool oxygen.

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