The coolant line held for eleven minutes before I disconnected it.
Iven’s projected function had fallen to two hours and six minutes. The number sat in green on the berth monitor, bright enough to read from across the cavity and small enough to ruin the room.
He watched me coil the service line. “The estimate decreased while I was stationary.”
“Your core is still degrading.”
“I had hoped the coolant would make the process less punctual.”
“It is slowing the process.”
“Then the original process must be considerably worse.”
I tightened the last clamp on the line and stood. My knees complained from the stairs, the dark corridor, and the decision I had already made.
“Where is the observation deck?” I asked.
Iven lifted his head. The movement took effort now. “Upper transit ring. Three levels above intake. Public access is restricted during reserve assessment.”
I looked at the green bands around Going Somewhere’s reserve bank. “We are registered to berth seven.”
“For the remaining bond period.”
“That sounds like permission.”
“It sounds like temporary permission to remain attached to a vessel.”
“Your interpretations are becoming inconvenient.”
“I am attempting accuracy.”
I reached for his arm.
His fingers closed around the edge of the service bench. “Astoria, carrying me will increase motor demand.”
“I know.”
“The deck does not alter my prognosis.”
“I know that too.”
“You could remain here and preserve approximately—”
“Iven.”
He stopped.
The name sat between us with the weight of a tool I had set down carefully. I had spent the last several months repairing around his failures, measuring current, calculating heat, deciding which damage could wait. The habit had become a second skeleton. It held me upright while it narrowed every choice.
He released the bench.
I turned so he could put his arm over my shoulders. His body was lighter than it should have been. The clinic had removed some outer plating to reach the core regulators, and the coolant loop had left his joints cold against my neck.
Next
When the observation deck closes, Astoria must carry Iven back through the station with less than two hours remaining and decide what can still be surrendered to keep him beside her.
At the berth entrance, Sera Pell—no, Sera Dovan, I corrected myself before the name reached my mouth—stood with her contract slate tucked under one arm. She had been inspecting the reserve bank’s external brace. Her gloved hand rested on the independent interlock as if she expected the damaged clusters to make a run for it.
“You’re leaving the berth,” she said.
“We are going to the observation deck.”
“Both of you?”
“I am carrying him.”
Sera examined Iven’s legs, then the monitor behind us. “The upper ring has a lift. It is currently assigned to cargo transfer.”
“Can you release it?”
“I can spend three minutes of my labor credit doing that. You owe me three hours already.”
“I will owe you three hours and three minutes.”
“That is not how contracts work.”
“Then put the additional three minutes on a separate line.”
Sera’s mouth shifted. It was too slight to call a smile, but the expression had the same mechanical irregularity as one.
“Maintenance ladder behind intake,” she said. “The lift bypass opens from the upper side. Taven Rus is stationed near the lattice. If she asks whether you have clearance, show her the berth registration.”
“Will she stop us?”
“She might. She respects rules more than she respects romance.”
Iven’s head turned toward Sera. “Romance is not a recognized access category.”
“Then you had better call it a medical walk.”
“He cannot walk,” I said.
Sera looked at me. “Then call it a medical carry.”
The maintenance ladder was a vertical strip of perforated metal behind a pressure door. Iven could have climbed it under ordinary conditions. These were not ordinary conditions, and my arms had already started to shake before I put one boot on the first rung.
I secured his right arm across my shoulders and held his left side against the ladder rail. His weight pulled at my spine. Every upward step pressed his chest against my back, and beneath the plating I could hear the uneven pulse from his core.
I counted without meaning to.
At twenty-seven, he said, “You are holding your breath.”
“I am climbing.”
“Breathing is compatible with climbing.”
“Your advice is stored.”
“Your pulse has increased by—”
“Iven.”
He went quiet again.
The upper hatch opened onto a transit ring with a curved ceiling of smoked glass. Beyond it, the central planet filled half the visible galaxy. Its atmosphere shone in a thin blue band above pale continents, while three nearer moons moved through the reflected light. Traffic lanes crossed the dark in orderly white lines. Each vessel carried more power than Going Somewhere had ever possessed.
Iven stopped against me.
His head lifted.
“Is that the primary planet?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“The archive image showed a lower atmospheric density.”
“The archive is old.”
“Most things I have retained are old.”
The sentence had no humor in it. I shifted my grip and carried him toward the observation corridor.
The corridor was sealed by a transparent gate. A sign above it displayed ACCESS REQUIRES CURRENT CENTRAL BOND. Our berth registration pulsed green on the slate Sera had lent me. I pressed the slate to the reader.
The gate opened.
Taven Rus stood on the other side with a diagnostic tablet balanced against her hip. She wore the same gray evaluator’s coat from the clinic, though a smear of conductive grease marked one sleeve. Her gaze went to Iven, then to the registration, then back to me.
“You are spending active function,” she said.
“Yes.”
“On a view.”
“Yes.”
“The clinic’s recommendation was controlled rest.”
“The clinic’s recommendation was also that no procedure could restore him.”
Taven’s expression remained clinical. “That does not make deterioration recreational.”
I felt Iven’s hand tighten against my shoulder.
“He requested this,” I said. “I am taking him.”
Taven looked at him. “Do you confirm that request?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand the cost?”
“I have a functional estimate.”
“That is not what I asked.”
The corridor lights reflected in his faceplate. For once, he answered without reaching for a number.
“I understand that the time spent seeing it cannot be recovered.”
Taven held his gaze. Then she stepped aside.
“Observation deck closes when the reserve bond enters final assessment,” she said. “You have eighteen minutes.”
“Thank you.”
“I did not approve the choice.”
“You permitted it.”
“That is sometimes the more honest service.”
The deck extended above the intake lattice in a broad crescent. There were no seats near the glass, only two maintenance platforms and a row of sealed display consoles advertising tours no one in our berth category could afford. I carried Iven to the nearest platform and lowered him against the railing.
His feet found the deck. His knees failed immediately.
I caught him and sat behind him, letting his back rest against my chest. The glass curved over us. The central planets opened in every direction, layered by distance and haze: gold rings, white storm belts, a green world bright with artificial coastlines, and a red moon with a fracture running through its northern hemisphere.
Iven’s hands settled on my wrists.
The view occupied his sensors. I could tell by the tiny adjustments in his head, the way he tracked vessels too small for my eyes. His core pulse grew rougher beneath my palm.
“Describe it,” he said.
“You can see it.”
“I want your description.”
I studied the planet nearest us. “The atmosphere looks thin enough to tear. The cities are brighter than the stars around them. There is a storm over the western ocean shaped like a broken gear.”
He processed that. “You select industrial comparisons for celestial structures.”
“I work with machines.”
“You select beautiful industrial comparisons.”
My hand tightened over his. The blue world beyond the glass blurred at the edges.
“Iven.”
“I am recording the view.”
“Your local archive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have enough capacity?”
“I have made room.”
The answer struck harder than it should have. He had been collecting observations of me, saving them in the narrow space left by damage and diagnostic noise. Now he was making room for the planets because I had carried him far enough to see them.
“Add one more,” I said.
“What observation?”
“That you were here.”
His fingers shifted until they covered mine completely.
“I am here,” he said.
The deck lights flickered. Somewhere below, a station announcement warned that reserve assessment would begin in twelve minutes. Taven’s time had been generous by one minute and the clock had taken it back.
Iven leaned his head against my shoulder. The motion was careful, almost formal.
“I have completed the request,” he said.
“You have seen the view.”
“I have seen it with you.”
My throat closed around the reply. I pressed my cheek to the cool shell of his temple and watched the storm turn over the planet below.
The function monitor on my borrowed slate changed from two hours and one minute to one hour and fifty-eight.
I shut the display off.
“We are staying until the deck closes,” I said.
“Astoria, that will reduce the return margin.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because you asked me to carry you here.”
The red moon rotated beyond the glass, its fracture catching the light. I held him while the station counted down beneath us.