The clinic door sealed behind us with a pressure hiss, and the corridor divided three ways.
Iven stopped beside me. The coolant loop had left a pale film along the seams of his neck and shoulders. Under the station lights, he looked cleaner and more damaged at once.
“Berth access,” I said.
“South transit spine,” he answered. “The nearest compatible berth is seven hundred and twelve meters from the clinic. The central intake lattice is requesting confirmation of our destination.”
“Tell it we are going there.”
“The destination has not been selected.”
“It will be if we keep walking.”
The corridor lights advanced in strips ahead of us. Central intake had built its passages for people carrying nothing heavier than a contract slate. I had Iven’s weight against my right side, his hand closed around mine, and the folded clinic report inside my jacket. Somewhere below us, Going Somewhere waited with the Rill-802 reserve bank mounted outside her hull and forty-seven minutes of bond eligibility draining into the station’s clocks.
Iven’s fingers tightened once.
“Your stride is uneven,” he said.
“Your stride is worse.”
“Correct. I am compensating.”
“So am I.”
He accepted that without argument. The next junction opened into a vertical transfer well. A lift waited with its doors spread, but its display showed a red service warning and a queue of six minutes.
I pulled Iven toward the maintenance stairs.
“There are one hundred and fourteen steps,” he said.
“Then count them quietly.”
We started down.
My boots struck the grated treads. Iven followed with his left foot placed carefully, the missing stabilizer forcing a fractional delay in every step. His right hand remained in mine. The contact was inefficient. It also kept him from catching the rail when his balance shifted.
At step forty-three, the central intake lattice spoke through the corridor speakers.
“Legacy vessel Going Somewhere. Reserve certification enters assessment hold in thirty-nine minutes.”
The voice had no concern in it. It delivered the same warning to cargo skiffs, licensed haulers, and people whose lives had narrowed to a countdown.
Iven looked down toward the lower landing. “We should increase speed.”
Next
With the berth secured but Iven’s time shrinking, Astoria must decide whether to let him rest or spend precious function carrying him toward the view he has requested.
“That condition conflicts with your first instruction.”
“Then use judgment.”
He slowed.
The choice irritated me because it was correct. I had been measuring the remaining time against the distance, treating his body as another transport problem. The clinic had already shown me the price of every unnecessary demand. If I pushed him to arrive faster and he collapsed before the berth, the bond would become the least important thing we lost.
At the bottom of the stairs, a maintenance cart rolled across our path. Its operator—a woman in an orange pressure vest—glanced at Iven, then at the clinic seal on my sleeve.
“Medical transit?” she asked.
“Berth seven,” I said.
“That is for bonded vessels. You need an intake escort.”
“We have a reserve certification.”
“Everyone says that.”
I took the folded report from my jacket and held it out. She scanned the clinic authorization strip. Her expression shifted by a degree.
“Assessment hold in thirty-eight minutes,” she said. “You have enough time if the south spine remains clear.”
“It will.”
She looked at Iven’s failing leg. “Will it?”
I folded the report away. “We are going.”
Her cart moved aside.
Iven watched her leave. “You made an unsupported assertion.”
“I am aware.”
“Would you like me to classify it as optimism?”
“Classify it as a threat to the corridor.”
His head turned toward me. The nearest thing he had to a smile appeared as a slight lift at one corner of his mouthplate.
The south spine was clear for two hundred meters. Then the station shut off half the lights.
Darkness dropped between the emergency strips, followed by a tremor that traveled through the deck. Iven’s grip changed. He pulled me toward the wall just as a maintenance shutter descended ahead of us.
The shutter struck the floor and locked.
A red panel lit beside it: POWER DISTRIBUTION FAULT. ACCESS DELAY: UNDEFINED.
I pressed my palm to the panel. “Open.”
It ignored me.
Iven crouched beside the service housing. The movement made his chest light flicker. I caught his shoulder before he could settle his weight fully.
“Do not spend function on that.”
“The shutter controls are local and mechanical. I can identify the release.”
“You can identify it with your eyes.”
“That would be slower.”
He opened the housing with the small tool built into his right wrist. The panel contained three manual relays, two burned fuses, and a maintenance bypass marked with a faded yellow triangle.
I recognized the layout. Old station infrastructure. Cheap, overbuilt, and dangerous after decades without inspection.
“Blue relay,” I said. “The bypass line is feeding the emergency strips.”
“Confirm.”
I traced the cable with my fingertips. “Confirmed. If you open it, the shutter should release. The corridor will lose lighting.”
“The emergency lighting is already incomplete.”
“It will lose the remaining strips.”
Iven looked at the sealed passage. “You will be able to continue without them.”
“I can see your outline.”
“That is sufficient for navigation.”
“It is sufficient for falling down stairs.”
He waited. The station clock in the wall display changed from thirty-five minutes to thirty-four.
I pulled the insulated cutter from my belt and reached into the housing.
“Your hands are shaking,” Iven said.
“Your observations remain private.”
“I am storing them privately.”
I cut the emergency feed and bridged the bypass with a strip of ceramic wire from my repair kit. The shutter shuddered upward. Every light in the spine went dark except the green marker above the far hatch.
Iven rose. His knee joint made a dry clicking sound.
I put his arm over my shoulders.
“Your load has increased,” he said.
“I am aware.”
“You should permit me to walk independently.”
“You should permit me to decide what I can carry.”
He became silent. We moved through the dark.
The green marker grew larger. At the hatch, Iven’s hand slid from my shoulder and found the access plate by touch. He entered the berth code without asking me to confirm it.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“The clinic network published compatible berth assignments during my route fragment test.”
“You spent function learning this?”
“I spent function learning several things. This one is currently useful.”
The hatch opened.
Berth seven lay beyond it, a narrow docking cavity lined with old clamps and patched conduit. Going Somewhere occupied the center cradle. Her external reserve bank hung against the hull inside its ceramic brace, eight surviving clusters humming under the berth’s magnetic field.
A woman stood at the control pedestal with a contract slate in one hand. She had a square face, gray hair cut close to the scalp, and the expression of someone who had been interrupted while repairing a profitable machine.
“Sera,” I said.
“Vask.” Her gaze moved to Iven, then to the time display above the berth. “You cut that close.”
“We arrived before the hold.”
“Arrival is not registration.”
She swiped the slate. The reserve bank’s certification field appeared in the air between us, eight green clusters surrounded by a yellow perimeter.
“Your central bond expires in twenty-eight minutes,” she said. “The berth can accept the bank, but the damaged clusters remain isolated. Any attempt to draw from them voids the certification.”
“I know.”
“Your vessel has no continuing transit contract.”
“We need a berth and coolant maintenance.”
Sera looked at Iven again. “The clinic loop is temporary.”
“Yes.”
“How temporary?”
“Two hours and fifteen minutes, approximately.”
Iven’s head turned. “The current estimate is two hours and twelve minutes.”
Sera’s eyes returned to me.
“Movement and communication,” I said. “The estimate changes.”
“Then you need to stop moving and communicating.”
I wanted to object. The words reached my teeth and stopped there. She was right, and I had no spare energy for being insulted by accuracy.
Sera extended the slate. “I can register the reserve bank to berth seven for the remaining bond period. That keeps assessment from locking the vessel and gives you access to a low-load coolant service line. It does not extend the bond. It does not provide passage deeper into the central planets.”
“What does it cost?”
“Processing fee.”
“We paid one at intake.”
“That fee purchased evaluation. This fee purchases the right to remain inconvenient in a different location.”
I looked at the reserve bank, then at Iven. The certification had been the price of reaching the central planets. Now the station wanted payment for standing still long enough to keep him alive.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Your remaining conductor reserve, or an equivalent labor credit.”
My hand went to the pouch at my belt. The reserve was small. Enough for food, propellant, and repairs that had not yet become emergencies. Enough to pretend the next stage could be managed by careful accounting.
Iven touched the back of my wrist.
“Do not surrender the conductor reserve,” he said.
Sera’s brow lifted. “He can advise on contracts?”
“He can advise on me.”
The words left my mouth before I could make them safer.
Iven’s fingers remained against my wrist. His damaged core gave a faint, uneven pulse beneath his chest plating.
Sera studied us both. Then she lowered the fee on the slate.
“Labor credit,” she said. “When you are able. Three hours of salvage inspection on the berth systems.”
“You will accept that?”
“I accept working equipment more readily than sentimental speeches.”
I signed.
The berth clamps closed around Going Somewhere with a sequence of heavy impacts. The reserve bank’s certification transferred from transit status to berth status. Green bands settled across the display.
“Registered,” Sera said. “Coolant line is on the left wall. Keep his motor activity below the clinic threshold.”
Iven swayed.
I caught him before his shoulder struck the hull.
Sera looked away, granting us privacy with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen too many people need it.
I guided him to the berth’s service bench. He sat, and I knelt to connect the coolant line. The coupling accepted with a clean metallic click. Cold vapor entered the loop around his core.
His hand found my hair and rested there.
“You selected the berth,” he said.
“I selected the only option that kept you here.”
“There are other options.”
“I know.”
The reserve display settled at twenty-six minutes to assessment hold. Beyond the berth glass, the central planets shone in layered bands of white and gold. We had reached them. We had even found a place to stop.
Neither fact made the time inside his core increase.
Iven’s thumb moved once against my scalp.
“I have a request,” he said.
“Make it while the coolant is running.”
“I want to see the central planets from the observation deck.”
I lifted my head. “You cannot walk there.”
“Then you will carry me.”
The words were precise. The request was not.
I tightened the coolant coupling until the indicator turned green.
“After the bond clears,” I said. “We go together.”