The strain of rapid deceleration crushed Lieutenant Maxim Ivanov’s body, forcing him to sputter as his lungs closed up. He shut his eyes as if to hide from the loss of his crewmates. His inner ear protested with growing nausea as his escape pod whirled around. Involuntary bile burned his throat.
I should be thankful. Cosmogators got their own escape pods. The Soviet People did everything to ensure Ivanov’s safety, or rather, the safety of the cosmogator's braid installed within him. Though, the speed with which he hurtled through space felt just as lethal as combat. If the enemy doesn’t kill me, this surely will.
Ivanov tried to make sense of everything. Anzhel, their machine mind, warned of incoming missiles just as they contacted that mysterious craft. The captain ordered evasive maneuvers. Ivanov had thumbed the flare launcher button out of habit as he dived the Goto Predestinazia behind an asteroid. That was pointless; all the fighting had already drained their infrared flares. And then, chaos.
Their vessel shuddered. Alarms signaled a hull breach. Anzhel spoke, but Ivanov missed it. Instead, his world dropped out from under him. The flight seat slammed into the escape pod below. The headrest deployed his helmet. The steel door slid shut. Then, the Goto Predestinazia ejected Ivanov.
He tried not to think of his comrades left behind. No point. Anzhel wouldn’t have launched me if there was a chance of the ship surviving. Ivanov gritted his teeth.
“Airlock detected.” The pod’s computer announced from a small speaker by Ivanov’s head. The pod continued to slow. “Initiating dock.”
Ivanov waited with baited breath. The G forces settled, and Ivanov finally drew a full breath. The pod wobbled back and forth before weightlessness set in. A mechanical clicking echoed throughout the small chamber. The computer spoke again. “Improper hatch connection. Continue docking?”
“What?” Ivanov tried to catch his breath. The battle must have damaged the airlock. With any luck, it’d open manually. But he’d have no atmosphere until he got inside.
Ivanov struggled to look down, his helmet bumping against the pod. Beside him, a small console with two buttons flashed on and off. One red and one green, they alternated illuminating the interior of the pod. He balled one hand into a fist but paused.
My hands. Weeks into the fighting, exhaustion drove Ivanov into complacency. He still wore his pressure suit when on duty, but had started neglecting the little things. Like wearing my gloves. If the hatch isn’t secure, I’ll choke as soon as the door opens.
“Improper hatch connection. Continue docking?”
Ivanov reached into a cargo pocket on his leg. His fingers grasped the stiff canvas gloves he’d shoved inside. He withdrew them quickly, but one slipped between his fingers.
Panic welled up inside his chest as he tried to lean down inside the cramped box. The errant glove floated off beyond his reach. Each futile swipe at the air, as if to summon the glove back, fanned flames under his panic. I’m going to die in here.
Soviet escape pods weren’t designed for reentry. That was an advantage of settling the moon. Zvezda Moonbase guaranteed rescue. Of course, that was when the Moon was right there. Ivanov eyed the pod’s oxygen meter. Just under six hours of air. And even less thruster fuel. I’ll be stuck out here, buried in orbit. Cynical thoughts crept into his mind. At least you’ll have a coffin.
Ivanov remembered when they first arrived to reinforce the frontline. The crew had fallen silent when they sailed past the Grozny’s wreckage. Corpses froze around the torn-open ship listing carelessly. Days of sailing towards battle with the broken Moon hanging in every porthole already set a grim atmosphere onboard. But, seeing death cemented their fears.
The other warships in their squadron fanned out into an echelon, patrolling warily. A few brutally quick fights whittled their numbers. NATO strike craft hid among asteroids or under dead vessels. The pigs darted out, struck the squadron with EMPs or splitters, and then rabbited away. Only a couple times did the Russian ships manage to even the score. Radio check-ins grew shorter and shorter as their numbers dwindled. A final, well-hidden mine had separated the Goto Predestinazia from the squadron. It took us too long to get the reactor back online. They just left us here for dead. If they're even still alive. Is anyone out here to look for me--
His helmet beeped a warning at him. Hyperventilation. Ivanov closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. Feeling his breath rebound off the helmet’s visor back onto his face did not help. Biting his lip, Ivanov slipped on his one glove. It secured itself around his wrist. That’s a start.
He tried to look at his feet again but hit the pod again. With quiet profanity, he tried to crouch as much as possible.
Something brushed against his hand.
His heart leapt.
In the low gravity, the glove had bounced off the pod floor and floated back up to him. He snatched it up and fit it over his hand. It sealed itself. The helmet beeped with satisfaction. Ivanov let out a tense breath. His fist slammed against the green light.
A hissing came from beneath his feet. He touched up and off of it, letting it open. Pulling himself along the sides of the pod, Ivanov descended through. On his way down, he grabbed the emergency air tank from its holster.
Below the escape pod, the airlock door managed to open. Ivanov let his inertia carry him into the airlock. He shouldered the air tank while drifting. The hose plugged into his suit with a satisfying rush of fresh oxygen. Ivanov allowed himself a few celebratory, quick gasps. The cold air chilled his lungs and soothed his anxieties.
A massive lever painted orange stuck out of the wall. Above it was stenciled a strangely-shaped padlock in black. No other controls accompanied the lever. That’s strange. An emergency light beside it flashed red, catching Ivanov’s attention before he looked around the rest of the chamber. Right, stay on task. He grabbed the lever and, after some struggle, pushed it from one end to the other. As he did so, hidden gears rumbled up the lever and through his gloves. The door above him slammed shut as the lever moved. A moment passed.
Ivanov squinted around the dark room. The harsh flashes from the emergency light did little for illumination. With an exhausted, trembling finger, he flicked on the small helmet light installed by his ear. It cast a thin beam. He adjusted the lens into a wide beam.
His throat closed up with a curt gasp. Panic reignited into a roiling boil in his chest. On the opposing wall was painted a flag with that peccant, white compass emboldened on a sinister, deep blue background. Ivanov had found his way onboard a NATO platform.