SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

8

Krys dropped into the cargo hold, landing on her back. She'd stumbled back to the hatch, lowered herself carefully down the inky black ladder through the central envelope to the hold. Her foot slipped on the first wrung, leaving her here, the wind knocked out of her, staring at the matte ceiling.

Everything ached. The scrape on her back flared up, agitated and inflamed. Her left ankle throbbed with her heartbeat, pushed far beyond its limits. Her hands stung from catching the rope, from pulling Graham back to her. She held them up to her face. The soft tissue of her palms stared back at her, raw and red and blistered. Mending herself was first thing on her to-do list. She needed to be functional. Then Ve: they had left her unconscious, but she needed to be woken. Krys couldn't do what she needed to do next on her own.

"Celeste?"

Silence.

"Celeste?"

Krys looked up at the door leading to the catwalk. No glass cylinder. No Celeste. The speaker by the door had a manual switch. Rolling over proved difficult, painful. Finally getting onto all fours, she pressed herself up, leaning heavily on her right foot. The speaker lay just ahead. How many steps would it take her? It didn't matter, she needed Celeste, she'd get there even if it took all night. Hobbling, she made it to the wall, breathing heavily, silently crying from the pain. The wall provided little support as she pressed her forehead and shoulder against it.

Hitting the switch with her forearm, Krys croaked, "Celeste? I need you."

The tinny voice seemed quiet and shaken, "Kryseis? Where's Graham?"

"He's not here, Cese. He's gone."

"What do you mean he's gone?"

"I mean he was taken. Someone ripped him off the ship. I couldn't stop them."

"What... what do you want me to do?"

"I need you to figure out the load we can carry with just the one envelope. And I need you to figure out our max speed without the port and starboard pontoons."

"Alright."

The first aid kit was in one of the lockers, she couldn't remember which one. Most of them contained flight suits, breathing apparatus, repair equipment. It wasn't even the one on the far right, where it would be easiest to access from the bathroom. Hobbling across the room to the locker proved easier than expected. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe she was going into shock.

Upon reaching the lockers, her hands started shaking uncontrollably. A deep chill set in, digging at everything, demanding attention, but ultimately being ignored. The locker on the far right didn't have the first aid, the second in contained Krys's bodysuit. She opened third from the right with stiff blue fingers: Graham's bodysuit. Third from the left came next. The door was dented slightly, the hinges pinched in. Blood crusted the inner edge of the fist-shaped dent.

Krys traced the knuckled-shaped lumps, remembering the blood on Graham's right hand. "Oh honey... Why do you do this to yourself?"

But, he wasn't there to answer.

Krys wrenched the door open, jarring her shoulder in the process. She didn't care anymore. The first aid kit sat nestled on the top shelf. Yanking it down, Krys dragged herself past the miniscule cell and through a door into the bathroom. Salve for her hands, then bandages, similar treatment for the back, a binding wrap for her ankle: she was fine. She would be fine. Everything was fine. She slammed the lid of the first aid kit shut, left it in the sink. Her hobble, significantly lessened, Krys stormed out of the bathroom.