The sound of a human voice – or even a voice speaking Human – is enough to make him cry. Almost. Jack doesn’t cry. Old habits, and practical ones: he can’t afford to fog up his helmet. Can’t afford to reach out a hand to an enemy either, and it makes him cautious.
Loud and clear, he tells his comm, watching the stars rotate past his field of view, watching the hulk of what used to be the Waxwing slowly beating itself to death against the shattered derelict they’d come to salvage.
The stranger’s tether snaps taut, leaving him – them – it – an arm’s short reach from Jack. An extended arm.
Need a ride?
He has options, Jack tells himself. He can ignore the hand. Wait until his O runs out. Pop his top and try to breathe vacuum. Hit his beacon and hope that whatever comes along next, if anything does, is friendly.
His hand closes around the stranger’s, an imagined warmth inside the hexed fabric of the suit’s glove.
Where are we going?
Wherever we want. Welcome to the Daedalus. Watch out for the cat.