Free The Dark Reaches by Kristin Landon

shell. To check on Iain, to see him with her own eyes, know what had happened, would blind her to everything else and leave them powerless.
    But she had to know. If he was still alive, she could think, she could plan. If he was not—
    She pulled back, willed the neural connections to withdraw. Again the ship muttered, confused words about necessary maintenance and warning . She struggled with weak hands to finish disconnecting herself from the ship’s support.
    Then—the ship lurched, and something heavy clanked against the hull.
    No time to reestablish control connections. Linnea tore loose the last tubes, pushed the shell open, launched herself to the external control board. When she slapped it awake, most of its lights burned amber and red. The proximity-alarm light blinked purple, but there was no sound. Burned-out, broken, power too low. Her ship lurched again, and she pulled herself into the chair at the panel, strapped herself in. Through the fog of fever, she woke the viewscreens, tried to get a look at what had taken hold of her ship, but it was too near: Some views were blocked completely, others showed nothing but stars.
    She heard the scrape of metal on metal, to the rear of the ship, in the passenger compartment. Panic clawed at her throat. Someone, or something, was trying to force the hatch.
    She hit the release for the restraining straps, floated up to a locker, and fumbled inside for the stunrod she had hidden there. Then launched herself into the rear compartment, where Iain’s shell hung silent and sealed, its readout lights a wild mix of green, amber, red, no time to interpret them. She caught herself and looked at the air-lock hatch. The light above it glowed green, indicating pressure on the other side, outside the ship. There should not have been. Someone had attached a docking tube. Someone was trying to cycle her ship’s lock from outside, trying to come in. If they persisted, they might damage her ship, even disable it—
    Gripping the stunrod, she slapped the control that dilated the outer hatch, then the inner one.
    A bulky shape floated there in the lock, humanlike, encased in a black vacuum suit. A mirrored visor hid its face, its eyes. Through the fever a chill shook her as she understood, again, the risk they had taken: If this was an infested human, if these were the Cold Minds, then she and Iain were dead. She had killed them both.
    A voice spoke, distorted and harsh, from a speaker on the suit. She could not quite understand the words—rapid, slurred, differently shaped. The voice spoke again. Then she realized there was another suited shape behind the first one, and each of them held a weapon, a gun, aimed at her.
    She let go of the stunrod, let it float out of her hand. “I am Linnea Kiaho,” she said. “From the Hidden Worlds. You sent for me.”
    An interrogative, one she almost understood. A suited hand swept a gesture including her from head to toe, and she realized how she must look: naked, filthy, hollow-eyed. “Yes,” she said firmly. “You sent for us. We came because you called.”
    “ ‘We’?” the voice said. The mirrored visor turned toward Iain’s shell, lit and obviously in use.
    She controlled nothing here; she could not protect Iain, she could not even protect herself. If these people would not help them, neither she nor Iain would live much longer.
    She nudged herself toward Iain’s closed shell, took hold there, slowly lifted the lid.
    The breath drained out of her. He lay there—breathing, alive. For a moment she forgot the suited figures behind her, forgot the danger in the overwhelming relief that he had survived. The black interface mask covered his face. Gently, she peeled it away, feeling the heat of fever beating from his skin.
    A suited hand gripped the rim of the coffinlike shell, and the gleaming visor looked down at Iain. He lay with his eyes closed, his black braid floating gently just above his shoulder. His ribs showed clearly, but his