It was time to move. He could only hope that the Riel had left. He released the cabinet, his cover for the past sixteen hours, and let it float away. To his relief, the room was empty. The gravity was out, as was the power, so he crept forward using the magnets in his boots. The room was dark, and he didn’t dare to use his sensors; after living on this ship for three months, he could navigate by memory. The door to the main cabin was jammed, its electronic locks as dead as the rest of the ship. Peter gave it a kick, breaking its hinges, and continued forward. He headed for the reserve oxygen tanks; his life depended on their being intact. Stars shone through a gap in the roof. The hull had been blown outward, leaving a hole like a jagged crown. Outside, space was littered with hunks of metal and glass fused into strange sculptures. A man twirled slowly past, still clutching his stomach against the pain of whatever had killed him.
