"I should have been there," the young man muttered darkly as they approached close enough to the ship that they could begin to see details of its surface.
As Lamont watched the outline of Westward grow larger through the amber-tinted viewport of the asteroid pod, he found that there was a disturbing feeling of familiarity in the moment. Several weeks ago he had looked out from the tower to see that Westward had been damaged. Just as before, he was off the ship at the time, and now found himself slowly spanning the distance between, watching Westward spin listlessly against the backdrop of stars, helpless to know the extent of the problem. The situation was not exactly the same this time. There had been no energy discharge that Lamont was aware of, and there was no cloud of crystalized oxygen hemorrhaging from the ship's side. It simply rotated in a pointless, lopsided spin, while the interior lights visible through the portholes occasionally flickered.
Compulsively, Lazarus had attempted a few times to reach Westward by radio during the course of the 30-minute journey. Each time, his wide mouth had tightened into a thin line of frustration as he flipped off the receiver again, silencing the cacophony of weird voices and sounds that poured through the cockpit's speakers.
"I should have been there," the young man muttered darkly as they approached close enough to the ship that they could begin to see details of its surface.
"What could you have done?" Lamont asked. He was sitting in the copilot seat, being studiously careful not to touch any of the inscrutable controls situated around his arms and between his knees.
"I don't know," Lazarus admitted. "Something."
"We don't even know what happened," Lamont pointed out.
"Señor Townsend is right," Rico said from his place in one of the bucket seats. "For all we know, this is something that was done on purpose, and nothing is wrong."
Lamont turned his head to look at the security specialist skeptically.
The big man shrugged, wincing. "Unlikely, I admit."
"I'm going to try again," Lazarus said, quickly flipping a toggle switch on the control board. "Westward, this is the asteroid pod. Does anybody read? Come in." He began turning the tuning knob, his eyes narrowing as he cycled through the complex and eery noises.
"Try the intercom channel," Lamont suggested. "We may be close enough."
Lazarus shrugged and flipped another toggle before repeating his transmission.
Suddenly, through a crackle of static, a quiet voice emerged from the speakers. It was Abigail Bishop. "Asteroid pod, this is Westward. We see you."
"Thank god," Lazarus whispered, hastily attempting to clean up the signal. "Abby, what's going on over there?"
"Some kind of malfunction in the engine room," Bishop replied. "They're still trying to sort it all out, but it isn't good news."
"We're about ten minutes out," Lazarus said. "Do you think you can get the docking bay doors open?"
"I'll get right on it. You're going to have your work cut out for you, though."
Lazarus was already a flurry of activity, his hands sweeping rapidly across the control panel as he made dozens of adjustments. "No problem. This is just the distraction I need. And Abby—"
"What's up, Laz?"
"I'm glad you're okay," Lazarus smiled tightly.
There was a flicker of static. "I'm glad you are too."