Alan needed to move. He stumbled forward despite his fading strength. The gravity stabilizers were beginning to give out, which worked to his advantage as he launched himself at the bulkhead door with speeds he could never have mustered in higher grav, yet they worked against him when he smashed into the door. It had already closed too much for him to squeeze through, but without leverage from his lower body, he could only cling to the door like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a piece of driftwood. Alan was helpless, but he clawed at the door anyway.

The stars have always called to us. Sven’s words echoed through his throbbing headache. Poetic and sentimental. Exactly what he’d expect from a pyrean pirate with their romanticized notion of freedom and space. But Alan didn’t want to die amid Sven’s pretty stars. He would not be called home by them, nor would he accept such a romantic, tragic end. He’d fight against the Fates till the bitter end.

The door had closed enough that, any further, his hands would be crushed. Instincts forced him to jerk back, but before he could force himself to put his fingers back in to keep trying, a familiar gloved hand shot through.

Between the whooshing air and the painful throbbing in Alan’s ears, he couldn’t hear anything, but from the way Sven’s hand twisted, he could imagine the nauseating sound of bone crunching and tendons snapping.

“Sven!” he screamed, but there was hardly enough air in his lungs to make the sound.

Yet somehow Sven’s fingers, broken as they were, continued to move. Sven turned his wrist, leaning his full body weight against the side of the corridor.

A moment passed and the gap grew just a little. Little by little, Sven forced it open. He was straining too hard to say anything, but Alan didn’t need an invitation. He scrambled under Sven’s arm — a forearm’s width of space to squeeze through and nothing more — before collapsing to the ground on the other side, the door resealing behind them with an audible clang.