The fuel hose came across from the cutter’s flank an hour later.
It came on a boom. The patrol cutter swung alongside the Tern in the ice, slowly, its floodlight off at last, and extended a long jointed arm from a hatch in its side with a heavy hose coupled along it. The arm reached across the gap between the two ships. At its end, a patrol hand in a pressure suit rode a small platform, tethered, and guided the hose’s coupling toward the Tern’s fuel port.
Mara watched from the cockpit’s side glass. The hand worked carefully, fitting the coupling to the port by touch, adjusting, fitting again. As the coupling seated, the hand braced it with both gloves to hold it steady while the locks engaged. In the cutter’s floodlights, now turned to light the work, Mara could see the gloves clearly. The right one was worn through at the thumb. A patch of bare grey liner showed where the outer layer had rubbed away.
The locks engaged. The hand gave a thumbs-up, the worn thumb, and the fuel began to flow.
Sera watched the meter.
“Coming in,” she said. “Steady.”
On the patrol link, Odren spoke.
“For the record,” he said. “Fuel supplied to civilian vessel Tern as emergency aid. Vessel in distress, short of reserve, outside regular lanes. Aid rendered under the standing rescue provisions.” His voice was even. “Filed.”
