Hand over hand, take your time, breathe regular. Across the hull to the airlock, into the stale old darkness beyond. Nothing to worry about: there’s nothing here, nothing alive, not after all this time. There won’t be spider webs. There won’t even be dust.
Think positive. Be professional. Here she is, one of the early ones, probably #6. No way to tell from the outside: they didn’t paint hull numbers on them after the first three or four. Assembly-line diaspora: no formal ceremonies, no breaking the champagne bottle across the bow. They were too busy, too desperate for that nonsense.
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