The Danger of Relief

Enzo's blood thundered in his ears as he sprinted through the depressurized passageway, the sensation less a symptom of exertion - he was as fit as he'd ever been - than the wave of adrenaline and tiny air bubbles flooding his veins. Lanae blew the airlock on the aft end of the catwalk just in time for him to squeeze in, then slammed the door closed again behind him. Enzo silently willed her to go faster, watching for his opportunity to get past the door, but didn't say anything. There were always mechanical interlocks on airlock doors aboard Revelation to prevent decompression, he knew, and mechanical components meant time. Time that they might not have, Enzo thought. Still, arguing with the HLAI might feel like doing something, but all it would really do is distract the lady in what was likely the tensest situation in her short existence. He silently grunted, shaking himself to distract from the growing pain in his joints.
Finally, blessedly, the airlock leading into the drone booth foyer popped open - and a wave of thick, cold atmosphere battered the front of Enzo's body, briefly distorting his suit's oxygen hood. Shielding his eyes out of reflex until the 'wind' subsided, Enzo bolted around the corner and into the booth.
The drone booth was a smallish compartment built around three cubicles set into the forward wall, each furnished with an operator's couch and enclosed with banks of monitors and controls of both the manual and direct neural interface varieties. The aft wall was inset with lockers which Enzo knew would contain pressure suits, tools, and perhaps the lunches of the booth's regular occupants. Enzo reached over to the nearest locker, affixed with a nameplate indicating that it was the damage control locker, and flung the door open. Inside set a large first aid kit, several canvas-wrapped umbilicals advertising auxiliary oxygen for individuals seated in the operator's couches, stacks of large adhesive patches, and more odds and ends that would have been helpful in a slightly less catastrophic situation than the present one.
Enzo reached into a cubby at the back of the locker and pulled one of several large auto-injectors from the rack there. The device was a long, metal-shod tube with a plunger at one end and a blunt, retractable cowling at the other; this, he knew, was where the needle would come out once he pressed it against his thigh. A paper label glued to the exterior of the tube read DCStim in maroon capitals, followed by a string of warnings and contraindications in tiny script.
Enzo froze for a moment as he examined the tube. DCStim was a carefully engineered combination of long-lasting stimulants and dissociative analgesics designed to help crews work long hours past fear, exhaustion, and pain in situations just like this. A man on DCStim could push past normally crippling injuries and exhibit razor focus on the tasks at hand. The benefits of the drug came at a terrible cost: damage to one's body and mind were merely supressed during a DCStim 'ride,' but would have to be dealt with once the ride ended. Worse, working past pain could exacerbate injuries to the point that death or permanent disability could follow. Enzo had met former Cobalt Knights who had experienced DCStim and become addicted, heroes unable to cope with the costs of their heroism and only able to find solace in the drugs' terrible embrace.
Enzo didn't think he had an addictive personality, but he had certainly experienced the sort of pain addicts talked about after his injury aboard the Sable. There were plenty of things he'd like to forget. A DCStim ride would, if only for a moment, wash away the memories of the Sable's crew lost and the revulsion he felt at himself for having the temerity to survive in their place. Still, his gut churned at the thought that he could do this service for Revelation - his new home - only to develop a taste that would render him a burden to them. Sure, he could forget, but at what cost?
"Mr. Salt," Lanae said from the a speaker set into one of the control panels, shaking him from his thoughts. "What's wrong? What are you waiting for? I'm detecting a change in pressure in the docking bay. There must be a significant leak in the interstitial space between the inner and outer layer of the sphere's hull for it to be bleeding into here. We need to do something!"
Enzo set his jaw and plunged the auto-injector into his thigh, feeling a wave of warmth radiating out from where the needle bit into his flesh. Thankfully, the skin-tight fabric of the Nautilus one wasn't responsible for holding in gas pressure, or he would have traded his decompression sickness for a breathing mix leak. Working quickly, he attached one of the umbilicals to a port next to his hood and closed the valve on his own oxygen bottle; he might be needing the leftovers later. Another dose of DCStim, a tube of murky-looking styptic jelly, and a pouch full of clear polymer patches for space suits and oxygen hoods were stuffed into his jacket pocket for future contingencies. "Coming," he said with sudden, pharmaceutical calm, and strode towards the centermost control couch.