Well. That's unfortunate.
Her Imperial Condescension, tyrant of a thousand worlds, regards the corpse of her Helmsman without fondness.
Space is not only silent but virtually frictionless; his dying efforts will naturally propel them to Alternia, given enough time, and assuming that there are no obstacles. There are, of course, controls that she can use to correct its course, but the overrides are annoying. Her Helmsman was the brain of the ship, and all its processes were tied into him. Now that he is, unfortunately, completely deceased, the ship's processes are limited to metal-and-silicon technology.
She leans forward and cradles his face. His mouth is open, blood streaked over his slack face and down his thorax. She kisses him; his lips taste of vomit. Unfortunate. She will be a long time in this ship alone. Having him along, even without his ψiioniics, would have made things more tolerable, if only through infinite rounds of sex. As it is, he is useless even for that, and all the long sweeps tied into the ship have left his flesh unpalatable. Not that the ship is short of rations, but she would have liked to find some use for him instead of leaving him to rot in his net.
It was horrendously selfish of him to die when she still had need of him. It's partially her own fault, though, she supposes. Not knowing that her touch of life wouldn't grant him immunity to the Vast Glub.
Still. Desertion in the line of duty. If he weren't already dead she would cull him for it. Herself, of course. Their relationship demands that much.
Perhaps she will see if she can prepare his corpse in some manner that will disguise the taste. Sugar might do. She sniffs at him. A great deal of sugar, then.