by Ginger Booth
“Earth wasn’t like this?”
“In my grandmother’s day, maybe,” Sass allowed. “By the time we left Earth, the atmosphere was getting pretty lethal. They tried to reverse climate change with a nuclear winter. Um, radioactivity bombs. Made it cooler. Rainier. Then all the rain was radioactive. But yeah. Before we screwed the place up so bad, Earth’s atmosphere protected us better. Dark skin helped in the brighter sun around the equator.”
Copeland eyed her white-and-tan skin. “Guess you’re not from the sunny part.”
“My ancestors weren’t,” she agreed. “Anyway. Dosimeters. We need them. Progress?”
Copeland fished his comms tablet out of a baggy pocket and flipped to a schematic. “This thing, I think. Pollan can print the parts, he says. But he wants us to work in exchange. Flush and scrub the whole food recycling system before they insert the fresh protein stock we brought up from MA.”
Sass studied the design, and recalled the horrifying welcome dinner. “Needs to be done. Is this as epically disgusting as it sounds?”
“Pretty much. There are nose-plugs. I think my main job would be to keep other technicians working. He claims it’s a 10 hour job. Probably means 18. He wants Benjy, too.”
“Nobody from this ship works that job without a dosimeter,” Sass decreed. “Demand the first two as a down payment. No, make it three. Then I can work with you in solidarity. But before any more EVA, we need those dosimeters. And Kassidy’s climbing the bulkheads already.”
Copeland chuckled, then gazed at her thoughtfully. “You’d really do that? Cap, we hose shit out of the plumbing.”
Sass couldn’t imagine anything she’d rather do less. The prospect sounded revolting. But. “Understood. You guys don’t do stuff that I’m not willing to do by your side. Let me know where and when. Blame me if Pollan balks at the terms.”
“God I like working for you, lady.”
“Glad to hear it! The feeling is mutual. Oh, and Copeland? Clay and I are radiation-proof. Bargain for 8 dosimeters. But you’ve got wiggle room.”
“Tired?” Sass caught a station crew woman by the elbow before she toppled over the pressure hoses coiled haphazardly on the deck. D’Onofrio, said the name tag. Disappointment carved lines into an otherwise youthful face. Her work partner for today, Mossman, took a breather, hands braced on thighs. These random unfortunates from the station labor pool had been roped into the plumbing fiasco.
“Take five.” Sass claimed the pressure hose from D’Onofrio’s hand. “What am I doing here?”
“Use the hose to force water up here.” The woman pointed to a pipe ending a head above Sass’s own crown. “Returns through that pipe into the tub, yucky.”
“Got it. No stepladder?”
“Um…”
“Never mind, I’m good for your break.” Pulling the heavy hose overhand, into her twelfth hour in the pump room on deck 1, took a healthy bite out of Sass’s stamina. And like every other orifice in this benighted room, her target dripped brownish crud. Technically this pipe was not sewage solids. The distinction didn’t make much difference in the smell.
“You’re just going around helping people?” Mossman’s tone suggested, How stupid is that?
“Goodwill,” Sass explained. She finally managed to get the hose collar to screw onto the pipe, then squeezed the pressure trigger. It leaked of course, spraying them all. Sass let off the trigger. “Sorry, guess I didn’t get it tight enough.”
“No, that’s as good as it gets,” D’Onofrio offered sadly. “Keep going until it drains out the other one. Pollan wants five minutes pressure each round.”
Sass forced the water up again, and turned away to keep the spray out of her eyes. After a minute, the water started coming back the downspout, thick and gross. She turned her face the other way. “Count five minutes for me?”
“Got it.” Mossman set a timer on his pocket comm and lay back across the hoses. That couldn’t be comfortable, but he draped boneless, exhausted. As Copeland predicted, Pollan’s 10 hour job ran overtime.
Sass’s neck complained of the posture long before the ping of reprieve. “Unlatch it?”
D’Onofrio shook her head. “Move everything out from under it first.” With geriatric speed, the pair rose and kicked hoses another couple meters along, out of the splatter zone. The up pipe lacked a drainage basin beneath it.
Mossman set a strategic bucket on his shoulder and positioned himself, face turned away. “Now,” he invited resignedly. “One bucket at a time.”
Sass loosened the power hose collar. Greenish black water flowed out, with occasional oozing plops.
“Dammit,” Mossman murmured.
“Three more rounds on this one, I bet,” D’Onofrio agreed, sighing. “We keep going until it runs clear,” she explained to Sass. “From both holes.”
“Think how much better your food will taste,” Sass offered.
“Couldn’t taste any worse.”
D’Onofrio used a gloved finger to wipe a wayward clump into the bucket. “Could be pure…whatever this is. You’re a captain, right? What is this?”
“Dead algae slime from hydroponics,” Sass theorized. “Wouldn’t want it in my food processing system.”
“God, I hate this station. Bucket’s full.”
Sass couldn’t blame them. Mossman took three more buckets to drain the up-pipe. Then they had it all to do over again, this time with the pressurized detergent hose. The captain glanced around the tank room, but this pair still seemed the workers in worst shape. Her self-assigned role in this operation was to pitch in wherever needed. Mossman kept stumbling over the slimed hoses.
“Pollan, you incompetent!” Commander Alohan suddenly hollered through the pump room. “You said 10 hours! It’s dinner time and my mess halls are offline!”
“Commander!” Sass interrupted. “A moment.” She handed off her power hose to D’Onofrio.
She sloshed through sewage-reeking puddles, snaking hoses, and dis-assembled processing tanks toward the first officer. Alohan stuck by the doorway, holding her nose against the stench.
Sass smiled at her warmly. “Smile, dammit, and act friendly, Commander. How dare you come in here and undermine the master chief’s authority in mid-operation.” She paused to turn and signal a happy thumbs-up to Pollan.
“How dare you!” Alohan snarled back. “This is my station, not yours, captain. And that incompetent is my engineer!”
Sass laughed and bopped Alohan on the shoulder, good one! “Commander, I’ve been ankle deep in your station’s sewage for 12 hours. Care to get off that high horse? Or shall I toss you in a tank? If you don’t want to fix this by your lonesome, I suggest you stay out of the way of the people getting the work done.”
“Sass?” Pollan called across the wreckage. “We could use another shift worth of hands.”
“On it!” she yelled, and turned back to Alohan. “Give us another dozen. This shift is worn out. Shall we finish this chat in the passageway?”
Alohan recoiled into the hall rather than let Sass touch her again. “I’m not going to reward that screwup –”
“Reward?” Sass barked, edging Alohan another meter or so out of view of the hard-working unfortunates. “Commander, since clearly you don’t know your ass from your elbow, here’s the question you should have asked: ‘How is it going?’”
“Fine! How is it going?”
“Really badly, thanks. Because your pipes are old and corroded. Your station is held together by rust and a prayer. We found the place where raw sewage feeds directly into your food supply. A little pressure exploded three pipes and flooded hydroponics. Some genius re-routed the pipes on deck 6. Do you have any idea how hard it is to solve even one of those problems? Let alone all of them at once, with demoralized amateurs for labor.”
“Then Pollan shouldn’t have –”
“It needed to be done!” Sass hissed.
She advanced on Alohan again to wipe her disgusting gloves on the officer’s clean khak
i uniform shirt. “Or do you enjoy eating sewage? Look, you should be the one helping Pollan, not me. Set an example. Encourage him for mucking out Herculean stables. Instead, your dinner is late, so you come to bitch? Prove you’re more important than him? Not from where I’m standing. Be the solution, not the problem, commander.”
The officer grimaced. “You are a guest here, Captain Collier!”
“Well, golly thanks for the hospitality,” Sass replied, hands in the air to display her brown-smeared rubber boots and coveralls. Which leaked.
“Everyone’s tired. And hungry.” Alohan was still spinning excuses, but at least she was starting to think.
“Not as tired as we are,” Sass said. “Could use a round of beers. The Thrive can supply a meal for people working the job. Fresh fruit. Uncontaminated food.”
“Alright. Thank you,” the commander gritted out. “Send Pollan out to me.”
Sass folded her arms across her chest. “You want to talk to Pollan, you get your own shoes dirty. Otherwise you deal with me. He’s busy.”
“Collier, I demand the plumbing back online!”
“Reasonable. Hold for one.” Sass hung her head around the doorway. “Master chief! Any chance we could put like one quadrant of the heads back in service?”
“Southeast corner’s up now,” Pollan returned. “Going counter-clockwise. Once we get that pipe on 6 replaced, we’ll bring up northeast, and take southeast down.” The compass directions meant nothing in any geographical sense, but provided useful labels for the sides of the space station.
“Thanks, Chief!” Sass retreated behind the wall to resume negotiations with Alohan. “There you go. You can use this to improve morale, you know. Change of pace, all in this together, better food, rah rah. Offer something to volunteers, plumbing heroes.”
Alohan scowled, but agreed, “That might work. A week off scrubbing the heads. Cheerleading.” She rolled her eyes. “What a mess.”
“Indeed,” Sass concurred dryly.
“Volunteers, huh? Plumbing heroes.”
“If you could be so kind. A dozen at a time. Four hour shifts. These guys aren’t used to hard labor. They’re wiped out.”
“I could tell them to drop by your dock on the way here to fetch the food.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll tell my steward to rustle up some grub.” Jules adored a housekeeping challenge. Abel not so much.
“Very well.” Alohan turned on her heel to leave.
“You’re not done yet,” Sass growled at her. “Thank the master chief and the hands. Tell them you appreciate their gallant service to MO.”
Alohan glanced to the door in misgiving. “He’ll glower at me.”
“Trust is earned.”
The commander grimaced, but did as Sass bid. Sass beamed beside her from the threshold. Pollan glared back at them. The others looked skeptical.
Copeland was presently away welding that replacement pipe on deck 6. But Benjy called out, “Any chance of some food?”
Sass blinked invitingly at Alohan.
“Beer and food and a relief shift are on the way,” Alohan returned, with a creaky smile. “Soon as I can get ’em here.”
Benjy had enough energy to lead a cheer. A few dispirited hoots and whistles emanated amongst the gurgling hoses.
“Thank you, commander,” Pollan called back, clearly begrudging the necessity.
“Least I can do,” Alohan acknowledged. “Carry on, master chief.”
The woman leaders retreated from view, and Alohan strode away.
“You owe me,” Sass growled to her back.
Alohan neither paused nor turned. “Our thanks, Captain Collier.”
Insincere courtesy beat the alternative, in Sass’s book. She blew out a long sigh, then screwed her smile back on straight before accessing her intercom. “Abel! Jules can manage sandwiches and fruit for a couple dozen, right?”
8
Before the year 2000, typical background radiation exposure on Earth was 10 μSv per day. Air travel across the North American continent collected 40 μSv. On the grounds of the Chernobyl nuclear accident, a person might receive 15 mSv an hour – 400 times as much as the air trip. A dose of 400 mSv causes symptoms of radiation poisoning.
Three days later, after a solid 14 hours’ sleep, Sass arrived to her second daily progress meeting. She’d missed three out of four.
Jules and Kassidy generously cheered. Sass trusted Copeland was still passed out in his bunk. But Benjy sat at the table wolfing down food, his hair wet and skin scrubbed pink. The captain took three showers herself so far, and hoped any remaining odor was all in her mind.
“Success!” she claimed, and laid a box of dosimeters on the table in triumph. “Fresh off the press.”
Benjy peered into the box. “Those aren’t printed, Sass. Pollan had to –”
“Figure of speech, Benjy,” the captain cut him off. She was pleased that the kid’s interest in engineering was blooming. Less pleased at Copeland’s mouth rubbing off on him.
Abel inquired, “Are you leading today’s meeting?”
“No, I’m out of the loop. Though I ought to brief everyone on the dosimeters. But no, I mean, whenever you’re ready. You conducted daily meetings while I was in the slime? Thank you, well done, Abel.”
Abel blinked. “You’re welcome. Copeland?” he asked Benjy.
“Asleep in the auto-doc.”
Alarmed, Sass pulled the dosimeter box to her and sifted through them. “Why is Copeland in the auto-doc?”
“No big deal, cap,” Benjy replied. “Woke up vomiting last night. Must have eaten some of the station food.”
“Copeland knew better than that,” Sass said. She hoped. None of the dosimeters read zero, but some would be higher – there. Wow. One said over 160 mSv, well over the 100 mSv annual exposure limit she hoped to set for the crew. Wait, there were 6 dosimeters in the box. That one was hers.
That was a lot of radiation.
“Benjy, do you still have your meter on you?”
“Yeah.” He dug it out of his pocket and handed it over.
Good, only 120 μSv, more than a thousand times less than Sass. “Do you know what Copeland’s said?”
Benjy shrugged. “Higher than mine, 200-something.”
Sass shook her head. “Micro or milli? Mu-Sievert or em-Sievert?”
“It reads both?” He stepped to her side to see the μSv vs. mSv for himself. “Three orders of magnitude? Glitch?”
“Exponential can happen with radiation.” Sass rose. “Excuse me, I should go check. Um, where could I find his…?”
“I’ll get it,” Benjy volunteered, and scurried off. He hated sitting still through meetings anyway.
Sass turned to Abel contritely. “Excuse me, Abel, your meeting.” Though now she itched to check on Copeland.
“I checked at breakfast,” Abel said, eyes crinkling. “The auto-doc said he’d be in there all day. No alarms. Benjy just reported he’s still asleep.”
“Oh, good! Yeah, it can wait then.” Sass’s voice trailed off as she sank back to her seat.
“Captain, why don’t you run the meeting,” Abel invited.
“No, you’re great, Abel! And you’re on top of things. I’ve been sloshing or sleeping for days.”
“Fine, my meeting,” Abel agreed. He reached a hand to scoop the two dosimeters in front of Sass toward himself, and placed them to share with Jules beside him. “First item. Sass, what is this thing? And why is Copeland sick?”
Sass sighed. “Point. OK, the concern is radiation. Inside the Thrive, we’re safe. Seriously, skyship radiation levels are as low as the botanical gardens at Mahina Actual. Maybe not as low as the kindergarten. But safe.
“Radiation causes damage to cells. Speeds aging. You’ve seen how people look sick on the space station, older than the urbs in Mahina Actual. You’ve seen settlers die of cancer too.”
Benjy rushed back in and handed her Copeland’s dosimeter, looking scared. Sass froze. Copeland’s ex
posure was indeed 230-something mSv, higher than hers. Worse, he’d been hanging out with Pollan and nosing around station engineering even before he received a dosimeter, plus a long EVA.
Yes, he probably did have radiation sickness.
Clay stood to reach across the table and confiscate the engineer’s meter. “What was Sass’s reading?” he asked Abel. When Abel told him, Clay added, “Sass, you’re next in the auto-doc.”
She scowled at him. “Benjy is next.”
“Did you realize that Tom and Sandman died of cancer, Sass?” For the benefit of the rest of the table, Clay added, “Of those six who survived our injection. Two died of violence, two of cancer. And us.”
“Oh,” Sass said. “They never contacted me, after I was arrested.”
“We were forbidden on pain of arrest ourselves. I found you in person the day you were released. But I lived in Mahina Actual, Sass. You lived outside.”
“Yes.”
Abel interrupted with, “Really wish I understood what’s going on.”
“Me, too,” Benjy agreed, with feeling.
“You got the gist,” Sass said softly. “Think of it as an invisible poison. The only way we can tell how much we get is these dosimeters. I’m making a chart to track everybody’s exposure. Each time you leave the ship in space, you bring a dosimeter, and log the dose you received when you get back. If the number stays black on the chart, you’re fine. If it turns amber, that’s a warning – don’t leave the ship, pay attention if you’re not feeling well.
“That number,” she pointed to Copeland’s meter, presently visiting Clay, “or mine,” she pointed to her device in Abel’s custody, “would turn bright red. Needs immediate attention. Even low doses add up over time. You want your cumulative radiation exposure below 100 mSv for a year. But Copeland and I exceeded that.”
“Is he going to die?” Benjy demanded. “Will he get cancer right away?”
“No,” Sass insisted. “He has radiation sickness now from a heavy dose over a short time. Later, he has a higher chance of cancer. By a tiny amount. It depends. He’s getting the best treatment. He’ll be OK.”
