"No."
"Then do it. Will you need help dressing?"
"Not necessary, but I'd appreciate it."
"Major—?" Nicole asked, looking toward the center console.
"My pleasure," Cat said, and headed down the DropShaft, while Nicole found herself wishing silently, I wish it could be mine. And sighing in annoyance at the ease with which her mind dove into, the gutter.
Paul's voice drew her out of herself: "Look at this," he told her, tapping one of the screens. " Rockhound's tumbling end over end, a full rotation every two hundred seconds. I think she's rolling as well, positive arc—that is, clockwise."
"Shit."
"This is getting very hairy."
Nicole said nothing as she stared intently at the screen, evaluating the information as it was continually updated.
"Nicole, who flies the mission?"
"That a question, hot shot, or a request?"
"You're the boss, your place is here."
She shook her head. "Cat'll be here; she can handle the command responsibilities. And I'd rather have you back-stopping me while my ass is on the line than sit here helpless worrying about you."
"I'm flattered. I hope you're not making a mistake."
"Don't be so eager to be a hero."
"Look who's talking."
"You'll get your chance, Paolo."
"Just don't fuck up yours." Nicole shrugged.
"You better get rolling," Paul told her. "You'll need a full two hours to purge your system, so you can handle the pure oxygen atmosphere of your suit. It will come out of your rendezvous window."
"Be just as true for you, Paolo."
"I got a bad feeling, is all."
"About staying or going?"
"I wish to hell I knew."
"If the risks prove unacceptable, I'll abort."
"With respect, O fearless leader, there are occasions when you wouldn't know an 'unacceptable' risk if it bit you."
He looked away, leaving her to float above the hatch, knowing his words had struck home. She made a frustrated, almost angry noise deep in her throat as she searched in vain for an argument to refute him. "I'm not Cat," was what she said, and then, as she sighed and left, "Be seeing you, hotshot."
The rover bays were arranged in a ring around the base of the dome-shaped Command Module—seven in all, holding two general purpose craft, two exploratory, two combat and the lifeboat. The Changing Room—the antechamber that held the crew's pressure suits—ringed the core DropShaft, subdivided into seven completely isolated segments, one for each bay, the idea being that a loss of pressure in one wouldn't necessarily affect the others. Each segment, indeed, each major level of Wanderer, contained two basic suits, same-size-fits-all, to provide crew members a decent chance of survival in the event of an emergency no matter where they were. Additionally, the Changing Rooms held suits appropriate to the primary function of their particular Rovers and, finally there were the custom-fitted suits, tailored to the crew's individual specialties. Ciari's was a black hardsuit—combat armor crammed full of hunter sensors, able to withstand laser blasts and solid shot both, with power enhancers that gave him exceptional strength, speed and maneuverability. Nicole's was a Command suit, as was Cat Garcia's, trading off the enhancers and some of the armor in favor of more, and more varied, sensors and communications systems. Wearing it, Nicole could tap into every system aboard Wanderer or any of the Rovers, call up data from their computer systems on her helmet head-up displays, and eavesdrop on any conversation, ship to ship or suit to suit; if necessary, she could even remotely control those vessels as well.
She broke her suit out of its cocoon, which automatically started its electronics systems diagnostics check, while she stripped herself naked, tucking her clothes into the small locker provided. There was a full-length mirror on the wall and she paused for a long, hard look at herself. She always thought she had too many bones, that somewhere along the line the sizes had gotten slightly mixed, resulting in skin a size too small for her frame or a frame a size too big. She could count her ribs and her hips were all angular hollows and sharp edges. No fat at all worth mentioning. No breasts, either—she snorted in mock dismay. Interesting, she noted to herself, how her pubic hair was so much redder than the hair on her head, which was more deep brown with red highlights. If she was really curious about it, she could always ask Chagay. And he'd give her some profound, eminently logical genetic explanation. She turned slightly, arched her back, and thrust a hip towards the mirror in a deliberately provocative pose, throwing in a smouldering look for good measure, then shook her head. Enough games. She was wasting precious time.
The status lights on her suit blinked green, which she acknowledged with the slightest of nods, and then she began a methodical manual examination. It was the first thing drummed into the heads of every astronaut trainee—your suit is your life, take it for granted and you're as good as history. And, sadly, as with almost every class, there had been the accident that proved the point. Satisfied finally that all was well, Nicole was reaching for the undersuit when she became aware of another presence in the room.
Cat held the long-legged, long-sleeved garment out to her. Nicole cursed furiously at once more being taken by surprise, and wondered if Cat was doing this deliberately, to rattle her, so that she'd screw up later. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she dismissed it, refusing to believe Cat could be so petty, especially with lives and a mission at stake.
"Ciari's done," Cat reported, "so I came over to see if you needed a hand."
"Thanks, Major."
"I've been scanning the telemetry, Nicole. DaCuhna was quite correct; this could be a real bitch."
"I know." And she thought: Damn the woman, she was monitoring the flight deck after she left! It was Cat's prerogative, and her responsibility, and Nicole didn't care.
"Do you?" While Nicole pulled the undersuit over her arms, flexing her shoulders to ensure a smooth, snug fit, Cat anchored her in place and closed the fastenings. Then she backed away slightly as Nicole pushed herself into the legs of the pressure suit itself; once those were on, she wriggled upward into the separate torso, while Cat snapped and sealed the waist ring shut. Again, she backed up and away, as if to view her handiwork. Nicole suddenly realized that, in free-fall, Cat always positioned herself a head above whoever she was talking to. The idea was to place her in a position of dominance, because, in gravity, her height invariably put her at a disadvantage. Is this, Nicole asked silently, part of the reason we don't get along—the fact that I'm so much taller?
"I wish I had some sage advice beyond stating the obvious," Cat continued. "Don't rush. The clock's running. Never forget that, but also never let it spook you. Take time up front to examine all your options. That way, no matter what, you'll have at least an idea of how to deal with it. The last thing you want is to get spooked. You cut corners, you get careless."
"I understand, Major."
"I hope so. Remember, a calculated risk is only as valid as the data it's based on. Garbage in, garbage out—just like with a computer.
"Trust Ciari. If he offers a suggestion, listen. If he gives a command, obey. He's been here before, which makes him an invaluable asset. Beyond that, you'll have to depend on your own judgment."
"Sooner or later, boss, it was bound to happen."
Cat allowed herself a small smile, a ghost of a grin that was more relaxed than anything Nicole had seen from her since they left the Moon, and nodded.
She didn't say another word until they were nearly done. Nicole was thankful that she didn't have to bear the weight of suit and backpack. The whole mess easily weighed twice what she did. Shifting its bulky mass was misery enough and she wasn't looking forward to clambering through Rockhound's ruined guts. They were flying the smaller of their Jeeps—the general purpose Rovers—from Bay One and since Nicole's locker was adjacent to Bay Four, that meant she had to cut across the DropShaft. For convenience, she moved barehanded, her gloves clipped to her
belt; unfortunately, the helmet had to be carried. A facemask and portable oxygen bottle clipped to her suit, to acclimatize Nicole's system to its new environment, added injury to insult. Cat followed her through the extra-wide hatch, but turned upward to the flight deck while Nicole pushed herself over to the hatch opposite. As it cycled open, she heard Cat say, from high above: "Y'all come back, hear?"
As Wanderer closed on Rockhound, Nicole's first thought was, not a prayer. The general consensus among the crew was that any kind of dock would be impossible, regardless of how good a pilot Nicole was. Nearly as large as Wanderer herself, the mining ship spun along like a giant cartwheel. It was rolling far faster than anticipated, the brutal torque tearing the spacecraft apart, hurling debris off in all directions and forcing the NASA cruiser to keep a healthy distance. Which narrowed their already shrunken rendezvous window even further.
"That's a ship?" Nicole wondered aloud. "Christ, it looks like a half-dozen paint cans strung together with some leftover bits of erector set." Unlike Wanderer's Command Module, Rockhound's was spherical, and considerably smaller, since Rockhound was never meant to carry as large a crew or the number of ancillary craft. Chunky secondary modules were arranged in a line behind it, with the engines bringing up the rear. Directly aft of the CM, three fifty-meter gantries reached away from the central core, at forty-five degree angles, each one topped by a housing for a cargo module. The garish paint on the open scaffolding, plus the lights and symbols, gave fair warning that the vessel was designed to carry highly radioactive material. A horizontal ring assembly wrapped around the base of each gantry held the communications and sensor antenna array.
"Out here," Ciari replied, "they don't have to be pretty. They just have to work."
"Looks like Rockhound fails in both categories. It is the ugliest thing I have ever seen." Nicole thumbed a line open to the flight deck. "Major?" she asked. What do you think? Gimme a clue, skipper, what's my best move? She wiped an ungloved hand across chin and cheeks slick with sweat before closing it into a half-fist and resting her chin against it as comfortably as her facemask allowed—facing command decisions in training was one thing; this was something else again. Her heart was picking up speed.
"You're in charge, Nicole," was the reply. Nicole sighed; it was the response she'd expected but she had hoped for better. Cat was giving her free rein until she fucked up.
"Paolo?"
"If we don't try, we'll never know what happened. By the time any other ship reaches her, there won't be anything left. On the other hand, my ass isn't on the line."
"What's the computer say?"
"It abstains. If you manage to touch hulls with Rockhound the Rover's magnaseals should hold; if they don't, you'll shoot off like a bullet. Botch the approach, and the Jeep ends up splattered against the hull or cut to pieces by those gantries. Any way you play this, the risk is substantial. And beyond the computer's safety parameters."
"Terrific."
"It's a smart machine. Perhaps it's trying to tell us something?"
"I'm going to button up and boogey, Paolo, before I lose what's left of my nerve. I'll make my decision after we've had a close-range eyeball of the situation."
"I copy, Nicole. Cue me as soon as you and Ciari are ready, I'll void the Bay and crack Number One hatch. Be careful out there."
"Never anything but, hotshot," she said, hoping that was true.
Five minutes later, the Jeep was on its way. Nicole turned it onto a parallel course with the mining ship and closed to three thousand meters.
"There's really only one way in," she said at last, her comments as much for Paolo and the record as Ciari. "We match track and velocity, sideslip as close as we dare, and then get out and walk."
"Which way in?"
She pointed at Rockhound's command module as it corkscrewed past. "We position ourselves ahead of the derelict, shoot a pair of tether lines to its nose, then rappel along the hull to the nearest hatch. If we place our grapples right, we won't have much spin to worry about, just the main rotation. And if we keep the lines fairly short, we shouldn't get thrown among the gantry arms."
"You'll have to be real close, Nicole," Paul said. "That won't leave much margin for error."
"More than we'd have trying to dock in this bucket."
"That's no error."
"What do your instincts say?" Ciari asked her. "I need the exercise. You don't approve?"
He switched their comlink over to a private channel and said, "In Cat, I'd consider that macha bravado. With you, it's worth a shot."
"You're awfully hard on her, Ciari."
"No less so than you, Shea, in your own way. How come you're sticking up for her?"
"You said some lousy—hurtful—things. If they were deserved, she wouldn't be here."
He laughed ruefully, without humor. "She and Morgan were lovers, you know, a very hot item. He pulled strings to have her assigned to his command. For that stunt alone, Canfield would have had both balls and heart. But when he got his papers and Cat didn't—moreover, when she refused to quit herself and follow him—he moved out. He never forgave her for surviving and choosing her own life over his. In a sense, she hasn't forgiven herself. Everything she's done since has been a sort of penance, an attempt to prove herself. But regardless of how splendidly—even perfectly—she performs, in her own eyes she's always found wanting. Being driven by that kind of demon, Shea, is never healthy."
He reached for the comset, but her voice stopped him.
"Ben," she said, and he looked up, surprised at the use of his first name. Since the duel where he'd twisted her wrist, she'd taken to referring to him pretty much exclusively by his title, creating a deliberate distance between" them. "That mission, was it Cat's First Flight?" He said nothing, simply nodded.
"Maybe you can judge her, Marshal, I haven't the right." She re-opened the channel to Wanderer. "Rover-One to Homeplate, we're ready to initiate final approach."
"We've been wondering about that, Rover," Paul replied casually. "No change in your target, I'm afraid." I'm afraid, too, pal, Nicole thought suddenly, absurdly. Boy, do I wish you were here and I, there. "Bear says your medstats are nominal, though your pulse and respiration are higher than the Marshal's."
"Unrequited passion." That provoked an amused snort both from Ciari and from someone on-line aboard Wanderer, she couldn't tell who.
"Confirm EVA option, Nicole?" Paul asked.
"Affirmative," she replied. "We'll close to a klick-six and use the Manned Maneuvering Units to hump the rest of the way. The Rover's systems will be slave-linked to your board so you can pull it out of trouble if any comes."
"Copy."
"Then we're gone, Paolo." While they'd been talking, Nicole had donned her gloves, flexing and stretching fingers, arms and back to push away any last-minute kinks; now, she took a deep breath, and locked her helmet securely into place. It smelled new, hardly used, and, as always, she was struck by how loudly her own breath sounded in her ears.
"Check your harness, Marshal, make sure it's snug." She did the same and, after his acknowledgment, fired the lateral thrusters.
They'd barely begun moving before Cat's voice suddenly roared in their headphones: "Breakaway, Rover—breakaway! Initiate negative pitch, full thrust, now!"
"Major, what's wrong?!" Nicole called, even as she obeyed.
"Screen," Ciari said, and tightened the focus on the Rover's camera until Rockhound's midsection filled the picture. Torque had twisted one of the gantries backward and to one side, putting exceptional pressure on the joints anchoring it to the main hull; as they watched, those joints seemed to explode, the gantry buckling even more while a twenty-meter section of the antenna array tumbled away from the derelict.
"It's corning fast," he said, "we going to clear?"
"Close, it'll be close...." A huge shadow passed across the canopy, blacking out the stars, and Nicole flinched, she couldn't help herself. But even as she breathed a sigh of relief, she heard the faint din
of alarms aboard Wanderer echoing through her headset.
"Paolo?!" she called.
"The antennae, Nicole," he said, with the enforced, over-exaggerated calm that she knew meant he was truly scared, "they're heading straight for us."
She played with the thrusters, pivoting the Rover. "Can you shift position?"
"Not like that, boss. Not enough to matter. No time."
"Shit," Nicole cursed and then, in a louder voice, "Ciari, watch our back. Let me know if any more crap cuts loose!" Paul had left the communications circuit open; Nicole could hear every word said on the flight deck. Cat had taken command and was snapping rapid-fire orders.
"Everyone into gloves and helmets—pressurize your suits—we could be hit. DaCuhna, slice internal spacecraft pressure, to minimize the effect of an explosive decompression if we're breached. Seal all internal bulkheads. From now on, maintain contact via suitpack radios."
"Major, what're you doing?!" Paul cried. "Jesus Christ, Nicole, she's launched two nukes!"
Nicole saw a flash beneath the Command Module as the rockets ignited. "At this range, the blast'll fry us all!"
"That's not, I think," Ciari said from his tandem seat behind her, appreciation in his voice, "what she intends."
"Trust me," Cat echoed, speaking to Paul and Nicole both, "I know what I'm doing."
"Positive track on the missiles," Ciari reported. "Thirty seconds to contact with target."
"I didn't arm the warheads," Cat said. "It's a trick I learned from some Belt miners—using small, unarmed rockets as emergency tugs. The missiles are wire-guided, under my manual control. That, and their laser guidance system, will enable me to bring them and that mess together, as gently as possible. Then we punch up full thrust on the motors. Which should shunt it aside."
Big bloody 'if,' Nicole thought as Paul yelled, "Impact," and the rockets erupted with eye-searing brilliance, the fire flare of their exhaust lighting one full side of the twisted mass. For a few seconds, nothing appeared to happen.
"It's moving," Paul announced. "Definite deviation from collision trajectory. And the angle's steadily increasing."
First Flight Page 9
