"Too late, hotshot," Nicole murmured, heartsick, "the margin's too small." She ran her hands over the console and saw her suspicions confirmed by the computer. If things didn't improve—instantly—the wreckage would tear the roof off the Command Module. Paul, with his gift for visualizing spatial relationships, must realize that too, yet his voice held no sign that he did.
Ciari tapped her shoulder and re-oriented the main camera towards Wanderer. It was the last thing she wanted, a close-up of the disaster as it happened, but then she spotted a faint glow along the lateral midline of the CM, between the Rover Bays and the first Carousel.
"The Auxiliary motors," she breathed, but Ciari heard her.
"Triggered, full thrust, the moment Cat fired the missiles. Wreckage shifts up, Wanderer pivots down. Just enough for the two to miss." And it was.
"Still game, Shea?" Cat asked, the crisis safely past.
"We're already at our jump-off point, Major. How's our time?"
Paul answered: "Two-five-zero minutes, tops, including rendezvous and dock with Wanderer"
"You still intend an EVA approach?" Cat asked. "Only way."
"I concur. But be prepared to abort at any stage."
"Yah."
"Your primary objective is to pull Rockhound's flight recorder and telemetry packs," Cat reminded her, unnecessarily, "while Marshal Ciari checks for survivors or bodies."
They were moving along the same flight path as the derelict, matching its velocity so as to stay just a little ahead of it. All they had to do was make their way across roughly a mile of open space, and then board a ship that was spinning and rolling like a drunken dervish, tossing off bits of itself along the way with arbitrary, madcap abandon. No problem.
Ciari was riding back seat in the Jeep, so he went out first. Nicole switched the controls over to Wanderer, took a last look around, as if to reassure herself that everything was fine, even though deep down in her heart of hearts she knew she'd forgotten something, the same way she did every time she left her apartment, and gently pushed her way outside to join him. Her first impression was one of absolute emptiness; before her yawned, gaped, stretched infinite darkness, a more absolute black than she had ever conceived of. Only afterward did she become aware of stars, scattered gloriously around her. There was a moment of vertigo, when her whole world threatened to spin into oblivion, because there was no world beneath her feet. She was floating, yet her brain, evolved and born and raised at the bottom of the Terrestrial gravity well, with that welcome force to give order and shape and, more important, direction to her environment, kept insisting that was impossible. Floating was a prelude to falling and from where Nicole stood, she could fall in any direction, literally forever.
Then, she felt something—Ciari's hand—close on her arm, nudge her gently until they were face to face. Then visors were gold anodized, and for once she was glad her face was hidden from him; she figured she looked ghastly.
He touched his helmet to hers—a private exchange, just between them, not for Wanderer's ears—and asked if she was all right?
She nodded, then realized he couldn't see. "Sorry," she said, "lost my bearings."
"Happens."
"Never did before."
"Earth orbit. Lunar orbit. Planetary referents can, subconsciously, be very comforting. Sort of a roof over your atavistic head. No such luck out here."
"Live and learn."
"That's the idea. The key to survival."
She pulled herself out of the shadow of the Rover and caught her breath at the sight of Rockhound, chasing after them but never gaining. Far off to her right, she saw Wanderer's blinding navigation strobes. "Time, Nicole," Ciari said softly.
"I'm ready," she replied, and he pulled himself away. She called Wanderer. "We're ready, Homeplate."
"How's the view, boss?" Paul asked and her heart skipped a beat. He knows, she thought. "Got to be seen to be believed, hotshot," she told him. "Can't wait."
"Wish there was time to enjoy it."
"Disney probably does it better."
That made her laugh, which was precisely what Paul—bless his roguish soul—intended and her medstats crawled back towards normal.
The Manned Maneuvering Units—small, self-contained rocket pods strapped onto their backpacks—took them the first leg. Nicole could feel her heart thumping harder and faster against her ribs, her breaths coming more quickly as well, and she struggled to keep herself under control. The closer they came to Rockhound, the more insane and impossible her plan seemed, the more she wanted simply to turn tail and flee for her life. Aboard Wanderer, Paul smiled as his headset picked up a throaty, absent-minded rendition of a Lila Cheney classic.
"What the hell?" Hana Murai wondered aloud.
"Nicole," he told her, on a private channel, "she does that when she's on edge; singing keeps her head in focus. The funny thing is, I doubt she's even aware of it; she'd probably deny it if you told her, even if you played her tapes."
"Her secret's safe with me," the young woman said.
"I hate to admit it," Nicole muttered to Ciari, touching helmets again, as what was left of a massive, fifty-meter scaffold swung by, "but this idea seemed a lot more sensible when we were inside the Rover."
"No argument. No alternative, either. Unless you want to abort."
"Is it feasible?"
"It's worth a try. It's also no stunt for a novice. I'll go alone, if you want."
Deep down inside, Nicole "wanted" very much, but she kept that particular fear locked up tight as she replied: "We go together." She was looking at the derelict, and missed Ciari's nod of approval. "Me first," Ciari said. It wasn't a question, and Nicole didn't argue.
As the Command Module "fell" towards them, Ciari took aim with his grappling gun and sent a rocket powered flechette dart racing straight into the nose. The other end of the tether was clipped onto his chest harness and as the line pulled taut, he was suddenly yanked forward and down, pinwheeling in towards the main body of the derelict at what seemed to Nicole to be a terrifying speed. He was moving too fast, there was no way his maneuvering backpack could slow him; even armored as he was, his impact with the hull was sure to smash him to a pulp. She cursed her arrogance at coming up with such a dangerous lunatic scheme, unaware that she was speaking aloud, that every word was broadcast back to the Wanderer.
She called to Ciari, but got only harsh static in reply.
"Rover-One, Homeplate," she heard Paul's voice, calm and casual as could be, "we confirm viable medstats on both EVA personnel."
Bless you, Paolo, she thought, for finding the niftiest, sneakiest way of telling me all is well. "Wanderer, I have no radio contact with Ciari."
"We copy, Nicole," Paolo said, "we have the same problem. His telemetry is breaking up as well, there's considerable interference."
Damn. "Anyone think it's deliberate?" She used an ALL HANDS circuit but the question was mainly directed at Cat. "Set-up maybe for a trap?"
"I doubt it," Cat replied after a moment. "According to our Lloyd's registry, Rockhound is specially modified to carry high-energy radioactives. She has unusually heavy shielding around the crew modules. That, added to the ship's wild motion, added to its considerable structural damage, is probably what's lousing sensors and communications. And the Marshal may also have suffered damage during his approach."
"What about my suit, have I power enough to maintain the comlink?"
Paul again: "Doubt it, boss, unless you used a tight-beam transmission aimed right at our antennae."
"Fat bloody chance, hotshot, the way that cow is wallowing."
"Precisely."
Nicole thought fast, and unconsciously started humming, more vintage rock and roll. "Boss," Paul called, "we got nothing now from the Marshal. He's either in a completely blocked location..."
"...or he's stopped transmitting," she finished. "Okay, my turn. The belly's just swung by, I'm going to catch my ride on this rotation." And she did.
The harness took t
he brunt of the shock. Actually, it felt no worse than lifting off aboard the Shuttle from Earth, but she had no time, less chance, to enjoy the ride. The major risk of this approach was that a piece of wreckage might shear off while she was spinning in; she couldn't maneuver and the slightest contact, to her or her line, meant disaster. This was the risk; the calculation was that it wouldn't happen during the few seconds she was vulnerable.
She saw the hull rushing up below her and slapped the MMU controls on her left forearm. A flash on her helmet head-up display told her the thrusters had fired, confirmed physically by an annoying vibration down her back. That same display showed her fuel consumption; she watched it with one eye while the other—and most of her mind—concentrated on landing. She decided to err on the side of caution and cut power short of the mark she and Ciari had agreed upon. Then, her feet made contact—too hard on the steeply sloped, surprisingly slick surface. She'd hit too fast, she lost control. The magnaseals on her boots couldn't hold and she went sprawling, inertia stretching her line taut while the ship's spin rolled her across the hull. She flailed desperately for a handhold, terrified that she might tear her suit or damage her backpack, or that her anchor might pull loose and send her flying into the ruined gantries below. Finally, she latched onto a stanchion to lie flat on her face, panting like a marathoner, unwilling to let herself believe that she'd survived.
"Woman," a welcome voice said, the words painfully shot through with static, "you do not deserve such luck."
Ciari stood on the hull, anchored by boots and a safety line clipped outside an access hatch. With careful steps, he made his way to Nicole and locked another line to her harness; then, a final piece of insurance, he hooked the two of them together.
"You computed the safety margins," he continued, speaking while working. "Don't you trust your own numbers?"
"I figured a little extra couldn't hurt."
"Now you know differently. What's your suit status?"
"Whole. Fully... functional. I'm in worse shape."
"You deserve to be. Can you stand?"
He gave her a hand up and, as soon as her boot seals made solid contact with the hull, led her to the hatch, where he unclipped the tether from her chest harness and fastened it to his own. The double spin gave Rockhound a semblance of gravity, piling every loose object in a comer formed by the junction of what appeared to be walls and floor; they found themselves walking on the one and forced to climb the other, usually on hands and knees, using portable magnaseals slipped over the palms of their gloves. More often than not, they had to haul debris clear of interior hatchways, to clear space enough for their bulky backpacks to pass. Nicole was soon drenched in sweat, fire twisting along shoulders, back and legs as she endured the full weight of her suit and more.
"This is taking too long," she gasped, eyes widening a little as Ciari's voice came back as hoarse with fatigue as her own.
"Can't be helped. Come this far... hate to pull out empty."
"Where... are we?"
"Mid level... Command Module—flight deck's through that hatch."
"Ciari—you see... something wedged in the opening?" -
Now the power armor proved its worth, as he braced himself in place and shoved the hatch all the way open. Immediately, the object popped loose, bouncing off the ceiling and ricocheting down towards Nicole, who was standing on the bulkhead at the "bottom" end of the passage. She caught it easily.
"It's a helmet," she said.
"Any name or number?"
" 'Wolfe.' That's it. What about the rest of this bucket? Do we search... ?"
"For survivors?" he finished, and he handsigned the negative vehemently. "Can't separate—too dangerous—take way too long—have to trust... Wanderer external scan."
Without warning, a frightful sound exploded from Nicole's headset and she screamed, hands flying to her helmet. Ciari dropped towards her and held them tight until the panic spasm ran its course.
"Thanks," she sobbed, trying to regain her equilibrium. "I... lost my head. The noise. Couldn't think. Just wanted to make it go away. If you hadn't stopped me, I was ready, I really believe I'd have torn my helmet off."
"I know."
"What the hell was that?" Even as she spoke, she stiffened, eyes closing to slits with pain. It wasn't as bad, this time, and she could make out words.
"Wanderer to Rover-One, do you copy? Boss, this is Paolo..."
"I hear you," she cried, " I hear you!"
The quality of reception was wretched. Paul's voice was intermixed with a dreadful amount of static and he kept wavering in and out, loud one moment, whisper faint the next, according to the motion of the derelict. But at least contact had been restored.
"Christ," Nicole told him, when all was sorted out, "you boomed in here like the Wrath of God."
"Sorry about that," he replied. "We were worried."
"What—?!"
"You mean this? Simple, really. Hana's idea." I'll kill her, Nicole thought. "Extrapolating off of something you said. She took the main antenna off EarthLine and centered it on Rockhound's Command Module." Nicole was astonished. " Wanderer generates enough power to punch a signal through that dish all the way, unaided, from Pluto to Houston. With it locked on Rockhound, and from this range, she figured all the shielding in the System wouldn't be able to block us out."
"Clever girl. Someday, I'll return the favor."
"Nicole," Ciari touched her arm, and she started; she hadn't realized he'd left her. His approach to Rockhound had been more eventful than hers; he'd caromed off a spar, losing a brace of antennae in the process, which is why he'd been spared her agony. She patched him through to Wanderer. "I found a crewman," he told them with a crisp, efficient lack of emotion, a part of his job he'd done often before. "Dead. Male, dark-skinned, Caucasian features, age indeterminate. Suit tags and registry tapes ident him as Phillip Wolfe. I also have the primary datapack."
Nicole held up the helmet and Ciari handsigned. "Yes."
"Phil?" Cat asked.
"You knew him, Major?" Nicole asked.
"Him and his entire Clan. Rockhound is theirs. I planned to visit Wolfe Station on our Inbound leg. Ben, how did he die?"
"Quickly. Explosive decompression."
"Is that it?" Nicole asked.
Before Ciari could answer, Hana came on-line. "Fracture!" she yelled, and the Command Module tipped over with a great, shuddering vibration as something huge gave way aft. Nicole's eyes went wide as the stout bulkheads twisted like paper and part of the corridor compressed, as if some giant had taken his toy and crumpled it in opposite directions.
"Status," she demanded, voice taut with strain.
"Half my telltales went off the board," Paul told her. " Rockhound's hull has buckled—number two gantry has given way—"
"Any danger to Wanderer ?!"
"Negative. It blew the other way. But the core hull has a definite bow to it. Motion's going all to hell. We're unable to predict the effect this new torque stress will have on the frame. If you've got the datapacks..."
"Forget them," Cat broke in. "This is a direct order, both of you—abort the mission. Pull out, as fast as you can, any way you can."
"Where?" Nicole asked Ciari.
Retracing their steps was easier, they were descending the gravity well, but the spin/roll was no longer consistent and the condition of the ship itself was deteriorating markedly. A hatchway bent sideways as Nicole struggled through, pinning her so tightly she couldn't catch a breath. Ominous flashes appeared on her head-up display, indicating damage to her backpack. But Ciari was there, with his enhanced muscles, to lever her free. The pain faded quickly, but not the alarms on her faceplate.
"I may have a problem," she said simply.
"Housing's cracked," he reported, after a quick check. "Can't tell if anything's busted inside. No vapor, though; you're not losing atmosphere."
"Things are stable so far, but I don't think I can take another shock like that. Or push too hard."
"Almost there."
By the time they reached the outer hull, Rockhound had bent almost double, into an L-shape that made the engineering assembly a looming, towering cliff above their heads, the remaining gantries flaring off to each side like skeletal wings.
"We can't jump off from here, the way we planned," Ciari said. "We'll just splatter against that."
"Look," Nicole told him, pointing at the gantries. "The one on our right is pretty much clear. Can we fire a grapple right out to the end, the cargo housing, with us on a tether, and let it pivot us away?"
"It's possible."
"If we stay together, use our MMUs in sync, we should be able to brake once we're clear. Then, Wanderer can vector the Rover to pick us up and we can ride it home. Paolo," she called, "you copy?" Silence. "Paolo?" She spoke louder, as if that made any difference with her gain pushed wide open.
"Are we deaf, Ciari? Or is it worse?"
"Doesn't matter. We have no option. All we can do is flash the Mayday beacons and hope."
"How do we play this?"
"We stand facing each other. You shoot, I'll hold us together."
"How romantic. Just don't squeeze too hard, okay; my ribs are sore enough."
They fastened their chest harnesses and Ciari took Nicole in his arms. The tether line itself was their weak link; it had to be clipped onto a quick-release latch, so they could cut completely loose from the derelict once they were clear. Otherwise, they'd simply be dragged along behind it until the rope fouled some other piece of wreckage and spun them back into the main hull. Of course, by then, chances were they'd be long dead of suffocation. That might be their fate, regardless, if Wanderer missed their transmission, if the crew wasn't on the ball. A pop of color caught Nicole's eye—one of her internal status telltales shifting from orange to red, backpack malfunction. Nothing critical but a harbinger of worse to come.
She couldn't fit both arms around Ciari's helmet and had to aim the bulky pistol one-handed. Naturally, that hand shook. To her, it seemed to jump all over the place. They only had this one shot; it had to be perfect. But, she remembered, that was true for everything in space. Perfection was the rule, death the reward for cheating. Hold your breath—in her mind's eye, she returned to the Colorado mountains, her goonie summer at the Academy, when civilians were processed quickly, efficiently, ruthlessly into fledgling officers; she lay on her belly, squinting at a target, listening to her instructor, squeezing off round after careful round. Let it out slow. She'd surprised herself with a respectable score. Paul DaCuhna went to the Olympics on the rifle team. She didn't mind. In the air, dog-fighting, she invariably blew him to kingdom come. Squeeze the trigger.
First Flight Page 10
