"Oh my god . . . you don't have an Environmental chemscan. Lieutenant, get your people out now. You're sitting on a bomb." He'd figured that out; terror and guilt almost strangled him. He pushed them down. Later. Right now he had to get his people to safety. "Wait—tell them to move slowly. If they run through a pool of the stuff, and mix it, that's when it'll blow. Turn off those lights you rigged. Can you vent to vacuum?"
"We just—" Barin bit that off, switched channels, and called his team. "Emergency—" Heads turned toward him. "We have a potentially explosive gas mix. Don't run—we don't want to move the stuff around more than we have to. Whoever's closest to the lock, douse the lights." The lock. The portable airlock . . . would it hold pressure if there was an explosion? He switched back to the EO. "Sir, we accessed SE-14 through a portable airlock; if this compartment goes, it may not hold."
"I've already alerted them, Lieutenant. Get your people out. Vent to the vacuum if you can."
Could he? If they took the patch off . . . at least it wouldn't be an explosion in a closed space. "We could try to take the patch off—" He hoped the EO would say it was impossible, not worth the risk.
"Do it," the EO said. "If there's an explosion in that compartment we could lose the whole ship—"
And it would be his fault, because he hadn't checked to see that they had a chemscan programmed for Environmental. Barin shivered, anticipating what the captain would say, or his grandmother. Again he pushed it aside. No time.
He switched back to the team channel. Who was nearest? Telleen and O'Neil.
"Petty Officer O'Neil—" He saw, down the compartment, O'Neil turn towards him. "We need to vent this compartment immediately to vacuum. The EO has authorized us to tear down that patch. You four—" He couldn't think of their names, but they were closest to the airlock. "There by the airlock. Get out now. Has anyone identified a methane line leak?"
The EO's voice came in on his other channel. "If it's from a tank, it'll be in the outboard array, about a third of the way aft in that chamber; if it's a line, it could be anywhere."
Barin glanced over and saw Pivot Ghormley standing approximately in that location, about seven meters away. "What've you got, Ghormley?"
"Dent in the fermentation chamber, sir. There's a . . . a kind of crack in this little pipe here from some sort of collection tank—I could seal it—"
"Too late," the EO said. "You're probably standing in a pool of methane—if you stir it up . . ."
"Ghormley, stay where you are. Do not move," Barin said. Then to the EO, "I'm standing by the photosynthesis chamber. And there's a crack in the oxygen line." He looked down, and at that moment someone cut the lights.
"Lieutenant?" That was O'Neil.
"I'm standing in the oxygen," Barin said. "If I don't kick it around, this explosion may not happen. You get that patch torn down. Everybody who's not with you—except Ghormley and me—get out, but don't run." He could see their headlamps moving; he could see them cycling through. Surely they'd be safer in the corridor; surely someone would get them through the blast doors to the other side of the ship. He found himself counting the disappearing lights. One safe. Two. Then a pause, and, three, four . . .
"Sir, I'm scared—" That was Ghormley. The kid, the newest of the bunch. And he, Barin, had condemned this kid to die, maybe.
"Well," Barin said, "I'm not any too happy myself, but if we don't dance a jig, we can still get out of this in one piece."
"Do you really think so?" Ghormley's voice was high and tense.
Of course he didn't think so, but what good would it do to tell the kid that? "If they get that patch off," Barin said, "the rest of the gases in here will vent to vacuum. It's cold now; it'll be colder then, and it takes heat—" But not much, he knew, not with methane and oxygen. Firedamp, miner's enemy. Anything might set it off. "And even if it blows, it won't be confined—"
"I don't like this—" Ghormley said. "I can't just stand here—"
"Sure you can," Barin said. "Smartest thing you can do." Another light, and another, vanished out the airlock. Four remained, at the aft end of the chamber, working to remove the patch they'd tried so hard to put on. "If we don't mix the two, they won't blow up."
"But sir, we was all walking around, all over; they gotta be mixed already."
What a time for Ghormley to show reasoning ability. "It hasn't blown yet," Barin said. "I promise not to kick my oxygen at you if you won't kick your methane at me . . ."
"Are you scared, sir?"
Of course he was scared, but did Ghormley need to hear it? He was saved by O'Neil's voice.
"Got a leak, Lieutenant." O'Neil's headlamp bobbed. "We'll just widen 'er out a bit—" Barin could feel through his bootsoles the impact of O'Neil's blows on the sides of the crack. "She's spalled off quite a lot—we should be able to—get—more—open—"
Barin started to ask if they had their safety lines hooked on, and realized that that was probably not a high priority at the moment. Should he bother to clip onto the tank beside him? If there was an explosion, it wouldn't help much. It might even rip his p-suit apart.
"Can you see the pressure gauge from where you are, sir?"
"No—"
"It's dropping," said the EO. "We've got you on full monitoring now. It's still dangerous." Great. They'd get to watch him get blown away.
"Do we need a bigger hole?" Barin asked.
"Wouldn't hurt," the EO said.
"Will do, sir," O'Neil said. He sounded calm enough. More shivering vibrations in the deck . . . Barin tried not to think of the effect on a puddle of cold gas of such vibrations—shaking it, dispersing it faster than it might have gone on its own, mixing it . . . he kept his eyes on the far end, where suddenly a large section of bulkhead seemed to fold back like paper, and he was looking out into blackness speckled with lights that might be stars or the worklights of the outside repair crews.
"Got it," O'Neil said.
"Get yourselves out," Barin said. "It'll start flowing your way."
"What about you?"
"Oh, I think Ghormley and I will stand here awhile and let things clear out—go on, now."
The lights moved up the compartment, toward the airlock entrance, more slowly than he wanted. Probably O'Neil was making them stay on the safety line; airflow out that size hole wouldn't be strong, but the deck down there was slick. Two reached the airlock, opened it, and went through; the others were almost there.
Barin turned his head to watch them, as they worked their way up the inboard bulkhead, the arc of his headlamp sweeping across the compartment.
"No! Don't leave me behind!" Ghormley's voice cracked; Barin looked back to see him plunge away from his position.
"No! Don't—" He knew as he said it that once in motion Ghormley wouldn't stop, that he had miscalculated again, this time in his judgment of men.
He had time for an instant of pity, for a thought of Esmay, and then the flash came, too bright to see.
Chapter Nine
Terakian Fortune
Esmay stared at the same page she'd read many times before. She had nothing to do; with the ship overcrewed, no one needed her help. Hours and days ran together; she tried not to think about how long it was taking to get anywhere, how much time passed in which anything might be happening. The Fortune's last datafeed, before going into jump, had included nothing substantive about the mutiny, only speculation as to its effect on prices.
Barin was out there somewhere. He might be in combat, and here she was, stuck on a ship that might just as well have TARGET blaring from its beacon. She held a mental argument with his grandmother, in which—since she had both parts—she could win. In real life . . . in real life, admirals had the power.
In the middle of her sleep shift, Esmay rolled over, tangling her legs in the sheet yet again. She pulled it straight with a muffled oath. This would never do. What's done is done. What's over's over. She closed her eyes firmly, until speckles and smears of light rolled across the darkness, took a de
ep breath, and . . . she could feel Barin's touch on her face, her neck, her body. She could smell him, taste him . . . he was calling her, longing and fear both in his voice, and then, in a great flash of light, he was gone. Esmay sat up abruptly, forgetting the geometry of her compartment, and banged her head smartly on the cabinet overhead.
Would she ever see him again? Was he thinking of her? Was he even alive? She snapped on the light, blinked back hot tears, set her jaw, and grabbed a robe. She could go shower.
She opened the door to find Betharnya standing just outside.
"I heard a thud," the Betharnya woman said, in her odd accent. "I wondered if you were all right."
"I'm fine," Esmay said. "I'm going for a shower."
"No one hit you?"
"No."
"You have a lump on your head, at the hairline," Betharnya said, with professional detachment.
"No one hit me," Esmay said, suddenly angry. "You can look if you want to." She flung the door aside, but the woman caught it in midswing and took a very thorough look inside.
"Ah."
"Satisfied that I'm not hiding a lover?" asked Esmay.
"Yes. And that you are miserable." Betharnya closed the compartment door quietly.
"It's none of your business," Esmay said, and headed for the showers, but the woman kept stride with her.
"It may be my business if you endanger us. You were having nightmares?"
"You were just standing around outside my compartment spying on me?"
"No. I was not. I was walking past, I heard mutterings and then a loud noise, like someone being hit, then a curse, then the click of a light switch, then the rustle of clothing, then you came out . . ."
"You couldn't hear all that," Esmay said.
"I have very good hearing. It is a curse."
"It is a fake."
"You are not so polite as you are at meals, Sera."
"It is the middle of my sleep shift, I have had no sleep, I had a bad dream, and I whacked my head on the cabinet, and yes, you're right, I'm upset. And miserable."
"A shower is a very good idea, then," Betharnya said. They had come to the door of the shower area. She turned away. "Don't make it too hot," she said over her shoulder.
"Are you just going to walk off?" Esmay asked. The woman waved a hand, in a gesture that could have meant any of several things, and kept walking.
Esmay walked into the shower room and saw herself in the mirrors above the sinks. The rapidly purpling lump was all too obvious. And entirely too much: she burst into tears, beating her fists on the smooth, cold edge of one of the sinks. Barin, Barin, Barin! No one came in; as far as she knew no one heard. Then she went into a shower cubicle and washed off the sweat and tears of her misery. Back in her compartment, she went to sleep and slept until the alarm rang.
"Who slugged you?" asked Basil at breakfast. She already knew what she looked like; she had seen it while getting dressed.
"Nobody—I woke up too fast in the middle of the night and whacked myself on the cabinet."
"Did you put ice on it?"
"No—I didn't even think of that."
"You should always put ice on it," Basil said quite seriously. "When my daughter falls down and gets a bump, my wife puts ice on it."
Betharnya strolled in. "Ah, you have a wife?"
"You know I do." But the back of his neck slowly turned a rich crimson; Esmay watched, fascinated.
"And you, Sera—your head is better?"
"Much better," Esmay said. "If anyone needs any help, I'm quite able to stand a watch today." She offered every day.
"No, no," Goonar said, coming in with a plateful of something that smelled delicious. "You're not standing any watches—you're our guest."
"Well, I should make myself useful," Esmay said.
"Mmm. What you would be most useful for is probably not something you want to do," Goonar said. "We could use some information on this mutiny business, for instance."
"I don't have any," Esmay said. A chill ran down her back.
"Ah. Well, I didn't expect you would, or that you'd tell us if you did. Loyalty's a good thing to have, even to something you're estranged from. Families change their minds."
"I don't think Fleet will," Esmay said.
"You never know. And your sort of talent isn't limited to combat operations anyway. Tactical sense is useful in many places."
"But—" But I loved it was the wrong thing to say, Esmay knew.
"However," Goonar went on, "If there are unclassified things you could tell us—what we might expect, as traders, from Fleet in this mutiny situation—or what the mutineers might do—"
"I haven't been briefed," Esmay said. "I was on my way to a new duty station. I know what's on the news, that's about all. But if I had to guess, I'd say this is a serious attempt to seize power—a military coup. There are people in Fleet who think the civilian government is weak, and doesn't support the military enough."
"That sounds like our cousin Kaim," Basil said, leaning forward and giving her a look clearly meant to convey unusual trust. "Kaim's in Fleet himself, a senior NCO, but he's always been a bit odd, and on his last visit home he was extremely odd. We don't know if he's finally lost it—his father did—or what to think."
"Do you think he's part of the mutiny?"
"I don't know—I hope not—"
"He's always going on about plots and things," Basil said. "Mostly we don't pay attention to him, not that we see him that often, unless we can see how it affects trade. Last time he was talking about rejuvenation problems and how he thought Fleet was using NCOs as lab animals, he said. That's why they shut down inquiry into the rejuv failures."
Esmay shook her head. "Everybody's had some bad drug batches come out of the Patchcock plants, and from what I heard, it was Hobart Conselline who shut off research on it." It occurred to her then that if the mutiny had anything to do with rejuvenation, that probably meant it wasn't supported by the Consellines.
"Ah. That makes sense. This whole rejuvenation thing—it's going to make trouble, one way or another. Take me—the way our company's set up, the old yield place to the young as the young mature. What's to happen if the old don't—if they stay young? It wouldn't matter if it were only a few rich people, but what if my uncle and father were still ship captains? Where would I be?"
"I don't know," Esmay said.
"But do you think the mutineers will attack civilian ships, traders? Other civilian targets?"
"They might," Esmay said. "To put pressure on the government, they have to either defeat the loyal military, or show that it can't protect you. Or both. I'm afraid you can expect trouble, and soon."
Goonar shook his head and said nothing for a long moment. Then he said, "I should tell you, Sera, that we're carrying a fugitive to Castle Rock. A priest from the Benignity."
"A priest?"
"Yes. He says they think he's a heretic with some kind of secret. Fleet knows about him; they'll take charge of him at Castle Rock."
"What would Fleet want with a priest?" Esmay asked.
"I don't know," Goonar said. "I want him off our hands, anyway." He glanced at the chronometer. "I'd better be off."
R.S.S. Rosa Maior
He hadn't expected to wake up; he'd said sorry and goodbye and all that.
The lights scared him; he heard someone saying "Turn those off!" over and over, and didn't recognize his own voice. Then a dark shape came between him and the light, and spoke to him. For an instant he saw it flying away, silhouetted against the light, then it resolved into a person beside the bed.
"Take it easy, Serrano," the voice said.
Serrano. He blinked, and his vision cleared. He was a Serrano, though he wasn't sure which one. Serrano meant duty, meant expectations, meant . . . someone had died, and it was his fault.
"How many?" he said, around a tongue that felt like a dirty sock.
"Do you know your name?" the person said.
"Serrano," he said, repeating what he'd
heard.
"Full name?"
He blinked again. He was fairly sure he wasn't one of the female Serranos, but which one of the men . . . ? "Sabado," he said.
"Still confused," the voice said. "Back to sleep, son."
Son? Was that his father? He was fairly sure it wasn't his father. Darkness closed over him while he was still puzzling about it.
The Serrano Succession Page 55
