Adrift

by Rob Boffard

  “What?”

  “Anything else I might need to watch out for?”

  “Just … come back safe, OK?”

  She smiles. “I will, kiddo. Thanks.”

  Hannah slots the helmet over her head, sliding it one click to the left to lock it in place. Corey hears the tiny hiss as the seals kick in, even over the rumble of the engine.

  Chapter 22

  Lorinda Anna Maria Esteban floats towards the ruined gate.

  She pivots gently, using the hand controller to spin herself around a piece of debris, with only a light burst on the thrusters to help her. It’s amazing how quickly the old moves come back. She hasn’t done a walk in a long while, but it’s like she never left.

  The suit’s thrusters are powered by a highly compressed propellant in her pack. Her movements are controlled by a joystick, connected to a module on her left wrist, that slots right into her hand. She tweaks the stick, gently squeezing to adjust the thrusters, her motions helped along by servos in the suit gloves. Her lens, automatically synced to the suit’s processor, displays her data. Her old layout presets still work just fine.

  She hasn’t felt this alive in ages.

  Lorinda is sixty-five years old, and feels like it. Oh, there are plenty of anti-ageing solutions people use, or nanobots that can repair tired bones, but no insurance company is going to cover them – and she and her husband definitely didn’t have the funds to. It doesn’t bother her too much, even if she has to wake up three times every night to use the bathroom.

  She doesn’t handle stairs well, and ladders are out of the question. But space? Space is easy on her bones. Space makes her feel like she did when she was thirty, when she spent more time outside their habitat than inside it. Space she can do.

  It’s not that she minds regular gravity. It’s much easier to concentrate on the day-to-day running of a mining company when your coffee mug isn’t floating away every five seconds, and you can actually sit down at a desk instead of having to tether yourself to it. So the company office on Asteroid ZX5-B73K, Kuiper Quadrant 25, had its own gravity well. She and Craig could do their jobs and eat their meals and sleep in relative comfort. Make love, too – contrary to what they taught in high-school biology, you could have sex in zero-G. It was just so much better to do it the other way round.

  Sex aside, she was always more comfortable bouncing around in zero-G than she was riding a desk. Craig was more than happy to stay in Central, manning the comms, handling the day-to-day stuff and the buyers’ calls while she oversaw the equipment and directed operations outside. Even after decades on the Belt, her eyesight was still OK – she’d had a scary incident with a cataract a few years back, but their insurance (the one that wouldn’t cover anti-ageing meds) was paid up, and cataracts were in their coverage. No wriggling out of that one.

  The Hale Mining Company – named for Craig’s grandmother, after she helped them out with some startup capital – might not have been the largest operation in the Kuiper Belt, but it had got pretty big by the end. Seven employees, a dozen asteroid rigs and a couple of six-figure contracts that meant they were able to pay their rig-hounds a decent bonus every year.

  “You’re too friendly with the clients,” she’d told Craig once. “We could be getting double-annual from Calomar, but you let him buy you a beer once in a while and you think he’s your pal.”

  Craig had shrugged. “So you go talk to him next time he’s out here.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  He’d smiled, and gone back to his dinner. They both knew she wouldn’t – she’d rather get her hand caught in a rock vacuum than handle a contract negotiation. And truth was, she didn’t mind too much. As long as they could pay their rig-hounds, and she could snuggle into bed with Craig after dinner, safe in the knowledge that the Europa Bank wasn’t going to jump through the local gate with a repo vessel, she was happy.

  And then, one day, Craig was gone. He’d been sitting in Central, like always, talking to her on the comms – something about the risotto he was planning on making for dinner – and then the line had gone silent. She’d assumed a malfunction, a pain in the ass but not critical. After all, she didn’t need him to repair a faulty back-line fuse.

  She’d gone in, de-suited, and found him at his desk. Blood clot, the doc had told her later. Nothing anyone could have done. Quick and painless.

  For Craig, maybe. For her, not so much.

  Not so much at all.

  They’d never had any kids. That was the thing about living in space. She had no doubt that the radiation shielding at Central and on their suits worked just fine, but forty years of life in the Belt had a price. One not even Craig’s grandmother could have helped them pay.

  Selling up had been startlingly easy – not just the decision, but the whole process. What else was she going to do? Sit in the office while Mitchell Cheng handled the rig-hounds? She could have done – their claim was square, as was the paperwork proving it, so no one was going to take it from her. Other companies had tried, bigger ones than Hale, and a quick visit to the Frontier Mining Ops offices put paid to them. But after one week as the new Central command, Lorinda knew she was done.

  Calomar, who by then was one of their biggest clients, came out for the memorial service – and this time Lorinda was the one buying him a beer. The payment – cash only, thank you very much – had been enough to set her rig-hounds up with two years’ salary each, while they looked for more work. Cheng’d probably blown most of it at the first bar he could find, but that was his problem, not hers. And the money had been enough to finance the travel she and Craig had always talked about. First stop: the famed Sigma Station, home to the best views of the Horsehead Nebula in the entire Frontier territory.

  She could almost hear Craig’s sardonic tone, the drawl from his Texas upbringing. Look how well that turned out.

  “Quiet, bucko,” she says to herself, as she tacks around another spinning hunk of debris. “Mama’s working.”

  “Say again?” Volkova’s voice sounds tinny over the helmet comms.

  Shoot. She’d forgotten she was on an open comms line. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “You doing OK out there?” Hannah’s voice this time.

  The Red Panda is a tiny dot behind Lorinda. She’s facing away from it, but there’s a helpful display in her helmet, linked to a camera on her oxygen tank. She pulls the control stick down, tilting herself towards the centre of what used to be the gate. “Just fine. I’m going in for a closer look.”

  Most of the wreckage has been blown into the distance; Lorinda can see the pieces spinning away, where they’ll drift until the end of time. But a large portion of the debris is still there, turning in place, the pieces brushing by each other in a silent dance that sends smaller splinters of them flying. The debris field stretches for miles, just like it did at the station.

  Lorinda angles herself towards one of the larger clusters. The Neb is behind them, throwing soft light across the remains of the gate, highlighting it against the black. There are fragments of what look like a robot probe – more than one, judging by the number. Makes sense. The first thing the Frontier would have done, when they realised the Sigma gate was down, would be to send probes to figure out what happened. No problem for the Colony ship, which could have sat here picking them off at its leisure.

  The Colony ship. It had to have gone through the gate – it was the only way out. Could there be another gate nearby? One they didn’t know about? That didn’t make sense either. Gates took a long, long time to build – it’s not like the Colonies could just knock one up without anyone noticing.

  But if the Colony ship did go through the existing Sigma gate, then how did it get away from the Frontier at the other end? What the hell is going on here?

  The Frontier must have sent probes when the gate went down, but Lorinda can’t see any active ones flying around. Then again, by now they’re probably aware something is badly wrong, which means they’ll be putting together something a litt
le more substantial than a basic repair probe. That’ll take them a good long while, if she knows the Frontier. Not that it matters. Unless they figure out a way to rebuild the gate in the next few days, it’s not going to help anyone on the Red Panda get home.

  Still, maybe she can find something out here …

  She might be comfortable in space, but there’s no denying that it’s harder than it was when she was young. There’s an ache in her knees, a gentle, throbbing pain that she knows she’ll have to deal with later. Fingers, too. At least her feet don’t hurt. They do when the gravity’s Earth-normal – she’s spent far less time in that environment than outside, and the soles of her feet are smooth and sensitive as baby skin. She’s used to it by now, but when it comes to her poor paws, she’ll take zero-G any time.

  She glances at the heads-up display on her lens, noting her oxygen supply. It’s lower than it should be. She’s breathing too fast, working her muscles harder than they’ve been worked since she left the Belt. Something smears across the helmet glass: a tiny drop of sweat, stretched out by zero gravity. The systems in modern suits usually do a pretty good job of keeping skin dry, which means she must be sweating buckets.

  “See anything?” Volkova says. Her voice is fainter now.

  “Nothing yet.”

  Not that she knows what she’s looking for. That’s really the rub, isn’t it? With the gate destroyed, there isn’t even a way to send a message to anyone. All she can do is get in close, and have a look-see. You never know.

  Bullshit. There’s almost certainly no freeze-dried food floating around, and the electronics in any comms module are likely to have been killed by the vacuum. Being out here is better than the endless bickering inside that damn ship.

  Maybe she just won’t go back. It’d be a good way to go – turn off the oxygen and just drift away.

  “I don’t like this,” says Volkova.

  “I’m OK.” Lorinda tweaks her shoulder thrusters, sending herself into a very gentle somersault.

  “Da, you OK now. But when we are rescued, maybe I have to tell my bosses why I let a passenger go for a walk in space. Not a good conversation.”

  Despite herself, Lorinda smiles. She hasn’t said too much to the captain before this, but it’s hard not to like her. All at once, she feels guilty for wanting to stay out here.

  Volkova continues. “Besides, if you die, I’ll only have the guide for company. The guide, and a bunch of passengers who act like little babies. You are the only person who doesn’t. Should never have let you go for—”

  Silence.

  “Captain, come in?” Lorinda can’t see the Red Panda any more – it isn’t on her tank cam, or anywhere in her field of view. There’s nothing but the silent, twisting debris. Her heart begins to beat a little faster. The dropped comms remind her of the day she lost Craig, cutting a little too close to the bone.

  She tries again, keeping the nervousness out of her voice. “Panda, can you hear me?”

  A tiny ding-dong sound answers her, followed by a cheerful male voice. “Hello, and thank you for attempting to contact the Red Panda, registration number XT560 dash T1, a Sigma Destination Tours vessel. We are having trouble connecting your transmission, but we aim to do so shortly. Thank you for your patience.”

  Terrible, tinny jazz music fills her helmet. Lorinda breathes a sigh of relief. The voice means that at least the Red Panda is still there – although, why wouldn’t it be? It’s probably just a problem with the signal.

  “Disable music,” she says.

  A saxophone solo kicks in, screeching in her ear.

  She winces. “Red Panda: disable—”

  Something collides with her right leg.

  It’s a piece of debris. A big one. She doesn’t know how she missed it, but it sends her into a wild spin. There’s a second of sickening hiss, and she’s sure she’s got a leak, sure that any second her suit is going to decompress. Then the hiss cuts off, replaced by a muted beeping. She can’t find the source of it; nausea is rolling up from her stomach, twisting her intestines. She’s breathing even faster now, drops of sweat hovering in front of her eye.

  She blinks, and her eyelash catches one, splitting it into smaller globules which sting her retina. The debris field whirls around her. She doesn’t know where the Red Panda is, and she certainly can’t find the spot she was aiming for.

  She works the thrusters, very gently, switching between spurts from her waist and shoulders, slowly bringing herself to a halt. The damn sax is still playing, but, right then, she has a burst of inspiration. “Close connection,” she says, and the music cuts off.

  She breathes a shaky sigh. That was not good. She has to be more careful.

  There’s a piece of debris a few hundred yards away, something that looks like the front section of a trading vessel. Maybe she can get into the control room, get some of the data off the computer. God knows what use it’ll be, but it’s better than nothing. She tries to raise the Red Panda again, and cuts the connection when she hears the same message as before. She’s worried, but only a little. Communication will only become a problem when she tries to get back inside, and she can burn that bridge when she comes to it.

  Lorinda smiles, marvelling at how one of Craig’s favourite sayings came so readily to the front of her mind.

  She’s pointed directly at the wrecked ship now. She gives all the thrusters a full burst, her shoulders aching as she shoots forward. The O2 meter on her lens reads just under 75 per cent – more than enough for what she has in mind.

  She’s almost at the ship when she realises she’s overcompensated slightly. The last thrust has caused her to tilt forward, as if she’s leaning over a precipice. She’s about to correct it when she looks down, and forgets about everything else. Her mouth falls open, and she exhales a hot, horrified breath.

  The Red Panda is maybe half a mile below her, side-on, its viewing dome pointed in the direction of her three o’clock. And coming up beneath it, like a shark in murky water, is the giant bulk of the Colony ship.

  Chapter 23

  “Can we try her again?” Hannah says.

  “We tried her three times already.” Volkova is frowning at the screens, as if they’ve personally offended her. “Nothing. Comms are down, like the heating system for the water.”

  “Then can we get in closer?”

  Volkova sighs. “There’s too much debris this time. I don’t want to risk a ship rupture. Just because we’re all dead anyway doesn’t mean I want it to happen sooner.”

  Hannah doesn’t quite know what to say to that. She’s a little surprised at how calm she is. She hasn’t had a blackout, or a panic attack. Volkova hasn’t had to tell her another story to lift her spirits. Instead, she just feels numb. The idea that this ship is the last place she’ll ever see is an abstract concept, one she can’t get her head around. It feels like a movie. Like the credits will roll at any second, and she can disconnect her lens and be somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

  Somewhere with food. She’s been trying to ration her second bag of soychips, taking one at a time, and it’s getting harder to resist. She can’t stop herself thinking about it. More importantly, she can’t stop thinking about lasagne – the one her dad used to make, maybe once or twice a year, with meat that had to be imported from Earth. It’s like a cut on the roof of her mouth that she keeps wanting to touch.

  And she’s thirsty again, which worries her. They’ve got more than enough water to drink, for now – just chisel some off and wait for it to melt – but it’s like her body needs double its usual amount, just to function. Hardly surprising, given what they’ve been through.

  The cockpit speakers leap to life, issuing a series of loud clicks. Volkova groans, and, a second later, the Panda’s computer begins to speak. “C-c-captain. We are out of range of Sigma Station comm—”

  The voice cuts off abruptly. Two seconds later, it comes back – only this time the voice has changed, going from a cheerful male voice to a sultry female one
with an Australian accent. “Setting two. We are out of range of Sig—Sig-Sig-Sigma Station communications array. Do you wish to issue a distress beacon?”

  “Stupid voice is glitching,” Volkova mutters, tapping at the controls. “Thought I shut it up the first time.”

  The cockpit door clicks open, and Jack steps in, ducking his head under the door frame. Hannah winces. She’s just not in the mood right now.

  “She find anything?” Jack says, leaning on the back of the captain’s chair. The space is almost too small for the three of them.

  Volkova glances at Hannah, with a look that says, You deal with him.

  “We can’t reach her,” Hannah says. “She’s out of range, or something.” She’s not, but it seems easier than telling him the comms might be dead.

  “Out of range?” He peers out through the glass. “That’s crazy. She can’t have gone that far.”

  “Captain,” says the Panda, sounding as if it’s about to suggest they all slip into something more comfortable. “I am d-d-d-detecting multiple passengers in the cockpit area. I am detecting removal of a passenger vaaaaaacuum safety suit from the escape module. These are not—” the voice glitches again, this time coming back male, with a light Scottish brogue “—optimum conditions for piloting this vessel safely. Do you wish to issue a distress beacon?”

  “Like a fucking cockroach,” Volkova says to herself, stabbing at one of the on-screen options.

  An alarm goes off. Three quick, urgent beeps, repeated, hollow and terrifying. Hannah’s head snaps around, flicking between the screens, trying to find the source. There’s something very different about this alert noise, something guttural and insistent, something very, very bad. A moment later, the ship says. “Projectile lock. Projectile lock.”

  “Blyad!” Volkova grabs the stick and the debris field starts to slide away.

  “What the hell?” Jack says, his voice almost drowned by the beeping.

  Then they see it.

  The Colony ship drops into view like a spider moving smoothly down a thread of silk. It’s closing fast, its angled cockpit pointed right at them. Against the Neb, its fins look like long needles. It’s perhaps two miles away, maybe less, and, as Hannah looks at it, the air catches in her throat, becoming a solid blockage.