Come In, Collins (Riddled Space Book 2)

by Bill Patterson

  “OK. Get on with it.”

  Frank nodded. “OTV Sandy.” He stopped and let them think about that for a bit. “I talked to Bubba Cranford, and got his impression of the wreck. There's severe damage to the pilot cabin, but not so much in the engine area. I was in charge of the ships' stores for its launch. I signed off on the propellant reload. Its tanks are loaded with LH2 and LOX.

  “Yes, more LOX. I wouldn't bother you for that. What is important and magical is the LH2. And the fuel cells on the craft.”

  “Fuel cells!” called Horst. “Why didn't I think about them?”

  “Every engineer misses something,” said McCrary. “If it's any consolation, I forgot about them, too. But Maleski, I don't think they're robust enough to handle our electrical needs.”

  “Not by themselves, no. But we have a few cells in the parts storage, for replacement in case one of OTV's went south. We can hook them all up, and use them to supplement the batteries during the night. The magic here is that the fuel cells will trickle charge the batteries constantly. That way, they don't need to support the entire load completely.”

  Horst and McCrary looked at each other. Horst shrugged. “Can't hurt.”

  “We can also rig the solar cells on Sandy, and split the water back into LH2 and LOX when the sun comes back up. Sandy can actually serve as a kind of electrical lifeboat until we get Mighty Thor back up.”

  “Have you run the numbers?” McCrary said. “I want just one of you to do the numbers. Frank, that would be you. I want Horst to check them. Then we'll put it in action. Sheila, back to your detail. Frank, if you solve this one, then I'll put you in for a dose of my best Scotch...whenever we get out of these suits. Everyone, get out of here, there's work to be done!”

  ***

  Bubba Cranford was perched atop Sandy, screwing the support beam into the flimsy skin of the grounded craft. He had slipped into the triage clinic, wrestled his spacesuit off, and was relieved to find his left foot with only second degree frostbite. Now, some twenty meters off the lunar soil, he was mighty glad that both feet were functioning.

  “A shame. A damned shame. Never going to fly again, and we've got to put these things on her corpse.”

  “Oh, stop it. She's just a hunk of metal. At least she's going to save our butts.” Travis was scoffing at Bubba from the ground.

  “Don't listen to him, Sandy. He's never met Panjar,” said Bubba. “I have. I know you're wounded, but you'll do your best to save us. Out here. All alone. And we're just sucking out your life. I'm so sorry, Sandy, but I promise they will never forget you.”

  “You OK, Bubba? Better check your rebreather. You're sounding hypoxic. Who is this Panjar person?”

  “Panjar was the heart and soul of the UNSOC Space Station Chaffee. He had a strange affinity for all things mechanical. Some techs said it was spooky, the way balky machinery would suddenly start working whenever he was around.” Bubba was posted on the Chaffee on his last time upstairs. He scoffed at Panjar with the rest of the technicians, then was skeptical, and ended up a believer.

  “Travis, he was like The Machine Whisperer. According to Panjar, all you had to do was feel for the machine, and you could make it sit up and beg. He thought all machines had some kind of soul or something. Just feel fer it, talk with it, and bingo—you're a Whisper too. That's why I came to Collins, I wanted to see if I could make it work, too. Who wins that Dogbone?”

  Sandy was mortally wounded; she would never fly again. That didn't mean she was useless. Thus, the solar panels. Bubba apologized to her first, patting her landing jacks and explaining why he would have to operate on her, then he climbed up to the top of the leaning spacecraft to affix the panels to her outer skin. Later, he would perform the electrical hookups. Fortunately, the umbilicals still attached to her from before The Event had escaped damage from the subsequent rain of stone, so she was still a part of Collins’ electrical network. Her batteries were fully charged as well.

  “You know something, Bubba? I bet her computers are still operational, too.”

  Bubba stopped dead atop the stricken craft. “I never thought of that! You know the main computer is offline, the network's down, and they're running numbers off of commpads, right? We better tell Horst. Sandy here is not just a hunk of metal. Did you hear that, my love? You're still alive and we need you! You will save our lives, and everyone will know about the OTV that saved Moonbase!”

  Travis shook his head. “You’re nuts, Bubba. Watch your balance up there.”

  ***

  Peter Brinker trudged out on the now well-worn patch out to the OTV Sandy. “I can't believe it,” he said. Earthlight made the surface of the moon ghostly in the dark of the lunar night. “Who would have ever guessed that this broken chunk of metal would end up as the alternate control center for the Moon?”

  He smiled as he passed Bubba Cranford on the path. Bubba was the unofficial guardian of Sandy, acclaimed by all of the controllers. When he was absent, Sandy developed glitches and problems. When Bubba was there, crooning to the twisted, damaged hunk of metal, the OTV would listen and respond. Sometimes, late in the watch, Peter almost felt that the craft was alive and murmuring to him just slightly too softly to hear. The random bits of stone that were still slamming into the surface made him fear not for his own safety, but for Sandy’s. It was a private and special feeling, and he was reluctant to share it with anyone, even Bubba.

  Some Folk Just Need Killin'

  UNSOC Lunar Colony Michael Collins, June 30 2082, 1129 EDT

  The Dark, Day 7 of 14: The Lunar night was about half over, and the numbers were encouraging. The fuel cells on Sandy were delivering their quantum of power, enabling Horst to reduce the drain on the batteries. It looked like, barring any accidents, they just might make it through the night.

  The cafeteria cubic was cleared and patched, and the pressure testing was progressing nicely. The honey chambers, as they were called, had been set up and were functioning as public restrooms. A new class of humor sprang up around those who seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time in the chambers, changing out the sanitary fittings in their suits.

  The crew was beginning to adjust to their situation, but, as with any large group of people, there were those to whom the situation was intolerable.

  Marcel Bossenhagen was due to return to Earth on OTV Sandy, but The Event, as the crew took to calling the still unexplained explosion in the South, occurred a week before Marcel's flight home. Now he was marooned, and he was unhappy, and he let anyone unlucky enough to be around him know about it.

  “How are we ever going to get home? I've been outside. Ever look at the Earth? I have. Look at the dark side. Fireballs all over the planet. Stands to reason. I bet all of space is filled with junk. We'll never make it back. Five days of playing dodge'em back to Earth? Not only are we never going to get back, we're never going to get resupply up from Earth. It's nothing but a long and lingering death up here. I'm with Irma. I say we get hammered and go out with a bang.”

  “Better not let McCrary hear you,” said Jimmy Fields, one of the Moondogs who believed in survival. “Remember what he did to the scientists? You don't want him to know you're spreading dissension.”

  “Hey, it's my right to do that if I want,” said Irma. “Marcel has the same rights.”

  “I don't think Collins is exactly a democracy,” Jimmy said. “I don't know he wouldn't space someone who was against him, but I wouldn't put it past him, either.”

  Marcel stopped his griping, at least publicly. But that didn't stop him from seeking out others who felt the same way he did. The numbers of the defeatists versus the survivors waxed and waned according to the groups' perception of their long-term survival, with each new crisis causing some to despair, and each crisis averted would nudge some into the survivor camp. The long-simmering tensions continued beneath the surface of the Collins, and there was bound to be an explosion at some point.

  ***

  The Dark, Day 9 of 14: Jimmy Field
s was running the one operational moon buggy across the regolith between the cave and the northeast entrance airlock, its rear cargo bin filled with tools from The Works, when a twinkle in the sky caught his eye. The sky used to be so still, so unchanging. Now, there was nothing but chaos up there. Most of the motes were debris from The Event, thrown up into space by whatever caused an explosion at the south pole area of the Moon. One of them, though, seemed different. For one, it was not moving very much in the sky. For two, it was growing perceptibly larger.

  He goosed the accelerator, spinning the metal mesh tires on the powdery surface, as frightened as he had ever been in his life. The buggy slammed across the surface and he skidded to a stop next to the airlock on the northeast end of the Collins. He hauled the door open, glanced once at the sky, and plugged his suit into the intercom circuit next to the control panel. He leaned on the annunciator button.

  “Control, Brinker.”

  “Peter, this is Fields, at northeast. Got a rock inbound. It's huge! Sound the alarm!” He unplugged, ran to the cargo bin, and began throwing the tools into the airlock chamber. He cycled through and just had time to dog down the inner hatch when the all-too-familiar ground shocks threw him around in the corridor. He covered his helmet with his arms, praying that his helmet would not shatter while he was battered into unconsciousness.

  ***

  The Dark, Day 10 of 14: As ground shocks go, it was less than one thousand times weaker than the original Event shock waves. But it was enough to spring leaks in some of the previously pressure-tight compartments. Casualties were light, though, mostly skin hemorrhages and eardrum injuries. But one of the Moondogs was on the bowl when his honey chamber sprang a leak. It was clear that he wasn't quite done when he staggered out of the chamber in his skintights and helmet, very angry and embarrassed, but alive.

  The damage might have been minimal, but the effect on morale was huge. The general feeling was one of very cautious optimism. They were alive, and making progress towards survival. Out of nowhere came a reminder that the Moon wasn't going to be that easy on them, and survival was still primarily a matter of random chance.

  ***

  The Dark, Day 12 of 14: McCrary wasn’t foolish. He knew there were many who didn't think they were going to survive long term. Engineering and good Moondog know-how solved the short-term survival failures one by one. There were only two days remaining before sunrise, and the remaining energy in the batteries was clearly enough to see them through until effective sunlight was available to charge the batteries again.

  When the cafeteria was certified as pressure tight for the second time, there was a general feeling of relief throughout the Collins. Eating was an exercise of gnawing through ration bars that had been stored for the past five years, dehydrated and tasteless. It powered the human animal, that was about the best that could be said for them. Although nobody thought that the opening of the cafeteria meant gourmet meals were just around the corner, they knew it was just one large step in the direction of normalcy.

  ***

  The Dark, Day 14 of 14: McCrary called a general meeting to coincide with the first rays of sunlight at Sandy. The crew gathered at the entrance to the cafeteria, wormed through the emergency airlock, and arranged themselves around the large room. Damage to the room had been light, mostly tables thrown around by the escaping atmosphere when the walls were cracked. Everything had desiccated in the kitchen and other non-pressure vessels, like the coffee pots, but the infrastructure was mostly unscathed. The burners still worked, if there was anything to cook.

  Ahmed Zaneen was no fool. He was the chef, and immediately started a large vat of coffee when he was able to get into the cafeteria. Moondogs who had been reduced to eating coffee powder out of the iron rations almost trampled each other to get the oversized mugs of caffeinated goodness.

  “Better enjoy it now,” Ahmed said. “We've got about six months of coffee left, and no resupply. I have no idea how it's going to work out.”

  That stopped the mad rush. Moondogs knew the value of coffee, and they shared their cups with others in line. In the end, everyone who wanted some had a cup. McCrary had watched this spontaneous reaction and nodded sagely.

  “Well, we better be about this, Horst,” he said. “Got all the numbers you need?”

  Horst nodded. “Thank heavens for the tablet computers in the Sandy. They were the only ones who didn't suffer any damage.” Horst had immediately appropriated them for the Engineers' use. His was bulging with damage control items, major subsystems data, consumables, and other items that had to be watched. “This is going to be rough.”

  “I know. Too bad Commander Lee is still on the binnacle list,” McCrary said. Despite the best medical care possible, the commander still inhabited the shadowy land of semi consciousness. The doctor did not hold out much hope for his full recovery, but worked with him some small fraction of every day regardless.

  ***

  McCrary and Horst made their way into the cafeteria. Some of the more mobile Sick Bay cases had preceded them. The medical staff were in Sick Bay along with the patients who could not be moved, watching the proceedings via video. The cameras in the cafeteria worked well enough.

  “Attention!” called Horst as he strode to the clear spot in front of the room. A makeshift podium stood, atop a rectangular cafeteria table.

  “Thank you, Horst,” said McCrary. “Relax, at ease. This will take a bit, but let me start at the top, and we’ll work our way down the list.

  “First, we are out of touch with Earth. I did not see the communications mast while I was outside. The power to a lot of the controllers' area, which includes the radio transmitters, is out as well.

  “Next, Commander Lee. I have seen and spoken with him. He has a grade four concussion. The skull is fractured, and things are very grim. He is only semiconscious most of the time. Lieutenant Commander Greeley died during the moonquakes. As the senior member of the crew remaining, I have assumed command until such time as Commander Lee feels competent to replace me. Moonbase Collins is owned by UNSOC, so we are nominally under a military command structure, but I understand that there are many, many civilians with us. Thus, I will hold the UN personnel to their military oaths, but I request that the rest of you follow my lead, as only with our combined efforts will we be able to get back on our feet.”

  “Bull!” shouted Marcel. “We're not going to make it, everyone knows it. Look at this,” he said, raising his coffee cup on high. “Six months, Ahmed said. Six months, and poof, no more coffee. What are we going to do then?”

  “Coffee. Really? You're going to jump off this rock over coffee?” asked McCrary. A chorus of laughter followed, but stopped when McCrary glared at them. “This is very serious. I understand that there are quite a few people like our colleague here who don't think we'll make it. I ask that everyone listen to the entire discussion here. Hopefully, we'll change your mind. That's a new one, though, coffee. We'll look into it.”

  “That's not all that's going to fail!” called Marcel.

  “Undoubtedly. It's all in how we view it, though, isn't it? Like I asked, please listen to the rest. We'll take questions towards the end, if you still need data.”

  “And how are we to know the data is real?” asked Marcel, not to be deterred. “How do I know you're not just jollying me along?”

  McCrary gripped the edges of the podium. Those who knew him best cringed slightly. This Marcel was a fool. McCrary just didn't do things like that.

  “Sir, I am Montgomery Scott McCrary. I was born to be an engineer. I come from a family of engineers. I was named after a famous though fictitious engineer. Engineers work with data. Facts. We leave the lying and fantasy to politicians. I graduated from the United States Military Academy, where the Honor Code still rules. Lying, cheating, falsehoods—all of these things I hate with a passion that you may not appreciate. In this, the most serious situation I have been in for a long time, there is simply no place for lies, fantasies, or distortions. I w
ill not lie to you. I hope you do not lie to me.

  “If you accuse me again of lying, without proof, we will have a serious problem. Please don't. I have enough on my plate. If you do not understand something, or you feel that you're not getting the complete story, go to your supervisor, or Horst, or myself. We will give you all the data we have. Are we clear?”

  Marcel realized the menace in his voice and gulped. The entire room was looking at him. “Clear. You still have to convince me that we're not all going to die.”

  “Fair enough. Let us continue the presentation.”

  McCrary introduced Horst.

  “Air, water, power. The big three. Air—we've got almost a megaliter of LOX in various tankage systems. Some are damaged, but the largest stores appear to be intact. So, while it's a pain to keep filling up the LOX in your suits, we're won't be reduced to gasping any time in the next couple of months.

  “Water is a bit more of a problem. We lost all of our vapor phase, and the amount of potable liquid water is quite low. There is a ban on urine dumps outside, and all suits must dump in a honey chamber. We're Dune in the sky, folks, and we're all Fremen, now. “That's all we know so far. The sun is up at Sandy, the batteries are charging, and we’re breaking down the water into hydrogen and oxygen. We've made it through the Lunar night, and there's no reason we can't make it through the next two-week Dark, although the situation remains precarious. That's all I have. McCrary?”

  McCrary took the spot at the podium once more. “We don't have a functional computer network, and probably won't until we get Mighty Thor up and running again. From my point of view, we must concentrate on bringing Thor back into operation. At the same time, we must get The Works back to production. The oxygen won't last forever, you know.”

  Marcel had much to think about. He looked up, and found McCrary looking at him. “Any questions?” McCrary asked him.

  “Not right now, McCrary,” said Marcel, marveling at his audaciousness. “I reserve the right to continue this at another time.”