Losers in Space
Page 9
“What the sheeyeffinit are you babbling about?” Emerald says, “I don’t even know what kind of astrology that is. I never heard of a sign called Oregon, either.”
The sneer in her voice reminds me of the way my mother used to sound during my Crazy Science Girl days, so I style some real condescension to show her how it’s done. “Auriga. Name of a constellation. The 12 signs are constellations all along the solar equator. They each take up about 30 degrees of a circle across the sky—there’s 360 degrees in a circle—”
“All right, Susan, you’re as bad as he is. What’s all the babble about?”
“He’s figuring out how fast we are spinning—”
“Seven and a half minutes per revolution, in the tumbling end-over-end rotation,” he says. “Plus we’re probably still rotating around the coretube too. So the total—”
“Oh, my god,” Fleeta says.
We look out the window. At first it looks like a gigantic gray metal funnel with a piece ripped and twisted almost off with tin snips. It is rotating at about three times a minute, and surrounded by tiny shapes glinting in the sun on one side and lost in shadow against the black on the other. Less than 20 meters from our window, a toilet spins by; not far beyond it, clothing swarms around a tennis racket.
“Oh sheeyeffinit, it’s the crew bubble,” Glisters says. “We’ve separated.”
The tumbling of the pod takes the crew bubble out of sight. More stars streak by. Glisters points out that besides rotating, we’re precessing; our axis of rotation is now running through the head of the Great Bear. I’m numb, but I can appreciate that he’s trying to talk about anything except the obvious until we can see the crew bubble again, and I’m grateful for that.
When the bubble comes back into view, the distance between the main piece and the big broken-off piece around the narrow part has widened to what I guess to be a 100 meters, bridged by a tangled wad of pipes and cables. I see now that the engines on its tail end are now a cluster of twisted and melted stumps, warped into a lumpy braid.
Things are still tumbling out of the gap between the pieces, which are twisting the knot of pipes and cables in opposite directions, like two hands wrenching a paper chain apart. All in dead silence—no sound in vacuum.
To the right of the torn crew bubble, there is a warped, slanted pinwheel of white dots around a fuzzy sphere. “Iceball,” I say. “Maybe something hot is buried inside it? Maybe something big enough to pierce a 200-meter ball of ice was still going fast enough to smash the crew bubble when it went through.”
“If that’s what happened, it cut through the crew bubble and kept going,” Glisters said. “There’s another iceball much farther away, down and to the right, see?” The tiny spiral cloud trails a braided contrail. “Spewing a lot more. But the farthest one away doesn’t seem to be leaking—”
“They were still bringing that one in,” I explain. “So it wasn’t on the ship. It’s intact, but it’s not going to do us any good way out there. I suppose that must mean we have one iceball still left on the ship.”
Fleeta says, “Shooting away like a little galaxy. I know it’s ultra bad, but it’s pretty.”
She’s right, I think. The crew bubble has rolled out of view. “I was so busy watching the iceballs,” I said, “that I didn’t look at—”
“I wish I hadn’t,” Emerald said, “and I don’t think you should. We should try to be somewhere else before it comes around again.”
“But I need—”
“I saw bodies, Susan. Not in suits. Floating out through that big rip in the middle. I counted nine that I saw, but I’m sure there are a lot more still in the wreckage, or flung so hard they’re already out of sight. I don’t want you to look—”
A hairy thing the size of coffee table passes by the window, about ten meters away: a dog, legs splayed, body distorted by escaping gas and air, ruptured eyeballs and something bigger than its tongue hanging out of its mouth, it must have been one of the pets for the onboard school, wonder if that little girl I saw yesterday—as abruptly as a door slam I understand why Emerald is trying to get me away from the window before the crew bubble is visible again. “We should go to the auxiliary cockpit,” I say. “We can send a distress call from there.”
“How do we get there?” Emerald says. “Come on, let’s go.”
I still remember the way from yesterday, but it’s a little confusing because the tail disk bulkhead is now the floor.
I bounce the way you do on the moon, careful not to bang my head. Glisters’s little “ow!” as he hits the ceiling the first time gives me a smug feeling, considering he’s the only other person here—
Who knows what he’s doing. Hmm. Second thought, be nice to Glisters.
“In case you bash your head on the ceiling, Susan,” Emerald says, “where are we going and what will we do when we get there?”
I tell her, but it’s a maze of corridors and surfaces to explain, and I keep stopping and correcting myself because having the gravity be stronger and in a different direction makes it so much more complicated to explain. Halfway through I realize she’s just giving me something to think about besides the obvious, and I’m grateful, but I give up, and she doesn’t ask.
Glisters bounces a little too high again and catches himself on the ceiling with his hands. I avoid noticing; a few levels up with less of the new gravity, and more of the old fighting it out, it is like being on a carousel on the Moon with a bad ear infection.
“I sure hope when we get there, there is a big button that says STABILIZE SHIP for us to push,” Emerald says.
Glisters says, “There probably is a STABILIZE SHIP button, or more likely a utility in the operations software. I would bet they designed the emergency systems with the thought that after an accidental jettison, tourists or little kids might be the only ones in here. So if there are still working thrusters and engines, we can probably just tell the control system to stabilize us.”
“In that case I’m also going to wish for a screen saying LIVE HUMANS DETECTED IN POD—SPACE PATROL NOTIFIED AND WILL ARRIVE WITHIN 24 HOURS.”
“Well, for sure there will be a way to call for help,” Glisters says. “Unfortunately, the Space Patrol you’re hoping for exists only in meeds. The real Space Patrol only has nine ships, which are parked in Earth, lunar, and Mars orbit, not patrolling. They don’t fly five real missions in a decade, and besides they’re like any other spaceships—they don’t move much faster than the planets themselves do, so it takes months to get anywhere. Their real job is just to arrive wherever something happened a while ago, take some pictures, fill out the paperwork, and stand proudly behind the SecGen at the memorial service.”
“You sound just like Aunt Destiny—” It hits me that she’s gone. I can’t breathe through the tears and mucus. Fleeta tackles me in a hard, tight hug that feels really good, and for a blessed moment it’s like having my best friend back, till she says, “I wish I could cry with you, but mostly I just feel happy that I’m here to hold you when you need it.”
That snaps the spell. “Thanks,” I say, softly. “Now come on. We have to get to the cockpit.”
Glisters awkwardly squeezes my arm; Emerald says, “Right with you.”
The hardest part is opening doors in what are now ceilings. At every level we have to find a door we can climb or jump to. After a few levels, the tailward gravity is lower, but now the shifting ratio of hullward and tailward gravities throws us off balance constantly, so that we have to keep hands on grips all the time.
The auxiliary cockpit door is sideways, which is at least easier to climb in through than overhead.
Glisters climbs to the main seat, straps himself in, and plays on the keyboard. “Found it. Hold on.”
I grab a handhold. The cockpit tilts and wobbles madly for less than a second, then settles, right side up, gently rocking, as if it were floating on the ocean or bouncing on the end of a spring.
“Was that the STABILIZE SHIP button?” Emerald asks.
The main screen suddenly shows a view of the crew bubble, much farther away than when we left the big window. It is now in four large pieces, surrounded by a cloud of debris.
I look away, wanting to see anything else. On the tail-end camera screen, Earth is about half the size of a full moon back home; the moon is two hand-widths away from it, a circular dot twice the size of a period on a printed page.
I check another screen. Finally some good news. “We still have an iceball and three engines.”
“If they work,” Emerald points out. “And if we can figure out how to fly with them.”
“About that,” Glisters says, “excuse my pointing this out, but I’ve spent a lot of time on spaceflight simulators and in hacking unfamiliar computer systems, so unless Susan wants to throw down in an experience contest, I’m claiming the conn seat here for myself.”
“I was thinking you ought to be in charge, actually,” Emerald said.
“Are you crazy?” Glisters asks, not even looking up from the screen where he’s typing away frantically. “Why?”
“Process of elimination,” Emerald says. “Look at who else we have: Derlock would run things entirely for his own advantage, plus he’d try to fake things he didn’t know. Susan has to . . you know, deal with her aunt.”
“I’m pretty numb,” I say.
“It will wear off,” Emerald says. “Let’s not ask you to do anything this hard when Glisters can do it, and he hasn’t had the shock you have.”
Glisters nods at me; Emerald shrugs and finishes her roster. “Stack? Wychee? Me? None of us know crap about anything. Everyone else is helpless as kittens. Who’s left?”
Glisters says, “It’s not about what a person knows. I know enough and Susan knows enough and we’ll work for whoever needs us. The important thing is whether people will listen to the commander. Which they won’t, to me. Stack and Derlock beat me up, all the time, for fun. I’m scared of them. I’ll back the commander against them, but I won’t be the commander and make myself a target. You need a commander that’ll stand up to them and a pilot to back up the commander. Besides, you also need an engineer, which is the logical job for me, and I can’t do that and be commander both. If I’m trying to restore the air system, you don’t want me to have to stop work so I can order Derlock or Stack to behave.”
I say, “I can’t believe I’m actually saying Glisters is right so often, but well, he keeps being right.”
“Then who’s in charge?” Emerald says.
I say, “None of us is perfect commander material. Perfect would be one of those high-achiever scholarship mineys from Excellence Shop, or that kid Eric that’s going to be a fifth-generation space explorer, Mr. Top of Every Class. But none of them is here because they would never have been a moe in the first place. If we’re going to get home alive we need to do two things: keep the ship running till we’re rescued—which is what Glisters is the best guy for—and keep all us misfits from killing each other, which means leadership, and Glisters just told you he can’t do that. So if not Glisters—then not Derlock, not Stack, not F.B., not Fleeta—”
“I’m listening, Susan, and I don’t like it but you’re right. Not Marioschke, either. So that leaves you, me, or Wychee. Wychee’s not exactly the leader type, you’d actually be the best, but you’re a mess—”
“You got it, boss,” I say. Glisters looks up and nods vigorously. “And at least we’re with you all the way. I know none of us were friends before—”
“I thought we were all friends,” Fleeta says. “But I think a lot of dumb things.”
Emerald puts her arm around Fleeta. “Well, we were always all your friend.”
Everything lurches; the cockpit whirls, but this time we’re all holding on. I tighten my grip and grab another handhold with my other hand. The door to the cockpit slides open, and Derlock, Stack, Wychee, and F.B. come through.
“Oh, good, you found it.” Derlock bounds toward Glisters like a cat after a parakeet. Stack is right with him; Wychee and F.B. grab handholds and stay close to the door.
I’m moving to Glisters’s side. Derlock is saying “—have to do is figure out how to fly this—” when Glisters hits the cockpit stabilization, and there’s a big lurch that throws Derlock and Stack to the suddenly right-side-up deck.
“We have it covered,” Emerald says. “Don’t disturb Glisters while he’s working. But since you’re finally here—”
Derlock says, “Out of the chair, Glisters, I need to see what you’ve been doing.” Glisters keeps right on working and Derlock goes for his arm. “I said—”
“Derlock.” I had no idea I could even speak in that tone, but it sure works; he turns and stares at me. Looking back into those blue eyes I realize I’m never drowning again. “Games are over. You are not the leader here because we need a real leader, which is someone we can trust, and that is ultra not you. I’m not taking any extra risk just so you can turn meeds of all of us into botflog for your career. Don’t try to pretend you’re not doing that; I know you way too well.” He’s glaring. Well, good—he’s listening, so I keep talking. “Now let me explain this so that even a shithead like you can get it. I know you. I know you are thinking that here is your big chance to set up your own little tyranny in a can and boost your recognition score. You’ll do any stupid crazy thing that pops into your brain if it looks like splycterable meed to you. I’d rather get home alive. So Glisters is staying right where he is. And you’re shutting up and cooperating.”
“So what are you, the commander? Or is Big Head Pink-Skin Loser Boy here the commander?”
“No, the commander is Emerald. She doesn’t need your petty sheeyeffinit; she has things to do. Glisters is the engineer, and he really has things to do. I’m taking care of you two losers because my time’s not as valuable, so I can waste some of it on you.” I say it cold and low and clear, no rise in my voice, no anger, just watching and seeing if I’m going to need the jiu-jutsu—dear god, I’m styling Pop in that World War Two historical meed, Pop’s steely-submarine-captain role.
And not too badly, thanks for all the genes and training, Pop. Derlock moves back a step, keeping his hands close to himself. He must remember the last time I showed him jiu-jutsu. Unconsciously matching my role, he styles whiny-shiftless-mutineer, visibly nerving himself up to keep from cringing. “Oh, so she ordered you to give me orders—”
Emerald speaks like a dog trainer. “My pilot does not need an order from me to use her authority.”
I nearly look around before I realize that’s me—and pilot is the second in command on any spaceship. I guess Emerald’s avenging herself for our sticking her with commander.
6
NOTHING TO BUY AND NOWHERE TO DELIVER
April 25, 2129. On Virgo, upbound Earth to Mars. 149 million kilometers from the sun, 166 million kilometers from Mars, 3.7 million kilometers from Earth.
GLISTERS SAYS, “GRAB a handhold.”
A stomach-flipping lurch interrupts the gentle sway of the cockpit. We all hold tight to our grips, except for Derlock, who goes sprawling. For five minutes or so the cockpit slams around madly, there’s a deafening thunder, the grip vibrates in my hand so hard it’s painful, and even above the roaring and booming we can hear groans and creaks of metal being bent and forced. Whatever’s going on, this time it involves a lot more than just the cockpit.
The last boom dwindles; my handhold abruptly stops vibrating. Glisters says, “Hang on one more moment while the cockpit rights itself.” As the world comes around to a sensible angle again, the shuddering moans and
harsh squeals from the rest of the ship die away. “All clear.”
Derlock stumbles and flails away from the chair he had grabbed to avoid being flung helplessly around the cockpit. “You did that on purpose.” He sounds like a frustrated little boy.
“If he did, it was with my endorsement.” Emerald makes a point of turning her back on Derlock. Much more nicely, she asks, “Glisters, what was that?”
“I was working through the process to stabilize the ship,” Glisters says, “and I didn’t realize that once I checked off all the approvals, it would start automatically. So I only just had time to tell you all to grab on. But in a few hours, we’ll be back to normal, steady milligrav with ‘down’ toward the hull and ‘up’ toward the coretube. That’ll make it much easier to do our course corrections, as much as we can, given that we’ve lost three-quarters of the reaction mass we should have had.”
Derlock is styling outrage, trying to catch Stack’s eye.
Stack looks away from him, directly at me, and shrugs. It’s not exactly an oath of loyalty and I’ll have to watch that Derlock doesn’t work Stack around his way again. Just the same, for the moment, Derlock has no stooge, and without one, he won’t try a mutiny.
Notes for the Interested, #12
REACTION MASS: the thing Glisters is worrying about that only Susan really understands right now
Almost everyone has heard of Newton’s Third Law, “For every reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Think about what that means for a moment; when you stand on the ground, your feet push down against the ground with exactly as much force as the ground pushes up against your feet. If Superman leaps a tall building at a single bound, he must kick a hole in the sidewalk. Wherever there’s a force in a system, it pushes or pulls both ways.
When a rocket pushes its exhaust backward, the exhaust also pushes the rocket with equal force forward. But whatever was in the exhaust is now gone; it disperses into the air or space behind the rocket. To go anywhere, a rocket must throw mass away. The mass it carries to throw away is called reaction mass.