by J. L. Doty
“Three, this is One. Do you read? Three, this is One. Do you read? Over.”
He turned to the backup console still folded out of the bulkhead, had difficulty programming it with one hand. He learned that when the control yokes had been ripped away the boat’s computer had gone on autopilot, held to the simple program of maintaining course, and with the boat’s nose straight up that was just what had been needed.
“Three, this is One. Do you read? Three, this is One. Do you read? Over.”
A few more seconds and he had his suit tied back into the boat’s system. He keyed his com. “Ballin here.”
“Cap’em, Yagell here. Good to here from you. We’re having trouble locating you, not picking up any telemetry from your boat.”
“Ya, she’s a mess. I’ll get a beacon going.”
“Good. You do that and we’ll be right there to help you, Cap’em.”
“Negative,” York said. “There’s nothing you can do. We’re dead in space. Just get your wounded back to Cinesstar and tell them to pick us up.”
“You sure there’s nothing we can do, sir?”
“Just get your wounded in, and tell Cinesstar not to waste any time.”
“Right, sir. Yagell out.”
York grabbed a twisted piece of plast with his good hand, closed his eyes for a moment. The pain from his hand made his head swim, but he couldn’t chance the groggy side effects of a painkiller. He tried to program another dose of kikker, but his suit warned him he’d had a dose less than five minutes before so he retracted the order.
It took him about ten minutes to get the emergency beacon going. He should have been quicker but the throbbing in his left hand dulled his senses. He programmed a few keys on the keyboard to give him crude control over the boat’s attitude jets in case he needed to help Cinesstar during pickup. By that time his head was swimming and his hands were starting to shake from of the pain pounding at his nerves. He paused again for a moment and closed his eyes . . .
The pounding on the bulkhead brought him back, and he realized he’d lost consciousness. He’d happened to float into a position where his helmet was touching the bulkhead, and the racket sounded as if there were a half dozen of them pounding away frantically. He looked at the readout on his visor, realized he’d been out for almost an hour. Cinesstar should have picked them up by now!
He took another dose of kikker. The boat’s radar and scanners were shot, but he was getting a canned telemetry feed from Cinesstar. From that he had their positions. The wrecked hulk of Three had achieved escape velocity and was arcing away from the planet’s surface. Cinesstar had picked up One and Two more than forty minutes ago, then taken up a position about fifty thousand kilometers from Three, was just sitting there, waiting.
The pounding on the bulkhead got more frantic. York had the boat’s computer run a quick systems check, and there it was. The port drive pod had gone into overload, her power feed was pouring out heat and hard radiation. The back of the boat must be an oven. York keyed his com. “Cinesstar. This is Three. Mayday! Mayday! One of our drive pods has gone haywire. It’s cooking us alive out here.”
No answer, just silence. Cinesstar sat there and waited, and York realized Sierka was still trying to get rid of him. He’d been willing to sacrifice the entire marine contingent to do it. But for some reason he now needed them, and here was an opportunity to get most of them back, then sit back and watch York burn alive with the rest.
York looked frantically around the cockpit for something, anything, and spotted a small arms compartment. He hit the latch with his fist, tore the cover open: two rifles, two sidearms, and about a dozen grenades with various ratings. He grabbed two of the ten-pounders, forming a plan as he did so, and clipped them to his waist. He keyed his com. “Sierka, you son-of-a-bitch,” he growled. “You can’t kill me this easily. I’m coming back for you if it’s the last fucking thing I do.”
There was one chance. It wouldn’t get them back on Cinesstar, but it might remove the immediate danger of the damaged pod and buy them some time. He reeled out twenty meters of safety line, guessing that to be length of the boat, then coiled it carefully, and crouching against the bulkhead he jumped out through the hole in the front of the boat, floated out until he reached the end of the safety line. It went taut, stretched a bit, then sprang him back toward the boat. It was an old trick, but it had been a long time since he’d done any real weightless work, and he missed a bit. If he’d done it right he would have come past the nose of the boat, swung around toward its tail, and when the line went tight a second time, he would have latched on to the aft end of the boat. As it was he careened off a gun turret, tumbled a bit, and when the line again went taut, through habit he reached out with his bad hand, tried to grab something, and that just shot pain up through his arm.
He ended up hanging onto the port gun turret, his line badly tangled, his arm a dead stump of pain, his lips growling a silent curse at Sierka. He played out more line, tried to ignore the pain and started crawling over the outside of the boat. Luckily, wherever a section of the boat’s skin had been torn away he was able to find something to grip, but his suit started nagging him long before he got to the drive pod. “Radiation hazard. Limit exposure to five minutes.”
Five minutes was enough for what he had to do.
Each drive pod was mounted to the rear of the boat by a large faring, one on each side. All that remained of the starboard drive pod was a stub of a faring that ended in a twisted, blackened mess of plast and steel. The port drive pod was still intact, though it was starting to glow a dull red.
“Radiation hazard. Limit exposure to one minute.”
He might need more than a minute. He reeled out a few more meters of line and wrapped his good arm around the faring. But with his good arm holding him in place, the arm that remained was useless for the work at hand, so gritting his teeth against the torment, he wedged his bad hand between two supports; he almost lost consciousness, had to take another kikker.
He cursed and swore, tried to focus his anger on Sierka to remain conscious, pulled one of the grenades loose with his good hand, fumbled at it to set the timer for one minute, wedged it in place on one side of the faring. He repeated the process with the other grenade, placed it next to the first, then he armed them, and hit the detonation studs.
He pulled at his bad hand, and it wouldn’t come loose. It was wedged too tightly, and it was too dead and useless to help him. He tugged at it, staring point-blank at the two grenades about to blow him to pieces, yanked on it with all his might, sending an excruciating jolt of pain up his arm with each pull. Then suddenly it came loose, and he careened away from the faring, floating helplessly. Floating free he swung his arms and legs about wildly, trying to connect with something, happened to be about ten meters from the two grenades and staring right at them when they blew . . .
Critical hazard war . . . compress . . . and counting.
The agony at the end of his arm; he would have given anything to have Alsa cut it off at that moment. The hissing jet of air blowing out through the blackened crack in his chest plate didn’t seem to bother him, though a piece of him knew it should.
Critical hazard warning, his suit said. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in ten minutes and counting.
He was a dead man. The grenades had blown away the bad pod. He could even remember the explosion, the soundless flash, an instantaneous glimpse of a big piece of debris hurtling straight at him. Either the blast itself, or the jet of air blowing out his chest plate, had spun him around the boat a few times like a rock on the end of a string. He’d finished up tied to the side of the boat twisted in the safety line. Soon his air would run out and there was nothing he could do about it.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in nine minutes and counting.
He triggered a dose of kikker and his mind started to race. There was an air line somewhere in the cockpit. There had to be. He reached for the power knife at his belt, a
standard part of his kit, struggled for a moment before he found it and got it free.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in eight minutes and counting.
He wedged his bad hand beneath the outer skin of the ship where a section of plast had been torn away, and the agony became a distant ache as he flicked on the power knife and started cutting away the safety line.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in seven minutes and counting.
There wasn’t time to favor his injured hand now. With no safety line to protect him against a chance misstep, with the blast of air blowing out through the crack in his chest plate threatening to jet him away helplessly into space, he needed four functional limbs if he was going to make it in time. He used his forearm panel to administer a heavy dose of painkiller, then triggered a triple dose of kikker and jackers to counteract any drowsiness.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in six minutes and counting.
It worked. He was so blasted on painkillers and kikkers and jackers and pain itself, that it almost didn’t hurt to use the dead stump of a hand as a climbing grapple: jam it into something convenient, move the good hand to another hold, tear the dead hand loose and lodge it into something else. No room for mistakes.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in five minutes and counting.
It almost didn’t hurt; there was a schizophrenic piece of his mind that retreated from the reality of his actions, and took the agony with it. He controlled his motor functions nicely, while that other piece of him had taken control of his mouth and vocal chords, and was venting his torment by growling a vitriolic stream of curses aimed at Sierka.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in four minutes and counting.
His good hand reached the twisted edge of the hole blown in the nose of the boat. He crawled into the cockpit, pushed toward the warped bulkhead at the rear. The air line should be back there somewhere hidden behind a panel of some sort.
The cockpit lighting had shut down completely, so he’d have to recognize the panel by feel through the mesh of his gauntlet. He started low, searching with his good hand, touching everything. He covered every centimeter of the bulkhead that was accessible. Nothing.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in three minutes and counting.
He was a fool. He returned to the console in the bulkhead, wasted no more than a second or two bringing up a repair schematic of the boat. A few more seconds and he had a blow-up of the cockpit. A few more and he’d found the air nozzle. It should be behind a small panel in the side bulkhead next to where the pilot’s couch had been.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in two minutes and counting.
He scrambled over to the mess of wiring and twisted plast that had once been the pilot’s console, found a large piece of warped wall plating concealing the panel. He reached around behind it, found the panel, touched its latch and it opened less than a centimeter before it came up against the plating bent over it. He couldn’t even get a gauntleted finger behind the panel cover, let alone grab the air line and pull it out. He gave up on that approach, took hold of the edge of the bent plast, dug his heels into the deck and pulled. His eyes started to bulge and he almost passed out.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in one minute and counting.
He let go of the plast, pushed off to the arms locker, trying desperately to remain calm, to suppress the panic rising up his throat.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in ninety seconds and counting.
Still cursing at Sierka he rifled through the grenades in the small locker, found one with a two pound rating and pushed back across the cabin to the plate of bent plast.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in eighty seconds and counting.
He set the fuse on the grenade for three seconds, pushed it down behind the bent plast, wedged it between the plate of plast and the wall about half a meter to one side of the panel containing his only chance for survival.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in seventy seconds and counting.
He triggered the grenade, yanked his arm out from behind the plast, pushed away from the bent plate. He wasn’t one for praying, but while he cursed at Sierka he silently prayed the blast wouldn’t damage the tubing in the wall, nor the reel of hose, nor the valve on the end of it that he needed to connect it to his suit supply, nor . . .
Critical haz . . . breach . . . decompression in twenty sec . . .
The blast had blown him across the cockpit and he’d lost consciousness for a few critical seconds. It had also blown a hole through the sidewall and torn away the offending piece of plating.
Critical hazard warning. Torso breach. Terminal decompression in ten seconds and counting.
His ears popped and he was swimming on the edge of consciousness as he pushed toward the air line.
Nine.
The deck pitched and rolled in an effort to divert him.
Eight.
Tiny motes of death started to dance in front of his eyes and his ears started to hurt.
Seven.
He got hold of the line, yanked on it, pulled a couple meters out of the wall.
Six.
He fumbled for the nozzle on the bottom of the reactor pack on his back.
Five.
His fingers were going numb, his arm getting sloppy as if he’d slept on it wrong.
Four.
He found the nozzle just as he was blacking out.
Three.
It wouldn’t connect, didn’t seem to fit.
Two.
He cursed, pulled on the line, shouted an oath at Sierka.
One.
He struggled to connect the hose, his lips still feebly cursing Sierka, swearing he’d come back from the dead if need be . . .
Frank Stara’s hands were trembling with frustration and anger. York had accidentally left his com on and they’d all heard his ordeal, the desperate struggle to accomplish some task the purpose of which had something to do with keeping them from “cooking alive,” the semi delirious curses, the explosion, the critical hazard warnings from his armor, the count-down to terminal decompression. The bridge had gone absolutely silent.
“Well, Mister Stara,” Sierka demanded. “Answer me. Are there any signs of life?”
“No, sir,” Frank said, struggling to contain his anger. “There was an explosion of some sort, and his suit telemetry reported a massive torso breach and terminal decompression. Then there was another explosion and we stopped getting any signal at all. He’s dead. You killed him. You murdered him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said he’s dead, sir.” Frank peered carefully over his shoulder. Sierka sat at the captain’s console staring blankly at the screens, paralyzed with fear—mostly fear of York, it seemed. After the second explosion Sierka had ordered Maggie to move the ship to within a hundred meters of the crippled boat, and now they were sniffing around it fearfully, like a small animal frightened a large predator might come back to life at any moment.
“Sir,” Olin Rame said carefully. “I recommend we retrieve that boat. Mister Ballin may be dead, but certainly there are others there in need of aid.”
That was how they’d been getting Sierka to act, recommend the appropriate action, try to talk Sierka into doing the right thing, into doing anything, then all pretend it was he who was running the ship. “Yes,” Sierka said. “Do it.”
“Mister Stara,” Rame said. “Open Three Bay and tell them to stand by for pickup. And warn Miss Yan we’ll probably have more wounded for her.
“Miss Votak. Move us in slowly. I don’t think that boat is going to be able to help you any, so you’ll have to maneuver Three Bay around her.”
York’s entire arm hurt now, rig
ht up to the elbow. As a sort of half consciousness returned to him he stared at the jet of air blowing out the crack in his chest plate, pinning him to the bulkhead. Then his eyes followed the tangled mess of the air line that snaked between his reactor pack and the side wall of the craft. Slowly he came to the realization that he was alive.
Suddenly the harsh glare of the distant sun disappeared and everything went black. He looked out through the hole of what had once been a cockpit and he saw the bright lighting of one of Cinesstar’s service bays open to space like the mouth of a giant beast, seeming to grow as she drifted lazily toward the boat. He keyed his com. “Sierka,” he said, the words coming out in a cracked and garbled growl. “I’m coming to get you, you son-of-a-bitch.”
Frank started at the sound of York’s voice, but Sierka jumped as if he’d just heard from the dead.
“Shut that service bay,” Sierka screamed. “Shut it, now.”
Frank almost obeyed him, but finally he’d had enough. He put his hands flat on the com console and refused to move.
“Mister Stara, I gave you an order. Obey me, damn you. Obey me.”
Frank sat dead still, refused to act, to speak, to even acknowledge the order.
“Miss Votak,” Sierka screamed hysterically. “Get us out of here.”
The ship didn’t move. Maggie was hidden within the helm cluster so her act of defiance was less visible, but no less obvious.
Sierka crossed the distance to Frank, and he rammed the muzzle of a gun against the base of his skull. “This is an act of mutiny, Mister Stara. Now close Three Bay instantly or I’ll execute you myself right here and now.”
