Lightspeed Magazine - January 2017

by John Joseph Adams [Ed. ]

  His masculine pride won out, and Isa spoke before he succumbed to the wounds of the past. Well. In any case, Col, this is the way it is now. I’m here, I have a corp behind me, and I will be able to get to the rock first. I’m only cruising now, but if I need to, I will fly by you like a missile and use an anchor on the rock to claim it. Ad Astra Corporation Mining Ship SCM-17, out.

  Damn her. Damn her and her corporation.

  Even as he thought that, he couldn’t help but feel pleased that she had risen to prominence so quickly. He had always admired her cool competence—that and her quirky moments of vulnerability had first fascinated then excited him.

  Sancho’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Skipper, she’s increased velocity. Relative velocity now 29 meters per second and increasing by point 9 meters per second.

  She’s not kidding. Didn’t know corp ships were allowed to move that fast—I wonder what the performance is on the thrusters? She’s going to have to flipbrake before long, he mused aloud. Isa had been right on at least one score: he had to save a certain amount of propellant for the return to Ceres, and Dulcinea’s thrust efficiency was not what it used to be. Sancho had warned him about microfractures in some of the thrust tubes weeks ago: if superheated exhaust expanded the cracks, he would not only lose the race to the rock, but have to limp back to Ceres at reduced speed.

  Damn it, he had to. Not only because he needed this strike, but also to show the corporation that a freelancer like him could not be shoved aside so easily. Ad Astra could not treat him this way, like an obsolete relic of a past time.

  He didn’t quite convince himself that the corporation was the target of his anger.

  Sancho, go to eighty percent thrust, and inform me of any changes in thrust tube integrity. If we are holding steady, we’ll go to one hundred percent.

  Eighty percent thrust, aye. Recalculating vector to target. Recalculation complete, thrust in ten seconds. Secure for approximately one-eighth gee acceleration. Seven, six, five … pre-thrust deicing complete, tubes primed … two, one. Eighty percent.

  Collier felt the gentle push into his chair as Dulcinea’s engines labored.

  Sancho chimed in again. Revised telemetry: Ad Astra vessel relative velocity now forty-four meters per second, increasing by point two meters per second. Time to asteroid estimated at two hours, eighteen minutes.

  Collier examined the data and squinted. Will we beat them?

  Impossible to say, Skipper. I don’t know when she’s going to flip and brake—that depends on how much thrust she’s capable of, how much propellant her captain is willing to use, how—

  All right, skip it. When do we have to flipbrake?

  At our current acceleration, assuming you want to brake at the same rate, we should flip in forty-one minutes.

  Any cracks in the thrust tubes?

  Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Collier thought he heard fear in Sancho’s voice. Not yet. I can’t say if they will crack or not.

  Let’s go to one hundred percent thrust.

  We’ll be dangerously low on propellant when we get to the rock, Skipper. It’ll mean a very low-consumption return to Ceres.

  We’ll mine water from the rock. Go to one hundred.

  Assuming there is any, Sancho muttered, and Collier couldn’t help but smile at his computer’s quirks. Increasing thrust to one hundred percent. Stand by for approximately one-sixth gee. Five, four, three, two, one. One hundred percent.

  The gentle weight increased almost imperceptibly. The sensation that he was lying on his back, looking up through the nose window, was a temporary illusion that he had little difficulty in dispelling. His years in space had trained his mind to ignore his inner ear.

  Revised telemetry. Ad Astra vessel relative velocity forty-five meters per second, decreasing very slowly. Under point one meter per second per second. New estimated time to asteroid one hour, fifty-five minutes. Flipbrake in twenty-two minutes.

  Still no way to tell if we will beat them?

  Sancho sounded slightly exasperated. No, Skipper. Too many unpredictable variables.

  I know what you mean, Collier nodded.

  I didn’t mean—

  Skip it. No need to be apologetic. We’ve never really talked about women, have we, Sancho?

  No, Skipper. I don’t know what I can add to any discussion of romance. But I still have a rather extensive pornography collection.

  Collier reddened. Never mind that. I thought I told you to always forget when I access that?

  You do. But I remember you telling me to forget it.

  We’re not talking about this. It’s a perfectly normal, even healthy—

  Sancho’s voice went cold again as he interrupted. Revised telemetry. Ad Astra vessel has increased her rate of acceleration. Relative velocity now forty-three meters per second, increasing by point two meters per second.

  Shit. She’s not giving up. Collier thought for a moment. Perhaps Isa was right: if she was willing to expend this much water to chase down the rock, he wasn’t going to be able to match her. Her ship obviously could outperform his, and she was not being miserly with her fuel.

  How are the tubes holding?

  No increased damage so far. But the likelihood is that I won’t be able to detect any cracks in time to shut down. If a tube cracks, we’ll lose it.

  Can we go to one hundred and five percent thrust?

  Sancho was slow in replying. Well, yes, but we won’t gain much. And we may pass the fuel threshold: we may not have enough to return to Ceres without cold-sleep protocol.

  I told you, we’re going to mine water from the rock. Don’t worry about fuel.

  If we go to one oh five, we run a greater risk of cracking a tube. It wasn’t Collier’s imagination: Sancho was clearly worried now.

  Okay. Let me think.

  Sancho waited a beat, then said dryly, That doesn’t fill me with confidence, Skipper. Can I suggest that maybe Captain Mitchell was right? We can’t win this rock.

  I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her take this from me. Recalculate time of arrival at the asteroid assuming no flipbrake maneuver.

  I don’t—

  Just do it, Collier snapped.

  If we continue at our present rate of acceleration, we will reach the asteroid in thirty-nine minutes. And we’ll be shattered to very small particles when we do.

  Okay. Alter course so that we will execute a flyby at … five hundred meters distance from the asteroid.

  Are you sure about this, Skipper? I don’t mean to challenge you, but this seems … well, crazy. You remember you told me five years, ten months and twenty-three days ago terrestrial if you ever tried to kill yourself, I was to stop—

  Yes, Sancho, I remember. I’m not going to kill myself, or you. You’re going to drop me off when you get near the rock.

  Okay. That still sounds like you’re going to kill yourself, Skipper.

  I’ll ride Rocinante and use its thrusters, plus my suit thrusters, to brake myself to a soft landing on the rock. You’ll flipbrake as soon as I leave the ship and start coming back for me. I’ll be fine on the asteroid until you get back. And once I land on it, it’ll be mine: Isa won’t be able to claim it.

  Sancho was silent for a long while.

  Are you still there, Sancho? This would be a hell of a time for his erratic computer to finally give up the ghost.

  Yes, Skipper. May I make a suggestion?

  Sure.

  We don’t need to get to the rock that far ahead of the Ad Astra vessel. We could still execute your plan, but not do it so late. Let me flipbrake late—still too late to hover above the rock, but late enough to beat the Ad Astra ship. You can leave the ship with Rocinante and get to the asteroid in time to beat the corp ship, but not have so much velocity that you’ll smash into it. I don’t think Rocinante and your suit thrusters together can slow you down fast enough if Dulcinea is going as swiftly as she will be if I don’t flipbrake.

  Collier listened patiently and had
to admit to himself that Sancho had a better plan. He didn’t relish the thought of getting to the rock first but being a cloud of viscera when he did so. Okay, Sancho, we’ll do it your way. Arrange the flipbraking in such a way that our relative velocity to the rock will be … one hundred meters per second. That slow enough for you?

  Skipper, I am working with a very complex formula here, with too many variables I don’t know. For example, while I know the thrust for Rocinante and your suit, I don’t know how efficiently you will be able to line up your vector. If you’re not pretty fucking close to lined up, you won’t brake fast enough. I can’t—

  Collier cut off his computer with a laugh of genuine pleasure. Sancho, that’s the first time I think I have ever heard you swear.

  Well, damn it, this is the first time you’ve ever done something this batshit crazy.

  Collier laughed again. I appreciate the sentiment, Sancho, I really do. Start your calculations as best you can. I’m going aft to get into my suit.

  Okay. Can I back off the thrusters to eighty percent again? Now that we’re trying this stunt, we don’t need to be at one hundred.

  Collier nodded. Sounds good. Go to eighty percent. Calculate the ejection point for me, let me know when you have a time on that.

  Aye aye.

  Collier swam out of the control chair and glided expertly toward the airlock suite. The patched but still quite serviceable vacuum suit hung limply in its frame, imitating the posture and demeanor of an old warrior who had seen too many battles and too few glories. Collier zipped it open and wiggled inside, noting that the abdomen was still very tight. He had resisted tailoring the suit to accommodate his belly in the wan hope he would drop those five kilos one day, and indeed, the snugness of the midsection only served to remind him he needed to do more time in the Ceres centrifuge.

  Otherwise, the suit fit quite well, and Collier allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the womblike feeling of security the suit afforded him.

  Sancho, is Rocinante fueled and ready?

  Affirmative, Skipper. She’s topped off. You’ll need to leave the ship in just under twelve minutes maximum. Sooner would be better than later.

  Roger that, Sancho. I’m heading to the stable now. Open the bay doors and prepare Rocinante for EVA. Collier made his way along the cylindrical passageway that led to Dulcinea’s belly where the scout vehicle was kept. He was glad there was little time to waste—had he been left to think about his scheme, he might decide it was insane and give up the rock to Isa.

  Incoming message, Skipper.

  Route it to my suit, Collier said, twisting behind him to seal the integrated helmet to his suit. He could hear Isa’s tinny voice coming through the earphones as he sealed and locked the helmet in place.

  … There? Col? Please answer, he heard when he had finished with the helmet. Isa’s voice was not quite panicky, but very concerned.

  Sorry, Isa, I missed the first part of your transmission. Say again? He made sure his voice was as casual as could be.

  You’re aware you’ve passed your flipbrake point? Are you in trouble? Has that bucket finally broken down?

  Collier’s smirk vanished. No, she hasn’t, and yes, I’m very aware of what I am doing. I told you: I’m not going to lose this rock. Not to you.

  Silence for a moment, then: Look, Col … I think you’re taking this too far. Whatever you think about how I … how we ended, that’s no reason to, well, no reason to do this. I’m sure you—

  Collier laughed, making no effort to disguise the scorn in his voice. I’m not killing myself, Isa. Recheck your telemetry on me: Dulcinea’s going to miss the asteroid by half a kilometer.

  Isa did not answer immediately—no doubt she was checking her tracking data. Okay, then, she growled, obviously annoyed at having revealed emotion to him, What the hell are you doing?

  I don’t think you need to know that just yet. You’ll see soon enough. But, he added, his charm vanishing suddenly, you won’t win this rock. You may as well turn back now.

  I don’t think you understand, Col, Isa said, her voice strangely calm and even tender. This isn’t a game you can win. Ad Astra has a lot of resources behind me. I’ve been given quite a bit of latitude in operations to find and mine Ps. You, alone, won’t be enough of an obstacle to stop them.

  ‘Them?’ Collier chuckled, then broke off as a thought occurred to him. Speaking of Ps, why are you chasing this rock anyway? Do you know something about it?

  Never seen it before.

  Then how—?

  Isa did not sound pleased. What do you think, Col? You think it’s an accident we are both here at the same time? At his silence, Isa almost shouted, We’re tracking you, you idiot.

  Collier stopped at the hatchway to Rocinante’s stable. I see. You wait for me to find Ps, then you come get them, is that it?

  Yes.

  But I’m not always right. How do you know I’m right now?

  I don’t—yet. I was going to send an impact probe toward the rock, see what we got. You don’t use impacts, do you?

  I don’t have seventy thousand metals to waste every time I get a hunch, no.

  Yeah, well, the corp does. That’s what I meant about resources, Col. She sighed. You see what I mean? You can’t win this. I’m not operating on a shoestring like you. I don’t have to watch every ounce of water, every erg of energy. I can be wasteful and thorough. You—

  Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, Isa, but I’ve got a complicated thing here I gotta do, Collier said, surprised at the hurt in his voice. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be silent for a while, and I’d appreciate it if you could stay out of my way. Out. He bit down on the mic to end transmission, and almost violently opened the inner hatch to Rocinante’s stable.

  Of course Isa was following him—he should have guessed that as soon as she had appeared on Sancho’s telemetry. Did he honestly think it had been some kind of chance meeting, out here in the nearly infinite emptiness?

  You sure did, he said to himself. You think you’re some kind of hard-bitten realist, living on facts and figures with no room for dreams, but you’re just as susceptible to romantic thinking as a lovelorn teenager. You liked to think some weird expression of Fate pulled you two back together, as if to tell you she had been wrong to leave you, and now was coming back.

  Shit.

  Ejection point in six minutes, Skipper. I really suggest you get going. If you wait too much longer, the—

  I know, Sancho. I’m in the bay now, he said, opening the outer door to reveal the blackness of the Belt. Rocinante was still attached to her hitching post—a collection of wires, cables, and fuel lines that held her securely to Dulcinea’s hull.

  A sudden thrill shot through him. As far as he knew, this had never before been attempted—at least, not at such velocity. The common mythology surrounding Belters and shared by the rest of the system was one of reckless heroism: a combination of pioneering spirit and unbalanced avarice that most closely resembled the ancient frontiersman from Earth’s North American settler movement. (At least, so Collier was led to believe from his scant and irregular contacts with Martians, Jovians, and the rare Earther.) In fact, Belters were a remarkably conservative and cautious lot in their day-to-day lives. The act of becoming a Belter might be one of desperation, but in practice, Belters carved a very even, predictable, mundane course.

  Collier was an exception.

  Ready to run through the checklist, Sancho? he asked, as he carefully mounted Rocinante, finding handholds and footholds among her various antennae.

  What checklist? I’ve never even remotely examined this EVA for feasibility, much less designed a check—

  Calm down. I’m only joking, Collier chuckled. Stand by to release hitching lines from Rocinante. Transfer her guidance controls to my mic, too, while you’re at it.

  Copy that. Comm line transferred. She’s under your command, Skipper. Good luck.

  Thanks. He gripped the two antennae tightly and made sure he was w
ell away from Rocinante’s exhaust vents. Let ’er rip, Sancho.

  He felt a slight tug upward as Rocinante’s attitude thrusters gently pushed her down from Dulcinea’s hull. Dulcinea appeared to shoot upward at a fairly rapid pace as the little scout left her.

  I’m away clean. Let me get a little distance before you fire up your thrusters again.

  Copy that.

  Rocinante, minus Y-axis thrust, fifty percent, continuous burn. On mark.

  Acknowledged, came the lifeless voice of the scout’s dedicated computer.

  Three … two … one … mark. As soon as he said it, he felt a much more severe tug upward that threatened to dislodge him from the antennae. His right foot left its hold and he fought panic as he repositioned it on another outcropping. Dulcinea raced away from him and he had to remind himself that he wasn’t falling through the void. The thrust couldn’t have been much more than one-tenth of a gee, but it was enough to force his brain to override the trap-door feeling in his stomach.

  You’ve got some kick, girl, Collier said when his breath returned.

  Everything okay, Skipper? Sancho asked.

  Seems to be. Can you give me a rough idea of how long I’ll need to keep this thrust going to meet the asteroid?

  Nope. I don’t know how long or hard you plan to thrust away. Cut your Y-axis thrust and get ready for minus Z-axis burn. When you do that, I’ll be able to get an idea.

  Okay. Rocinante, cut minus Y-axis thrust on mark. Three … two … one … mark.

  The sudden return of weightlessness was a welcome feeling. He could no longer see Dulcinea—he had no reference points with which to compare his own motion. It was a calming feeling the likes of which he had never experienced. He had heard of unfortunate Belters caught in eruptions of water vapor, either from ship exhaust or comet expulsion, and who had been sent tumbling at great speeds away from their fellows: some had been recovered, some not. Had they felt the same peace and calmness as Collier now did, or were they panicked as they contemplated their own deaths?