Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  “Look d-down at the left side of your utility belt, Dr. Levin,” Fletcher said, his voice trembling almost as much as her legs. “You’ll see a stainless steel clasp. When the airlock opens, pull the clasp. It’s attached to a retractable safety-line. Outside, to your left, is a metal guide rail. Attach the clasp to the railing, grab hold of the ladder beside it, and climb to the top of the lift. I’ll continue once you’re topside.”

  The airlock slid open. Staring at Earth’s blue curve, framed by the terrible blackness of space, Mona tried to take a step forward, but her foot refused to budge. Her breathing was rapid. She was becoming lightheaded, overwhelmed by fear and doubt.

  “Calm yourself, Doctor,” Floyd cut in. “Take slow, deep breaths. At this stage, you can’t afford to pass out.”

  His deep, measured voice gave Mona the strength she needed. Closing her eyes, she took two deep breaths, opened her eyes, and stepped toward the open door.

  “I’m all right,” she muttered. “I can do this.”

  “Yes you can, Doctor,” Floyd said. “You’re the most capable person I’ve ever met. If anyone can do this, it’s you. Focus on the guide rail and ladder instead of the view and you’ll be fine.”

  Mona nodded. “Thank you, Floyd.”

  It was the first time she’d called the chief by his given name. For a moment, that breach of personal protocol bothered her—fleetingly. Floyd was her connection to humanity, his calming voice a lifeline to her courage.

  Grabbing the handhold beside the airlock, Mona pulled on the safety line, leaned halfway out the door, and hooked the clasp to the metal guide rail. Without looking down, she reached over, clamped her fingers around a ladder rung, and swung her body into space. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, thumping so loud that she was certain others could hear her telltale heart. After a terrifying moment of vertigo, her hands and feet connected with the ladder. Only then did she remember to breathe.

  Mona spotted the top of the lift, twenty feet above her. It was framed by a swath of blackness unlike anything she’d ever witnessed. Tiny pinpricks of light, which she knew to be stars, were scattered throughout the soul-sucking void. The stars appeared smaller, less distinct. Then she remembered: There was no atmosphere to defuse the starlight and make them appear larger.

  Mona gave her head a violent shake. The damned stress was causing her to lose focus.

  Wrapping her fingers loosely around the outside of the ladder, she pushed off with her feet and shot upward. Being very nearly weightless, her ascent was rapid. A short five seconds later, Mona found herself climbing atop the lift.

  Ensign Fletcher’s voice returned. “The soles of your suit are lightly magnetized, Dr. Levin, enough that you stay attached to the lift. We have nine minutes remaining. Hurry to the end of the guide rail near the center of the lift.”

  Bounding forward, Mona could virtually hear the seconds ticking away.

  “Once there, you’ll see a maintenance hatch. Enter your command code. We’re in the process of equalizing the pressure within the interior of the lift. It will take another five minutes, but—”

  “That’s too long!” Mona shouted, nearing the halfway point.

  “We realize that, Doctor.” Fletcher sounded annoyed. “Some of the pressure will be relieved, but not all. Keep your body clear of the hatch when you enter the code. The hatch will open violently and probably suffer damage. We don’t want you damaged as well.”

  Mona arrived at the hatch, knelt down, and punched in her code. Nothing happened.

  “It’s not opening, Fletcher.”

  There was a pause. “Um … it probably needs an override code,” he said nervously.

  “Probably?!”

  “Hold on, Doctor. I’m searching for it right now.”

  Kneeling beside the hatch, Mona waited, her left hand gripping the guide rail—the silence like a heavy blanket. The lift blocked the sun, but she could see its blazing rays growing brighter by the moment. Her helmet’s faceplate darkened accordingly.

  “I have the code, Doctor,” Fletcher said excitedly.

  Mona wanted to scream, “Quit fucking around and tell me, already.” Instead, she clenched her jaw in quiet anticipation.

  “Are you ready, Dr. Levin?”

  “Yes, Ensign,” she said in an even monotone, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

  “Enter this sequence: One, One, Alpha, Delta, Alpha, One, Seven, One, Delta, Zero, Nine.”

  Pressing the final number, Mona jumped in shock as the hatch sprang open, smashing against the skin of the lift. A violent geyser of oxygenated air shot from the opening; it was filled with what must have been thousands of tiny, sparkling ice crystals. She half expected to hear a loud roar accompany the violent outpouring of air, but as it was the edge of space, there was only silence. Mona watched the geyser climb thirty feet into space and disperse, transforming into a brilliantly twinkling cloud, glowing with sunlight.

  In any other situation, she would’ve considered the sight beautiful, but the discharge of air seemed interminable, reducing the window of opportunity needed to find the terrorist bomb. A drop of sweat trickled down her brow, making its way into her right eye.

  “Shit!” She closed her burning eye.

  Fletcher immediately came on line. “What’s wrong, Dr. Levin?”

  “Nothing … I got sweat in my eye. How do I cool this suit down?”

  “The gel insulation regulates the suit temperature. As for the helmet, its thermostat is self-regulating. However, you can order the temperature reduced by however many degrees you think appropriate. Its controls are linked up to the lift computer.”

  Rapidly blinking her right eye, Mona ordered the computer to lower her suit’s temperature by five degrees. A noticeably cooler stream of oxygen flooded her helmet. Seconds later, the geyser of air shooting from the maintenance hatch abruptly ceased.

  Mona crawled forward. “The air’s expelled. I’m entering the lift.”

  “Good,” Fletcher rasped. “Once inside, you won’t have far to go.”

  Mona swung her legs over the edge of the maintenance hatch. As she descended the ladder, her head drew level with the opening, and she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

  “Fletcher, when the hatch blew open, it sustained some damage. The hinges are twisted slightly. Once I’ve made it outside and disposed of the bomb, I don’t think it’ll close.”

  “We’ll worry about that later, Dr. Levin,” he hurriedly replied. “We’re down to six and a half minutes to complete the mission.”

  “Right—what now?”

  “Climb ten feet down to the first catwalk. Step off, turn to your right, go fifteen feet, and face the interior compartment wall. Once there you’ll see another maintenance hatch. Your command code should work this time.”

  Scrambling down the ladder, Mona felt the lift’s artificial gravity return in force. She hopped onto the catwalk and practically sprinted to the maintenance hatch. Fingers flying, she punched in her code … but once again, nothing happened.

  “It didn’t open.”

  “It’s not going to open by itself, Dr. Levin,” Jeremy sighed. “Remember, the pressure has equalized. Pull the handle and I’m sure it’ll open.”

  Mona pulled the handle and peered inside. One of the crates was so near, it seemed wedged against the interior wall. Sticking her helmet through the opening, she estimated there was twenty inches between the crate and the wall. Not enough room to maneuver. With less than six minutes to go, Mona began to panic.

  “There’s not enough room, Fletcher! There’s not enough room!”

  “Calm down and tell me what you see, Doctor,” Jeremy barked.

  “There’s less than two feet separating the cargo from the wall.” She looked down. “I see a twenty-inch catwalk just below the hatch.”

  “That’s what I expected,” he said. “Take off your oxygen tank and pull it in behind you. Once you’re inside, it’ll be tight working conditions, but managea
ble.”

  Mona unbuckled the chest strap holding the tank to her back and quickly wriggled out of the shoulder harness. A hook on the oxygen tank corresponded to a small slot in the wall. She hung the tank and, using the handhold over the hatch, pulled herself up and swung her legs through the opening, reached in and grasped the interior handhold, and dropped to the catwalk. Seconds later, the oxygen tank was hanging by her side.

  “Which way do I go now?”

  “Continue clockwise another twelve feet and stop.”

  Moving sideways, Mona worked her way over to the next position.

  “You should see—”

  “Dammit, Fletcher, quit saying should. Be more definitive. All your shoulds are making me want to scream.”

  “S-sorry, Doctor,” he replied, voice faltering. “In front of you, you’ll see a stack of two-foot by four-foot plastic crates. Each crate is filled with a specific size stainless steel nut. The fourth one down shou–will be at waist level. That’s the one we’re searching for. It’s marked three-quarter-inch hex nuts.

  “On the right side of your utility belt, you’ll find an oddly shaped pouch, kind of like a gun holster. Remove the objects inside. One is a laser cutter, and the other is the energy cartridge that powers it. Use the laser to cut a twenty-four-inch hole in the side of the shipping container. Once done, the nuts will begin to spill out. The bomb is somewhere inside. We have five minutes left.”

  Unsnapping the pouch, Mona yanked out the laser … and dropped it. The laser bounced off the catwalk, ricocheted off the wall, and landed half off the catwalk, perched precariously between two crates. It wobbled above a narrow opening, threatening to fall to the distant floor below.

  Mona froze, terrified, the barest of squeaks issuing forth from her lips.

  For a long, horrifying moment she was filled with dread. Gathering her courage, she eased the oxygen tank down and cautiously lowered herself to the catwalk. Slowly extending her arm, she carefully plucked the laser from the brink of disaster. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her hammering heart. It didn’t work. Reaching into the pouch, she slid the power cartridge out and gripped it firmly, knowing that all would be lost should it slip through her fingers. Deftly inserting it into the laser’s handle, Mona felt the cartridge click into place. A relieved sigh escaped her lips. Quickly rising, she faced the crate of three-quarter-inch nuts.

  “How’s your progress going, Dr. Levin?” Fletcher inquired.

  “Swimmingly,” she lied. “If you would, please let me concentrate.” She knelt in front of the crate and positioned the laser. “I’ll give you an update as soon as the nuts drop—so to speak.”

  The laser had the general shape of a small pistol, though the barrel tapered to a point. Mona pressed the button where a trigger would normally be on a handgun, and a thin blue line formed instantly between the laser’s tip and the plastic container. The material melted like a hot knife through warm butter. Twenty seconds later, the hole was cut and the nuts were clattering to the catwalk. When the flow eased off, Mona reached in and shoveled the nuts out with her hands.

  “Does this suit have a flashlight?”

  “Yes, Doctor. It’s embedded in your helmet, just above the faceplate.”

  Ordering the flashlight on, she positioned her helmet partway inside the crate and swept the beam back and forth. She saw no bomb. Reaching in, Mona used her entire arm to shovel nuts through the opening. Time was running out. She had to locate the device. Stretching, Mona plunged her hand into the remaining nuts, feeling around, touching the bottom of the crate, desperately searching, finding nothing.

  “It’s not here!” she screamed. “It’s the wrong crate!”

  At this point, Floyd Sullivant came back online. “Are you sure?!”

  “Yes, yes! It’s not here!”

  “It … has to be inside the crate above the one you just searched,” he said, sounding worried.

  “What if it’s not, Floyd?!” Mona wailed. “What if it’s in the crate below the catwalk?”

  “That one’s filled with different sized nuts, Dr. Levin,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “The next crate up is filled with three-quarter-inch nuts, like the one you just searched.”

  “Good God,” she said, rising to her feet. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. Now get to work, Doc—you have less than three minutes.”

  Aiming the laser, she sliced into the plastic. Mona could barely think. The tension was eating at her resolve, making her want to curl into a ball and sob hysterically. Her hand shook as she made a ragged cut across the crate. For the first time in years, she began to pray, albeit silently. Despite her Jewish heritage, she seldom went to synagogue, except while visiting her mother. She was a scientist, which meant acquiring a healthy skepticism toward all things religious. She nearly laughed when the old saying about there being no atheists in the heat of battle came to mind.

  Fifteen seconds later, another torrent of nuts were falling like a stainless steel waterfall onto the catwalk. Before Mona was able to reach in and start sweeping them out of the crate, like last time, the rounded end of a cylindrical object came into view.

  “I have it!” she shouted.

  Without waiting for instructions, Mona pulled the bomb from the crate. It was a one-foot by two-foot metal object, shaped like a large medicine capsule—only this pill cured no disease.

  “Good Lord, this thing is heavy,” she said, tucking it under her arm. Using her other hand to pick up the oxygen tank, she hurried toward the maintenance hatch.

  “It’s probably lead lined,” Fletcher said. “Helps it escape detection.”

  Mona gently placed the bomb on the catwalk. Working the oxygen tank through the hatch, she picked up the bomb, latched onto the access rung with her free hand, and tried to swing her feet up through the opening, but failed. Realizing she needed both hands to make it through, she decided to drop the bomb through the hatch, but balked, fearing it would land hard and explode. Positioning the bomb on the catwalk, Mona grabbed hold of the rung with both hands and pulled her legs up and through the opening. She immediately let go of the rung and dropped backward, snagging the bomb off the floor. Struggling, she worked her abdominal muscles for all they were worth, which wasn’t much since she’d never been a stickler for exercise.

  Red-faced from the effort, she heard Fletcher and Sullivant wondering what was taking so long. Forcing out a loud, sustained grunt, she stretched upward, snagging the rung with her free hand’s fingertips. Ignoring shouts of concern, Mona pulled herself up and through to the other side, then placed the bomb on the catwalk and quickly strapped on the oxygen tank. Breathing heavily, she stumbled with the bomb to the maintenance ladder. That’s when she responded to those back on Earth.

  “I experienced a slight glitch getting the bomb through the hatch,” she snapped, shutting them up. “Don’t worry, everything’s back on track.”

  “I hope so,” Floyd responded. “You have one minute and … twenty-eight seconds to clear that bomb from the lift.”

  Mona took no time to reply, but in her mind was shouting, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  With the bomb tucked safely under her arm, she worked her way up the ladder, well aware of being up against the clock. Scrambling through the hatch, Mona became disoriented as the weightlessness kicked in. The heavy bomb now felt light as a feather. With her adrenaline pumping, she yanked the safety line and anchored herself to the guide rail.

  “I’m in position,” she wheezed, her strength rapidly fading.

  “Good,” Floyd said, taking command. “Buck up your courage, Dr. Levin. The next step will take more nerve than all the other steps combined.”

  Mona did not like the sound of that. After Floyd hastily explained what she needed to do, her legs began to buckle. Bending over, she began to hyperventilate. She was exhausted, shaking inside and out, scared out of her wits.

  “We only have fifty-two seconds left, Doctor,” Floyd informed her. “You can do this. You’re
almost there…. Now get your shit together and start moving!”

  Mona was twenty-five feet from the lift’s edge. Stumbling forward, she straightened up and quickly picked up her pace. The lift was spinning. No it wasn’t—she was becoming lightheaded. Clutching the bomb tightly, she kept repeating over and over in her mind: Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t drop the bomb.

  Sprinting, sucking in great gulps of air, she watched the edge of the lift draw near. The sun was directly behind her, peeking over the opposite side, causing her pitch-black shadow to stretch out before her like a wraith. When it touched the lift’s edge and merged with the void of space, she momentarily lost track of her position. Glancing from one side of the terrible blackness to the other, Mona continued her headlong rush, then came to the edge and pushed off, flinging herself as hard as possible out into space.

  With the safety line reeling out behind her, she tried to keep her eyes focused straight ahead, but they shifted downward nonetheless. The whole of Africa sat below her, causing Mona to feel like she was falling from an impossible height. A terrified scream began to well up within her.

  “Fifteen seconds, Mona,” Floyd said, snapping her out of it.

  Knowing she must be farther from the lift before releasing the bomb was causing her heart to beat like a drum. The safety line, which would extend fifty feet, was nearly maxed out. With both hands, Mona lifted the device over her head and, gathering all her remaining strength, hurled the bomb violently into the frozen abyss of space. Two seconds later the safety line played out and jerked her backward, most painfully.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  The force of the sudden stop acted like a bungee cord, but without the elasticity. A torturous spasm seized her lower back as she drifted toward the lift–though not fast enough. The safety line was curling and drifting, not retracting into its casing. It was jammed! Mona slapped the utility belt. Nothing happened. The line was still not retracting. She was starting to yank on the line, hoping to free the jam, when a brilliant flash blossomed in the corner of her left eye. Her scream was cut short by the bomb’s blast wave.