by Rob Boffard
I don’t have time to respond. I’m trying to bring to mind everything I know about moving in zero grav, remembering my journey through the Core. There are hand grips on the wall, awash in the red light from its interior. I use them to pull myself up, wincing as I bump into the ceiling.
Each move you make sends you in a new direction. Go slow.
It takes an enormous effort not to rush. Carver has unstrapped, too, floating behind me, his feet tapping against the cockpit glass. When I look back, I see that he’s left a smeared boot print behind.
It’s hard to pick out details in the hellish red light. I don’t even know what I’m looking for – I half hope that there’ll be an escape pod of some kind, but I know even before I get to the back that there’s no way there’ll be one on a ship of this size. My eyes rove over the back of the tug, looking for anything that might help us.
“Riley?” Carver says. It comes out a nervous shout, the cramped space amplifying the word, hurting my ears. But I don’t reply, because right then I see the lockers.
The man-sized ones. The ones I passed on my way in.
My breath is coming in quick gasps as I tug on the handle. The locker opens with a creak of metal hinges, and inside …
“Are those what I think they are?” says Carver.
I grab onto a hand grip to steady myself, a stupid grin plastered across my face. There are three space suits inside the locker, each with the block letters SCC stitched on the chest. Space Construction Corps.
Carefully reaching into the locker, I pull the first of the three space suits out, and push it towards Carver.
“Riley, it won’t work,” Carver says, even as he spins the suit, looking for the seals. “There’s a procedure for putting these on – you’re supposed to check each other for breaks, spend an hour depressurising.”
“Carver, now is not the time.”
My own suit is made from what feels like grainy rubber, inflexible and tough. There are arches of plastic on the shoulders, one on either side, bracketing the space where my head will go. Here and there, dotted across the body, are tiny vents edged in hard plastic. It’s dusty, too, the grains hanging in the air before me. How long have these suits been here? Will they still work?
My fingers find the seal running down the torso, and even as I yank it open I’m trying to recall what I know about the construction corps suits. The one-piece units are supposed to be easy to use – or easier, at least, than the ones our ancestors wore. The backpack unit has air, and power thrusters that let you move around – those must be the vents. I can’t think of anything else, so I just concentrate on getting inside it.
Legs first, then arms. The inside is made of the same rubbery material, and it rucks my jacket sleeves up as I jam my arms in. Working as fast as I dare, I close myself inside the suit. My hands feel as if they’re made of lead, the fingers numb and clumsy in the thick gloves. The suit hisses slightly as the single long seal closes. It’s tight around my neck, and like four small vices across my wrists and ankles. In the gloves, my fingers feel as if they’re welded in place.
“Helmets,” I say to Carver. “Where are the helmets?”
For a horrible moment, I’m sure that they’re back on Outer Earth somewhere – that the suits will be completely useless. Carver looks like some kind of freakish doll that has come to life, moving his hands up and down his suit, patting the rubbery surface. There’s a hiss, and then out of nowhere, his helmet appears: flexible plastic, sliding through grooves in the arches on his shoulders, shooting up from behind his head and over it before locking into place at the front.
He grabs my arm and jabs at something on my wrist. A small control panel, set into the suit – I hadn’t seen it before. There’s a loud whoosh, right by my ears, and my own helmet shoots over my head. As it seals into place, the ambient noise vanishes, and I hear nothing but the tiny hiss of the oxygen supply. That, and my own breath, coming in terrified hitches.
“—crazy.” Carver’s voice is tinny and faint, but there.
I try not to think about what he’s saying. “How am I hearing you?”
“I don’t know. Must be a frequency the suits are locked into.”
“Get the ramp open,” I say to Carver.
“If we go out there without pressurising properly—”
“You have a better idea?”
“There’s got to be an airlock in here. We can—”
“There’s not enough time!”
His fingers find the button, caressing it slowly, buoyed by the lack of gravity.
“Ry…” he says, and the fear in his voice is unmistakeable.
“Do it!”
Carver hits the button.
Nothing happens. The ramp stays obstinately shut. Carver jams the button a second time, a third. I don’t dare take a look out of the cockpit window. I just close my eyes.
There’s a deep click, and then the whine of a motor as the ramp starts to open. I have just enough time to catch Carver’s eyes – wide with fear, just like mine – and then we’re tumbling, crashing into each other, sucked sideways by the loss of air pressure.
We both hit the ramp at once, almost becoming stuck as our bodies tangle in the gap. It’s like the dock breach all over again – the same rushing sensation, the same sense of panic. But this time there’s no seat to strap into. No metal cocoon.
I have time to shout Carver’s name, just once. And then we’re pulled free of the ramp, rolling end over end, into space.
92
Prakesh
They’re coming up on the Shinso Maru way too fast.
Its hull looms in the viewport. There’s a muted bleeping sound, and a calm voice warns them of a proximity alert. Mikhail grips the stick, pushing it gently. The hull slides away as the tug tilts downwards.
Everybody inside the tug watches the movement play out. Prakesh’s mouth has gone completely dry. His world has shrunk down to that cockpit viewport. It’s like they’re trying to sneak up on a gigantic beast, get close to it without touching it.
Could he take over the tug somehow? He and Syria could rush the cockpit, overpower Okwembu and Mikhail, turn this ship around and …
And what?
He grits his teeth, furious with himself. Without wanting to, he thinks of Riley – she would know what to do. She always has a plan, always has something she could try.
She’s not here, a voice in his mind says. It’s just you.
“Steady,” says Okwembu.
“I was a tug pilot for ten years,” Mikhail says, speaking a little louder than he should. “I know how to fly.”
He flicks a quick glance at Okwembu. “How much longer?”
The tug’s comms system crackles. “Unidentified tug ship,” says a man’s voice, crisp and efficient. “This is Captain Jonas Barton of the Shinso Maru. You are not authorised to—”
Mikhail fumbles at the control panel, snapping off the transmission. It’s immediately replaced by another soft beeping. “Warning,” says the tug’s electronic voice. “Fuel at five per cent.”
“Gods,” says someone behind Prakesh. He can’t tear his eyes away from the viewport.
“Are you in?” Mikhail is almost shouting now.
“Nearly there,” says Okwembu. She’s navigating across the screen at a blazing speed, her fingers opening and closing windows faster than Prakesh can track.
“Nearly isn’t good enough,” Mikhail says. He’s sweating so hard that it has started to drip off his face, forming opaque globules in the air in front of them. “We dock now, or we don’t dock at all.”
“Almost got it.”
Mikhail pulls back on the stick. Prakesh’s stomach lurches as the view swings upwards, the hull rushing towards them. Mikhail hits a few more controls, and the tug stabilises. They’re really close to the hull now – so close that Prakesh can make out the details on its surface. The ancient warning labels, the handholds, the vents. He can see man-sized crusts of ice adhering to the hull, jagged and grey.
<
br /> The thrusters on the side of the Shinso fire, all at once. At first, Prakesh thinks that they’re trying to get away, to increase their velocity. But the angle is wrong. The thrusters are at ninety degrees to the body.
Mikhail peers out. “What are they doing?”
“Don’t worry – that’s me,” Okwembu says. “We have to stop the Shinso’s rotation if we’re going to attach to the airlock.”
“That’ll disrupt the on-ship gravity.”
Okwembu ignores him. And – there – the airlock. A huge, round port in the side of the ship, with three scalloped hinges around the edges. Easily the size of their tug.
Without warning, Mikhail swings the tug around. This time, Prakesh almost does throw up – he feels bile climb into his throat, feels his mouth flood with saliva. The Shinso disappears, replaced by a backdrop of stars. What the hell is Mikhail doing?
He looks over. Mikhail’s eyes are fixed on a screen set into the main console. It’s a camera on the back of the tug. The feed is glitchy, but Prakesh can see the airlock. Mikhail is going to back them in, docking so that the ramp can lower and they can enter the ship.
“I’m going in,” Mikhail says. He starts to reach for the thruster control.
“No,” Okwembu says, and a note of fear has crept into her voice. “I don’t have access yet.”
“If we don’t dock now, we’ll run out of fuel.”
“It won’t accept us. You have to give me time.”
Prakesh closes his eyes. He tries to picture Riley, and his parents, and Suki. He tries to think of the Air Lab, of the light filtering through the tree canopy, of the quiet, cool algae ponds.
“Warning,” the electronic voice says. “Proximity alert.”
One of the Earthers starts to scream.
“Proximity alert.”
Without wanting to, Prakesh opens his eyes. The Shinso’s airlock fills the screen on the console.
“Got it!” Okwembu says.
There’s a thud, reverberating through the tug, shaking its occupants. The lights flicker. Whoever was screaming stops abruptly.
A second later, the tug’s ramp hisses open.
93
Riley
My suit has gone completely stiff, like I’m encased in ice. All I can hear is my breathing, thick and rapid, causing condensation to form on the inside of the helmet. There’s no other sound.
I’m upside down, looking at the tug as we fly away from it. It’s so small – a little metal bubble, nothing more, vanishing into the distance.
“—ley, get—” Carver says, his voice crackling in and out.
“What?” I shout. My eyes are locked on the tug.
“We need to— away. The thrusters—”
I collide with Carver.
I didn’t even see him. He just slams right into me. We’re knocked away from each other, tumbling out of control. My breathing has never been so loud. I can hear the details of every inhale and exhale, and each one tastes sour in my mouth.
There’s another fizz of static, and then Carver’s voice comes again. “—losing you. We—”
“Carver, can you hear me?”
“—sters!”
“Carver! Where are you?” I can barely get the words out. Outside my helmet, the world is a spinning nightmare. I see him, just for a second, and then he’s gone, spinning out of view.
I breathe deep, sucking in the damp-smelling oxygen, refusing to let myself throw up. I have to get control of my movement. Carver mentioned thrusters …
Slowly, I force my arm to lift, bringing it into view. The control panel is the size of a man’s hand, nestled into the suit on the back of my wrist. No readout, but at least a dozen big buttons – ones you can hit with the thick-fingered gloves. They have writing on them – but it’s like reading another language. Trans. Mix. Gauge. But one of the buttons is labelled Thrust. With fingers that feel huge and fat, I jab at it.
It’s like getting kicked all over my body, all at once. Shoulders, shins, the centre of my chest, the small of my back – all of them feel a sudden, silent pressure. An image appears on the inside of my helmet: a small diagram of a space suit, with the six points highlighted by small circles.
I can’t see the Shinso, or even Outer Earth. I don’t even know which direction I’m facing. The blackness stretches around me – I’ve shrunk to a tiny speck, dwarfed by it, swallowed by it.
A piece of debris shoots past me, propelled by the dock breach. I barely get a fix on it before it’s impossibly distant, tumbling away from me at light speed. It’s as if I’m hanging over a bottomless pit, with nothing between me and an endless fall.
My stomach is a rolling ball of nausea, vertigo twisting it back and forth. I shut my eyes, focus on my breathing, wait for the thruster to stabilise the spinning stars.
“Riley?” Carver says, his transmission suddenly crystal-clear.
“I’m OK,” I say, only just managing to get the words out. My mouth feels foul. The rapid breathing has crusted on my tongue.
“I can’t see you. I’m heading over to the Shinso. Can you make your way to me?”
I look at the display on my helmet. It’s just above my right eye, and as I look closely I can see the small circles indicating the thrusters are different sizes – some big, some small.
“How?” I say.
“Move your hands to your stomach. You’ll find a little stick there.”
I move my hands down, fumbling with my clumsy, unfeeling fingers. The inside of the gloves is soft and padded, but the outside might as well be moulded metal, and my skin burns from the effort. Somehow I do it, and my hands close around something thick and solid; my helmet’s position won’t let me see what it is, but it must have popped out when I activated the thrusters. And all at once I understand what Carver means.
Incredibly, Carver laughs. “I see you!” he says. He starts to say something else, but then his voice vanishes in a painful burst of static.
94
Prakesh
The crew of the Shinso Maru don’t stand a chance.
Okwembu’s hack stopped the ship spinning, removed its artificial gravity. They’re nauseous, disoriented, not prepared for the sudden rush of bodies out of the airlock. If they’d been smarter, they would have set a trap, but they simply weren’t expecting this many people.
Prakesh is one of the last out of the tug, in front of only Mikhail and Okwembu. The noise in the narrow corridor leading from the airlock is atrocious. The Shinso’s crew are trying to hold out, blocking the passage, fighting off the Earthers with fists and feet. But every movement sends them flying in the opposite direction, and they’re not used to controlling themselves in the low gravity. Neither are the Earthers, but at least they have a few more minutes’ practice.
Prakesh comes to a halt, one hand on the roof, the other on the wall, staring in horror at the assault. One of the Earthers fires a stinger, once, twice, her body slamming back into the floor. Blood spreads out across the corridor.
If he tries to wade into the melee, he’ll just get himself killed. He hates being a spectator, hates feeling so helpless – especially when people are dying in front of him. Another stinger shot rings out – it’s in the hands of one of the crew, but the bullet goes wide, and it’s ripped from his grasp.
There’s a hand on Prakesh’s shoulder. It’s Syria, and he’s gripping hard enough to dimple the flesh under Prakesh’s shirt. His face is pale.
“Wait!” The voice comes from the other end of the corridor. “We surrender. Please.”
Slowly, the movement in the corridor begins to subside. As it does, Prakesh starts counting, without really wanting to, working out how many people still live. There are six bodies, Earther and crew, dead from gunshot or stab wounds. One crew member has a broken neck, his head tilted at an impossible angle.
Four crew dead. Two Earthers. The remaining two crew members are cowering, floating in an almost foetal position, their palms out. A man and a woman, gaunt from years spent in spa
ce.
Okwembu pushes past Prakesh and Syria, her face expressionless. She doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of gravity, her arms akimbo, fingers just brushing the walls. “Put the bodies somewhere out of the way,” she says, propelling herself down the corridor. She stops when she reaches the two frightened crew members.
“I’m sorry that had to happen,” she says. She’s speaking quietly, sincerely, so much so that one of the crew members actually nods. “You need to take us to the bridge now.”
The other crew member isn’t swayed so easily. “Why are you doing this?” he says. “You’re a councillor. You’re supposed to be on the station.”
“I was a councillor.” A note of impatience has crept into Okwembu’s voice. “Not any more. The bridge. Now.”
95
Riley
“Carver!”
There’s nothing. The panic starts to creep in again, tightening my chest and forcing the air out of my lungs. I’m not cold inside the suit – this is nothing like Outer Earth’s core – but a chill creeps in nonetheless.
I tell myself to focus, to concentrate on getting the suit under control. I push the stick up, towards my stomach. Nothing happens
For an awful moment, I think my thrusters aren’t working. Then my fingers feel buttons on the stick – one on the front, one on the back, perfectly cupped by my thumb and forefinger.
I hit the one on the back. My chest thruster puffs out a cloud of gas, and I feel myself moving backwards. Experimental pushes to the left and right make the circles on the corresponding legs and shoulders grow bigger as the others diminish. Stick for direction. Buttons for thrust.
Scanning the blackness for the ship, I push the stick down again, spinning in a slow vertical loop.
My hands are completely numb inside the space suit gloves, and they’re hot, as if all my blood has drained into them. But after fumbling for a few moments, I spot the Shinso, shining in the void as it reflects back the light from the sun. My breath catches – the distance is impossible to judge, but the gap between me and the ship feels like it stretches for miles.
