by Ben Bova
“Why are you taking us here?” Holly demanded.
“Just following orders,” said the burly leader of the security team.
“Orders? Whose orders?”
“Colonel Kananga’s. He wants to meet you at the central airlock.”
Eberly groused and grumbled, but he realized he had no choice but to accompany Morgenthau to this meeting with Kananga. What else can I do? he asked himself. I’m nothing more than a figurehead. She holds the real power: she and Kananga and that viper Vyborg. If it hadn’t been for him and his stupid ambition, none of this would have happened. I’ve won power for them, not myself.
He meekly followed Morgenthau to the bike racks outside the administration building and mounted one of the electrically powered bicycles. From the rear, Morgenthau looked like a hippopotamus riding the bike. He noted that she hardly pedaled at all, even on the flat; instead she let the quiet little electrical motor propel her along. I hope she runs out of battery power by the time we have to start climbing, Eberly thought viciously.
But she made it all the way to the endcap and the hatch that led to the central airlock, Eberly dutifully following behind her. They left the bikes in the racks at the hatch and entered the cold, dimly lit steel tunnel that led to the airlock.
As the hatch swung shut behind them, Eberly looked over his shoulder, like a prisoner taking his last glimpse of the outside world before the gates close on his freedom. He saw a small group of people trudging up the slope toward the hatch. Three of them were in the black tunics of the security forces. The tall slim figure in their midst looked like Holly. He didn’t recognize the even taller man in a gray outfit walking up ahead of the others. Two of the security people were dragging a man who was clearly injured.
Then the hatch closed, and Eberly felt the chill of the cold steel tunnel seep into his bones.
“Come along,” said Morgenthau. “Kananga’s waiting for us at the airlock. Vyborg is there, too.”
Wondering what else he could do, Eberly followed her like a desperately unhappy little boy being dragged to school.
Gaeta blinked sweat from his eyes. He had reeled in the emergency antenna and fired it out again, twice. Each time it had given him about five minutes of clear communications before the ice creatures coated it so thickly that the radio link began to break up.
His faceplate displays were splashed with yellow as he diverted electrical power from the suit’s sensors and even the servomotors that moved its arms and legs to pour as much energy as possible into the heaters. The arms were getting too stiff to move even with the servomotors grinding away. Christ knows how thick the ice is packing up on them.
Trouble is, he knew, the suit’s skin is thermally insulated too damned well. The suit’s built to keep heat in, not to let it leak outside.
That gave him an idea. It was wild, but it was an idea. How long can I breathe vacuum? he asked himself. It was an old daredevil game that astronauts and stuntmen and other crazies played now and then: vacuum breathing. You open your suit to vacuum and hold your breath. The trick is to seal up the suit again before you pass out, or before your eyes blow out from the loss of pressure. A lot of people claimed the record; most of ’em were dead. Pancho Lane had a reputation for being good at it, he remembered, back in the days when she was an ass-kicking astronaut.
The real question, Gaeta realized, is: How much air does the suit hold? And how fast will it leak out if I pop one of the small hatches, like the one in my sleeve?
He wished he could check it out with Fritz, but even the emergency antenna was out now; the last time he’d used it, it got too thickly coated with ice to reel it back in.
You’re on your own, muchacho. Make your own calculations and take your own chances. There’s nobody left to help you.
Kananga looked calm and pleased, standing tall and smiling in front of the inner hatch of the airlock. It was an oversized hatch, wide and high enough to take bulky crates of machinery or other cargo, as well as individuals in spacesuits.
Vyborg was fidgeting nervously, obviously anxious to get this over with, Eberly thought.
On the other side of the steel-walled chamber stood Holly, trying to look defiant but clearly frightened. A young man who identified himself as Raoul Tavalera lay at her feet, grimacing in pain and anger. Eberly remembered him as the astronaut who had been rescued during the refueling at Jupiter. The Ethiopian tracker and the three security team people were further down the tunnel, blocking any attempt to run away.
“I’m pleased,” said Kananga, “that our newly installed chief administrator could take the time away from his many duties to join us here at this trial.”
“Trial?” Eberly snapped.
“Why, yes. I’d like you to serve as the chief judge.”
Eberly glanced uneasily at Holly, then quickly looked away.
“Who is on trial? What’s the charge?”
Extending a long pointing finger, Kananga said, “Holly Lane stands accused of the murder of Diego Romero.”
“That’s bullshit!” Tavalera shouted.
Kananga stepped toward the wounded young man and kicked him in his ribs. The breath rushed out of Tavalera’s lungs with a painful grunt. Holly’s hands balled into fists, but Kananga turned and struck her with a vicious backhand slap that split her lip open. She staggered back a few steps.
“This court will not tolerate any outbursts,” Kananga said severely to the gasping, wincing Tavalera. “Since you have aided and abetted the accused, you stand accused along with her.”
“If I’m the judge here,” Eberly said, “then I’ll determine who can speak and who can’t.”
Kananga made a mock bow. “Of course.”
“I assume you are the prosecutor,” Eberly said to the Rwandan.
Kananga dipped his chin once.
“And who is the defense attorney?”
“The accused will defend herself,” Morgenthau answered.
“And the jury?”
Vyborg said, “Morgenthau and I will serve as the jury.”
Eberly thought bleakly, A drumhead military trial. They’re making me part of it. I’ll never be able to deny that I took part in Holly’s execution, they’ve seen to that. The best I can do is see to it that this drumhead trial follows some kind of legal order. The result is as clear as the fear in Holly’s eyes.
He sighed deeply, wishing he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else, he thought, except my old prison cell back in Vienna.
“Very well,” he said at last, avoiding Holly’s eyes. “This trial is called to order.”
EXECUTION
Using the suit’s internal computer, Gaeta made some rough calculations. The temperature inside the suit was still sinking even though he had the heaters up full blast. Make up your mind while you’ve still got some heat inside the suit. Otherwise you’re dead.
He made his decision. Gaeta pulled both arms out of the suit sleeves. Getting his legs out of the suit’s legs was more difficult. Shoulda taken those yoga lessons they were offering last year, he told himself as he strained to pull out one leg and fold it beneath his buttocks. The other leg was even more difficult; Gaeta yelped with pain as something in the back of his thigh popped. Cursing in fluent Spanglish, he finally managed to pull the other leg up into the suit’s torso. Panting from the exertion, feeling his thigh muscle throbbing painfully, he sat inside the suit’s torso in a ludicrous parody of a lotus position.
“Okay,” he said to himself. “Now we see how long you can breathe vacuum.”
“I didn’t kill Don Diego,” Holly insisted, dabbing at the blood from her split lip. With her other hand she pointed at Kananga. “He did. He admitted it to me.”
“Do you have any witnesses to that?” Eberly asked, stalling for time. He didn’t know why. He knew there was no hope. Kananga was going to “convict” Holly of the murder and execute her, with Tavalera alongside her. Airlock justice.
Holly shook her head dumbly.
Kananga said, “She�
�s lying, of course. She was the last one to see Romero. She claims she discovered the body. I say she murdered the old man.”
“But why would I do that?” Holly burst. “He was my friend. I wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Perhaps he made sexual advances at you,” Eberly suggested, clutching at straws. “Perhaps the killing was self-defense. Or even accidental.”
Morgenthau, standing to one side beside Vyborg, muttered, “Nonsense.”
“You’re the jury,” Eberly said. “You shouldn’t make any comments.”
“She’s guilty,” Vyborg snapped. “We don’t need any further evidence.”
Let the heat out of the suit and maybe it’ll drive ’em away, Gaeta told himself. If it doesn’t, I’m dead. So what’ve I got to lose?
He nodded inside the ice-covered helmet. So do it. What’re you waiting for?
He refigured the control board inside the suit’s chest to pop the access panels in both the suit’s arms and both legs. The four keypads glowed before his eyes. The four fingers of his right hand hovered above them.
Do it! he commanded himself.
Squeezing his eyes shut and blowing hard to make his lungs as empty as possible, Gaeta jammed his fingers down onto the keypad.
And counted: One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three…
In his mind’s eye he saw what was happening. The suit’s heated air was rushing out of the open access panels. The ice creatures should feel a sudden wave of heat. Maybe it would kill them. Certainly it should make them uncomfortable.
…one thousand eight, one thousand nine…
Gaeta’s ears popped. He couldn’t hold his breath much longer, but he didn’t dare open his eyes yet. He remembered tales of guys who’d been blown apart by sudden decompression. The whole suit’s insides’ll be dripping with my blood and guts, he thought.
…one thousand twelve, one thousand…
He banged the keyboard and felt the access panels slam shut. Opening his eyes a slit, he hit the air control and heard the hiss of air from the emergency tank refilling the suit.
But his faceplate was still completely iced over. In final desperation he banged on the thruster firing key again.
It was like lighting a firecracker under his butt. The thrust of the jets caught him completely unaware. He yowled in a mix of surprise, delight, and pain as the suit jetted off. He was flying blind, but at least he was flying.
Morgenthau and Vyborg didn’t even have to look at each to agree on their verdict.
“Guilty,” said Morgenthau.
“Guilty as charged,” said Vybrog. “And her accomplice, too.”
“Accomplice?” Tavalera blurted.
Kananga kicked him again.
“The jury has found you guilty,” Eberly said to Holly. “Is there anything you wish to say?”
“Plenty,” Holly spat. “But nothing you’d want to hear.”
Morgenthau stepped in front of Holly. Pulling a palmcomp from her gaudy caftan, she said, “There is something I would like to hear. I want you to confess that you and your friend here were working with Dr. Cardenas to develop killer nanobugs.”
“That’s not true!” Holly said.
“I didn’t say it had to be true,” Morgenthau replied, with a sly smile on her lips. “I merely want to hear you say it.”
“I won’t.”
“Neither will I,” Tavalera said.
Kananga looked down at the wounded, beaten engineer, then turned to face Holly. Smiling wolfishly, he said, “I think I can convince her.”
He punched Holly in her midsection, doubling her over. “That’s for the kick in the face you gave me,” he said, fingering his jaw. “There’s a lot more to come.”
Fritz had been sitting tensely at the main control console for hours, not speaking, not moving. The other technicians tiptoed around him. With their communications link to Gaeta inoperative, there was nothing they could do except wait. The mission-time clock on Fritz’s console showed Gaeta still had more than thirty hours of air remaining, but they had no idea of what shape he was in.
Nadia Wunderly came into the workshop and immediately sensed the funeral-like tension.
“How is he?” she whispered to the nearest technician.
The man shrugged.
She went to Fritz’s side. “Have you heard anything from him?”
Fritz looked up at her, bleary-eyed. “Not for two hours.”
“Oh.”
“Are those ice flakes actually alive?” Fritz asked.
“I think so,” she said, with the accent on the I. “We’ll have to get some samples and do more studies before it’s confirmed, though.”
“They’re actually eating the new moonlet?”
Wunderly nodded somberly. “They’re swarming all over it. I’ve got the instruments making measurements, but it’ll be some time before we’ll be able to measure a decrease in the moonlet’s diameter.”
“I see. You’ve made a great discovery, then.”
“I wish I had known about it before Manny went out—”
“Hey Fritz!” the radio speaker crackled. “Can you hear me?”
“Manny!” Fritz jerked to his feet. “Manny, you’re alive!”
“Yeah, but I don’t know for how long.”
RETURN
Alone in the cockpit of the shuttlecraft, Timoshenko had listened to the chatter between Gaeta and his technicians, then grown morose as Gaeta fell silent. So the scientists have made a great discovery, he thought. They will win prizes and drink champagne while Gaeta is forgotten.
That’s the way of the world, he thought. The big shots congratulate one another while the little guys die alone. They’ll do some video specials on Gaeta, I suppose: the daring stuntman who died in the rings of Saturn. But in a few weeks he’ll be totally forgotten.
Timoshenko had programmed the shuttlecraft to ease through the Cassini division between the A and B rings and take up a loitering orbit at the approximate position where Gaeta was programmed to come out below the ring plane. He knew that the stuntman wasn’t going to come out at that precise spot, not with what had happened to him. Probably Gaeta would not come out at all, but still Timoshenko remained where he had promised he would be.
“Hey Fritz! Can you hear me?”
Fritz blurted, “Manny! You’re alive!”
The sound of Gaeta’s voice electrified Timoshenko. He stared out the cockpit’s port at the gleaming expanse of Saturn’s rings, so bright it made him blink his eyes tearfully. Then his good sense got into gear and he checked his radar scans. There was an object about the size of a man hurtling out of the rings like a rifle shot.
“Gaeta!” Timoshenko shouted into his microphone. “I’m coming after you!”
It took Gaeta a few seconds to recover from the shock of the thruster’s sudden ignition. He had no control over it; he banged at the keyboard in desperate frustration, but the rocket simply blasted away until it ran out of fuel and abruptly died. Only then did Gaeta try his comm link. He got Fritz’s voice in his earphones; the chief tech sounded stunned with surprise and elation, something that was so rare it made Gaeta laugh. The old cabrón was worried about me!
“What is your condition?” Fritz asked, getting back to his normal professional cool. “The diagnostics we’re getting are still rather muddled.”
Watching ice particles fly off his faceplate, Gaeta said, “I’m okay, except I don’t know where the hell I’m going. What’s my position and vector?”
“We’re working on that. Your thruster has burned out, apparently.”
“Right. I’ve got no way to slow myself down or change course.”
“Not to worry,” came Timoshenko’s voice. “I have you on radar. I’m on a rendezvous trajectory.”
“Great,” said Gaeta. The faceplate was almost entirely clear now. He watched one little ice flake scurry around like an ant on amphetamines and finally disappear.
“So long, amigito,” Gaeta said to the particle. “No hard
feelings. I hope you get back home okay, little guy.”
Pain!Holly had never known such white-hot pain. Never even dreamed it could exist. Kananga punched her again in the kidneys and fresh pain exploded inside her, searing, devastating agony that overwhelmed all her senses.
“A simple statement,” Morgenthau was saying, bending over her. “Just a single sentence. Tell us that you were helping Cardenas to develop killer nanobugs.” She jabbed the palmcomp under Holly’s nose.
Holly could barely breathe. Through lips that were puffed and bleeding she managed to grunt, “No.”
Kananga put a knee into the small of her back and twisted her left arm mercilessly. Holly screamed.
“It only gets worse,” Kananga hissed into her ear. “It keeps on getting worse until you do what we want you to.”
Holly heard Eberly’s voice, miserable, pleading, “You’re going to kill her. For God’s sake, leave her alone.”
“You call on God?” Morgenthau said. “Blasphemer.”
“You’ll kill her!”
“She’s going to die anyway,” Kananga said.
“Work on the other one,” Eberly pleaded. “Give her a rest.”
“He’s unconscious again. Holly is a lot tougher, aren’t you, Holly?” Kananga grabbed a handful of hair and yanked Holly’s head back so sharply she thought her neck would snap.
“If we had the neural controllers,” Vyborg said, “we could make her say anything we wanted.”
“But we don’t have the proper equipment,” Morgenthau said. She sighed heavily. “Break her fingers. One at a time.”
Timoshenko swung the little shuttlecraft into a trajectory that swiftly caught up with the hurtling figure of Gaeta.
“I’m approaching you from four o’clock, in your perspective,” he called. “Will you able to climb into the cargo bay hatch once I come within a few meters of you?”
