by Alex Kings
The second shot did it: The metal of the door, brought almost to melting point by the laser, bulged outward under the air pressure. Then, with a groaning clang, it burst open. The remains of the door fell open.
Suddenly they were open to vacuum. Air rushed past, whipping at his air and clothes, and squealing as it escaped.
With one arm holding firmly to Ivis so he wouldn't get sucked out, Hanson reached and pushed the fabric against the wall, and sealed the remaining side
The air could no longer escape. But with the door gone, the membrane was all that lay between the inside of the facility and the vacuum outside. In less than a second the air pressure forced most of the membrane outside, and inflated it like a balloon.
It formed a not quite spherical shape – a bubble of air twenty feet across, sitting against the frozen surface, connected to the remains of the door.
Hanson waited a few moments, listening for the sound of air escaping. But he heard nothing. The rocks on the ground hadn't punctured the membrane.
His hand stung savagely. The skin was turning bright pink. But that couldn't be helped.
A rising tide of chattering and pattering came from behind them. The door opened, and Yilva bounded out, with several dozen Petaurs trailing behind her. Only a few of them were talking, in Isk or in the Albascene language. Some were excited. But most seemed pretty subdued, like they could hardly believe what was happening.
She grinned at Hanson, then turned to her entourage, raised her hands above her head, and clapped. Those Petaurs who were talking fell silent.
“Listen up!” Yilva said in Isk. “We are getting out. That is our escape route. It is a risk. I know it is a risk. We could die. But I have been in dangerous situations before, and I can tell you it is much better than being an Albascene slave!”
In their own raggedy, disorganised fashion, the Petaurs cheered.
“It will be a tight fit,” said Ivis. “Eulen and I will travel outside.”
Hanson nodded. Raising his voice for the sake of the Petaurs, he said, “We move carefully but quickly. Pay attention to your feet. Don't trip up.” He turned to the door, and stepped through into the bubble of membrane.
The air inside was noticeably colder. And the ground. With only the protection of his prisoner-uniform shoes and the flimsy plastic sheet between him and the Kalbraica's surface, it felt like he was walking on ice.
“It is made solely for protection against vacuum,” Yilva explained, following him. “There is not enough insulation. We are rapidly losing heat to the ground.”
“That's good to know,” said Hanson.
The other Petaurs began to file in behind them.
Now he was, in a sense, outside, Hanson thought he might have better luck. He activated his comms. “Hanson to Vyren. Come in, Vyren.”
There was a distant staticky crackle, then a well-spoken voice: “I'm here, Captain.”
Yilva's ears perked up, and she practically bounced into the air. “Vyren!” she said, leaning into the microphone. “Hi, Vyren! What is going on?”
“Hello, Yilva,” said Vyren. “I … had a change of heart, I believe the English term has it.”
“Oh, wow, that's great!” said Yilva.
“We're taking the long way round,” Hanson said. “Can you get to the farm level next to the holding facility?”
“I'll see what I can do,” said Vyren.
“Good. I'll meet you there. Hanson out.”
By this point their little balloon had almost filled up. All of the Petaurs were now inside, taking up almost all of the space. Some of them were shivering, and rightly so – the air in the bubble was barely above freezing now.
At the very least, their collective body heat would keep them all warm for little while longer.
Turning back to look over the heads of the Petaur crowd, Hanson shouted to Ivis, “Disconnect us!”
Ivis first connected the membrane to itself, closing the hole they'd come through. Then he disconnected the membrane from the facility.
There was a muffled-sounding rush as air began to escape from the facility again. It made the top of the bubble ripple and quiver under the wind. After a few moments, a membrane covered the door – an automated system to prevent decompression.
“Alright!” called Hanson. “You seven –” he pointed to the line of Petaurs at the front. “Walk forward slowly. Follow my lead. Everyone else, keep pace with the person in front of you. And for the love all that is holy, don't think about how silly this looks from the outside. Now let's go!”
He put his foot at the rising edge of the bubble, and stepped forward. The front row followed suit. Together, they began to walk. The bubble rolled in time with them. Ivis and Eulen floated along in the vacuum either side of them.
Up ahead, he could see the prisoner transport on its six bulbous wheels. It was connected to the dock. He moved at an angle to avoid it.
He looked around. There was no sign of extra reinforcements. Were the Albascene being slow? Perhaps they assumed the prisoners will still trapped in the facility. Regardless, everything seemed peaceful. It was daytime on this part of Kalbraica, but the sun was so distant it looked like a tiny bright spot, and gave off no more light that the moon did on Earth. Around them were the endless plains of grey rock and dusty ice. No atmosphere meant the sky showed thousands of stars, a dense pattern that would be invisible from Earth.
The going was slow. Before they were halfway there, Hanson was shivering. His breath formed a cloud of vapour. A layer of ice was forming on the balloon's inner surface, obscuring his view of the outside. It cracked and crunched as the membrane deformed under their forward motion. It was getting harder to breath, as their oxygen supply ran down.
Soon, the stars became invisible. The canyon was visible only as a smeared bluish glow up ahead.
*
Eulen trailed behind the balloon. It looked absurd – half deflated, rolling along the rocky ground. Its surface, now coated with frost, reduced its inhabitants to blurs. Ivis, on the other side, was too.
And they were all too occupied to pay any attention to what Eulen was doing. And so they should be – the journey was dangerous, he thought, as he picked up a particularly sharp piece of rock.
He pressed it against the membrane.
And as soon as the air began to hiss out, he dropped it, and waited.
Chapter 39: Air
Hanson reached out to brush the ice off the front of the membrane. A tiny window showed the canyon up ahead, still more than two hundred metres away. Then it became invisible, as the motion of the balloon took the patch of membrane down, and under his feet.
At it vanished, Yilva said, “Hear that?”
The other Petaurs were perking up their ears too, looking around.
Hanson strained to hear, wishing his ears were as good as a Petaur's. There was the squeak of the membrane, the faint crunch of ice, and the sound of his own laboured breathing …
And a faint mosquito-like whine of escaping air.
Some of the Petaurs recognised it. Uncertain, afraid, what little organisation they had began to fall apart. Some slowed. Some stopped altogether. It became harder to keep the balloon going.
“Keep walking!” Hanson said loudly. “We can't afford to wait!”
That did the trick, for enough of them at least.
“Don't stop moving, but find that leak,” Hanson ordered.
The Petaurs, Yilva included, looked up and around. Their ears swivelled radar-like. Already, the balloon was beginning to sag. Hanson had to put his faith in their superior senses – there was no way he could identify the leak.
“There!” came a voice.
Some of them pointed.
“Above!”
Hanson looked. Yes, just about – he could see a small tear in the top of the membrane.
There was no way to reach it. He just had to wait until the bubble turned further. Then the tear would arc overhead, and come down in front of him.
“I see it,
” he said, to reassure the Petaurs, to keep them walking. “Stop when I tell you, and not a moment before.”
They moved onward. Hanson could almost feel their tiny supply of remaining oxygen being lost to space.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually the puncture descended in front of him.
“Stop!” he said.
As soon as they'd stopped, he set to work. The membrane was slippery and hard to manage. His hands – one burned, and both numb from the cold – wouldn't obey his commands. Twice it slipped from his grasp. Air continued to escape.
On the next attempt, Yilva reached out and grabbed it for him. With her holding it in place, Hanson reached out and pinched the membrane together, then activated the chemical seal.
The hissing stopped.
He didn't have enough energy for a celebration. All he could manage was a short smile at Yilva. She smiled back. Frost covered the fur around her mouth and nose.
There was no time for more. Every second they waited, they used up more oxygen.
“Start walking!” Hanson said. The order came out in a croak more than a work. But it was enough. The Bubble started moving again.
Two hundred metres, was it? Hanson wasn't sure. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, harder and harder to think.
He kept it simple: One foot after the other, towards the blue glow.
The thought kept intruding: You might have killed them all. How much oxygen did they have left? Was it enough?
Would they have enough oxygen, and just freeze? His hands and lips felt numb, oversized, rubbery. His breath froze in front of him.
One of the Petaurs on the front row stumbled, and Hanson struggled to pick him up, The small body seemed impossibly heavy. Somehow, he managed, and pushed forward.
Vyren's voice came through the comms: “I'm at the farming level, Captain.”
Hanson brought up a shivering hand. “Good,” he croaked. “We … might need some help.”
Some of the Petaurs had fallen. Unable to get up, they crawled forward. Hanson felt his own knees about to buckle any moment now. There just wasn't enough energy in him to keep breathing and keep walking.
At last, he gave in. And as he did so, the ground gave way beneath him. The bubble lurched forward of its own accord, tumbling its inhabitants about.
For a moment, they were falling. Then something slammed into Hanson's back, winding him. He coughed, and choked, trying and failing to get enough air. Petaurs all around him, some lying on top of him, did the same. At last he realised what had happened. They'd reached the canyon, and fallen a metre on so onto the roof.
There was air less than a metre below him!
Hanson pressed at the ground. There was something he was going to do, wasn't there? Some way to get to it …
The memory came back. He pressed the membrane down against the canyon roof, tracing out a circle, and activated the magnetic seal. Then he pulled out his knife, and began to saw away at the membrane inside the circle. It came away, bit by bit, revealing the glowing blue roof.
But he was running out of energy. There no way he could get through the roof as well.
He activated his comms. “Vyren,” he whispered. “We need you to …” He banged on the roof.
The reply came out muffled. He only caught Vyren saying “Captain,” at the end.
Then he passed out.
Chapter 40: Violence is not Permitted
A giant reptilian head emerged from the lift doors.
Arka?
No, Moore realised. Arka was large, even by Varanid standards. This one was barely average.
Still plenty big, though. He strode out of the lift, holding an oversized pistol like Srak's. His dull grey armour gave off a smeared reflection of the harsh dock lights. Another two Varanids, similarly outfitted, trailed behind him.
Moore's grip on her carbine tightened. Three Varanids. Even with Srak on her side … She brushed the thought away and steadied her aim.
The robot came gliding over to them. “Hello Customer!” it said brightly.
Before it got any further, the first Varanid noticed Moore. It raised its pistol.
Moore unloaded a burst of carbine fire at its head, then ducked back behind the cover of the sapphiroid wall. An oversized round from the Varanid's pistol cracked loudly against the sapphiroid, ricocheted, and chewed a piece out of the metal wall opposite.
“For the sake of other customers, please avoid making excessive noise,” the robot cried.
Simultaneously, Srak and Agatha came out from cover. Srak was holding the hatch from the floor of the lift. He flung it at the lead Varanid, who swatted it aside with the back of his hand, smashing it into the floor. But this moment in which he was occupied allowed Moore and Agatha to shoot at him from both sides.
“Violence is not permitted at SuperDocks(trademark) docks, and may lead to your ship being impounded!”
The two backup Varanids sprung into action, one heading for Moore, and the other for Agatha. The lead Varanid went straight for Srak.
Moore had cover; the Varanid didn't. She sprayed bullets at him, which either scattered off his armour or dug into his skin. Neither slowed him down. He brought up his giant pistol, and Moore ducked back behind cover.
The distance between them was closing fast. Her hand went to her belt. Only three grenades – she'd have to use them wisely. She flicked the pin out of one, quickly calculated the distance between her and the Varanid, and rolled her thumb along the grenade's side to change the timer.
She threw the grenade.
The Varanid saw it flying towards him. He had too much inertia to avoid it. He had time only to put his arms in front of his face.
The grenade went off with a thunderous bang a couple of feet from him. Carbine ready, Moore ducked out of cover the moment after it went off. The Varanid's armour was dented and scuffed from the blow, the skin on his forearms filled with shrapnel, but he was still running.
His front arms, though, were in front of his face. His pistol wasn't aimed at her, which gave her an opportunity. She raised her carbine, and emptied a long burst into his wrist.
It worked. He dropped his pistol.
“Kindly note that you are in breach of the SuperDocks(trademark) terms of service!” said the robot. “This dock has been locked down, and a special SuperDocks(trademark) security teams will arrive in the next –” Here, it switched to another voice. “– Seventy-two minutes.”
The lead Varanid approached the pillar where Srak was taking cover. Srak had already punctured its armour several times with his pistol.
The Varanid rounded the pillar. Srak ducked to the side, keeping cover between them. The lead Varanid moved to the left; Srak evaded. The lead Varanid moved to the right; Srak evaded.
“What are you?” Srak taunted, still dodging. “Just a flunky, in over your head. I'm not interested in you. Where's Arka?”
“Coward!” snarled the lead Varanid. “Face me!” Sick of Srak's dodging, he lunged forward and threw his two left fists into the pillar. Though it was well over a metre thick, the pillar whined and bent.
“Make me,” said Srak.
“Please note that you will be charged for any and all property damage,” said the Robot.
The lead Varanid slammed his entire weight into the pillar, which cracked open halfway. While he was off-balance, Srak neatly stepped around the pillar, put his giant pistol against the Varanid's exposed neck, and fired five times.
The Varanid stumbled back, eyes wide with shock, front hands pressed against his neck, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He collapsed a second later.
At the same time, the Varanid going after Moore went to pick up his pistol with his good hand. She emptied the rest of her carbine into him, then hid back behind cover. The Varanid was coated in blood, but still moving, looking almost demonic. By the time she reloaded her carbine, he'd be on her. Instead, she went to her two remaining grenades, set their timers independently, then pulled the pins. She threw one.
>
The Varanid swore, and shielded himself with his arms again.
Moore threw the second grenade, then set about reloading her carbine.
The Varanid shielded himself with his arms again.
The first grenade exploded a few feet from him.
He dropped his arms, just in time to see the second grenade – which he hadn't noticed – right in front of his face. It exploded.
Moore, her carbine reloaded, heard his roar, and came out of cover. The Varanid held his shivering hands to his face. If nothing else, he'd been blinded. Moore took aim and fired.
Sightless, the Varanid immediately honed in on the source of her gunfire, and ran forward, swiping at her with one hand, firing wildly with the other. Moore dodged to the side, barely avoided being shot, and moved behind him. The Varanid swung around and attacked again. One of his stray shots hit the robot, taking out half of its upper section.
“Please note that damaging this unit will result in a penalty charge being added to your account,” said the robot, its voice distorted and broken.
The Varanid lunged at her again. Moore barely managed to evade it, and stumbled to the floor. Her carbine slipped from her grasp. Bloodied face grinning, the Varanid advanced upon her. The muzzle of its pistol aimed directly at her.
There was that ear-splitting crack.
The Varanid's hand came apart.
Srak laughed, and fired several more shots into it. It stumbled back, fired blindly, and collapsed.
Moore saw Srak's own opponent was down and grinned up at him. As she got to her feet, he said, “Agatha!” and turned away. From the far end of the docks, gunfire roared. Moore ran after him.
They rounded the corner of Berth 2 to find Agatha with her carbine, somehow, in the mouth of the last Varanid.
She emptied it into his throat. The Varanid twitched, and flung his head to the side, wrenching the gun out of Agatha's grip and sending it flying against the wall. But the damage was done. The Varanid swung a clawed hand at Agatha, who dodged it, and then he fell to the ground.
Agatha walked over to her carbine, picked it up, and inspected it. The barrel was punctured and twisted half-off by a giant toothmark. “Damnit,” she said, running a thumb over the damaged metal. “We lost Mr. Shooty.”
