Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  Dean had to keep braced with his unoccupied hand. The turbulence was less than before, but there were still jolts here and there. The last thing he needed was to get knocked out of position. Sensing his concern, Jo directed two of the specialists to take up positions on either side of him.

  They reached him in moments, each placing one hand in the holds and one behind his back, keeping him firmly in place. He worked with one hand for a few more seconds until, throwing caution aside in favor of trust, he let go with his other hand, allowing his shipmates to keep him where he needed to be. It was a difficult few moments, the uncertainty of it all, coupled with the slight vertigo of free-floating without something solid to hang on to. But a sense of calm came over him as they held him steady, and he was soon able to put concerns over turbulence, at least, out of his mind. Moments later, even the intermittent shaking subsided, but his shipmates maintained their supportive stances.

  * * *

  Even the calm of a relatively turbulence-free ship proved unnerving. They could suddenly hear little things—the creaking of the hull, the short intakes of breath, the hiss of the boosters—an eerie disharmony that accentuated the vacuum-silence that surrounded them. Twenty till… If Dean’s assumptions were correct, the solution should stabilize completely within that timeframe, assuming the force of shield-meeting-shear didn’t rip them apart first.

  The ship gave a fresh shudder that rattled the hull. Not turbulence this time. It almost seemed like air resistance, although that was hardly possible in space. It was odd enough to widen Evans’ eyes, and he started to reach for the com, then held back. There was nothing he could do to help Shane from down here, and no reason to distract him. The rest of them held their breath, casting about for the next slam or jolt of the ship. It never came.

  They reached the half-minute mark, and sounds of relief circled the cabin. The solution was working, at least insofar as it was protecting the ship. Now came the tricky choreography that was the coordinated spacewalk. The support crew had to spread out the receptors and create the cone effect. If it worked, the anomaly would be diverted harmlessly away from Earth’s surface, but this was to be the first the theory would be tested in practice. Much like the Manhattan Project, they were conducting a trial by fire.

  * * *

  Shane willed the tension to fade, limbs in position and eyes pealed. It wasn’t rest, exactly; he’d trained himself to relax his muscles whenever possible, whilst remaining perfectly alert and primed at the same time.

  Checking on the life-support systems, his heart gave a lurched beat. It was fast becoming deadly down there. He hadn’t expected the radiation levels to spike so quickly, but then again he had no idea the extent of the physical damage. He flipped on the deck-specific com so he could speak with his commander privately.

  “How’re you doing down there, sir?”

  There were a few seconds of static before Mansfield replied. ‘Hanging in there, colonel. Enjoying the calm.’

  Before the storm. “I’ll do my best to keep it that way, Joseph.”

  Mansfield snorted, then went quiet again. The next time he spoke, his voice had a graver quality to it. ‘Do me a favor, will you Shane?’

  “Anything,” the colonel replied, meaning it. “What’d you need?”

  The commander coughed and cleared his throat. ‘I know there’s going to be a lot of talk when this is over. I doubt the president is going to be all that forthcoming about his role in all this, and I don’t want you taking the blame if things go wrong.’

  Shane didn’t interrupt, just sat and listened. He felt that Mansfield needed an attentive ear more than anything.

  ‘Whatever happens next, you tell ‘em it was my call. ‘Cause it would’ve been. You call it the way you think is right, and that’s me talking. Okay?’

  Shane didn’t like the idea of shifting the blame, but now he was stuck. He’d promised to do anything. He said he would do as Mansfield asked.

  ‘And one more thing. I’d like it if you could tell my family. Would you? I know they’ll be hearing it from a stranger first, but I’d like them to, you know…hear about these last days from somebody who was with me. I want that person to be you.’

  Shane thought about it, careful not to commit too soon. He resisted the sentimental urge to insist Mansfield do so himself, when he saw them. There was no point in pretending that was an option anymore. Knowing that, he was able to make the promise with a clear conscience. “Sure, Joseph. I’ll do what you ask.”

  ‘Thank you, Shane. I appreciate that.’

  * * *

  “That’s it, Ed,” Dean coaxed, watchful as his payload specialist approach the outer perimeter. “Keep your back to the void, you’ve got plenty of room still. Straighten out the apron at your forty-five. It’s coming out a little askew.”

  The specialist waved a thick-gloved hand, reaching up awkwardly to adjust the output of the silvery, tin-foil like material. It was tricky work. Although the specialists were accustomed to a free-floating environment, it’d been a while since any of them had been in orbit, and there’d been no time to get reacclimatized. None of them had dealt with such a complicated apparatus before, either, and there was a steep learning curve. So Dean had the added pressure of walking everyone through the process.

  “Watch your left, Larisa,” Dean warned, “you’re a little too close to the housing. Keep your tools in sight please.”

  Larisa Denisova had three pieces of equipment floating around her simultaneously, a wrench and two spanners, which made her look as if she were engaged in a slow motion juggling routine.

  The crispy transmission of Larisa’s voice echoed through the cabin; ‘Got my eyes on them, Doctor Eckert. No worries.’

  “Roger,” Dean replied, wincing at the sound of his voice. Nerd-speak? Roger that!

  * * *

  Edwin Evans had taken up position on the northeast point just as Larisa Denisova floated up, checking in with a barely discernible wave. The two enjoyed an incredible view of Space Force One under their feet, and the blue marble that occupied most of the horizon above. But there was little time for enjoyment, not when every minute could mean further devastation. They were in good shape to connect up within the hour, though, and then they would step back into support roles for the other two.

  “Denisova, you reading me over there?” Evans asked.

  His spacewalking counterpart waved again, then tapped her helmet with a thick-gloved finger. Communication trouble?

  “Flight, Evans. Looks like I can’t reach Denisova. Are you getting her signal inside?”

  ‘Uh, okay. One sec…’ Shane Douglas’ voice came through clear and strong inside Evans’ helmet, evidence that the problem wasn’t on his end.

  ‘Denisova, Flight. You having trouble with your com?’

  “Affirmative Flight. I’m hearing you okay, but I can’t get through to Evans, and I’m not hearing him either.”

  Evans thought that it must be some sort of vacuum interference related to the anomaly. It was the only guess he could come up with, given the fact that they had a clear line of sight and weren’t far enough away for distance to factor in.

  He relayed his assumption to the pilot. “Something to do with the anomaly, maybe?”

  ‘Could be, Evans,’ Shane replied. ‘If so, nothing we can do about it from here. You’ll just have to play phone tag. I’ll keep an open channel and relay any necessary communications.’

  Necessary. No idle chatter. Which was fine with Evans. He thought with amusement that his chatty shipmate might not be able to contain herself, though.

  He heard Denisova’s conformation, then added his own. “Understood,” Evans reported, then he shifted his attention to the deployment.

  ‘Denisova, Flight. Swing around and take a look at your outward control, make sure the buffers are diverting the shear. Your numbers are a little weaker than what Evans is showing.’

  “Roger Flight. Coming around.”

  * * *

  On t
he flight deck, there wasn’t much to do until the reposition. Shane had time to re-check his systems for the millionth time, which he didn’t mind, but mostly he was keeping an eye on the situation outside. Not that there was much he could do if the spacewalkers got into trouble, but one never knew. As long as they were out there, he considered himself responsible for them just as much as he was for the ship itself.

  His methodical examination of shipboard conditions almost complete, he was about to log a nominal report when he saw something troubling on one of the redundant ventilation valve readouts. The ship was so battered, it was reasonable to expect some damage, but when it came to air there was no room for error. Looking more closely, Shane grew concerned as he realized the damage extended through not only the one valve, but into the entire network.

  “Specialist Osbourne,” Shane said, his ‘casually routine’ tone as steady as always, “when you have a sec, I need you to have a look at the gamma secondary ventilation stopper. I’m seeing some anomalies.”

  “Roger flight,” Jo replied immediately, “can it wait till after the maneuver?”

  “Negative. I think we’d best figure it out now.”

  “Okay flight, will do.”

  There was nothing more he could do from where he sat. It was possible he was looking at a simple short circuit, or an errant trigger. Jo would know more when she eyeballed it, and from there they could decide if it was something to worry about.

  Shane finished his evaluation and found no further issues, aside from the wear and tear. One major concern was better than several, although he’d have preferred it to be related to guidance or control. At least he’d have alternative solutions there, and a means of influencing the outcome. As far as life support was concerned, all the expertise in the world couldn’t stop the air from turning toxic if conditions were met—or worse, cut out altogether. They could either fix it, or die. Or find another lifeboat for the ride home, of course. Such an unthinkable alternative had saved Apollo 13 so many decades ago. But he preferred not to think that far ahead. He’d deal with his own ship for as long as she allowed.

  But soon after, the notion of a lifeboat stuck in his mind; a sure sign there was something to it. What was it about a lifeboat that could help them with the circulation problem? Wasn’t the re-entry craft a lifeboat all its own?

  In a sense, it was, since it detached from the main vehicle and returned as just a small portion of the whole. But it was an integral component, not an auxiliary device. Was there some alternative even to the re-entry craft something he just wasn’t considering? There were the spacesuits, those could be considered single-man life preservers. But no astronaut could pierce the atmosphere in something so flimsy. What else, then?

  Normally the suits would be tethered to shipboard systems for vitals, assuming they weren’t outside the protective environment of the crew cabin. Even in space, they carried no more than a few hours’ worth of oxygen, in addition to battery packs and cooling water. And that was being used up at this very moment, meaning they’d need a means to replenish…

  So what good would the suits do? Not much, Shane realized, giving the thought experiment a sense of finality. He still hoped there was something more he just wasn’t seeing yet, but it’d do no good to try and force it. If there was something to it, it’d come to him.

  * * *

  Jo opted not to worry her shipmates with the disturbing report, not until she had something concrete to relay. She slipped out quietly and made for the central core, off to see what they were up against.

  With one ear to the deployment, ready to return at a moment’s notice, she opened up the wall and began a physical examination. The duct system containing the worrisome valve unit was flush to the interior bulkhead, but there was no direct access. It took some doing to work her way into the tight confines. The ship was well constructed, made to stay together under a great deal of strain, but it was no battleship. The builders still had to account for launch weight, every design decision turned on it. Whether their design should one day find itself battling forces akin to a space-based cyclone was of secondary concern.

  Inching her way along, Jo slid along the interior crawl-space until she reached the critical junction. Before even locating the problem area, though, she discovered something even more worrisome. The secondary system had indeed been compromised, but the cause was the true heartstopper—the exposure of the primary system to vacuum had blasted most of the apparatus into space. Only emergency plating stood between the crew and a quick, icy death.

  63.

  The pilot was required to take breaks at regular intervals, though Shane frequently ignored that regulation when things were going badly. But with the deployment underway and the ship holding together for now, he gave himself this one. He left the controls in the capable hands of Ruka Saito for a few minutes, time enough to take care of something vitally important.

  Making his way into the depths of the ship, Shane arrived at the sealed hatchway and peered through the glass. Down the companionway was another hatch—an emergency containment door, slammed shut the moment contamination reached critical levels. Activating a private link, he informed the commander of his location.

  A minute later, Mansfield appeared in the opposite window. The glass distorted his appearance, but his features were still recognizable. He looked sick.

  “Didn’t think you’d have time to check in on me down here,” Mansfield said in a faint, raspy voice. “I’ve been listening in. You’re making good progress. I’m proud of you. All of you.” He coughed, causing him to float downward. He grabbed a handhold to steady himself.

  Shane nodded. Then he realized the nod was probably imperceptible through the barrier, so he gave voice to his feelings instead. “It’s going as well as can be expected, but we’re pretty swamped up there, sir. Think you could quit slacking long enough to help us out?”

  Mansfield looked shocked for half a second, then he laughed. It sounded weak. “It’s good to see another face,” he said, stumbling on his words as emotion got him.

  He sounded exhausted. Weary. A shell of his former self, deteriorating right in front of his friend. And the eyes. Those eyes said more than Shane wanted to imagine. Such resigned melancholy. It was like he’d already detached himself from the world of the living. What hell he must be going through, Shane thought, shivering at the idea of being so perfectly cut off, even to those still around him. “I’m sorry I can’t reach you, Joseph,” he said, choking back his own wave of emotion so that he’d be able to talk, “I mean, I wish I could give you something more.” Could I sound any stupider? He had no idea what to say. What was the right thing? Words rang hollow in his ears, which had begun inexplicably ringing all of a sudden.

  The commander opened and closed his mouth several times, though Shane couldn’t tell if he just didn’t know what to say, or was having trouble speaking at all. Or trouble breathing, for that matter. He feared the worst until Mansfield said, “I’m okay,” in a voice so low it was hard to make out.

  He seemed to fade back, head lolling, and Shane let out a worried, “Commander?” before catching himself, knowing how patronizing it sounded.

  Mansfield shook his head, reassuring Shane and forcing himself to focus at the same time, then continued in a stronger voice. “It’s alright…I know. Not my finest hour. But I’ll be okay.” He took a deep breath, producing a wet rattle from deep in his chest.

  This wasn’t the first time Shane was face to face with a dying man, though it was the first he’d been with someone who had time to spare. It was a surreal sort of purgatory they were sharing. Shane didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about it, though he thought he should look on it as an honor. He tried to, tamping down his horror at the situation and focusing on being a comfort to his friend.

  “I’m turning…” Mansfield began, then stopped to breath again, laboring under the effort. “Turning control over to you,” he stated. “The ship. The mission.”