Analog SFF, October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You're an idiot,” he whispered under his breath.

  Dev shut his eyes and tried to think of Letha, but it was Kammie Tule he saw, her blue eyes wide with terror, imploring him to hurry. He sighed and gave in, letting his mind sweep outward, searching. Something pulled at him, as if an invisible hand had just reached into his chest and closed around his windpipe, dragging him forward. She was alive. She had to be.

  He let his eyes open again. The twinkle was back, brighter now and more regular. He checked the radar and was surprised to see he was within 400 kilometers of the object and closing fast. He fired the maneuvering jets and turned his shuttle around, the tail now pointing forward. Dev watched the timer, tensing as the counter fell to zero and the main engines roared back to life.

  Vibration pounded against him, g-forces shoving him from behind as the restraints cut into his shoulders, his breath coming in ragged gulps. Dev tried to watch the burn timer, but the panel was only a blur. Just as he feared he was going to lose consciousness, the engine cut out, the sudden stillness unnerving. Dev shook his head to clear it, breathing deeply as he checked the flight-board.

  The radar went blank, then returned, showing the object he had been tracking now less than three kilometers away. Dev looked out the window, pushing the nose of the shuttle down slightly to clear the view. A lopsided grin creased his face as he caught sight of the tug. Again, he fired his thrusters and moved toward the wounded vessel.

  As he approached, the damage to the tug became more obvious. The machine was tumbling, the coupling platform a collection of twisted girders and torn hoses. A long gash ran down the tug's starboard flank, patches of frost collected across the scorched hull where fluids had leaked out. A single green running light remained, blinking calmly as the ship rolled end over end, somersaulting against the backdrop of stars. Dev tensed, the view hardly encouraging.

  "Oasis Control?” He spoke into his mic, trying to keep his voice flat. “I've found the tug. The ship is in one piece, but shows heavy damage. No sign yet of survivors."

  He switched to the ship-to-ship frequency, his hopes fading as he waited for his computer to query the crippled ship. When no automatic reply came, he brought the mic boom closer to the corner of his mouth.

  "7748 Uniform to Commercial Towing vessel Elizabeth Toland. Please come in.” He waited. “Towing vessel, this is Four-Eight Uniform, currently one point three kilometers sunward of your position. Please respond."

  A metallic taste spread through his mouth as he waited, the icy possibility that no one remained alive aboard the tug becoming more real with every passing second. To himself, he whispered, “Kammie, damn it, send me a sign."

  Fighting his own despair, he edged closer, closing the gap between the two ships, brief sparkles of torn metal and ice catching starlight as they drifted past. Suddenly, as the tug made another end-over roll, he saw a light flash in one of the tiny forward windows. The light flashed twice more before it was lost from view.

  "Towing vessel Elizabeth Toland,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm despite his thundering heartbeat. “Please flash three times on you next revolution."

  He waited, barely breathing, the sour scent of his own sweat filling the cockpit as the tug's forward end rolled once more into view. Dev watched for the light at the window, then whooped out loud as he once more saw the small but intense flash of what must have been a hand-torch blink three quick flashes. To his amazement, he felt the phone in his breast pocket buzz. Shaking, he flipped it open.

  "Don't know if you can hear this,” a faint, female voice said, the signal fading in and out. Dev didn't need to be told it was Kammie Tule. “Our tracking dish is out, so we rigged a hand-held antenna.” The signal vanished, then returned a few seconds later. “No power and air pressure is dropping. Forty-three survivors, all in suits. Six in critical..."

  Again, the voice in his phone faded, but didn't return. Dev swore under his breath. It was maddening to be within shouting distance of the wounded tug, but having to communicate via a relay nearly forty thousand kilometers away. He relayed the information and position back to Oasis Control, then plugged the phone into the intercom.

  "Hang on, Kammie. I'm going to attempt a grapple.” Leaving the phone on, he Velcroed it to the visor above his head then swung his helmet visor down. The row of lights flashed across the faceplate as the seal engaged, a metallic whiff of bottled air kissing his face. Dev drank it in, letting the pure oxygen clear his head as he nudged his ship toward the much larger vessel.

  He glanced at the fuel meter and saw nearly a thousand kilograms of pressurized fuel remained in the auxiliary tank. Hardly a surplus, but hopefully enough to cancel the tug's rotation and start braking, maybe even push them back toward Oasis. Gently, he played the controls, easing his shuttle into a matching orbit, rotating in time with the tug's spin. The skewed g-forces pressed him against the side of the cockpit, the stars now whirling madly in front of him while the tug seemed to slow and finally come to a stop. Dev switched on the flood-lamps as he extended the grapple arms, the mechanical linkages stuttering into position.

  "Almost there,” he said, not sure if anyone aboard the ship could hear him or not. “I'll hook on amidship just forward of the platform."

  A strange calm fell over him as the final meters closed, experience taking over while he maneuvered into position. Gently, as if scratching an eyelid, Dev scissored the grapple arms around a coupling point. A faint click ran up the arms, followed by a low hiss as the hydraulic arms locked into position. Now, he thought ruefully, the real work begins.

  "Hang on tight,” he warned, hoping Kammie heard him. Dev made a final check of the flight-board, then opened the throttle. A thunderstorm broke around him, the vibration rising as his engines pushed against the Elizabeth Toland.

  Clinging to the armrests, Dev watched the board, gratified to see the numbers slowly swing in his favor. Burning fuel at a monstrous rate, he let the engine run. Sweat poured down his forehead, the vibration becoming more violent as the pressures increased. Suddenly, a red light flashed near the top of the board, an alarm shrilling as sensors reported a failure in the left grappling arm.

  A grinding snap shook the cabin as the arm buckled. Dev's hand flew toward the engine cut-off a millisecond too late. He gasped as the impact banged him against the restraints, shaking him. The shuttle rebounded, arcing in the opposite direction, still tethered by the remaining arm. Glass shattered, the air in the cabin joining the cloud of hydraulic fluid and ruptured fuel spewing out of the tanks. His head struck the cabin wall, lights flashing in his eyes as he lost consciousness, the hiss of air pouring into vacuum the last sound he heard.

  * * * *

  Pain wound through his skull, a pounding throb that echoed the agony in his right shoulder. A sticky, coppery taste filled his mouth, his breath whistling through the blood coagulating in his nostrils. Darkness surrounded him, the stars and the cheerful blue screen of the cell phone still miraculously stuck to the ceiling the only light. He was cold.

  "This is what it feels like to die,” Dev thought without any real emotion.

  A flash of lightning sawed through his vision, vanished, then returned. Above him, drifting back and forth he watched the pool of light go from one side of the cabin to the other, diffused by the spider web of cracks in the shattered window. More light, red and blue instead of white, played around him, sparks hissing as they snicked against his visor. The pain worsened, and again he felt himself browning out, not sure if he really saw the cabin roof fly away or the mirrored faceplate looking down at him from outside.

  Gray walls, a touch of frost on the metal surfaces, the light twisted. Dev stared blankly at the odd shadows, confused before it dawned on him that he was no longer wearing his helmet. His head throbbed as he tried to sit up, but a hand pressed him back down.

  "Careful,” someone said. “You might have whiplash. Just stay still, all right?"

  "Where am I?"

  "Airlock aboard the Elizabeth
Toland.” Kammie Tule shifted behind him, the fabric of her E-suit rustling as she scooted around to face him. She placed her hands on her own helmet and gave it a twist. The bulky headgear popped as it came loose. Her hair was matted with sweat and a thin cut ran at a slant into her left eyebrow, but despite the pain in his skull Dev had never seen anything so beautiful.

  "Sorry about the way I had to get you out,” she continued. A cloud of breath hung around her face, the tips of her blond hair already stiffening in the frigid air. “We watched your ship break up but no one could tell if you survived or not. I wasn't really sure until I got you in here and pulled your helmet off. Hope I wasn't too rough."

  "I don't remember. I think I blacked out.” Dev winced as he sat up, the pain reminding him how close he had just come to dying. “You saved my life, didn't you?"

  "Probably.” A lopsided smile played across her face. “You saved ours, so it's a fair trade."

  "Did I?” He frowned, her words floating inside his aching head. “I managed to slow the Toland down?"

  "Yeah. We're down to just a few kilometers per hour. Oasis has already dispatched a rescue ship homing in on your beacon. They should be here in a couple hours.” Kammie's smile deepened, the faint lines around her eyes heightened by the single battery powered light set in the airlock wall. “Believe it or not, they heard us talking on my phone. We couldn't hear each other, but they tight-beamed a reply to us."

  "Good.” Dev began to shiver, suddenly so cold he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering. Kammie peeled off her gauntlets and let them drift away as she worked the controls set in the left arm of his suit. Almost at once warmth spread around him, the heat pumps obviously still functional. He felt as if he had just slid into a warm bath, the chills deep but lessening. He shut his eyes and drifted asleep, floating in a pillowed dream.

  Fingertips whispered across his cheeks, gentle circles around his temples. Dev sighed, reveling in the touch. Her touch. Kammie's touch. His life had been so wrong for so long, but everything was going to be all right now. Kammie was back. They were together, and nothing was going to pull them apart again. His left shoulder ached, but he managed to reach up with his right hand and brush hers, needing to return the touch even if his suit kept them physically apart.

  His eyes opened, reality coming back in a single, unyielding flood. Kammie still hung above him, staring down at him. Her hair was tipped with ice, the temperature inside the airlock brutal, but she didn't seem to notice, the redness of her cheeks only making her more beautiful. She had been crying, he could tell, but now she smiled.

  "They're almost here. The rescue ship, I mean.” She continued to stroke his face. “We should be out of here in an hour."

  Before he truly understood what was happening, she bent forward and kissed him. A sharp pain cut across his swollen lip, but he didn't care, the avalanche of sensation so intense he felt as if he was being pulled apart atom by atom. She drew back, only a little, so near he could feel her warmth against his cheek.

  "I love you,” she whispered. “I've always loved you."

  "Kammie . . .” He wanted to say so much, but that was the only word he seemed able to say. He tried again to speak, but she silenced him with a touch of her finger against his lip.

  "I know,” she said, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “We both have other lives. But that isn't going to change anything, is it?” She bent forward and kissed him again, her tongue flicking at his teeth, the salty flavor of her lips more addictive than morphine. Eternity broke around them, time no more real than the clouds of spent breath spreading through the icy chamber. Finally, she drew back. “I think they owed us that much, don't you?"

  Dev wished he could think of something profound to say, but settled for a nod and a sad, quiet smile as they settled back to wait.

  * * * *

  She was in the crowd when they off-loaded, huddled near the gate with the rest of the family members, a tiny shape held back by the low metal rail. Dev saw her as he was wheeled down the gantry and waved to her, ignoring the scolding from the army of medical technicians as he stood up.

  "I'm all right,” he said, ignoring the protests. He glanced to his left, noting the line of injured people coming off the Elizabeth Toland, at least half of them strapped to litters. “I can walk from here."

  He moved away from the gantry, dragging his left leg. His shoulder throbbed, but at least his headache had subsided thanks to the heavy doses of painkiller they had given him during the flight back from the now deserted tug. A padded collar chaffed around his neck, but as badly as he wanted to throw the annoying brace away, he was sure that would certainly bring the technicians pouring down on him.

  Behind him, as palpable as if she held the end of a long rope tied around his stomach, he felt Kammie watching. He paused, fighting the urge to turn around, then staggered ahead once more. By the time he reached the crowd Letha had already climbed over the rail and lowered herself clumsily to the metal deck.

  "Be careful.” Dev hurried as much as his aching joints would allow, horrified as Letha stumbled then recovered. She spun around to face him.

  "You're a fine one to talk.” She stared at his face. “It's a good thing you came back alive, or I'd have killed you.” She watched him, her dark eyes questioning. Dev reached for her, but stopped. Things had to be said, and the sooner he said them the better.

  "Letha, I . . .” His words caught in his dry throat. “There's some things you need to know."

  "Don't,” she whispered. Her eyes darted over his shoulder, and he had no doubt she was looking at Kammie Tule. “Please don't say it. Not right now."

  "I have to.” He reached again for her, ignoring the pain, and pulled her to him, the clean scent of her hair masking the deeper, sour aroma of fear. Dev laid his head against hers. No explosions of sensation rushed him, no drowning flood of undiluted need, but he didn't care.

  "I love you,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face. “I'm sorry for what I've put you through these last couple days, and I can't promise I won't put you through more. But I love you. I love you so damn much. Someday, when this is all over and the baby is old enough, I want to go back to flying starships."

  "I can live with that.” Letha was crying, but managed a weak smile as she pulled away. “Now would you shut up and take me home?"

  They started toward the ramp, moving slowly, hampered by her pregnancy and his injuries, both pretending not to hear the calls from the medical crew. Dev felt again the tug on his heart, but when he glanced back toward the gantry Kammie was gone. Beside him, Letha gave him a gentle shove on the small of the back. He felt a guilty blush creep over his face.

  "I can tell you one thing, boyo,” she said, only half mocking as she patted her stomach. “If it's a girl, we're sure as hell not naming her Kammie."

  Dev smiled and leaned against his wife, letting her guide him into the corridor. “That's fine with me,” he said. And to his surprise, it was.

  Copyright © 2010 Justin Stanchfield

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  Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don Sakers

  Science fiction, like most areas of human endeavor, has its fashions. Across the history of the field, individual fashions go through a fairly consistent progression. First, someone writes a groundbreaking new story that becomes hugely popular. Then other writers jump on the bandwagon, at first mostly producing imitative and derivative stories to fill the demand created by the seminal work. This goes on for a while. Then, more and more writers explore the new territory, blazing their own trails and taking the original story in different directions. What was a bestseller-and-follow-ups becomes a full-fledged movement. For a time, it seems that everything published is part of the movement.

  Eventually the new movement attenuates, like the shell of gas around a nova. Other types of SF reappear, the field returns to its pre-movement diversity . . . but the movement's influences remain. The movement has become a fashion. Then, slowly, the f
ashion fades as other things take its place—although its impact remains and the field is stronger for it. After a decade or so, everyone wonders what all the fuss was about.

  Take, for instance, one of SF's first fashions: the “super-science” stories of E. E. “Doc” Smith, of which The Skylark of Space (1928) was the seminal work. It didn't take long for other writers to join the fun. Before he became editor of Astounding/Analog, John W. Campbell, Jr. made his name with his Arcot, Wade, and Morley stories, which were firmly in the Smith style. Edmond Hamilton was another major writer of Smith-like super-science epics.

  After a while super-science stories morphed into what we now call “space opera,” and a movement came into being. Many of the big names of the field wrote space opera: Ray Cummings, Raymond Z. Gallun, P. Schuyler Miller, and Jack Williamson were particular favorites.

  Then, as space opera became a full-fledged fashion, its elements spread as all manner of writers took them up in stories that went far afield. Galactic Empires, universe-spanning wars, powerful technologies, multitudes of aliens, swashbuckling adventure—all elements that continue to appear in SF to this day.

  The most recent fashion in science fiction—well on its way to also being a fashion in larger society—is steampunk.

  As with most fashions, there's no authoritative definition of exactly what constitutes steampunk. That's entirely fitting, as steampunk is in a period of flux, on the brink of the stage when it will begin to disperse itself across the whole field. But as commonly understood, steampunk involves stories set against an anachronistic quasi-Victorian or—Edwardian background. Steampunk stories may take place in the past, present, or future—but it's an alternate universe in which the primary technology is steam power. It's a world in which Jules Verne and H. G. Wells would be entirely at home.