Miles, Mutants, and Microbes

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  I hope. Critically, Leo drew back and watched his quaddies work. Pramod had two hoses, one in each set of hands, and was rapidly alternating between them, blob after blob of water flowing onto the coils and the mirror, the ice already starting to thicken visibly. So far he hadn't lost a drop. Leo heaved a weary sigh of relief; it seemed he could safely delegate this part of the task. He gave Pramod a high sign, and left the bay to pursue a part of the job he dared not delegate to anyone else.

  Leo got lost twice, threading his way through the Habitat to Toxic Stores, and he'd designed the reconfiguration himself. It was no wonder he passed so many bewildered-looking quaddies on the way. Everyone seemed frantically busy; on the principle of misery-loves-company, Leo could only approve.

  Toxic Stores was a chill module sharing no connections whatsoever with the rest of the Habitat but a triple-chambered and always-closed airlock of thick steel. Leo entered to meet one of his own welding and joining gang quaddies still assigned to Habitat reconfiguration on his way out.

  "How's it going, Agba?" Leo asked him.

  "Pretty good." Agba looked tired. His tan face and skin were marked with red lines, telltales of recent and prolonged time in his work suit. "Those stupid frozen clamps were really slowing us up, but we're just about to the end of them. How's your thing going?"

  "All right so far. I came in to prepare the explosive. We're that far along. Do you remember where the devil in all this"—the module's curved walls were packed with supplies—"we keep the slurry explosive?"

  "It was over there," Agba pointed.

  "Good—" Leo's stomach shrank suddenly. "What do you mean, was?" He only means it's been moved, Leo suggested hopefully to himself.

  "Well, we've been using it up at a pretty good clip, blowing open clamps."

  "Blowing them open? I thought you were cutting them off."

  "We were, but then Tabbi figured out how to pack a small charge that cracked them apart on the line of the vacuum fuse. About half the time they're reusable. The other half they're no more ruined than if we'd cut 'em." Agba looked quite proud of himself.

  "You haven't used it all for that, surely!"

  "Well, there was a little spillage. Outside, of course," Agba, misapprehending, added in response to Leo's horrified look. He held out a sealed half-liter flask to Leo's inspection. "This is the last of it. I figure it will just about finish the job."

  "Nng!" Leo's snatching hands closed around the bottle and clutched it to his stomach like a man smothering a grenade. "I need that! I have to have it!" I have to have ten times that much! his thought howled silently.

  "Oh," said Agba. "Sorry." He gave Leo a look of limpid innocence. "Does this mean we have to go back to cutting clamps?"

  "Yes," squeaked Leo. "Go," he added. Yes, before he exploded himself.

  Agba, with an uncertain smile, ducked back out the airlock. It sealed, leaving Leo alone a moment to hyperventilate in peace.

  Think, man, think, Leo told himself. Don't panic. There was something, some elusive fact or factor in the back of his mind, trying to tell him this wasn't the end, but he could not at present recall . . . Unfortunately, a careful mental review of his calculations, keeping track on his fingers (oh, to be a quaddie!) only confirmed his initial fear.

  The explosive fabrication of the titanium blank into the complex shape of the vortex mirror required, besides an assortment of spacers, rings, and clamps, three main parts; the ice die, the metal blank, and the explosive to marry the two. Shotgun wedding indeed. And what is the most important leg of a three-legged stool? The one that is missing, of course. And he'd thought the slurry explosive was going to be the easy part . . .

  Forlorn, Leo began systematically going around the Toxic Stores module, checking its contents. An extra flask of slurry explosive might have been misplaced somewhere. Alas, the quaddies were all too conscientious in their inventory control. Each bin contained only what its label proclaimed, no more, no less. Agba had even updated the label on the bin just now; Contents, Slurry Explosive Type B-2, one-half liter flasks. Quantity, 0.

  About this time Leo stumbled, literally, over a barrel of gasoline. No, some six barrels of the damn stuff, which had somehow washed up here, now strapped firmly to the walls. God knew where the rest of the hundred tons had gone. Leo wished it all in Hell, where it might at least be of some conceivable use. He would gladly trade the whole hundred tons of it for four aspirins. A hundred tons of gasoline, of which—

  Leo blinked, and let out an "aaah" of exultation.

  Of which a liter or so, mixed with tetranitro methane, would make an even more powerful explosive.

  He would have to look it up, to be sure—he would have to look up the exact proportions in any case—but he was certain he had remembered aright. Learning and inspiration, that was the best combination of all. Tetranitro methane was used as an emergency oxygen source in several Habitat and pusher systems. It yielded more O2 per cc than liquid oxygen, without the temperature and pressure problems of storage, in a highly refined version of the early tetranitro methane candles which, when burned, gave off oxygen. Now—oh, God—if only the TNM hadn't all been used by somebody, to—to blow up balloons for quaddie children or some damn thing—they had been losing air during the Habitat reconfiguration . . . Pausing only to put the flask back in its bin and arrange a sign on the barrels reading, in large red print, THIS IS LEO GRAF'S GASOLINE. IF ANYONE ELSE TOUCHES IT HE WILL BREAK ALL THEIR ARMS, he raced out of the Toxic Stores module and away to find the nearest working library computer terminal.

  Chapter 15

  Twilight lingered on the dry lake bed, the luminous bowl of the sky darkening gradually through a deep turquoise to a star-flecked indigo. Silver found her attention constantly distracted from horizon-scan by the entrancing color changes of the planetary atmosphere seen through the ports. What subtle variety downsiders enjoyed: bands of purple, orange, lemon, green, blue, with cobalt feathers of water vapor melting in the western sky. It was with some regret that Silver switched the scan to infra-red. Its computer-enhanced colors gave clarity to her vision, but seemed crude and garish after the real thing.

  At last came the sight her heart desired: a land rover, bouncing over the distant hilly pass and skidding down the last rocky slopes, then peeling out over the lake bed at maximum acceleration. Madame Minchenko hurried out of the pilot's compartment to let down the hatch stairs as the land rover roared to a halt beside the shuttle.

  Silver clapped all her hands with delight as she saw Ti thump up the ramp, burdened with Tony clinging piggy-back just as Leo had carted her at the transfer station. They got him! They got him! Dr. Minchenko followed close behind.

  There was a short argument back at the airlock, Doctor and Madame Minchenko's muffled voices, then Dr. Minchenko galloped back down the stairs to crack a cold flare and stick it to the land rover's roof. It gave off a brilliant green glare. Good, the stranded security guards should have no trouble seeing that beacon, Silver decided with some relief.

  Silver scrambled back across to the co-pilot's seat as Ti staggered into the pilot's compartment, dumped Tony into the engineer's seat, and vaulted into the command chair. He yanked his breath mask down around his neck with one hand while switching on controls with the other. "Hey, who's been messing with my ship . . . ?"

  Silver turned and pulled herself up to look over the top of her seat at Tony, who had rid himself of his own breath mask and was trying to get his seat straps in order. "You made it!" She grinned.

  He grinned back. " 'ust bar-ry. 'Er right behin' us." His blue eyes, Silver realized, were huge with pain as well as excitement, his lips swollen.

  "What happened to you—?" Silver turned to Ti. "What happened to Tony?"

  "That shit Van Atta burned him in the mouth with his damn cattle prod, or whatever the hell that thing was he had," said Ti grimly, his hands dancing over the controls. The engines came alive, lights flickered, and the shuttle began to roll. Ti hit his intercom. "Dr. Minchenko? You folks
strapped down back there yet?"

  "Just a moment—" came Dr. Minchenko's reply. "There. Yes, go!"

  "Did you have any trouble?" asked Silver, sliding back into her seat and groping for her own straps as the shuttle taxied.

  "Not at first. We got to the hospital all right, walked right in with no problem. I thought sure the nurses were going to question our taking Tony, but evidently they all think Minchenko is God, there. We just blasted right through and were on our way out, with me playing donkey—that's all I am, just transportation, y'know?—when who should we meet, going out the door, but that son-of-a-bitch Van Atta coming in."

  Silver gasped.

  "We tripped him up—Dr. Minchenko wanted to stop and beat the shit out of him, on account of Tony's mouth, but he would have had to delegate the most of it to me—he is an old man, little though he wants to admit it—I dragged him out to the land rover. I last heard Van Atta running off screaming for a security jetcopter. He's surely found one by now . . ." Ti scanned the monitors nervously. "Yes. Damn. There." He pointed. A colorized flare swooped over the mountains, marking the following 'copter's position in the monitor. "Well, they can't catch us now."

  The shuttle rocked in a wide circle, then halted; the engines' pitch rose from purr to whine to scream. Its white landing lights tunneled the darkness in front of them. Ti released the brakes and the ship sprang forward, gobbling up the light, with a terrifying noisy rumble that ceased abruptly as they rotated into the air. The acceleration shoved them all back in their seats.

  "What the hell does that idiot think he's doing?" Ti muttered through his teeth as the jetcopter grew rapidly in the tracking monitor. "Try to play chicken with me, will you . . . ?"

  It was swiftly apparent that was exactly the jetcopter's intent. It arced toward them, diving as they rose, evidently with some idea of forcing them down.

  Ti's mouth thinned to a white line, his eyes blazing, and he powered his ship up further. Silver gritted her teeth, but kept her eyes open.

  They passed close enough to see the 'copter out the ports, whipping in a strobe-like flash through their lights. In the blink Silver could see faces through the bubble canopy, frozen white blurs with dark round holes of eyes and mouths, but for one individual, possibly the pilot, who had his hands pressed over his eyes.

  Then there was nothing between them and the silver stars.

  Fire and ice.

  Leo rechecked the tightness of every C-clamp personally, then jetted back a few meters in his work suit to give his efforts one last visual inspection. They floated in space a safe kilometer's distance from the D-620–Habitat configuration, which hung huge and complete now above Rodeo's arc. Anyway, it looked complete on the outside, as long as you didn't know too much about the hysterical last-minute tie-downs still going on within.

  The ice die, when finished, had turned out over three meters wide and nearly two meters thick. Its outer surface was irregular; it might have been a tumbling bit of space debris from some gas giant's ice ring. Its secret inner side precisely duplicated the smooth curve of the vortex mirror that had molded it.

  The evacuated inner chamber was capped by layers. First, the titanium blank; next, a layer of pure gasoline for a spacer—a handy second use Leo had found for it: unlike other possible liquids it would not freeze at the ice's present temperature—then the thin plastic divider circle, then his precious TNM-gasoline explosive, then a cap of scrap Habitat skin, then the bars and clamps—all in all, quite a birthday cake. Time to light the candle and make his wish come true, before the ice die began to sublimate in the sunlight.

  Leo turned to motion his quaddie helpers to get behind the protective barrier of one of the abandoned Habitat modules floating nearby. Another quaddie, he saw, was just jetting over from the D-620–Habitat configuration. Leo waited a moment, to give him or her time to come up and get behind their shelter. Not a messenger, surely, he had his suit com for that. . . .

  "Hai, Leo," said Tony's voice thickly through the suit comm. "Sorry I'm lae' for work—d'you leave any for me?"

  "Tony!"

  It wasn't easy, trying to embrace someone through a work suit, but Leo did his best. "Hey, hey, you're just in time for the best part, boy!" said Leo excitedly. "I saw the shuttle dock a bit ago." Yes, and a horrid turn it had given him for a moment, thinking it was Van Atta's threatened security force at last, until he'd correctly identified it as theirs. "Didn't think Dr. Minchenko'd let you go anywhere but the infirmary. Is Silver all right? Shouldn't you be resting?"

  "She's fine. Dr. Minchenko had a lot t' do, 'n Claire 'n Andy's asleep—I looked in—didn't want to wake the baby."

  "You sure you're feeling all right, son? Your voice sounds funny."

  "Hurt mah mout'. S'all right."

  "Ah." Briefly, Leo explained the task in progress. "You've arrived for the grand finale."

  Leo jockeyed his suit around until he could just see over the abandoned module. "What we've got out there, in that box on top—the cherry-bomb on the icing, as it were—is a charge capacitor with a couple thousand volts stored in it. Leads down into a filament placed in the liquid explosive—I used an incandescent light bulb filament with the polyglass envelope knocked off—that thing sticking up is an electric eye swiped from a door control. When we hit it with a burst from this optical laser, it closes the switch—"

  "And the 'lectricity sets the ex'losive off?"

  "Not exactly. The high voltage pouring through the filament literally explodes the wire, and it's the shock wave from the exploding wire that sets off the TNM and gasoline. Which blows the titanium blank out until it hits the ice die and transfers its momentum, whereupon the titanium stops and the ice, ah, carries the momentum away. Quite spectacularly, which is why we're behind this module . . ." he turned to check his quaddie crew. "Everybody ready?"

  "If you can stick your head up and watch, why can't we?" complained Pramod.

  "I have to have line-of-sight for the laser," said Leo primly.

  Leo aimed the optical laser carefully, and paused a moment for the anxiety rush. So many things could go wrong—he'd checked and re-checked—but there comes a time when one must let all the doubts go and commit to action. He gave himself up to God and pressed the button.

  A brilliant, soundless flash, a cloud of boiling vapor, and the ice die exploded, shards flying off in all directions. The effect was utterly enchanting. With an effort Leo tore his gaze away and ducked hastily back behind the module. The afterimage danced across his retinas, teal green and magenta. His pressure-gloved hand, resting against the module's skin, transmitted sharp vibrations as a few high-speed ice cubes pelted against the other side and ricocheted off into space.

  Leo remained hunkered a moment, staring rather blankly at Rodeo. "Now I'm afraid to look."

  Pramod jetted around the module. "It's all in one piece, anyway. It's tumbling—hard to see the exact shape."

  Leo inhaled. "Let's go catch it, kids. And see what we've got."

  It was the work of a few minutes to capture the workpiece. Leo refused to let himself call it "the vortex mirror" just yet—it might still turn out to be scrap metal. The quaddies ran their various scanners over the curving gray surface.

  "I can't find any cracks, Leo," said Pramod breathlessly. "It's a few millimeters over-thick in spots, but nowhere too thin."

  "Thick we can take care of during the final laser-polish. Thin we can't remedy. I'll take thick," said Leo.

  Bobbi waved her optical laser, crossing and re-crossing the curved surface, numbers blurring in her digital readout. "It's in spec! Leo, it's within spec! We did it!"

  Leo's innards were melting wax. He breathed a long and very tired sigh of happiness. "All right, kids, let's take it Indoors. Back to the—the—darn it, we can't keep calling it the 'D-620-and Habitat-Reconfiguration'. "

  "Ah sure can't," agreed Tony.

  "So what are we going to name it?" An assortment of possibilities flitted through Leo's mind—the Ark—the Freedom Star—Gr
af's Folly. . . .

  "Home," said Tony simply after a moment. "Let's go home, Leo."

  "Home." Leo rolled the name in his mouth. It tasted good. It tasted very good. Pramod nodded, and one of Bobbi's upper hands touched her helmet in salute of the choice.

  Leo blinked. Some irritating vapor in his suit's air was making his eyes water, no doubt, and tightening his chest. "Yeah. Let's take our vortex mirror home, gang."

  Bruce Van Atta paused in the corridor outside Chalopin's office at Shuttleport Three, to catch his breath and control his trembling. He had a stitch in his side, too. He wouldn't be the least surprised if he was developing an ulcer out of all this. The fiasco out on the dry lake bed had been infuriating. To pave the way, and then have fumbling subordinates totally fail him—utterly infuriating.

  Sheer chance, that having returned to his own downside quarters for a much-needed shower and some sleep, he'd awakened to take a piss and called Shuttleport Three to check progress. They might not even have told him about the shuttle landing otherwise! Anticipating Graf's next move, he had flung on his clothes and rushed to the hospital—if he'd been moments sooner, he might have trapped Minchenko within.