by Devin Hanson
“Good work, kid,” Polder said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat the turbulence too much. We’ll be back inside before you know it.”
Jackson nodded uncertainly. The wind was definitely starting to pick up. Around him, the rubberized suit billowed and sagged as the wind changed directions. A burned scent filled his nose, along with harsh, raw fumes. His suit was working overtime, but some of the Venusian atmosphere had leaked into his suit somehow.
“Ugh,” Millicent spat. “I hate that smell. Are we all done here?”
A chorus of affirmatives acknowledged her and she set off, moving deliberately but quickly. Jackson noticed all the others had two carabiners anchoring themselves to the cable now.
The wind picked up, but it wasn’t a constant, single-direction flow of air like standing in front of a recirculation duct. The wind hammered at Jackson from behind, then softly from the side, then was gone altogether, then a sudden gust would hit him from the front.
The smell of the atmosphere grew in Jackson’s suit as the constant changes in pressure worried at the seams. It was unpleasant and made his eyes water, but it wasn’t dangerous. Yet. If worse came to worse, he could always strip off the suit and breathe directly from the life support pack. He would go through his air supply quickly, and it wouldn’t be pleasant, but he would live.
Progress back to the airlock was slow. At every pylon, each person in turn had to stop, unhook one carabiner, rehook it on the other side, then repeat with the second carabiner. There were five people in their group, and every pylon they came to slowed their progress by another minute.
The winds were growing stronger, and Jackson could see the cloud bank below start to swirl and churn as the low-pressure bubble pushed through it. It was getting hotter as well. At the altitude of the habitats, the temperature stayed a fairly consistent twenty-five to thirty degrees Celsius. Now, the atmosphere that leaked through his suit felt scorching, well into the forties.
The inside of Jackson’s suit was sweltering and sweat ran down his face and arms and pooled in his gloves, making his hands look puffy and bloated from the outside. Jackson badly wanted to wipe his face. Sweat dripped into his eyes and the salt stung, compounding the irritation from the atmosphere.
He was hopelessly lost. Any sense of direction he had was long since scrambled. He clung to the safety wire with one hand and braced himself against the struts of the solar cells with the other. The wind buffeted at them, catching at their loose suits and threatening to tear them from the surface of the habitat.
“Almost there!” Millicent called over the radio. Her voice crackled and popped, the signal scrambled by the static building in the wind. “Atmospherics called, they say there’s a threat of lightning. Keep your heads down below the solar panels!”
Jackson looked up and saw the deep blue of the sky had been replaced by swirling grey mist. Fear clutched at him. This wasn’t harmless steam like he would see in the locker room showers. This was sulfuric acid or worse. Their time outside the habitat interior had a dramatically shortening timer. The suits wouldn’t dissolve right away, but already he could tell the clear plastic of his face cover was starting to fog.
Or was it just the drifting clouds that made it seem like it? Jackson put his head down and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and making his transitions around the pylons as swift as possible. Focus. If he just stayed focused, he would make it back. His suit would take hours to melt away.
Jackson was fourth in line. The Chief had the lead, with the other two crewmembers following, then Jackson, and Polder brought up the rear.
All the solar panels they were passing looked the same to him. On the outward journey, they had been traversing downslope, and the view in front of him was the wide-open vista of the Venusian cloudscape. On the return trip, all he saw was the gritty surface of the pathway in front of him and the arching struts of the solar panel supports.
Lightning snapped across the sky, brilliant white against the grey of the clouds. Jackson started counting and barely reached two-one-thousand when thunder crashed over them.
Progress came to a halt. Jackson leaned away from the safety line and saw they had come to a clearing among the solar panels. The safety line stretched across the center, ten meters of exposed distance. The Chief had already crossed and was beckoning from the other side.
“Come on!” she called over the radio. “It’s not going to get any safer the longer you wait.”
The man second in line transferred his carabiners to the far side of the pylon and crouched, looking up at the sky.
“Just stay low,” Millicent suggested.
With a muffled curse, the man sprinted across the gap, bent over nearly double. Millicent caught him on the far side and helped with his carabiners.
“Good! All right, Tristan, it’s your turn. Don’t make the others wait behind you!”
Tristan looked back at Jackson, then up at the sky. He nodded, his jaw muscles bunching as he clenched his teeth. “On my way.”
Jackson watched Tristan run across the gap with his heart in his throat. It would be his turn next. A sudden buffet of wind slammed into him and Jackson lost his grip on the safety line. His carabiners snapped tight and he jerked to a halt, nearly a meter away from the line.
It saved his life.
Out in the open, Tristan lost his footing as the gust struck him and staggered, windmilling his arms in an attempt to keep his balance. There was a sudden, blinding flash as one of Tristan’s arms was connected to the sky by a bolt of coruscating energy.
Jackson lost his balance as the tension from his belt to the safety line went slack. He stumbled, knocked to his knees by the wind, and heard the safety line whip by his head. Half-blinded, Jackson threw himself toward the nearest solar panel strut. He got one hand about the reassuringly solid polymer and blinked the flash aftermath from his eyes.
Tristan was on the ground, limply rolling downhill. The arm of his suit that had been struck by lightning smoked fitfully, and the exposed flesh of his arm was blackened and scorched.
Bile surged in Jackson’s stomach and he swallowed it back convulsively. There was a ringing in his ears and static coming over his radio. He looked behind him and saw Polder lying on his back. The glove of his suit had been ripped open and blood glistened darkly.
The Senior Wrench wasn’t moving.
Gingerly, Jackson moved backwards, crawling on his hands and knees until he reached Polder’s side. Inside his face mask, Jackson saw the man’s eyes rolling and he was gasping after air. Of course. With his suit ripped open, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
Jackson fumbled in his tool belt and found the roll of tape. Duct tape was a universal tool, convenient in almost every repair situation and he was never without a roll. Moving quickly, Jackson folded the loose cloth of the torn arm fabric tight against Polder’s arm and wrapped duct tape around his wrist until the man’s suit started to puff back up again.
Polder’s hand was exposed and a welter of blood. Only after he had sealed the suit closed did Jackson get a good look at his hand. Polder’s pinky finger and ring finger were gone, torn off by the safety line as it whipped by. Blood was running freely from the wound, fresh and red around the torn flesh, and turning blue as it was exposed to the atmosphere.
First aid. Focus! Jackson didn’t have a first aid kit on him. He knew Millicent was carrying one, but she was on the far side of the open area, without a safety line to cross back to him. That was fine. He had what he needed in his hand already. Jackson started the tape again, down Polder’s wrist where it was still dry and free of blood, then wound it upward, pulling the tape as tight as he could until the wound was enveloped and only the tips of Polder’s remaining fingers were exposed.
There. Jackson got back onto his hands and knees and dragged Polder to the nearest strut. The man was easily fifty kilos heavier than he was, and it took all his strength to drag him the meter and a half to safety.
The wind
was only growing stronger. On all fours, pressed against a strut, the buffeting wasn’t so bad. Skeins of cloud whipped by, backlit by another deafening crack of lightning.
Jackson leaned over and looked into Polder’s faceplate. The man’s breathing was easier. His eyes were red and weeping, but they weren’t rolling any more. The static in Jackson’s ear told him the radio had been knocked out by the lightning. He leaned close and shouted as loud as he could.
“Polder! You need to wake up!”
Jackson shook the man’s shoulder and was rewarded as Polder’s eyes squinted up at him.
“What…”
“Lightning!” Jackson shouted. “The safety line snapped! We’ve been separated, and I don’t know what to do!”
Polder reached up to grab at the strut with his injured hand and pain exploded across his face. He looked at his bandaged hand in disbelief, then shook his head.
“We’re not far from the airlock,” Polder shouted back. “Thirty or forty meters now. We’ll have to crawl around the open space.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
Polder winced and looked down at his hand again. “You saved my life, kid. I’ll be fine. Let’s get going.”
Jackson let Polder take the lead, relieved that the Senior Wrench was alive. Together, they crawled along the line of the solar panels, staying low and pulling themselves from strut to strut. The wind rose to a gale and shrieked between the panels, hammering at them and threatening to rip them from the ground and fling them through the sky like rag dolls.
The lightning grew more and more frequent until it was sheeting across the sky in a nearly constant blaze of light. It was impossible to communicate except by signs. More than once, lightning struck among the solar panels, sending up fountains of sparks.
Fear soaked through every fiber of Jackson’s body. He trembled with it. He felt sick and his muscles were weak. The pooled sweat in his gloves was starting to feel hot like his hands were being boiled. Whenever his skin touched the suit fabric, it felt hot enough to blister.
Ahead of him, Polder kept moving from one strut to the next, leaving behind a smeared trail of blue blood. Jackson followed doggedly. He had pissed himself and the ammonia fumes of urine mixed with the acrid, scorched smell of the atmosphere leaking into his suit. Every part of him wanted to curl up into a ball and scream, but the knowledge of safety being so close by kept him moving. And if he stopped, Polder would leave him behind.
Polder pushed himself up and staggered into a half crouch. Jackson shouted a warning, lost in the rolling thunder, then realized they had circled around the open area and a safety line stretched by over his head. Gratefully he climbed to his feet and clipped his carabiners to the line.
The blowing wind knocked him about, but Jackson didn’t care. Upright, with the security of the line keeping him anchored, he could move much faster. Polder staggered ahead of him, awkward at every pylon as he worked his carabiners one-handed.
Then the bulk of the airlock coaoming rose ahead of them and Jackson felt a surge of relief. They staggered inside and Polder slapped the cycle button before sliding down to the ground.
Jackson watched the blue blood dripping from Polder’s hand turn red as the interior air replaced the atmosphere, then the airlock pinged and slid open. Jackson saw Polder slide sideways and hit the ground. The man’s face was grey and his eyes were unfocused.
He leapt to the terminal next to the airlock and triggered the medical alarm. Sirens shrieked, muted after the crashing thunder. Jackson ran back to Polder and dragged him from the airlock. He was just getting Polder onto his back and propping the man’s feet up when Millicent came charging around the corner, a few steps ahead of a medical team.
Jackson sagged into a chair and took off his suit’s hood. The clear plastic of the faceplate was streaked and fogged by sulfuric acid and the sharp scent of it filled his nose. His hands were shaking and he clenched them into fists as he watched the medical team get Polder onto a stretcher and ran off with him.
He didn’t know what to do next. Polder had led him to a different airlock than the one he had exited from, and there weren’t any empty suit lockers. His suit was probably ruined. What was the procedure to follow? Where was the other airlock? He should probably return his tools.
His eyes sagged shut and he leaned his head back against the wall. Outside, thunder rolled and wind howled, but it was muted. Distant.
Rubberized cloth squeaked nearby and Jackson opened his eyes again. Millicent was standing in front of him, her eyes haggard, her hair matted with sweat and tangled. But she was smiling.
“Well, rookie, how was your first trip out?”
Jackson coughed. “Is it always like that?”
Millicent shook her head. “Not one in a hundred.” Her smile twisted into a scowl. “Tristan was an idiot. He got himself killed, and nearly killed the rest of us.”
Jackson swallowed. The image of Tristan tumbling to the ground and rolling away downhill hung in front of his eyes.
“You handled yourself well, and you saved Polder’s life. Without you, this trip would have been much worse.” She nodded to herself, slapped her hands on her knees and straightened up. “Toss the suit and get yourself cleaned up. You’ve earned yourself a bonus on top of your job fee. And if you want it, you have a spot on my crew.”
Incredulously, Jackson looked up at Millicent. She stuck out her hand and he shook it numbly. “Thanks,” he said.
“No, thank you. Keep yourself free this evening; drinks are on me.”
Jackson watched Millicent leave. What had he just agreed to? Wearily, he stripped out of his suit and dumped it in the hatch the Chief had indicated. His coverall smelled and he wrinkled his nose. At least he hadn’t shit himself.
His tablet chimed and he thumbed it on. Millicent had finalized her rating of his performance. His eyes skimmed over the comments. …above and beyond… …preferred assignment… …performance bonus… Jackson stared at the credit transfer. He had earned a thousand credits on top of the job fee? That was more money than he normally made in a month!
Dazedly, Jackson thumbed his tablet off. He was rich. It was a temporary wealth, of course, but the lightning damage outside guaranteed many weeks worth of work. Even without further bonuses, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.
First, though, he needed a shower. And then to the dispensary, to get some new clothes. It wasn’t the way he had expected to make a living, he thought. Exterior work was dangerous, tedious, and quite easily fatal. Still, he found himself almost looking forward to the next time they would go out the airlock.
CHAPTER
FOUR
The Matriarch Manifesto
Tenet Six
The structure of a matriarch family is perforce different than what one would see among mortals. The Helix Rebuild treatments last for around four hundred days before they need to be refreshed. The exact duration varies, and the onset of withdrawal symptoms is prolonged, so a treatment could be postponed for another twenty or thirty days on the outside. In the interest of maintaining a buffer of safety, the maximum number of male children a matriarch should support is eleven. These men, the ainlif, will remain immortal so long as their mother lives.
During the normal biological cycle of a woman’s menstruation, there are occurrences of multiple eggs being released at once. Among biologically birthing populations, this is reflected as twins or triplets. For a matriarch, the release of this extra egg offers an opportunity. If the burden is acceptable, the egg can be raised as female, to perhaps join the ranks of the matriarchs. Otherwise, the egg can be raised as male.
These male offspring beyond the eleventh remain mortal, the endlaf. It is possible, through the untimely demise of one of the ainlif, for an endlaf to be chosen to rise up and join the ainlif. This must be a merit-based promotion. Otherwise the temptation for one of the endlaf to commit fratricide would be great indeed.
Dennison Romaine woke in darkness. For a moment he listened
to the quiet hum of the air circulation pumps, trying to figure out what had pulled him from sleep. Whatever it was, it failed to repeat itself. He glanced at the faintly glowing numerals on his tablet. It was only a few minutes before his normal waking time. Maybe his body had roused on its own in response to the expected tensions of the day.
Silently, Dennison rolled from his bed. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe something had, in fact, woken him. There was a mechanical rustle from the side of the room and Dennison spun to face it, muscles tense. The blackout blinds covering his window cracked open, admitting heavily-filtered light into the room.
With a cough of rueful laughter, Dennison straightened from his crouch. It was nothing but the automated blinds. The quality of the light changed slowly, increasing from the dull, simulated dawn into bright daylight.
The sound triggered his suite’s house AI and screens powered up giving him various readouts. As was his usual routine, he focused on his mother’s itinerary, scanning it for changes that might have taken place while he slept.
An addendum caught his eye; New Galway had gone through an emergency drill when one of the matriarch’s ainlif spotted some damage to the exterior. Dennison frowned a little. He couldn’t recall what New Galway produced, or who its matriarch was.
“Tabitha, run a search on New Galway.”
A digital sketch of a woman’s face appeared in one of the monitors. “New Galway is an aquaponic R and D laboratory, owned and operated by Matriarch Cynthia Everard. Exports include hybridized crop strains, as well as a genetically diverse variety of fish and crustaceans. New Galway has a registered personnel count of three hundred, with Matriarch Everard the only matriarch in residence.”
Dennison nodded to himself, the rest of the details coming back to him. It wasn’t surprising an Everard had chosen that for her life’s work. Say what you will about that family, they were intelligent about selecting their exports. New crops and the techniques to raise them in an aquaponic system were always in demand.
