Soundless Conflicts

by S. Walker

  Mark was repairing the local atmosphere subsystem during the first lockout. But he heard it over the radio, along with everyone else: The screaming, the pleading. But she'd planned it well and made sure the scavenge group had no friends on the inside to force the issue. "It had to happen," Targer said later, eyes cold and surgery-perfect looks aimed at the small group like weapons. Her husband and son stood behind, not meeting anyone's eyes. "They were dragging us down. Wasting resources. We wouldn't have lasted long enough for rescue if we had to share. That's a hard fact. But if anyone disagrees," she stared them all down. Pointed at the hatch. "Find somewhere else. If you can."

  Her husband Peter pulled Mark aside later that evening, hovering just off the deck and uncomfortable without gravity. "Look, for what it's worth I'm sorry." Mark didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. "She's right, we couldn't have supported all those people. Especially if they can't contribute! None of them were specialists, or engineers, or-" he seemed at a loss for other roles to name. Mark could have given him more. But that would prolong the conversation and he was already deeply nervous. "And really it's for the best. But they were just indebted workers. Not like us. Not like you. You see that, right?"

  He was referring to Mark's unique status. He was an Independent, that mythical employee who by luck or raw skill paid their debts in full and could stand outside the Corporate system. It wasn't Executive; no one reported to him. But at the same time he could leave if he wanted. Nothing held Mark to a job if he wanted to refund a contract. Executives tended to tiptoe around him. At least until they discovered how much he disliked conversations.

  "-are you even listening to me, Mr. Thompson?" She sounded shrill, on edge.

  No, he hadn't. "Yes, I was. Ma'am."

  "Then patch those holes! We have lost power in this section not that you care," which Mark thought was unfair. He had repaired that section. His work was a source of pride. There just wasn't anything he could do about recharging power relays-- the reactor simply didn't exist any more. Not something he could do anything about.

  "-and if we don't get moved to the next section right away it will get terminal in here. Terminal, Mr. Thompson! And if it gets bad here I can guarantee you my last act will be locking down everything!"

  He thought about pointing out her son was in there. It seemed relevant. But he didn't want to keep this going any longer than necessary. "Okay."

  "Then I suggest you get moving! Thirty minutes!"

  Which was an unnecessary order: Mark hadn't stopped working even while she was ranting. In fact he was already putting a handheld welder to a piece of scrap, melting and annealing it over a hole in a blaze of scintillating light. He liked that word-- scintillating. Another welder, an indentured worker, said it once and he'd caught it like a curious bird in a net. Mark might not like talking very much but he still enjoyed collecting words. It was something about the potential. Words could become something... but they didn't have to.

  The whole time he was thinking, he worked. Patches went on holes, then the compact welder went around the edges in a scintillating display. A precious bit of patching putty from the compartment's emergency kit went on next, covering the crude weld and vacuum-hardening to resist sudden flexes when the atmosphere returned.

  Somewhere around an hour (and four demands for updates later) his skinsuit urgently beeped. Mark paused, chin down, looking at the status icons. Amber indicators were lit up around the suit recycler systems. Which was bad. But it seemed like CO2 levels were stealthily climbing as well; the snitch sensor for that must have failed. Which was worse.

  Mark thought about that while patching another hole. He had time: Even the worst skinsuit held enough oxygen for twenty minutes of stressful activity. Longer, if he was calm. He knew that from raw experience after several months of living in one. True, the first few times had been scary but now equipment failure was so common he wasn't upset. Maybe a little worried, in that distant way people thought about the possibility of food poisoning. Well, if food poisoning was lethal.

  So he didn't immediately turn back for the dubious safety of Upper Executive Targer's closed section. Instead, he counted holes: Three left. Maybe ten minutes, fifteen for a good putty seal. Not ideal, but doable. No need to radio in. No need for conversation, or at least listening to the Executive's one sided rant about not to do things he was already not doing (dying, mostly).

  He put another piece of scrap against a hole, covering up distant cold stars and uncaring vacuum. The handheld went around the edges. Scintillating. Then putty, applied evenly from a mostly empty tube. The opposite end had a mechanical sparker then zapped the putty, forcing a chemical change that made the slick gel it into a hardened semi-solid. Vacuum resistant. Mark approved of the design: It was self contained. Well thought out.

  His suit heater died. Something acrid smelling came through the small vent under his nose. Maybe an electrical short? Battery death?

  Another scrap plate in place, more annealing. There was no shortage of scrap plates right now. They were everywhere, no need to be stingy. When the main facility took a hit the pieces shredded the torus around it, turning living quarters and communal segments into instant morgues. Now everything was scrap. He could pull floor plates up and use them, or repurpose a console. Plenty of material.

  The cold started seeping in, making his joints ache. Which was unpleasant. But because of the cold his body would naturally slow circulation to conserve heat, keeping him awake and aware longer. That helped, oddly: Slower circulation meant less oxygen used. And when he looked at the indicators that seemed like a very good thing right now.

  Another patch. More stars covered up, more scintillating. More putty. Also deeper breaths now. His lungs were starting to stress the lack of oxygen by trying harder. That was expected. He knew it would happen. There was still time for important things, like testing his work.

  From a thigh pocket he pulled a small device that looked like nothing more than a short display attached to a clamshell crank. Mark squeezed it several times to charge the readout, then pressed a small inset button. It read zero point zero. Which was normal, this room was open to vacuum less than a minute ago. He was just testing: If the emergency pressure sensor cheerfully told him everything was good then, well-

  -he actually didn't know what to do about that. Something to think about.

  Bending an arm, Mark reached awkwardly behind himself until he felt the skinsuit's release valve. He took a second to get a secure grip, then slowly turned it a quarter counterclockwise. Instantly his skinsuit objected, screaming amber and red alerts about suit pressure drops while he slowly bled the atmosphere out. Well, bled the CO2 out anyways. He had alarmingly high amounts of it.

  He carefully watched the pressure sensor as his skinsuit continued losing its mechanical mind. When the readout blipped over to zero point zero one he stopped, twisting the valve closed with a practiced hand. Then he waited patiently, testing his work. If the seals were good the tiny amount of pressure in the room would stay the same. If he'd missed anything it would bottom out as Boyle's Law proved true again, gases finding a way to escape.

  That would be bad. Mostly because it meant he'd done an incomplete job. But also because the situation was dicey enough he might not make it back comfortably.

  The readout stayed constant. Zero point zero one, pressurized.

  Time for the worst part: Reporting in. He practiced for a second, then keyed the radio with a tap of one finger. "It's done, ma'am. Seals are in place." There. Status updated, all pertinent information given.

  Targer came back over the connection, snapping like a whip. "Are you sure? We don't want another incident, Mister Thompson."

  He frowned. That wasn't fair. It had only been the once, six months ago when he was new to the idea of survival-based, unsupported welding with dozens of lives on the line. Before he'd worked out the routine of checking all the cubbies, nooks and hiding spots. That one time he'd missed a single medical cabinet with a pressuriz
ed container inside. When the section suddenly regain atmosphere it had gone off like a bomb, blowing open two patches and emptying irreplaceable oxygen. It had been a scramble to start on the next compartment after that: Each one only came with a single emergency reserve of oxygen, wasting one meant using the next. They'd almost run out before being able to move again. It was close.

  But still, that wasn't fair. He should say something back. Be assertive. Verbally chastise the Executive for doubting, assure her his work was well done.

  Mark keyed the radio, full of fight and ire. "Yes, ma'am."

  Maybe next time.

  "Fine. I'm overriding the system now. Hold onto something or take a beating, Independent."

  He kicked slightly sideways, hooking an arm over a nearby console and bracing both feet. Moments later every vent in the room blasted atmosphere as emergency oxygen tanked purged. He could tell even without hearing it: The cold turned the in-rushing air into visible vapor trails that pounded into his repair patches and spread like clouds. It was beautiful. Not scintillating, but very pretty. Like clouds would be, if he lived in one.

  It was over a minute later. Mark confirmed by watching his pressure sensor, eyes intent until it hit thirteen point five four. He frowned. That was slightly low: Someone in Corporate must have shortcharged the system to save money. Not unexpected, but it bothered him on a professional level.

  Reaching over, he twisted the seal off his left glove and snapped it off. There was a pop as unequal pressures met, then that weird slithering feeling of atmosphere forcing itself through the arm piece. Cold intensified, stinging his hand and forearm where the suit heaters failed ten minutes earlier. But at least his skinsuit stopped shrieking alarms as oxygen stabilized.

  A short minute later he was sure: The seals were holding. They'd all stay in their suits, of course, but this was another compartment to live from. For a few days, at least. Then he'd have to repair another, Executive Targer would override the emergency reserves to pressurize and they'd continue the same cycle they'd been on for months now.

  Although it couldn't last forever. Mark knew that: Eventually they would go all the way around the station, traversing twenty five miles of torus until they were right back at the start. But then they'd be out of rooms, out of emergency air, out of time. Which was bad.

  "Are you listening to me? I swear, if there was a blowout and you're not telling me I will leave you out there, Independent! Answer! Answer at once!" If he listened hard there was a good chance to hear a small fist thumping a wall in anger.

  Oh. Right. He keyed the radio. "It's good, ma'am. Everyone can come over."

  "Finally! You have one job, why does it take forever to do it!"

  Which, again, wasn't fair. Mark held certifications on nearly every system the MES Fortune's Find station relied on. He didn't have one job, he had all of them at once. Technically. He only had two hands and limited time, after all. But it was his efforts that kept everyone alive, breathing and even restored power occasionally. It was ungrateful to yell at him for it. He should say something.

  Maybe later. He put his tools away, instead.

  He floated there, listening to the emergency bulkheads slowly cycling the rest of the survivors through. It was slow: They had to crank it by hand from their side. And when everyone piled through to this side he'd have to help crank it back shut again. There just wasn't power to spare for opening and closing them automatically. But at the same time no one wanted to leave the bulkhead ajar. That was trusting every single patch the entire length of the station, all at once. A bad bet. Mark wouldn't have wagered.

  But as he floated, something new happened. It was quiet at first, then slowly sputtered into hearing range.

  His radio was scratching, speakers blipping in and out.

  Mark frowned. That wasn't right. Intermittent signals came from weak reception. But everyone with a working unit was less than a hundred feet from him right now. Strong enough to come through clear, if they cared to talk and he wasn't too anxious to reply.

  The scratching noise came again, like someone running steel wool over a microphone.

  Maybe his skinsuit was malfunctioning. It was likely. He'd swapped every single piece out of it multiple times now as Corporate-bought components failed. At this point it practically wasn't "his" suit anymore. How many parts could be replaced before it wasn't the same thing it started as? It was an interesting thought, interrupted as the speakers blasted to life again.

  More scratching. More static. And then, at the very end: "...Kipper, respond"

  And just like that Mark Thompson was in a conversation he wanted to have. Very, very much.

  Chapter 12

  Personnel Investments

  "-CES Kipper, respond." Captain Siers released his console indicator, waiting. By unspoken agreement Jamet and Paul both turned an ear to the overheads as if that would make it easier to hear.

  They all waited for a long ten seconds for any response.

  "They might not be able to hear our transmission." Emilia sounded slightly distorted over the ship speakers. A strange rattling sound echoed in the background. "We're still something like three light seconds out and our array is a mess up here."

  Jamet swiped radio controls open on her console. "Why can we hear them, then?"

  "Receiving is a lot easier. The entire ship hull acts as a weak antenna, even if our array looks like it could strain water through it. Wait. Is that you, Princess?"

  She closed the link, refusing to get into an argument. "Alright. So we can hear them, but they can't pick up our transmission. How bad is that?"

  Siers pulled up another window and pointed. "We are still moving at a good clip. In less than a day we'll be halfway to the station, more or less. The closer we get the stronger our broadcast should be."

  "S'true," Janson added, then slowly climbed to his feet. "Ah have the retro rockets goin' full right now. Well, most of 'em. About a quarter aren't responding."

  Paul interrupted. "A quarter out of how many?"

  "Forty or so." Janson shrugged. "They're not meant f' propulsion. Just attitude and docking, gentle touches and corrections."

  "Will it be enough to slow us down?" Visions of impacting the mining torus at a fraction of light speed flitted through Jamet's mind. With a start she realized her imagination tended to look exactly like all the failed simulations Kipper's systems provided. Coins and little spinning people included. "I really would, um, like to avoid hitting anything."

  "I think we would all like to avoid that, lieutenant." Siers tapped the callout for their ship, then dragging an icon out. "We're decelerating at- is this right? Forty miles per hour?"

  Janson edged around his console, one hand to his ribs. "Yes, sir."

  Projections came up. "That still puts us at about seventeen miles per second when we get to the station. We need to brake harder, but without the Krepsfield engaged. Options?"

  "Fire more retros is our best bet, captain. Headin' down to see about our spares right now, need to suit up." He turned slightly to give Jamet an eyebrow. "Care t' join me, ma'am? I'd appreciate it."

  She opened her mouth to refuse, then something made her hesitate. Janson was the one person who hadn't been against having her on the crew. In fact he'd been the opposite: Welcoming, happy to talk. Easy to get along with. To her faint surprise she realized that was rather... nice. Which was a feeling that didn't come often and came with more than a little value attached. In fact it meant more because for the first time Jamet could remember absolutely no one had any personal incentive to pretend. She couldn't do anything to them! No punishments, no social strata, no monetary status.

  The Kipper's crew treated her like she deserved. Which abruptly begged the question: Would everyone be so rough on her if they didn't fear the consequences? Surely she wasn't that vindictive.