Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Stadter said, “We have him. He’s in range of something. I’ll have whoever that something is grab him in about ten segs, if he can last that long.” He sounded giddy with exhaustion.

  “Yes.” Yeah, ten segs wasn’t a problem, assuming they did get him. There were lots of craft, so the odds were very good. Still.

  “Good luck, Blazers, we’ll do what we can.”

  Hensley said, “Approaching. I could use a line transfer to speed things up.”

  Bowden bent over, snapped another line in place and tossed the bag at Hensley as he came over the horizon of the ship’s skin. Hensley caught it, pulled the free eye out, and clipped it to his harness. He popped the old one free and let it dangle, then fall in the acceleration. The lines cost better than Cr500 each, but they could gather them afterward, if time permitted. Even then, most were only proofed for one hard yank or one abrasion. Space was not the place for corner-cutting.

  “Thanks much. Where do you need me?” the fitter asked as he climbed the metal cliff.

  The ship shifted violently and they all grabbed lines, but it was a reduction in acceleration. Perhaps 1.2, close to surface normal for Grainne.

  Bowden said, “Anywhere here you can make a hole and pass gas.”

  “One dutch oven coming up,” Hensley joked. “Is that a bypass valve next to the emergency panel? When was this piece of crap built?”

  Bowden looked where Hensley’s light splashed. Yes, that was an archaic emergency fill pipe. Ancient, but convenient, if it was intact.

  “It’s forty-eight Earth years old, thirty-three of ours.”

  “Gods, this thing should have been lashed up as a museum or broken for scrap. Okay, I need five segs.”

  “Make it three.”

  “Five it is,” Hensley agreed.

  Bowden nodded to himself. Sometimes reality didn’t bend. Hensley leaned forward and took a bend in the line to hold himself steady. He pulled out a grinder, then contact fluid, then his portable inductor, and hermetically welded the hose fitting to the valve.

  One of the trailing lines slackened and Marchetti sprang into view. He let his legs collapse and soak up momentum from the landing, while tightening a retainer. The man had enough experience he didn’t even hop, but simply stood from the skin, maneuver complete.

  “That should be enough gas to disorient them. I’m worried about brain damage or other ill effects, though.”

  Lowther pinged in and said, “I checked with the station medical officer. He said he couldn’t hear my transmission and suggested we discuss hypothetical research questions after the fact.”

  Bowden felt a bit nervous, on top of the shaky and nauseated and icy and wired and adrenaline-soaked. He didn’t think anyone would blame him for the attempt, but if anything exacerbated the disaster, he could wave his career a hearty goodbye. If he pulled it off, however . . .

  He choked all that down. This was about saving a hull full of kids.

  He heard an override chime, and Stadter cut in.

  “Bowden, I need to know your timeline, and what you’ll be doing with rescue balls.”

  “That depends on how these ships are going to catch them. We’ll lash them together and can tow them or drop them. Otherwise, someone has to get close enough to line them over.”

  “Just keep them out of the engine wash. Record. Cluster of three. Cluster of four. Cluster of four. Cluster of five. One single. Give them enough drift to clear the engines, and minimize other momentum. I’ll tag ships to match departing velocity and recover, but Bowden . . . ”

  “Recorded, sir. Go ahead.”

  “We’re rapidly reaching the point where all these ships will need secondary rescue on fuel, power and oh two.”

  Hensley took that moment to say, “Ready.”

  Bowden said, “Ops, we’ll be flinging them in two hundred seconds, I hope. Stand by.”

  “Understood. Also, the ongoing loss of structure and mass is affecting trajectory and acceleration.”

  “Damn. I thought it felt a bit brisker again. Understood.—Break—Lemke, are you ready on charges?”

  “Ready.”

  “Marchetti, ready on gas?”

  “Ready. I need twenty-six seconds, per the medical officer, who advises against doing this.” He waited at the gas bottle, with a metal shield they’d use to avoid sharp edges on the entry.

  “Do it. My order.” He tensed at that. God and Goddess, it better work. “Listen on the hull phones, and stand by to cut and breach.” He clicked through to the hull phone again. “Gordon, I need everyone to hold still and relax. The atmosphere is going to change, and we’re about to come in. Stay clear of the hull.”

  “Understood, sir. We’re on the far side.”

  “Ready.” “Ready.” “Ready.” “Ready.” “Ready,” echoed through his helmet. Five was correct. He hoped Arvil was okay. Lemke stood with his detonation controls, waiting.

  Marchetti said, “Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-si—”

  Lemke thumbed a pad, a nimbus of boiling debris, expansion-chilled vapors and particles illuminated by a searing flash erupted from the hull, and faded to glitters of gray.

  Marchetti took the number-one spot, lifting his feet and letting the acceleration slide the ship under him. He bent and twisted like a gymnast, planted his shield against the aft side of the breach, and swung in. Lowther followed quickly and smoothly, then Bulgov. Bowden twisted and threw himself down, glad of the near normal G after the torture of 3 G. The hull was two thin plates perhaps six centimeters apart, and he glimpsed crumbled faramesh as he went past. One good solar flare might have done this beast in, too.

  Then he was inside, as Hensley followed, and Lemke came last. Bowden made sure he wasn’t going to crush anyone, and settled on the effective deck, the rear bulkhead. It was a deck under boost. However, that boost eased off enough to make his ears spin. Less than 1.0 G, he guessed.

  The reduced gees helped, but the craft’s motion was very irregular, shuddering and rumbling. Still, the kids were unconscious on the boost deck, rear bulkhead, from gas and hypoxia. Some of them had puked, and all looked rather wrung out.

  Lemke slapped a balloon patch over the breach, and Lowther punched the emergency O2 canister. That, at least, worked. He then punched the one they’d brought with them. The pressure wouldn’t be great, but it should be enough to prevent major brain damage, hopefully. This assumed any airtight doors in this section remained functional. You did what you could, and sometimes it worked.

  The bulkhead shifted as if in an earthquake, but the acceleration dropped again. He recovered from his two seconds of thought and got to work.

  The smallest kids were at greatest risk, and easiest to handle. They were first, when there was a choice. He scooped up a girl perhaps two years old, a delicate little thing, and slid her into a ball. He zipped and yanked and it inflated. Then he saw he’d missed her stuffed critter of some kind. He grabbed it and stuck it into his harness as he shook out another ball and reached for the boy next to her.

  By the time he reached the next, the rest were all ready to go, bundled and with transponders already lit. The last one he handled was a teenage girl, and it felt somewhat obscene, the way he had to shove her legs and butt into the sack.

  “Seventeen?” he asked.

  “Seventeen.”

  “Is that confirmed from manifest?”

  “No. Bulgov is searching aft.”

  Bowden considered. He didn’t want to leave anyone behind. If need be, they could split into elements. But the ship was failing, time was running out, and the risk increased for the rest of them the longer they delayed.

  The kids started waking up.

  The teenagers figured it out quickly, except for the one girl, who was apparently a claustrophobe. She thrashed and kicked, realized intellectually the problem with that, and curled up to hug herself, sobbing and trembling.

  Some of the small kids, however, did not like the enclosures, nor the disorientation
of waking up from the gas, nor being away from their friends. Some of them put up a healthy tantrum.

  Luckily, the balls were designed not to be torn. Panic response was one of the design criteria.

  One little boy found the emergency lanyard, designed for escape in case of some bizarre circumstance where one had entered by accident, closed up and needed out before the onboard O2 supply failed. He yanked it, peeled out fast, then started gaping like a fish in the very thin atmosphere, which now had several more holes to leak from. He sprawled in the direction of one cabinet. Lowther grabbed him by the collar, got face to mask as the kid faded, stuffed him back into a new ball from his kit, and in a dive, grabbed an armful of assorted stuffed toys and threw them in with the child. Hopefully one was his, and the rest could be sorted out afterward. Bowden sighed. Such things were essential support items for kids, but a pain to deal with.

  Bulgov called from aft, “Someone was clever and locked themselves in an airlock between sections. The safety is working and it won’t open.”

  Lemke said, “Arriving,” and dropped down the passage. A few second later, a rumble and bang indicated a breach of the door mechanism, shallow shrieks sounded just as Bowden glanced down, to see two disheveled teens, one male, one female, letting themselves gratefully be stuffed into rescue balls. They got limper as the rare atmosphere affected them.

  As soon as he had green pings on his helmet readout from everyone, he ordered, “Hensley, we’re done. Pull the plug.”

  They’d been inside the ship seventy-three seconds.

  Hensley jabbed a sharp knife into the plug and sliced. It deflated, sucked through and stuck on a torn piece of hull, vibrating in an increasingly shallow flutter as the remaining atmosphere blew past. Then Lemke waved for attention and thumbed his detonator again.

  Half the compartment hull disappeared in a flashing swirl, blowing out, peeling back, and ripping off into space. Some tatters blew in and tumbled down the companionway aft.

  Stadter wished he could do more than listen and coordinate. His medic was over them pulling kids out. His two flight crew were coordinating sequences of ships to recover people floating in space, and the technicians from the Special Warfare boat were diddling the engines. Management was important, but he wished mightily for hands on.

  “Rescue, this is Diaken.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Got it down to zero point six G. How’s the structure looking?”

  They’d done all they could, and it might have bought enough seconds to save a few people.

  He said, “Bad. Complete spine failure is imminent. It’s still visibly deflecting.”

  “I’m last on the line. I’ll see what I can do. Can you monitor my vitals?”

  Vela said, “I have you.”

  His screen flashed the tag DIAKEN as she said, “On winch. Winch on. Descending.”

  Vela said, “Rad levels are reduced. Looks like you have eight-seven seconds outside the access.”

  Diaken: “Well, it’ll be less, because I’ll be inside. I might have to break things.”

  Vela did have a good voice for reassuring people. “We’ve got your readings. Good luck.”

  Diaken: “Thanks. We’ll see if it matters.”

  With the hull open like a cave, it was time. Bowden made the call.

  “Rescue, this is Bowden. Ready to pitch on your order.”

  “Outstanding. Stand by in five, four, three, two, one, throw.”

  “Thrown,” he confirmed, as Bulgov and Lemke tossed a lashed bundle of three balls out into space. God and Goddess help the kids. Then he realized they had two extras.

  “Rescue, we found two extra, where do you want them?”

  “Crap. Last. Three, two, one, throw.”

  “Thrown,” he reported, as another bundle went out.

  The two larger bundles took effort, the troops grunting as they heaved the masses out, being so very careful not to rip one open on the torn section of hull.

  Bulgov said, “I’m hit! Suit tear on the edge. Bleeding, level two. Pressure tight, but damn, bleeding.”

  “Understood. Step out, apply aid. The rest of you finish throwing.”

  Stadter said, “Bowden, your last three tosses are delayed. Stand by.”

  “Holding,” he said, and gritted his teeth. He pointed at Lowther, who nodded and climbed over to help Bulgov apply a pressure bandage. They wore skintight constriction suits, so there was no risk of suffocation unless the helmet was cracked, but vacuum drew body fluids out, too. Speaking of which, he found a safe direction, popped a valve and let loose a liter, to boil away into nothing. That felt better. The gees dropped again, as did the noise and vibration.

  Stadter said, “Bundle that last pair together.”

  Lemke grabbed a short elastic cord, wove it through the grips and thumbed up.

  “Ready.”

  “Ready in five, four, three, two, one . . . ”

  The last bundle rolled out and dropped aft into space.

  “Rescue, that’s them all. Proceeding aft and forward for other casualties.”

  “Good luck, Bowden. Thrust steady at zero point six gee, but structure increasingly compromised. Estimate five hundred seconds max.”

  “Is it really that close, or is that your safety margin, over?” He was moving as he asked, with a wave to the rest.

  “I say four hundred, I figure you can handle five hundred.”

  “Understood.”

  “Rescue, I need a count,” he called over Rescue channel.

  “Current count is one four seven.”

  “There are theoretically seven zero people left aboard.”

  “Correct.”

  “Shit.”

  He left it at that, and led the way forward as Lemke and Bulgov went rear. It was much easier at .6 G, but only relatively. The wreck was a mess. Struts were bent and bending, panels buckling, and leaks increasing. It was hard to see through a haze of condensation in the dropping pressure. Lacking pressure, some areas of the hull were collapsing in. Others bowed out, lacking the structural tension to hold them. The first lock they came to was jammed closed, until Hensley slapped a ready charge on it and cracked the latch. Bowden moved through, and the override on the other side worked. Apparently, the lock had been holding atmosphere within. That seemed to run in this ship. Had the pressure switches ever been tested since it was built?

  He swung the lock and jumped in startlement. A figure in an emergency mask stood just inside. He could see the man talking, but there was no atmosphere. In a moment, the man switched to pointing. Staterooms. He pointed at his mask with both hands, simulating donning it, and pointed at the compartments again.

  Bowden nodded, and ordered, “Check the staterooms, have masks and balls ready.”

  The three men swarmed around him and the crewman, used demolition bars on the hatch-doors, and ripped into the staterooms.

  Sharp thinking. They held partial pressure of atmosphere, and overpressure of bodies. Three staterooms had forty-three people, with their emergency masks, taking turns connecting to the emergency bottles. They hadn’t fought each other in a panic over oxy, but from the relief on their faces, they would have soon.

  “Bowden, this is Lemke. Aft is . . . bad. It’s mostly evacuated, physically and radioactively hot, and structurally a mess. There are holes everywhere. I’m prepared to go by compartment on your order.”

  He checked time on his visor. There was no way to get everyone out in the allowed time. So they’d have to hope to beat the odds, because there was no way they could leave anyone behind. The nausea and heat came back, and he increased his oxy level. He needed it now.

  “Lemke, copy Rescue, what do you see of the lifeboats?”

  Lemke said, “They seem to be gone from this side.”

  Stadter said, “There are two not accounted for, but their bays are far back near the reactor. My call is not to go there.”

  Bowden said, “Agreed.”

  Stadter added, “You’ll be glad to kno
w there are some relieved parents. The engineering crew cleared the casino and lounge and forced them into the lifeboats. Tough call, but the right one.”

  “Good news. Lemke, Bulgov, come forward.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rescue, this is Bowden. Four-three mobile casualties in masks. We can put some in balls. Is there any way to dock or catch?”

  “Bowden, this is Rescue. Your team has planted charges on the reactor feeds. They plan to cut the lines the hard way and brenschluss that way.” His voice sounded tight.

  “Understood. Will that be soon?” Bowden asked. Stadter did not sound happy.

  “If you consent, I do.”

  “Do it.” That would take the strain off the structure. He felt relief and guilt. If they’d been able to do that sooner . . . but he’d definitely live.

  A moment later a bang and a rumble shook the creaky vessel, but thrust dissipated at once, to nothing.

  “Bowden, this is Rescue, we can dock at Frame One Zero, Radius Two Zero Zero.”

  “Do that, and we’ll shuffle people in one at a time.”

  “We can take the worst one-five, absolute max. The rest will have to egress for recovery.”

  “Understood.”

  This was going to mean a fight.

  Stadter didn’t want to tell Bowden how the feeds had been cut. Sergeant Diaken was dying from massive radiation exposure, from hand-placing charges inside the danger radius. The other four were adrift in the dark awaiting pickup from amateurs in craft not equipped for rescue, along with Arvil. Bowden and his team were cutting their way through the inside . . .

  “Rescue, this is Barley Mow. We have an extra recovery.”

  Budd said, “Barley Mow, this is Rescue, elaborate, please.”

  “Sergeant Arvil. He slapped against the hull. We got a line on him. He’s got some impact trauma, but his suit armor took it, and he’s alive if bruised.”

  Budd, Vela and Stadter stared at each other for a second.

  Stadter said, “Barley Mow, that’s ludicrous, but thank you.”

  Bowden wished they’d opened the staterooms one at a time. While the three crew had done a fine job herding people in, they’d reach panic level soon. Nor could he use command voice, there was almost no pressure in the forward end.