by Sharon Lee
“Stost, how do we fare? Time check coming on twelve-point-five CTS.”
Stost’s job, besides muttering an occasional swear word, was theoretically easier, being free of calculation—the units on the local reaction mass gauge were percentages which both sides understood without translation—and they were bleeding the chemicals into the vacuum from two central vents, balanced manually, else they’d spin like a top, or wander away from Bechimo.
“We have just under twenty-seven percent remaining. Kara has specified no more than three percent, with zero best! Please do check me, Pathfinder. At this venting rate, we will be close to zero at CTS fourteen-point-five—call it two units; a twelfth of a day.”
Chernak squinted in the dimness…
“Yes, I see twenty-six percent. Progress is good. I have also seen that the atmosphere indicators are approaching sixteen percent.”
Stost blinked, than let out a low whistle.
“Confirm to me that the atmosphere indicators are approaching sixteen percent.”
“Indeed, Stost. Approaching sixteen percent. Exactly the reading.”
A small sound—perhaps a swallowed curse.
“Nothing from any other indicators?”
“None. They have not moved, those indicators, since eleven-point-seven-five. The rate of change is at zero. Also the carbon gases are increasing rapidly toward the unhealthy zone, if the devices speak truly, which I think that they do. I suspect we will be uncomfortable before the venting is finished.”
“I will speak to Kara,” Stost offered. “I will offer an alternative to the venting, which was my suggestion. There may be a quicker way.”
“Quicker would be better,” Chernak allowed. “Speak to Kara, yes. I have seen Grakow’s valor and I salute his courage. It would distress me to have to relieve him of his life, in order to make Kara’s timeline work.”
“Understood, Elder.”
Stost reached for the comm.
* * * * *
Theo had called all hands to the bridge in the wake of Stost’s most recent communication. They sat stations, tea to hand, and considered the problem.
Main screen showed course possibilities plotted against time, guesses more than fact, percentages of air to percentage of fuel, with only the far end showing the blue zone Bechimo regarded as safe.
“Can’t vent and accelerate at the same time?” Clarence asked.
Kara shook her head. “Systems locked against it.”
“Can’t use counterthrust the way they’re venting?”
Theo asked that, watching—no, it was more like feeling—the numbers fly by inside her head as Bechimo tested possibilities.
Kara shook her head again. “Systems locked…”
“Abandon ship and wait for us to pick them up?” asked Win Ton.
“They’ve only got work suits with air masks—not full pressure suits,” Kara said. “And the cat…”
“The cat!” Win Ton interrupted heatedly. “If they abandon, even in work suits, we can save them. The pilots. The cat is, after all, not a prime consideration.”
It was Bechimo who answered that, at unexpected volume and with a hint of heat.
“Negative, Win Ton. Not acceptable.”
“But…”
Bechimo overrode him, with raised volume and some haste.
“The pathfinders have used the terms ‘civilian advisor,’ and ‘survivor,’ in reference to the entity you are calling the cat, Scout. Grakow’s call was the first communication we received from their ship. Ambassador Hevelin has evinced interest in all three of the occupants, with special attention to Grakow. Theo will not abandon a survivor. A solution without Grakow cannot be considered.”
Into the silence, came the voice they knew as Chernak.
“Chicancha Bechimo. Kara?”
Joyita acknowledged. “Bechimo canchanad, Kara ek Joyita.”
Clarence raised his hands and said, low, “I’d be calling back, too, if the air was getting sweeter by the minute!”
All eyes were on Theo now, while Kara’s hands intercepted lines of sight with the insistent finger-talk phrase at here, pilot’s choice as she pointed to a spot on the timeline that was not quite in Bechimo’s safe zone.
Theo took stock of hands answering pilot’s choice and waved toward the main screen where Kara’s chart was re-forming into something new. A second-by-second timeline was building in front of them, elucidating Stost’s alternative suggestion—run the engine until exhausted.
Her fingertips were tingling, Theo realized; her nerves were fizzing with…anticipation. This—this was going to be a challenge! She took a deep breath and reviewed a quick mental exercise to restore calm, then cleared her throat.
“Joyita, Kara, Win Ton, joint translation,” Theo said. “Tell them, ‘Attention, flight orders to follow, basic approach approved by the captain.’ Clarence and Win Ton will check suit readiness as soon as the immediate transmission is complete; be prepared to suit up. I…we…Bechimo has a plan.”
Hevelin leaned hard into Theo now, low murbles a worried background on the silent bridge.
The silence stretched long enough that Theo felt a twist of panic in her stomach. If the crew thought—but they had to do something!
It was Joyita who broke the silence, crisply.
“Yes, Captain,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Repair Bug
“It would be good, Chernak, if one did not feel quite so much as a target drone before a hunter.”
Bechimo was positioned now some distance away, quiescent, potent.
“In mere moments you will feel the comfort of acceleration, Comrade Stost. I will begin gently, but must warn you that we will achieve as soon as reasonable the highest acceleration of which this vessel is capable. I warn you of this. Our companion…I do not know Grakow’s familiarity with sudden gravity, nor his tolerances—yet, he is a ship’s cat, so I must believe it not beyond him. As for ourselves, we have orders.”
The distant stars were clearer than they had been—even in deep space gas will adhere to gas and surfaces but now, with the tremble of the gas jets gone…
“Venting has ceased,” Stost confirmed. “The pilot should have full clear vision to pilot in mere moments. I will permit Kara to be aware of our intent to proceed as ship conditions meet pilot’s need.”
He turned toward the observer’s chair, where Grakow crouched at the wire door of his pod. The pod itself was strapped in, surrounded by small cushions and such soft items Stost had been able to find. He attempted a touch to the furry shoulder through the wire, which was permitted, though he could feel the cat tremble.
Stost sighed and tugged his own harness closer.
“What plan, my Elder, should Bechimo be unable to match our speed?”
That drew a laugh, which made Grakow mutter. Chernak watched as Bechimo drifted slowly away, awaiting their headlong charge toward the bright beacon in the dust, chosen for its brightness rather than its direction. Thus would they diminish the fuel they carried and be made acceptable for the hold awaiting them.
“It is true that we might outaccelerate a tradeship for a moment or two—but they know our direction, and we will sing to them, if we must, that they do not lose sight or sound of us!” Chernak said.
“Yes, of course. We will sing! Kara shall be informed!” Stost replied.
It was an odd moment, another challenge to entropy—Stost made his announcement and held his hand to Chernak’s, the suit’s gloves not sharing the warmth he offered.
“We are owed seventeen missed long leaves, twenty-two five-day, and dozens of night-offs. I suggest we apply to Captain Waitley immediately upon reaching her decks!” Stost said.
“An excellent plan. I place you in charge of seeing it done.”
Stost snorted, then, his left hand still clasped in Chernak’s, he reported in. “Kara, vision clears. We give ten count, then start. We sing, and give backup audio. Is fine?”
Kara’s reply was unperturbed.
“Is fine. You sing. Maybe we sing with you.”
He looked to Chernak, lips twitching.
“A challenge!”
They laughed together as Stost roared into a bawdy ballad, and laughed more when Grakow joined in. Then their sight was indeed clear enough, their beacon blazing in the screens. Chernak freed her hand, jabbed the power button, and sat deliberately back in her chair.
Acceleration began, with the Bug’s warning and complaints a counterpoint to Stost’s singing and Grakow’s curses.
* * * * *
Estimated burn time counted down on Kara’s screen—a wildly intuitive guess, based on what she knew about a half dozen small work-ships in current use, with input from Win Ton and Clarence. Bechimo’s files held a few dozen manuals for work boats of a past era, which had been inconclusive in the extreme.
Thus was the engineer reduced to guessing.
Worse, the burn time estimate for the repair boat that they’d arrived at was comfortably within the estimated air time—far too convenient to comfort any engineer.
Theo was, in theory, flying Bechimo on manual, though Kara had begun to suspect that the interface between ship and captain was not, perhaps, as clear-cut as it had been, back at Jemiatha’s, before Theo had taken the foolish—well, how could Kara ven’Arith name any action foolish that had been taken in the service of preserving her life? Resolutely, she set that concern aside in favor of the more immediate problem of bringing two soldiers and a cat safely onto Bechimo’s decks. At the moment, Theo seemed stable, even…happy. Concern about her well-being might well be misplaced, even given her resistance to returning home, to her brother’s clan. Theo had been raised Terran, after all, and on an academic world, at that. Clans would not come easy to her.
Well, thought Kara, there was a task at hand. Until that was accomplished, none of them would be going home.
At the moment, Theo’s work was to keep within easy range of the little craft, which had shown an astonishing ability to accelerate in the first moments of its mad dash to outrun its own fuel. Bechimo’s distance from the Bug was closing, but not close.
True to their word, the pathfinders had begun singing; their first ballad bawdy enough to bring a touch of color to Clarence’s cheek, even as the side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.
Bechimo, however, had been frankly worried by the volume and ferocity of the concert.
“Do you think the pathfinders are suffering from oxygen deprivation, or oxygen overload? Surely these songs are for times other than emergencies!”
“Oh, but you must allow me to disagree, Bechimo.” Win Ton offered a seated bow to the bridge at large. “Songs such as these are well-suited for times of high tension, as are battle songs. They rouse the heart and soul without preventing mentation, and may be put aside instantly, as needed.”
“That’s as may be,” Theo said, from first board. “I flew with a pilot who collected music. He’d listen to it on his downtime; sometimes he’d listen too much and come back to his board with a music hangover. Since we all need clear heads right now, I’ll ask Joyita to record for playback later. Win Ton, please monitor real-time, and let me know of any sudden changes.”
“Yes, Theo,” said Joyita, and the bridge was abruptly empty of Stost’s voice. “Recording. A complete compilation, with translation and gloss, will be available from the library—later.”
Kara glanced at Win Ton, saw he’d donned his headset and was listening to the radio traffic. Liaden as he was, there were only hints of what he might be hearing; his smile would widen slightly, then his eyes squinched as he considered an idea or perhaps…
“We have an estimate from Stost that they are at three gravities,” Joyita stated. “The atmosphere sensor is still not responding. The fuel gauge shows significant adjustment.”
“According to my estimates, and the timer, they’re approaching end of fuel.” Kara sighed, relieved that they were at the end of guessing. “Will you ask how much fuel they believe is remaining?”
A moment of exuberant song leaked over the speakers—were they both singing? Or was it something else?
“Anomaly!”
Bechimo announced it, but it was obvious to all: the little ship’s course was no longer straight away from them, rather it seemed to curve, and the ship itself—
“They’re spinning!”
Kara increased magnification.
“Not good!” was Theo’s response, and Bechimo’s course options blossomed simultaneously on her main screen and in her head.
“We have to back off,” she said rapidly. “Tell them to—”
On the screen, the repair boat tumbled and spun. Joyita brought the speakers back on-line—
“Translation assists, please.”
The voice called Stost came on, the sound of an unhappy cat as well, and of equipment beeping for attention.
“Not fine,” Stost managed in their pidgin. “Zero acceleration, zero direction.”
“No reaction mass left.” Win Ton offered to Bechimo’s crew, “No control either.”
“Stupid system,” Kara muttered. “It’s going to be hard to match a tumble.”
The distance between Bechimo and the unstable repair boat was closing quickly; Kara felt the gravity fields adjusting as Theo brought them up on station keeping.
From the repair boat came a statement not in pidgin, from Pathfinder Chernak. “Trakant viorst. Channa. Chicancha, Stost yova.”
Stost spoke again, in pidgin. “Not fine more. Chernak declare low air. Stost declare low air. Grakow hard breath sounds.”
* * * * *
The tumbling was awkward, at best.
Chernak could see unnamed stars twist away and more come into view, the ship’s duty as observer making them a constant distraction. Grakow was moaning, which meant the cat was alive: she’d feared for him at the last, with the press of gravity stressing even her, then the trembling and buffeting when the power jets became disorderly in their last moments.
Stost was speaking to Kara, clear and to the point. Things were not fine. Stost had managed to turn off or disable several of the noise-making systems, and now the flashing of emergency lights made focusing on the outer universe just that much harder.
For her part, she had learned that the main positive effect of their tumble had been to make the gauges accurate again, and in that way saw their case becoming acute. They did have the suits’ air to give to the cabin if need be, but beyond that—
Beyond that…were the strangers from another universe. Their final hope, save grace.
Were she Captain Theo Waitley, in command of the ship Bechimo and all local space—would she risk ship and crew to snatch two strangers from a frail and tumbling work boat?
Chernak sighed, acknowledging that such a decision must of course be weighed against her orders. Were their positions reversed, here and now, given the orders that moved her and Stost, given the precious cases…No, she could not have risked so much.
And while she might, with those same orders weighing yet upon her, wish Captain Waitley to be a reckless lunatic, there was no value to any involved, if Bechimo were damaged or destroyed.
It was, as the civilians sometimes had it, on the knees of the gods. Soldiers had not much to do or say to gods. Chernak’s understanding of them was that they were sufficiently distant that their decisions, if any, might seem to be merest chance and, therefore, well out of the hands of mere soldiers.
So thinking, she brought her attention back to the Bug and those matters she might possibly influence.
Radar told a complicated tale: the wreck they had escaped was a slowly expanding debris cloud traveling perpendicular to their actual heading, the closing Bechimo a constantly changing set of stronger blips as the radar attempted to make sense of the tumble. The urge to merely look out the view ports she suppressed, not wanting to add vertigo to their problems.
The cat—the cat was panting, eyes eerily wide, reflective and staring. Even a ship’s cat might be
forgiven such a display, for they had all been through hard usage now.
“This will not be easy,” Stost said quietly. “I have been sighting on the wreck, which is well behind us. Sometimes, I see Bechimo coming close. I am not sure, Chernak, how I would approach a vessel in our state. I had assumed we would be…more stable.”
“Do you think that they mean to continue?”
“I think that they would have informed us, if they did not,” he said seriously. “Captain Waitley appears to be well in control of her vessel. If they are close, something might yet be done.”
She sighed. “Like a target, we are,” she murmured. “If worse is worse, like a target in front of the hunter.”
* * * * *
“Tell them to hold on,” Theo said. “We’re closing.”
Kara glared at her, and Theo understood.
“Right. Hold on isn’t good. Dress it up. Tell them we’re—tell them we’re evaluating the situation and expect to begin rendezvous…shortly. In fact, make it as close as you can to ‘rendezvous for appropriate redeployment,’ so it won’t sound like we’re going to hold them against their will. Ask them to tell us if the situation changes; get one to talk to us about the air.”
“Theo, what do you plan? We can’t simply match rotation, they’re…”
“Textbook tumble,” Theo interrupted. “Done that, but I had jets to fix it. A system where all the fuel is shared, and now there isn’t any…”
“Shared resources make sense for a work boat,” Kara said. “What will you do, let them bump us to work off energy?”
“Wait,” said Win Ton, spinning ’round—but Bechimo’s voice stopped him.
“That might be one method.”
“Is there time?” asked Clarence.
“Calculating,” Bechimo said.
“Let me look,” Theo said sharply. “I think I see how to do it.”
CHAPTER NINE
Repair Bug
“Rigging for collision,” Chernak said with the added flip of tongue which took it from comment to order.
“Rigging for collision, Grakow,” Stost replied, which was both the acknowledgment and the proper chain-of-command repeat of an order.