Allen thought hard. Angus was right. If they released it down here the air circulating systems would carry the gas throughout the station and, most alarmingly, into the nostrils of the JBI administrators.
What were they to do?
"Get your suit,” he instructed. “And a tank connector. We'll vent the gas into the suit and release it in the airlock."
"That's the damnedest most idiotic, and foolish idea you've ever had,” Angus replied. “Might work, though.” He was gone in a flash.
He brought both of their suits with him. “One of us has got to be in the lock to vent the suit,” he explained.
While Angus set to work adapting the connector to the tank's water valve with a roll of duct tape and a prayer, Allen struggled into his suit.
"I think this is going to work,” Angus said as he watched his suit quickly fill with gas as the container shrank to its normal size. Only a little of the contents had leaked when he opened the valve.
"I hope it's not too much. We've go to get the suit through the hatch."
"I surely could use a bit of the brew now,” Allen said. “This is thirsty work.” The suit was only half inflated.
Angus squeezed by the now flaccid brew vat to get to the second container. “I'm worried about those cracks just below the surface. Hate to have this barrel explode after all our work.” Allen agreed.
The hose wasn't long enough to reach the suit from this location so they'd have to maneuver the suit past the first barrel. But if they did that how would they get it back? “Allen, I need more hose,” Angus shouted. “About two meters at least."
"And where do you think I can get that at this late hour?” Allen replied. “What if someone sees me walking around in a work suit?"
"Well, I don't want to climb back out. You'll have to do it."
"All right, let me look around.” Allen climbed out to begin his search.
A long while later, as one crack appeared to grow measurably longer, Allen returned with a length of poly hose. “Best I could do,” he said.
The hose didn't look like pressure hose. It was more like the type they used in the wash area. “Tell me you didn't,” Angus said.
"Ah, and what's the loss of a shower when there's beer at risk?” Allen answered rhetorically.
After a bit more duct tape and considerable sweating, the cracks had noticeably disappeared as the barrels deflated and the suit was completely inflated. “I think we're finished,” Angus said, breathing a sigh of relief.
* * * *
They had a problem getting the suit through the hatches and corridors as the legs and arms tended to splay outward awkwardly at the worst possible times. Allen finally threw both arms around the suit to hold the arms down. He was glad no one was around to see this strange embrace.
Finally, Allen staggered down the corridor carrying the awkward load of gas toward the lock. Just as he was cycling the lock, one of the administrators walked by.
"Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “Is there a problem?"
"No, no problem,” Allen replied, hoping the woman wouldn't notice anything strange. With his hip he pressed the inflated suit against the bulkhead while holding the arm down to its side with his other arm. Luckily the suit was facing away from her so she could not see into the helmet's empty faceplate.
"Maintenance fix,” he mumbled as the lock swung wide. He pushed the suit into the lock and blocked her view with his body. “Got to rush,” he said quickly and slammed the hatch behind him. He glanced back and saw her through the hatch's window. Gods, if she looked through now they'd be done for.
In a panic he hit the evacuation switch to cycle the lock. Maybe he could get the suit outside where he could vent it before her curiosity got the better of her.
As the pressure fell the suit ballooned to even greater dimension. Allen would have struck his head if it weren't for the helmet. Of course, they must have inflated it to greater than normal pressure. That's what made it so stiff.
He worried that the damned administrator was still standing outside the hatch and tried to push the suit out of the lock. It wouldn't fit. The arms had spread too wide to fit. As he shoved one arm tight against this suit's side the other popped out. There was no way he could hold both and still have a hand free.
He started to sweat. God, this was taking too long, he thought. He had to vent the suit quickly, before the woman saw what he was doing.
Then he had a brilliant idea. Why not just open the helmet and let the gas escape? That would be faster, wouldn't it? He reached out to twist the helmet off the suit.
With the loss of pressure, the gas rushed out, collapsing the arms and driving the suit out of the lock like a rocket, leaving Allen holding Angus’ helmet in his hands and watching a headless spacesuit dwindle in the distance, leaving a trail of evaporating snowflakes in its wake.
Maybe it wasn't such a brilliant idea after all.
* * * *
"How are we going to explain my missing suit?” Angus complained when Allen informed him of the unfortunate turn of events. “They'll dock my pay. Probably send me back to Earth. God, Allen; how could you do such a boneheaded thing?"
Allen shrugged. “Maybe if I said I was vacuum cleaning your suit and it got away?"
"Why would you be doing that? It's my suit, not yours."
"Perhaps we can get one of the shuttles to retrieve it,” Allen offered. “For a bit of our ration we might convince one of your pilot friends to do that.” He cringed at the thought of yet another draw on their ever-dwindling supply. “What would that cost us—another liter or two?"
"Katie might do it, but it would cost,” Angus said. “After all, she'd have to explain the use of fuel, file a flight plan, and come up with a valid excuse. Ah yes, I believe it might cost us quite a bit more than a liter because we'll need to get George to give us some computer time in mission control to calculate where the suit might have gone."
Allen sighed. “Do it, then.” By the time they finished he'd be lucky to get more than a sip of The Old Man's Best. That is, if nothing else happened to screw things up.
* * * *
Allen was preoccupied with calculating the rate of expansion of their brew barrels. He'd been measuring the rate of expansion every day since the incident with the suit and it was definitely slowing. In fact, in the last day or so the circumferential rate had dropped less than a fraction of a centimeter a day and the foam had disappeared. He looked up from his calculations. “I think the beer is ready."
Angus smacked his hands and licked his lips. “Ah, I hope it tastes better than it smells. For weeks I've tasted it with every breath I take in my much-abused suit."
"Where are we going to put the beer?” Allen asked. “We can't leave it in the barrels."
"I'll pass the word to the lads to bring their own bottles,” Angus said. “We'll pour the Old Man's Best tonight, after the bloody tea totaling administrators have gone to sleep."
* * * *
They were both amazed at the variety of containers their conspirators brought. The kitchen crew held empty spice containers, the maintenance crew assorted pressure bombs, and the scientists brought expensive glassware scavenged from experiments, some of which might have been their own.
"We've got the compartment under negative pressure,” one of the galley crew remarked after they'd wrestled one of the containers from its hiding place. “No chance the smell will get out."
Allen and Angus stared at him for the longest time, thinking of their struggles to deal with the excess gas, the loss of the suit, and the other near disasters they had faced. “Why didn't you tell us about this a month ago?” Angus said through gritted teeth.
The man shrugged. “You never asked."
They set the barrel up on the worktables, braced against rolling by two well-placed cooking pots. Allen worked a tube into the liquid, careful to keep the end clear of the residue that had accumulated in the bottom. Then he siphoned a bit off into a cup and handed it to Angus.
&n
bsp; Angus looked doubtfully at the bubbling, grayish brew, sniffed the sour smell, and touched the brownish head with the tip of his tongue. “Not a bit encouraging,” he said. Then he lifted the cup to his lips and let the warm brew slide down his throat.
"Well?” Allen said. Everyone else was holding his or her breath, waiting for this final judgment.
Angus smacked his lips and looked at the dregs in the cup. “That is the worst tasting, most foul, obscene excuse for beer that I've ever tasted.” He hesitated. “Still, it's beer and the best I've had in two years, bar none."
Allen took the cup, decanted another bit, and drank deeply. “Definitely not a sipping brew, for sure, but it is sufficient to fill the soul. Line up boys, the bar is open!"
One by one the group lined up to get their allocation and, as they did so, each took a sip or two to judge the product for themselves.
"Perhaps it would improve the taste were it colder,” one of the kitchen staff suggested. Immediately everyone put their containers in the huge refrigeration unit to chill.
"Perhaps we should test the second barrel,” Angus suggested when they'd emptied the first container. “There might be a bit of difference.” No sooner had he suggested it than four of the group lifted the second barrel from its hiding place and placed it on the worktable.
"Tastes like ale,” Angus said after his first sip. “Not a bit like a decent brew."
Everyone had to have a taste to appraise Angus’ judgment. Then everyone had a second round of testing to be absolutely certain, after which it seemed prudent to have a congratulatory round or three.
Later, when the barrels had been cleaned and placed back in the hiding place, Angus turned to Allen. “I think we'll do better with the next batch, don't you?"
"Actually,” Allen replied. “I've been thinking more along the lines of a fine bit of whiskey."
Copyright © 2011 Bud Sparhawk
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Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME
Our June issue has a Vincent Di Fate cover to herald the beginning of a new serial by Edward M. Lerner: Energized. It's set in a near future with energy problems that make ours seem tame, thanks largely to some additional difficulties provided by terrorists—and if that's not trouble enough, Earth itself is under threat from an incoming massive object. Humans have a knack for turning threats into opportunities, but they also have a knack for turning opportunities into new threats—so things rapidly get both tense and complicated. (Some of you have wondered, by the way, how to know whether a cover illustrates a story in the issue. It's simple: the cover always lists some of the authors inside, but if it also lists a story title, that's where the cover came from.)
The fact article, by newcomer Carol Wuenschell, is about a real-world, right-now application of nanotechnology, which not long ago was limited mostly to science fiction. “Nanoparticles for Drug Delivery” means exactly what it says: really tiny devices for taking drugs exactly where they're needed in the complex maze of the human body.
And, of course, we'll have a variety of short stories and novelettes—including one by David D. Levine which is based, somewhat unusually for science fiction, on a real experience of the author. That's not unusual, you say? Well, this story is set on Mars. . . .
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Novelette: ELLIPSES by Ron Collins
* * * *
* * * *
Illustrated by Mark Evans
How well do you know your neighbors?
* * * *
It was early April when I first noticed the mounds in Ferguson's back yard.
I had just read an editorial about the state's clamp-down on illegal immigration and was feeling depressed, thinking about Mercy, and wondering what kind of life we had brought her into. Surely it would be better than the one we pulled her away from, but it's in quiet moments—like rain-dampened mornings with a paper just put away and a half-cup of lukewarm coffee on the table—that certain realities get hard to deny.
The Fergusons lived next to us. They looked Scandinavian and spoke with a deep Minnesotan accent that marked them as Not From Here. But they were fair-skinned and, like American Express, that complexion was accepted in Martinsville in ways our brown-skinned little girl still wasn't.
In retrospect, it was to be expected that I noticed the mounds first. The angle of Kal and Della's place across the street doesn't let them see more than one patch, and the fence between Halle's place and the Fergusons’ is too high. Besides, Halle's a single mom. She works every moment the sun is up and a few when it's not.
That left just me, Ness, and Mercy.
Mercy, being all of fourteen, was too caught up with clothes and school and what Marco said to Ava to worry about a patch of grass in the neighbor's yard. And Ness was too busy doing all the things we needed done to worry about much of anything else. She worked part-time at the hospital, and when she wasn't doing that she was deciding which bills to pay when, planning vacations, or thinking about Mercy's transition to high school. Ness has always lived in the future. I, of course, live in the moment.
So it made sense I would see them first.
I looked out the kitchen window that day and saw three patches of grass in the Fergusons’ yard that were several shades more vibrant than the rest.
Odd.
We had our own bright spots, but those were in places where water pooled. The Fergusons had never had them before, and I realized now that these three places actually rose up a bit rather than dipped down. They were oblong, squashed ovals about three feet by six, each just the size of a body, arranged side-by-side like an ellipsis. I laughed out loud, imagining Tomas Ferguson out in his back yard at night with a shovel and a flashlight, digging up a hole to bury a guest from up north. “Got to get the ground out!” I heard him say in my daydream.
I should tell you I'm a writer by trade. I've done everything from coffee-table books to a ghost-written autobiography of . . . well, my contract precludes me from saying exactly who it was, but I'm sure she'll be on the Academy's red carpet again in a few months. I've done crime and mystery. I've done science fiction with its spaceships and what-ifs. I've done horror, or dark fantasy, or whatever they're calling sexed-up vampires these days. Some of my friends kid me about having more names than the phone book, but a guy does what he's gotta do.
My point here is that conjuring images of bodies buried in the back yard is not particularly unusual for me.
I went downstairs to work on the travel article I had finagled from Delta, but my brain stored the image of my neighbor digging in his yard. I know who I am. I know how I work. The image was coming back to me sometime. I just didn't realize it would be later that night as I was sleeping, and the next night, and the next.
* * * *
When she came home Ness wanted to talk about Mercy.
It was just after lunch and I wanted to finish the chapter I was working on—Jack had followed a trail of blood that led through the house and out the shattered sliding door. The novel was due in six weeks, and as usual I was running behind.
That's my excuse for not seeing the anguish on Ness's face until her catalog flew past my temple.
"I'm sorry,” I said.
We had been married nineteen years, and I don't think I've seen her cry like that since the day she found out she couldn't get pregnant. I sat next to her until she finally let me put my arm around her.
"I'm sorry,” I said again. “What's wrong?"
Ness sighed and shook her head.
"Honey. I want to hear it."
She spoke softly. “When I dropped Mercy off at school she asked if it would be okay if she looked for her mother."
* * * *
The process of adopting a child is equally remarkable for its lack of efficiency and its ability to fall apart every step of the way. It shouldn't be that hard to pair up a set of people who want to be parents with children who need someone to love them unconditionally, but in practice it seems to be only margi
nally easier than getting members of Congress to say they made a mistake.
We submitted paperwork and made calls and spoke to counselors and scanned the internet for every piece of information we could find. But mostly we waited.
Ness, of course, did all of the work.
I just went down to the basement and wrote my stories. It was easier that way. I had cash to make, and she was driven and wanted to do it anyway.
At one point we thought we had a little girl from Manchuria, but that fell through when the Chinese government decided they had hit their annual quota. Then it looked like we had something going on in Chile, and again in Africa. Each time the house of cards tumbled, and each time I could see the recesses around Ness's eyes grow deeper. I had my own worlds to escape into when things got too difficult. I sold a story about a kid in Chile after that one fell through, and I used the boy in Africa as a character in my next book.
I guess it was like saying goodbye.
Ness got through it by just working harder.
When we got the call from Mexico, I heard the hesitation in her voice. A girl? Yes. Of course we were interested. How certain was this? Would we fly there? Twice? Yes, of course, but when would we be able to bring her home? The second trip? What about the first?
Mercedes Rodriguez Maria Janilla had been born January 12th in San Luis Potosi. We first saw her on July 5th. And we brought her to Indiana on August 8th.
Most people in this world get only one celebration each year, but we decided early on that we would be open about Mercy's background—the differences in our skin tones alone precluded trying to pretend she had been a natural birth. Mercy, we decided, would celebrate all three dates. So each January we gave her something that spoke of Mexico, each August we gave her something from her Indiana home, and in each July we gave her something of us.
* * * *
"It's all right,” I said, holding her hand. “It had to come."
"I know."
I waited.
"It just hurt to hear her call someone else her mother."
She breathed deeply and laid her head against my shoulder. I put my hand on her head and felt the warmth of her body against my side.
Analog SFF, May 2011 Page 15