Ark

by Stephen Baxter

  Jeb′s jaw was slack. ′Boss - where are you going?′

  ′To the shuttle. Ride out the storm. Best thing - remove the focus, take away the prime target - you can see that. I always saw this day coming, even if you didn′t. Call me when you′ve got the situation under control.′

  Jeb′s fists bunched. ′And how the fuck do we do that?′

  Wilson reached back into his cabin and pulled out a sealed metal box. He snapped, ′Five seven four - open.′ The lock opened with a click to reveal a set of hand guns. ′Been keeping these since the round-up after we launched. Not much ammo, however. And we′re one gun down. Probably stolen by that bitch Steel. Smarter than she looked.′ He shoved the box towards Jeb; the guns spilled and drifted in the air, rotating slowly. ′Deal with it. Minimum bloodshed. Remember we need those fuckers to keep the ship going. Make an example of Steel, however.′ He had his suit intact now, his helmet over his head, his faceplate open. With a gloved hand he pulled a rug off the wall to reveal an airlock. He tapped at a pad, and the lock′s inner door swung open. Beyond, Theo saw the bare interior of one of the hull′s two shuttle gliders, lights snapping on.

  ′Break - out - break - out—′

  Wilson paused at the lock and looked around. ′I guess that′s it.′ He glanced back at Terese, who stared at him wide-eyed. ′Ah, the hell with it.′ He grabbed her arm and shoved her through the lock into the shuttle, a tangle of bare limbs. Then he followed head first, wriggling a bit to get through the lock, until his booted feet disappeared. The lock door swung closed, and a red warning band lit up.

  ′I don′t believe it,′ Jeb said. ′He′s going to cast off! He could have taken us with him, the prick—′

  ′Not unless he wanted to lose the hull for good,′ Theo said. ′Here.′ He plucked guns from the air and passed them around to Jeb, the others. He snapped a clip of ammunition into his own weapon. ′I don′t know what they′ll try to do. Smoke us out, maybe.′

  ′Let′s shoot that bitch Steel through the head.′

  Theo tried to think. ′Yeah. It might deter the rest. But we can′t afford to go putting bullets through the hull. Suppose we spread around the rim of the floor. If we drop through the hatches, say three of us together - fire inwards at Steel—′

  There was a roar like thunder. Theo glimpsed blinding light, billowing smoke. The floor opened up like a flower, metal panels hurled into the open space of the bridge. Dan Xavi was caught full in the chest by one panel and was flung back.

  Theo heard screaming, like a child, but it was muffled. A ringing sound filled his head. He was stunned; he drifted, unable to move his legs, his head.

  Then they came boiling up through the broken barrier, Steel, Max with his wrench, others. Eager hands grabbed Theo, pulled the gun from his hands, and dragged him down.

  85

  Under the silent stars, Venus was poised in space, inside the warm, clean bulk of her pressure suit, her booted feet strapped to the mobile servicing system, the manipulator arm. She′d been working on basic maintenance of the insulation blanket that, faded, pocked and worn, still coated the bulk of the hull.

  She preferred to go EVA only during the night watch. During the day, when Wilson and his boys were awake and active, it paid to be inside the hull and alert. She sometimes thought that the only real purpose she and the other seniors served was to act as a buffer between Wilson and the rest.

  Now she ordered the arm to lift her up and away from the ship. As she rose she took a good unencumbered look at the star field that slowly shifted around the ship, and the telescope platforms that still hovered around the hull, faithful companions. Even seventy light years from Earth, twenty-seven years since the launch from Gunnison, the constellations hadn′t changed drastically. But you did get a sense of motion if you knew what to look for, that faint blueing of the stars ahead of the hull, and of course that eerie disc of emptiness that endlessly pursued them, which Zane creepily called the mouth of Ouroboros.

  She surveyed the ship laid out beneath her. Her gaze followed the arm down from her feet along its articulated length to the heavy ball-and-socket joint that attached it to the hull. She studied the ugly, stubby tank of the hull itself with its blankets and sensor platforms and airlocks, the Stars and Stripes ever more faded on its flank, the two remaining shuttle gliders like pinned moths, and the cupola, her own domain, glowing jewel-like near the base. She liked to make this kind of eyeball inspection from time to time, just to see if there was anything obvious the automated systems had missed. And it could happen, especially a multiple fault, such as a leak of some propellant in the precise spot where the pressure sensors were down. The longer the mission went on and as the systems aged - they were now far beyond the Ark′s design envelope - the more such low-probability situations were likely to crop up. It was a habit she had picked up during training sessions with Gordo Alonzo, a seasoned astronaut. Never did any harm to walk around and kick the tyres, he used to say …

  She saw a kind of ripple around the belly of one of the shuttles - shuttle A, up near the hull′s blunt nose. She′d seen this often enough in simulations. It was a sign of latches releasing, catching the ship′s floodlights as they opened. Then the shuttle shuddered, and with a kind of wrench, as if it was having trouble coming unstuck from a docking interface that hadn′t been broken in decades, it lifted up and away from the Ark. Small attitude rockets squirted sprays of exhaust, fans of crystals that dissipated in the dark.

  All this in utter silence.

  Venus, shocked, tongued the switch on her comms unit. ′Halivah, Jenning. Somebody just launched a shuttle. Control, what′s going on in there?′ If this was some kind of exercise, she ought to have heard about it. Damn it, she was out here; if the shuttle snagged on the manipulator arm it could be disastrous. But what kind of exercise would necessitate a physical undocking, such a waste of thruster fuel? They had lost enough to leaks already.

  No reply. She tried to recall who should have been on overnight watch tonight. More disturbingly, she didn′t even hear the usual hiss of static. There was a back-up. She pulled a toggle from her belt and plugged it into a socket on the arm. This was an alternative comms channel passed through the arm′s own cybernetic control circuitry. ′Halivah, Jenning. Some asshole just launched shuttle A. Are any of you even aware that I′m out here? Halivah, this is—′

  ′Venus?′

  ′Holle? What the—′

  ′Thank Christ you called in. Listen. All hell is breaking loose in here. Steel Antoniadi, some of the young ones - they lost their heads. They′re taking on Wilson.′

  ′Shit.′ She′d always known this day would come; it was typical of her luck to be out of the Ark and unable to deal with it. ′I′ll come back.′ She reached for the manual arm control.

  ′No. No, Venus - stay out there. I think we might need you. I—′

  The line went dead.

  Venus toggled the comms switch with her tongue, fiddled with the plug in its socket in the arm. ′Holle? Holle!′

  Holle pulled off her comms hat. ′Damn it, they cut the fibre link too. They know what they′re doing.′

  Grace said, ′Maybe you said enough.′

  ′Break out, break out. Helen, you′re sure that was what they were chanting.′

  ′Yes!′ Helen snapped.

  ′I think they′re coming out of the nose,′ Grace murmured, looking up.

  Helen, Grace and Holle huddled close together, here on Deck Fourteen, just above the hydroponics banks. This was the base of the hull, about as far as you could get from the bridge. Looking up along the length of the hull Holle could see the smashed-open bridge, still full of a pall of black smoke. Bits of broken floor partitions wheeled around the hull. Some of the crew were still in their cabins, strung out along the pole, peering out in bewilderment. Others were streaming away from the chaos in the nose of the hull, away from the smoke. People cried warnings, a sound like gulls, she thought, an odd fragment of memory surfacing amid the shock. Holle wonde
red how many had been deafened by the tremendous bang of the explosive charges that Steel had used to smash open Wilson′s barricade, a noise that still seemed to reverberate from the walls of the battered hull.

  ′I wonder where they got the charges from,′ she muttered. ′Maybe explosive bolts from the docking hatches, the emergency-separation stuff. But how did they get it inside the hull without sounding the alarms? And where—′

  ′Here they come !′ Grace yelled.

  Whatever small war had gone on in the hull nose was evidently concluded. Steel and her party came down out of the smoke, clinging to dangling cables and wall handhelds. They were all blackened, their clothes shredded; some of them looked injured. But that gun in Steel′s hand was clearly visible. She waved it around, triumphant.

  And they had prisoners, men held by their arms and legs and hair. Holle tried to count them. Naked, bloodied, the men all looked the same. There should have been six up there, Wilson and his five ′advisers′, his five closest thugs. She counted three. One might have been Theo; none looked like Wilson. They weren′t resisting.

  Steel seemed to be directing them down towards a particular equipment rack on Deck Seven or Eight. Some of the rebels had gone on ahead to move the rack, exposing the curved wall behind it. It looked to Holle as if some kind of work had been done on that hidden section of wall, behind the rack. Now a couple of Steel′s people started to pull away a mesh covering, and turn screws in the panels.

  Holle understood immediately, and saw that Helen had been right about what they intended to do. Holle hadn′t believed it. ′No,′ she breathed. ′There′s no water tank behind that section. Just the fuselage. No, no—′

  One of the captured men started struggling, screaming. Maybe he had figured out what was happening too. It might have been Dan Xavi, the one the mistreated children called the Pig. He almost got free, and the rebels fell on him, clustering like flies around a wound. Somebody got Xavi around the neck. Another got hold of his arm and did a kind of somersault, so the arm was twisted, breaking with a sharp snap. Fists slammed into his mouth and nose and eyes, and Xavi′s screams were choked by a bubbling noise.

  ′They′ve lost it,′ Grace said. ′They′re going to kill him.′

  ′He doesn′t matter,′ Holle said. She was still watching the rebels patiently removing screws from that wall panel. ′It′s our fault. My generation. Wilson, you prick, you couldn′t control yourself. And you madman, Zane, look what you′ve done! OK, OK.′ She made an effort to calm down, to think. There might only be seconds left. ′We have to get people to shelter. Somewhere airtight.′

  Helen said, ′The cupola. The shuttles—′

  ′Not shuttle A. Venus said somebody launched it, it′s gone. Wilson, maybe. Shuttle B, and the cupola. Get everybody in there, one or the other. Everybody who will come.′ But the rebels wouldn′t come, no matter what she said. ′And get Zane. Don′t forget Zane. Move, move!′

  Grace cast one despairing glance at Helen. Holle saw a lifetime of love and helpless anxiety compressed into that one expression.

  Then the three of them scattered, launching themselves towards knots of bewildered people.

  The rebels shoved Jeb Holden and Theo Morell up to the curving wall, behind the detached equipment rack. Theo could see what they were doing, removing screws that secured some kind of temporary panel there. Jeb was weeping steadily. Tears and snot scattered in the air every time he shook his head. Dan Xavi was already dead, Theo could see. Blood-smeared rebels hovered around his twisted body.

  And they were opening up the hull.

  Theo struggled against the grip of those who held him. He couldn′t help it. But they only held him tighter, and some bastard launched a barefoot kick into his ribs. It was one thing he′d learned today, that this new generation who had grown up in microgravity were a hell of a lot better at fighting in it than any of Wilson′s men. They seemed to have an instinctive grasp of how to use their bodies: how to pivot in the air, when to grab something to push against so they could punch you or kick or head-butt or barge.

  He gave up struggling, and shook his head to clear it. Think, Theo! If you don′t think now you′re not going to get the chance to work it out tomorrow.

  ′You can see what we′ve done,′ Steel said. ′What we′re ready to do. Today′s the day, Theo Morell. Today′s the day we expose the lie. Today′s the day we break out of this stupid sim tank, and then—′

  ′And then what? Even if you′re right - what do you think you are going to do, Steel? Take over Denver? Build a raft? Oh, God! This is crazy.′

  There was a flicker of doubt in Steel′s eyes. Maybe she hadn′t actually thought it through that far, not past her fantasising of this moment of rebellion and revenge. But she was full of momentum. ′At least this will be over,′ she said. ′The lies, the wasted lives.′

  ′I remember Denver flooding,′ Jeb Holden said, and he coughed, spraying blood and snot. ′I remember Gunnison and Alma. I remember how I fought my way onto this ship. Broke my knuckle on some fucking Candidate′s face. I remember the launch, all those fucking bombs. It was real! Can′t you stupid kids just listen—′

  Max Baker silenced him with a slam to the head with his heavy wrench. Jeb went limp, floating.

  They had got the last screw out. Now, Theo saw, that plate was held in place only by the pressure of the air within the hull. Since the launch they had all, including illegals and gatecrashers, been trained for decompression accidents. Theo knew that a hole the size of that plate, around a metre square, would drain the hull of its air in seconds - twenty seconds for the pressure to reduce to a tenth nominal, another twenty seconds for it to reduce by another factor of ten.

  Steel stared into his face. His reaction seemed to mean as much to her as the reality of the moment. ′Are you ready, Theo Morell? Ready to face your controllers?′

  He tried to dredge up something to say, to stop this, at least to stall her. ′You′ve won, damn it. You′ve beaten Wilson. Isn′t that enough? We can put the ship back together. We can talk about how we go forward, how we live together …′

  Steel just laughed. Max took a jemmy and slid the edge under the loose plate. He braced himself on a bracket, ready to use his weight to pry it loose.

  Theo looked at them, at Steel with her battered face, at fifteen-year-old Max Baker, at Magda Murphy who even now held on to her baby. They could all be dead in seconds. ′Steel, for God′s sake, I swear, I swear by my life, my mother′s - nobody′s lying to you. Not about this. The ship is real. If you take that hatch off you′ll kill us all.′

  Steel began to say something.

  But Max roared, drowning out any further talk, a lifetime of confinement and frustration redeemed in a single moment, and he slammed his body down on the jemmy. The plate flew back.

  The decompression was an explosion, a deafening thunderclap.

  Theo saw the loose plate whirl like a leaf and fly out through the hole in the wall. There was a tearing in his lungs, and a powerful pain in his ears, as if iron splinters were being driven into his head, and he remembered to open his mouth wide. People squirmed around him, but their screams were snatched away on the howling wind.

  He faced the hole in the wall, a hole in the world, and the wind shoved him in the back. He saw the stars with his naked eyes. Even now he might have a chance, if he could hang on until the air was gone, the wind subsided, and find a pressure suit before he blacked out. But strong hands grabbed him and pinned his arms to his side and shoved him out, bodily.

  He spun slowly. He saw the ship′s outer wall with its pocked insulation blanket, and the brightly lit hole, square and neat, receding from him. Suddenly he was beyond the wall - outside the hull, naked. A kind of fight was going on, people climbing over each other to stay inside the hull. But they were tumbling out after him. Theo saw a child, writhing, helpless in space.

  He was cold. He couldn′t see any more. The pain in his chest was agonising, tearing, burning. He thought of his mothe
r.

  Something burst inside his head.

  The decompression wind was already dying. The thinning air dumped its water vapour in a mist that pearled in the glow of the arc lights.

  Holle kept her mouth gaping wide. The gases in her belly swelled agonisingly before escaping in an explosive fart. She knew she had only seconds of consciousness - ten seconds maybe, less given the way she was using up her oxygen in an adrenaline-fuelled burst of action.

  She looked around. She had thrown herself in among the rebels, and even before the hull breach she had started shoving them down towards the airlock to Shuttle B. Now those left here were drifting, convulsing, going limp. Frost formed over their mouths and noses, and their flesh swelled as water turned to vapour in their blood and tissues. Even now they could be saved. But Holle could not save them all.

  One more.

  She saw Magda Murphy, stranded away from the walls, the handholds. Magda had her mouth wide open, the way they had all trained for this contingency. Magda was straining towards her baby, somehow she′d let go of her, but she was out of reach. Astonishingly the baby was still alive, apparently still conscious. Holle saw her flex her tiny fingers.

  Holle could reach either Magda or the baby. Not both. An instant choice. Magda could have more kids. She grabbed Magda, plucking her out of the air. Magda struggled feebly, reaching for the kid. Her vision fogging, her flesh crawling with pain, Holle hauled the two of them down to the shuttle lock.

  This would never happen again, Holle promised herself. Never.

  86

  From her perch on the manipulator arm Venus saw the detached panel come tumbling out, and then bits of garbage and a spray of mist, and bodies that wriggled like landed fish. She was glad she was too far away to make out who it was, especially the children.

  All this she saw from within the warmth of her suit, the hum of her life support fans in her ears, immersed in her own slightly musty smell. She considered diving down there to help, maybe detaching herself from the arm and using her SAFER jet pack to plunge in among the tumbling people, wrestle them back into the light through that hole. But it would be a futile gesture. Even if they were not already dead there was no air in the hull, no way she could get them into shelter in time. And she′d probably just doom herself. Best to wait and then descend on the arm, and enter the hull in her suit, and see who was left to save.