Ark

by Stephen Baxter

  If anybody. The thought hit her that nobody might have survived, nobody but her. That she might soon be crawling back into a hull become an airless tomb, alone, seventy light years from Earth.

  There was a sparkle of light in the corner of her eye. It was the shuttle, blipping its attitude engines. She felt an immediate stab of relief. Of course she wasn′t alone, at least somebody had survived in the shuttle. Now it must be manoeuvring to dock with its dedicated port once more.

  But she saw, shocked, that the vernier blips were pushing the shuttle away from the hull. The motors fired again and again, and exhaust products pulsed out of their tiny nozzles in brief fountains. But each tiny thrust was the wrong way; the shuttle accelerated away from the hull and towards the stars.

  No, not to the stars. To the warp bubble. And Venus saw it. The shuttle had been sabotaged, the control circuitry reversed. Sabotaged purposefully to send whoever was hiding out inside it into the bubble wall.

  At last whoever was aboard got the message. A new constellation of pulses shone around the rim of the shuttle, its stubby wings. You want to fly down, you used the controls that should take you up … But it was too late to kill the momentum already built up.

  A figure in a pressure suit came squirming out of an airlock. Once free of the shuttle, it was propelled forward by a kick from a SAFER backpack. She recognised the suit, from the ident markings on the leggings. It was Wilson Argent′s.

  It took long seconds for the warp tide to crumple the shuttle hull, like an invisible hand crushing a paper toy. When the pressure cabin gave way the atmosphere gushed out in a dazzle of water-ice crystals. A single body drifted in space, naked and slight, before falling into the warp barrier to become a bloody comet.

  87

  ′It′s OK. Not long now, honey, we′ll get through this, it′s OK, just hold my hand …′

  ′Oh God oh shit why did this have to happen why now why today I can′t believe this is happening to me …′

  ′I want Billy-Bob! Dad, I want my Billy-Bob! You wouldn′t let me go back for him …′

  There was nothing Holle could do, not until this shuttle was unpacked. She estimated there were forty people crammed in here, shoved in by herself and Helen Gray, forty in a cut-down one-use-only minimum-mass landing glider meant to take twenty-five tops. She could barely move because of the people around her, people pushing against her back and belly and pinning her legs, their bodies and backs around her head. It was a crowd in three dimensions, people shoved up against each other every which way.

  And of those forty, many, ten or fifteen, had been seriously injured. People had grossly swollen limbs, hands, feet, faces. A little boy cried out, over and over, that he was blind. One woman was coughing up sprays of blood in huge racking convulsions, her lungs obviously torn; the people around her were trying to shove her through the crowd towards a wall, to keep her from covering the rest with her blood and snot and phlegm.

  A screen on the shuttle′s control console, relaying an image from a camera in the airlock, showed Venus, an alien figure in a bright white spacesuit inside the hull, in an environment of cabins and food packets and drink cartons and drifting toys, labouring to make Halivah habitable again. They were lucky Venus had been out of danger. Holle made a mental note. From now on there had to be somebody in a pressure suit at all times, a faceplate snap away from independent life support.

  Until she could get out of here Holle could do nothing but endure. She tried to tune out the weeping and the rasping breaths.

  ′If I get my hands on the asshole who thought it was a good idea to take off a fucking hull plate I′ll rip out what′s left of their lungs with my bare hands …′

  ′It′s OK. He′s fainted, that′s all. I didn′t notice, he can′t fall over in this crowd. He′s just fainted. As soon as we′re out of here he′ll be fine.′

  ′No, you′re wrong. This man′s dead. Jay′s dead! Look at him!′

  ′I can′t see! Dad, why can′t I see?′

  There was a hammering on the shuttle hatch. Holle glimpsed Venus through the thick window, clumsy in her stiff pressure suit, hauling at the handle.

  The hatch opened. Holle felt her ears pop, and she had a spasm of fear about more air loss, but the pressure drop was only slight. The people closest to the hatch immediately started to spill out, with gasps of relief. Once out they turned and helped Venus pull out those who followed. Soon there was a cloud of bodies drifting away from the hatch, in pairs and threes.

  As soon as she could move, Holle shoved her way ahead of the rest. It was an immense relief to reach the comparatively open space of the hull, to stretch her arms and legs wide, to breathe in air that smelled clean if faintly metallic, air straight from the emergency reserve tanks.

  She looked around. Venus had backed off to the fireman′s pole, where she had tethered herself and was dismantling her pressure suit. Helen Gray was at the shuttle lock, supervising the evacuation. Holle glanced along the length of the hull, and saw that a similar unpacking was going on at the lock that led to the cupola, another fan of weary, injured people working their way out into the open air. Grace Gray was screening those who emerged, and gently diverting the injured.

  A baby floated by. Naked, its skin so swollen it had become twice its size, it was obviously dead. Holle couldn′t recognise it, didn′t know if it was Magda′s baby, the baby she had failed to save. For a second she froze, guilt and doubt and a kind of hideous self-consciousness pressing down on her.

  ′Holle.′

  Venus, down to her cooling undergarment, was watching her steadily. Venus who′d known her since she was a kid, Venus from the Academy. Holle pushed her way over and grabbed on to a handhold. ′You OK?′

  Venus laughed. ′Me? Hell, yes. Just another EVA for me. What happened in here?′

  ′A rebellion of the shipborn.′

  ′They smashed open the hull. It′s a miracle you weren′t all killed. What was it, some kind of suicide pact?′

  ′No,′ said Helen Gray. She came drifting over from the shuttle lock to join them. ′I think they were trying to tunnel out.′

  ′Tunnel out?′

  ′Out of the sim … It was all those ideas of Zane′s.′

  Holle said, ′We never took this stuff seriously enough. Bloody Zane. Well, we took it to Wilson often enough, and he didn′t listen, and it cost him his life.′

  ′Maybe not,′ Venus said. ′I saw shuttle A. It detached from the hull, actually undocked. This was before the pressure hull blew out.′

  Holle shook her head. ′Typical Wilson. He probably had that move planned for years.′

  Venus described the sabotage she suspected. ′The shuttle was wrecked. But I think Wilson might have survived - I saw him bale out, or anyhow somebody in his pressure suit. If his SAFER holds out he′s probably back at one of the locks already.′

  But Holle was only half-listening. ′You say the shuttle was destroyed. ′ One of their two shuttles, gone just like that. All because of Wilson and his incompetence and craven selfishness.

  Venus was grave. ′We′ll have to figure out how to get by without it.′

  That baby corpse drifted across Holle′s eyeline, buffeted by stray breezes in the new air. The loss of a shuttle didn′t matter a damn if they couldn′t get through today.

  Helen touched her arm. ′Holle? I think my mother′s getting overwhelmed. I′ll go help her.′

  Holle nodded. ′I′ll come with you. Venus, can you handle the rest?′

  For one second Venus held her gaze, and Holle could see the challenge in her eyes. Suddenly this was a key moment, the start of a new chapter. Who was Holle to be giving the orders? But Venus backed off, subtly. ′Sure. What ′′rest′′?′

  ′Get together a work crew. We need to nail down the basic systems. Ensure the integrity of the hull around that patch. The explosive decompression might have caused some flaws elsewhere. And check over the ECLSS systems. The hydroponic beds—′

  ′They ought to be
OK,′ Helen said. ′The plants can stand an hour or so of vacuum; the loss was only a few minutes.′

  ′All right. Check them anyhow. What else?′

  ′How about positioning?′ Venus said. ′We just had an air rocket venting out the side of the hull. The GN&C systems should have compensated, but I don′t know if the verniers fired to push us back.′

  ′If they did, I didn′t hear. Check it out. We don′t want to drift into the warp wall.′

  ′We′d better have somebody ready to meet Wilson if he does come back.′

  Holle shrugged. ′Cuff him to a stanchion. We′ll deal with him later. Venus, anything else you can think of, just handle it.′

  Venus was down to her underwear. ′I′ll grab a coverall and get on it.′

  ′OK. Oh, and Venus—′ She moved closer to her, and murmured, ′Get a party and do a sweep through the hull. Collect the dead. These drifting corpses. Shove them somewhere out of sight for now, up on Wilson′s bridge, maybe. And log the survivors. Come on, Helen. Let′s go help your mother.′

  88

  The crushing in the cupola had been even worse than in shuttle B.

  People were emerging clutching their ribs and struggling for breath, and one couple were holding a limp little boy, desperately pummelling his chest and breathing into his mouth.

  Among these drifting survivors was Zane, looking cowed, frightened. Holle felt a surge of savage anger. She wondered which of his alters had come out to help him cope with this crisis he had done so much to trigger. And there was Jeb Holden, one of Wilson′s closest associates, a brute of a man now naked and blood-smeared. He pulled away from the rest, evidently looking for a blanket, something to cover his body.

  Grace, hanging on to a handrail, was trying to get the apparently unharmed to help her, while she sorted the rest into rough groups according to their injuries. Her coverall front was sprayed by blood and bits of greyish flesh. Chunks of somebody′s lung, Holle suspected. Grace was functioning, but she looked bewildered. Holle always had to remind herself that Grace wasn′t a doctor, even though for sixteen years since the Split she had been trying to fill the hole left by Mike Wetherbee.

  Holle grabbed Helen′s hand, and they dived over to Grace′s side. ′Grace, we′re here. Tell me how we can help.′

  Grace looked at her vaguely. ′There were around twenty in the cupola. Twenty! I thought we′d all die in there. I estimate twelve seriously injured.′

  Holle nodded. ′OK. We had about forty in shuttle B, many injured …′

  She didn′t have to complete the arithmetic. Since the Split the crew′s numbers had grown, minus some deaths and plus several births, grown in an unplanned way that would have horrified the social engineers back in Denver. A total of around sixty saved in the shuttle and the cupola together meant they had lost several lives to the decompression. And, glancing around the hull, her first estimate was that maybe a third of the survivors were wounded. A third of the crew of a half-wrecked ship, incapacitated.

  One step at a time, Holle. ′What about the injured?′

  ′Some crushing from the crowding in the cupola. The rest, what you′d expect from exposure to vacuum. Cases of hypoxia - we may see some brain damage. There are cases of temporary blindness from neurological effects. A few cases of the bends, caused by air bubbles in the bloodstream. I′d recommend using the cupola as a high-pressure chamber to relieve those symptoms.′

  ′Do it.′

  ′The ebullisms - the swelling, caused by the vaporisation of water in the tissues - ought to subside in a few hours. They look worse than they are, mostly. Some internal injuries due to gases trapped in the bowels. Damaged ear-drums. Anybody with any congestion or catarrh will have suffered. We′ve also got injuries relating to the explosion at Wilson′s bulkhead. Blast injuries, burns, broken bones, hearing loss—′

  ′There must be damaged lungs.′

  Grace nodded. ′Two in this group.′

  ′Yeah,′ Helen said. ′More in the shuttle group.′

  All the crew, and every shipborn child since before they could walk, had been trained to open their mouths wide in the event of a decompression. Try to hold your breath and the expanding gases in your lungs just ripped apart your delicate pulmonary tissues and capillaries, and then trapped air was forced out of the lungs into the thoracic cage, from where it could get directly into the general circulation through ruptured blood vessels. The final result was massive air bubbles moving through the body and lodging in the heart and the brain. But, despite all the training, some people always followed their instincts to hold their breath when the crisis came.

  Grace said, ′We′re going to have a host of cases of bronchiectasis. Damaged lungs. You′re left vulnerable to infection for the rest of your life. I′m concerned about our stock of antibiotics.′

  ′We′ll figure that out.′

  ′Some are worse than that,′ Grace said bleakly. ′I don′t believe there′s anything we can do for them. I don′t think even a medic with the proper training could—′

  ′It′s OK,′ Holle said. ′We′ll deal with this. Helen, go round up some volunteer paramedics. You know who to ask.′ As Helen pushed away, Holle spoke quietly to Grace. ′We need to set up some kind of triage system. Three priorities,′ she said, thinking aloud. ′First, those who will recover but need immediate treatment. The burns, the bends victims. Second, those who will recover in time with minimal attention. People with swellings, this temporary sight loss you talked about.′

  Grace looked away. ′And third—′

  ′Those who won′t survive. The ripped lungs. We′ll put them somewhere. Hell, we′ll put them in the shuttle, away from the rest.′

  ′What do we tell them?′

  ′Lies. We′ll have Helen or one of her volunteers round up lovers, parents, whatever.′

  ′I can′t operate like that.′

  ′That′s OK. You don′t have to. I′ll stay with you. You just indicate to me which category each patient is in. I′ll do the rest.′ She listened to the words coming out of her own mouth. Could she really do these things? Well, she must, so she could.

  ′Holle, there′s one more thing. Steel Antoniadi. She survived. She′s still in the cupola. Everybody knows she led the rebel attack. I thought it was best if she stayed out of sight.′

  ′Good thinking. I′ll talk to Venus about that, about keeping her safe somewhere—′

  There was a tap on her shoulder. ′Holle.′

  She turned.

  The punch in the mouth was hard enough to send her sailing through the air. Somebody fielded her, and she grabbed a handhold and shook her head to clear it.

  It was Magda Murphy. Her arms and hands were swollen; that punch must have hurt her own fist like hell. Magda came up against an equipment rack on the wall, spun in the air, and used her booted feet to kick off and throw herself at Holle again. Somehow Grace Gray got in the way. She grabbed Magda around the waist, and the two of them, deflected by Grace′s momentum, drifted away.

  Magda pointed at Holle and screamed, ′You left my baby to die! You left her to die! All you had to do was reach out—′ She struggled, but Grace held on tightly. The strength went out of Magda, and she broke down into wretched sobbing. ′I′ll never forgive you for saving me rather than her, Groundwater. Never.′

  89

  Three days after the blow-out, with the situation in the hull moderately stabilised, Holle led Grace and Venus to the cabin Wilson had been assigned, on the fireman′s pole at around Deck Eight. He had been confined here the whole time since he had emerged from the airlock in his pressure suit, having abandoned shuttle A and Terese Baker to their encounter with the warp bubble wall.

  Holle pushed her way in without ceremony. The others followed. Holle lodged herself into a corner of the cabin, and let her eyes adjust to the dark.

  Wilson just stared as the women came in. He wore a grimy, much-used T-shirt and shorts. He was floating in the cluttered cabin, surrounded in the air by an unrolled
sleeping bag, a sponge backside-wiper, a food packet. His muscular legs were drawn up against his chest, and he was holding onto his bare feet with his big hands. The T-shirt bore some kind of logo, a slogan impossibly faded, a relic of Earth, even of the days before the flood. Oddly Holle found herself wishing she could read it, read about some long-ago sports event or rock band′s tour.

  There was no sign that Wilson had been doing anything in here, no handheld, no books. There wasn′t even a lamp glowing; the only light seeped in from the big hull arc lamps through seams in the walls. His skin looked oily, and he smelled of stale sweat. She wondered how long ago he′d washed, in one of the microgravity showers that she had finally got up and running again. But he looked healthy. He was the only survivor aside from Venus who had not had to live through the decompression.

  Wilson and Venus were Holle′s colleagues from their long-gone days as Candidates. Now they were all nearly fifty, their bodies heavy, their expressions hard, their hair greying, their skin lined, their souls dulled by the tedious horror of half their lives spent aboard this Ark. She never would have imagined they would end up this way. But Wilson looked the most composed, confident. He even grinned at Holle.

  Grace Gray looked intensely uncomfortable to be here.

  Holle said, ′Let′s just start. We can′t be overheard, we aren′t being recorded. What we say today passes between the four of us, and nobody else.′

  Wilson snapped, ′And what′s so special about ′′the four of us′′?′

  ′We′re the people with power on the ship. Venus with her planet-finding and GN&C. Grace the doctor—′