It was no easier for Hunter to climb into the EVA suit a second time than it had been the first.
The damn things were bulky and uncomfortable and made in such a crude way that they never felt like they fit right in all places everytime. They were tight where they should have been loose, loose where they should have been tight. Add the fact that climbing into one in zero-gravity was like trying to wrestle underwater, a truly miserable experience.
Yet Hunter proceeded to pour himself into the suit with a kind of grim determination. It seemed like he’d spent most of his adult life chasing Viktor—whether the real one or the fake—and now, at last, he was certain he had the supercriminal dead to rights. Unlike their previous confrontations in the desert, above the ocean, or through holographs or proxies, there really was no place Viktor could hide this time, now that Hunter had found the Mir. They were in space; there was nowhere else to go but down, and Viktor’s only ability to do that was the Zon, and Hunter and Company had taken that away from him. Now, it seemed like only a matter of apprehending the much-hated terrorist and dragging him back to earth for a quick trial and, it was hoped, an even quicker execution.
And then, maybe Hunter and the rest of the world could finally get some peace.
Elvis was right beside him, struggling to get into his ETA suit. There had been no need to ask for volunteers to go on this particular excursion. Of them all, Elvis probably had the most personal debt to settle with Viktor. The supercriminal might have robbed the earth of many years of what could have been restablization, but he’d robbed Elvis of many years of his life. During the time under his capture, Elvis had been beaten, brainwashed, and beaten again so many times, he wasn’t even sure who he was. Only after the Zon was captured by the UAAF on Lolita Island did Elvis begin to emerge from the fog of his nasty experience.
With each passing minute, the ex-fighter pilot and member of the Ace Wrecking Company grew more determined in his quest to make Viktor pay—and pay big someday.
From all appearances, that day was today.
JT and Ben were now strapped into the Zon’s flying seats. Cook was in the jumpseat, helping them look for any rogue space mines which would absolutely fuck up the upcoming EVA. Geraci was down in the crew compartment, trying to assist Hunter and Elvis into their suits and get their admittedly crude weaponry and communications equipment to work.
When this Zon flight was first planned, one question that arose was what weapons, if any, the crew should take into orbit. It wasn’t as if standard military firearms would be of any use. And the UAAF didn’t have any ray guns or destructo beams in its arsenals. There was really only one weapon anyone could think of that might be effective in outer space. This was the taser, the police-issued stun gun first popularized in the 1970s. The Zon crew had brought ten with them. Each one could deliver a whopping 50,000-volt jolt, enough to knock a person unconscious, at least on the ground. Truth was, Hunter had no idea exactly how they would work in space, if at all.
In any case, he and Elvis were now packing two tasers apiece, each carrying a full charge. They also had two radios sewn into their suits. One was a NASA-issued so-called “local communicator” of the same type used in the early shuttle days. Their back-up would be a Russian-designed two-way radio that looked liked it had been assembled by elves up at the North Pole. It was so tinny and toyish, no one believed it could work, or if it did, for very long.
Finally, they were set to go into space. On Hunter’s word, JT and Ben had maneuvered the Zon to within 1500 feet of the Mir, specifically, the space station’s lower left side. Here, Elvis knew of a rudimentary emergency hatch which led into a pressure lock which could be operated manually from the outside; he’d used the hatchway several times during his days in Viktor’s capture. Through this, he was sure, he could get them into the Mir, and possibly without anyone inside knowing exactly what they were up to.
Though they were in space and were about to go into what amounted to hostile territory, the plan was fairly simple: gain entrance to the Mir, eliminate any opposition, search for Viktor, and then take him back—and hope he had a spacesuit that fit. The search and the chase were over; now all that remained was the capture.
One last call up to the flight deck revealed no problems. The Mir was still blinking passively, now but 1200 feet away and there wasn’t a space mine in sight. Hunter and Elvis did one last pressure check on their suits and Geraci did a green test on the external chamber-lock. Everything was working as well as could be expected.
Hunter and Elvis shook hands with Geraci and then each other. Then they went out the door.
It took exactly eight minutes for them to get out into space. The depressurization chamber seemed to take longer every time they used it. But finally they were free of the Zon and untangling their lifeline tethers.
Elvis was particularly eager to get going. He didn’t even bother to test his zipgun, the gas-powered steering device which would propel them over to Mir. He attached his tether and gave his zip a long, powerful press. The next moment he was speeding away from Hunter and toward the spaceship looming off the nose of the Zon.
Hunter, once again caught up in the absolute beauty and freedom of walking in space, now hastened to join his colleague. He gave his own zipgun a long pull and was soon horizontal and nearly colliding with the bottoms of Elvis’s space boots.
It was very strange to be out here, though; this thought could not escape Hunter’s mind no matter what the circumstances. The whole when-an-object-is-in-motion-it-tends-to-stay-in-motion thing had an absolutely entirely different meaning up in orbit. With no atmosphere, gravity, or external means of friction to slow you down, once you got up a head of steam, you kept it unless you took it upon yourself to slow down. It was this external aspect of being in space that made Hunter the most excited. The great blue earth, spinning so tremendously fast directly below him, seemed to be the one out of place up here. Space—cold, dead, dark, and yet magnificent—was now the norm. Life on Earth, the air, the water, the people and the plants, seemed the aberration.
And above him, billions of stars, billions of galaxies, worlds of untold tales. Life, or what might pass for life, swirling around within the cold, pale light of the stars. Spinning in what might be…
A sudden jerk on his helmet knocked Hunter out of his latest daydream. It was Elvis. He’d kicked both of them to a stop about two-thirds of the way across the void to the Mir. Hunter looked up at him and saw he was gesturing frantically. But what was wrong? The Mir was still there, unmoving, though its velocity was nearly seven miles a second. His spacesuit seemed to be working okay, no leaks that he could see. The same with Elvis’s suit.
“What’s the problem?” he called over to Elvis.
Of course, the reply was broken up with static.
“Six o’clock… look… just about… six…”
He was pointing to a spot at the bottom of the Mir, which corresponded roughly with six o’clock low. The glare from the earthglow made it hard to see at first—but then Hunter finally got it.
“Damn,” he whispered into his microphone.
Two tiny figures, clad in black spacesuits, had come out of the Mir and were heading right for them.
What followed was the first fistfight in outer space.
The pair of men in the black spacesuits were also equipped with zipguns. One push on their triggers and they were suddenly looming large in Hunter’s face plate.
“Split up!” someone yelled into his headphones. It could have been Elvis, or maybe JT, back on the Zon. But whoever was giving the order, it was good advice. Hunter and Elvis quickly separated via a quick punch from the zipguns. Within a few seconds they were 50 feet apart but still barreling in on the Mir.
Their two oncoming opponents also split up. The one on the left was now heading right for Hunter, the other for Elvis. Both appeared to be carrying long, thin, dark twisted tubes, possibly some kind of space tool, but bearing a remarkable resemblance to a crowbar. Obviously these were int
ended to be used as weapons. But again, this seemed crazy. They were in space. Essentially, nothing had any weight, only mass. What happens when you get hit with a crowbar that is weightless while you are weightless as well?
Hunter was certain that the man heading for him in this weird kind of speeded-up slow motion was bent on finding out.
His potential opponent was now but 50 feet from him. Arms outstretched, bar in one hand, zipgun in the other, he certainly looked menacing, not unlike a MIG or some other enemy airplane zooming in on Hunter, hoping for a quick kill.
There was no way the guy in the black spacesuit could know what a big mistake that was…
Once the enemy spaceman had reached a point about 20 feet in front of him, Hunter turned his zipgun forward and gave it a half-second burst. This was enough to stop him completely. He then turned the zipper to the left and gave it an even shorter burst. This moved him just enough out of the way to allow the spaceman to rocket by him. Hunter could see the look of complete surprise on the guy’s face as he zoomed by, flailing his weapon, but just out of reach. He also saw the man was badly in need of a shave and some dental work. A number of crudely healed scars across his cheeks and nose confirmed that he was indeed one of Viktor’s goon boys, sent to do their boss’s dirty work.
Hunter zipped again, rotating his entire body like a cartwheel, then pushing himself forward about 10 feet. The spaceman had stopped himself by this time, and by slowly turning on his back, was now zipping back toward Hunter headfirst. Hunter pulled his zipgun trigger again, banking left as the space thug flew by and catching him with a solid punch right to the face plate. The goon was instantly knocked off at a sharp angle and began tumbling out of control from the sudden exertion of external force.
Predictably, Hunter went flying in the other direction—it was that every-action-causes-an-equal-but-opposite-reaction thing again. But unlike the spacethug, he was prepared for it. A short burst from the zipgun slowed him down completely; another got him moving forward again. His opponent was getting pissed by this time—which was exactly what Hunter wanted. He came right at Hunter a third time, trying to swing the pipe while keeping his zipgun all the way open. Hunter put his own zipper behind his back and squeezed off a one-second burst. This got him rotating on his backside, and as the thug roared by, he was able to hit him three times—twice with his fists, landing blows on top of his head and in his chest, and once with his left boot, which connected solidly with the man’s groin.
Hunter imagined he could hear the grunt as the spaceman doubled up and went tumbling back toward the Mir. Hunter’s maneuver had worked perfectly.
But now it was time to stop fooling around.
He twisted himself to the horizontal and gave his zipgun a long, hard squeeze. In the next instant he was rocketing toward the space thug even as the man was recovering from his triple whammy. He saw Hunter coming and manage to stop spinning just as the Wingman’s right fist connected with his neck. Caught completely flatfooted and unprepared, the thug began tumbling in place once again, no doubt expending what was left of his energy. Hunter reached out, pulled the pipe from his hand, did a quick calculation, and then drove his fist squarely into the guy’s stomach. The combination of this force and the man’s tumbling combined to both knock him unconscious and propel him in a downward trajectory. Within seconds he was spinning out of sight, falling toward earth with a quickening velocity and a fatal burn-up on reentry.
“Next time, don’t skip physics class,” Hunter bade him as he plunged toward the upper atmosphere.
Hunter turned himself around to find that Elvis and the other remaining spaceman were locked in a titanic struggle up against the Mir. Just how his friend had got himself into this position, Hunter didn’t know—and there was certainly no time to find out. One squeeze of his zipgun and he was rocketing to Elvis’s aid.
But in that short span of time, the Mir spaceman had been able to lodge the zipgun out of Elvis’s hand, just as Elvis had managed to pull the weapon from his opponent. Now Elvis was trying to batter the enemy spacewalker with the crowbar-like device even as the man was spraying the zipgun gas in his face. Blinded and disoriented, Elvis took a massive punch from his opponent and went sailing off in the opposite direction. Somewhat aghast, Hunter did a quick plot on Elvis’s tumbling trajectory and determined that his friend would be lost forever if he didn’t get to him inside of 17 seconds.
Hunter squeezed his zipgun trigger, and though it was now dangerously low on fuel, was able to get a good burst and a quick velocity. He went right by the Mir spaceman and was able to swipe him once on the head with his first opponent’s crowbar. The action served to cut the man’s external oxygen hose. He grabbed his throat and began struggling, but the end came quickly. The man was dead and falling back to earth inside of two seconds.
Now Hunter’s headphones were filled with concern from JT and Ben back in the Zon. They’d been watching the entire encounter and now realized the fix Elvis was in. But even if they got the Zon started up again and went after their tumbling colleague it would probably be too late to do any good.
If Elvis was going to be saved, it was up to Hunter to do it.
By this time, Elvis had tumbled far beyond the top of the Mir. The last gasps from Hunter’s zipgun now sent him rocketing by the tip of the space station and into the deep black void beyond. It was imperative that he keep Elvis in sight, catch him, and figure out how to get back later. To this end, Hunter unconsciously put his hands back to his side and closed his boots together. Like an F-14 or an F-111 going to full-swept wing, he streaked toward his tumbling friend, finally gaining on him, catching the heel of his boot about 15 seconds after the punch that had put him in this position.
Now all Hunter’s brainpower would have to come into play. He didn’t so much grab Elvis as he redirected his trajectory. Like hitting a cue ball, which in turn hits the next ball and the next, Hunter’s action sent Elvis heading straight down, still out of control, but at least not on a path to Jupiter or out of the solar system.
Hunter squeezed his zipgun again; there was just about enough gas to slow his own trajectory, with maybe one last burst to spare. Standing on his head, he gave the zipgun trigger that one last pull. Slowly but surely, the weak stream of gas spilled out and he found himself following Elvis back down toward the Mir.
It was here he would have to get lucky. He’d hoped to push Elvis in such a way that he would—for lack of a better word—collide with the Russian space station. And that’s exactly what happened. Elvis went into a docking ring at the top of the MIR headfirst, hitting it hard enough to stop his flight path, but not enough to ricochet him off in another unpredictable direction. Out of gas and fairly out of control, Hunter slammed into the same docking ring just a few seconds later. Somehow, he was able to grab a hand hold on the Mir and catch Elvis’s right arm at the same time. He pulled his colleague over to him and rapped twice on his helmet.
Groggy, confused, and damn dizzy, Elvis finally responded with a shaky thumbs-up. He was okay.
Compared to the fistfight in space, getting into the Mir was a breeze.
The emergency entryway was exactly where Elvis had remembered it. And just as he predicted, the hatchway could be operated from the outside and was functioning. It took them a few moments to figure exactly how the thing worked, though. It was jerry-rigged to some degree, no surprise, considering the same people who had built the Mir had built the Zon. But finally Hunter figured out that of the three twist-and-dog locks on the outside of the hatchway, two turned clockwise, while the third went counterclockwise. He pulled the hatchway open with a mighty heave that almost sent him off on his own fatal trajectory. Only the smallest puff of air came out, leftover, no doubt, from the last time the hatch was used, which appeared to be some time ago.
Hunter went in first. Elvis, still punchy from his experience, brought up the rear. Both of them had their tasers out and ready; though powerful, these weapons had only a limited power supply, which was why the
y didn’t use them during the astral fistfight. They were both able to squeeze into the pressurization chamber; it was tight, but a marked improvement over the Zon’s, which was barely large enough to fit one person. The pressurization itself went much quicker than they were used to. Within 30 seconds, they were able to open the inner hatchway and step inside the Mir.
If anything, it was darker inside the station than in the haunted Soyuz. What light there was came in the form of tiny blue bulbs strung almost like Christmas ornaments along the entrance corridor. They had entered this long hallway about halfway between two large hatchways. These obviously led into the main interiors of the station. One was to the left, the other directly above them.
But which way should they go? To their left was the part of the station where most of the docking rings were. Did this mean a kind of unimportant cargo area lay close by? Maybe. In any case, when Elvis pointed straight up, making a suggestion on which direction they should travel, Hunter quickly agreed.
They floated up, tasers ready, not quite knowing what to expect. Just because only two gorillas came out after them didn’t mean there weren’t more inside. They had to be ready for anything.
They reached the end of the upper passageway and spun the hatchway lock. It was already unlocked. With Elvis holding his taser out as far as possible, Hunter pulled the doorway back.
They found themselves staring into a larger, darker cylindrical tube. This was obviously one of the living modules. By this time, both Hunter and Elvis had gone off their internal oxygen supply and were breathing the station’s air through their open face plates. They say that your sensory organs are heightened in space, where there is no gravity to affect the molecules of an odor or a sound. And are they right!
The inside of this module smelled like the worst barroom either one had ever been in. It was a sickly combination of spilled whiskey, sticky beer, cigarette and/or cigar smoke (who the hell would smoke in space?), and body odor. Also present in this free-floating malodorous cloud were thousands of tiny white specks. They looked like household dust, but when Hunter wet his finger and caught a few dozen, he knew immediately they were more than just some ordinary dirt sprinkles floating around due to some sloppy housekeeping.
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