by Garon Whited
“Why, Galena! You sound like you have experience with that,” I joked.
“Nyet. Just guessing, Max.” Who says the Russians don’t have a sense of humor?
“Is it a pressure door, Max?” Kathy asked.
“Looks like a light hatch. About a class two, sealed, but it’s not an airlock.”
“Have you tried knocking?”
“With a fist and my handlight. No answer to either.”
“I guess you’ll have to find another door.”
“Nuts to that,” I responded. “I have an electric cutting torch.”
“Oh. Well… okay. Check it for pressure differential first.”
I took the minitorch off my belt and made a small test hole. I didn’t expect to have vacuum on the far side, not in the core of the station, but it couldn’t hurt to check. Air didn’t go whistling in or out, which was normal; there was light on the far side, which was not. I tried to bend down and look through the hole, but it was too small to see much, and I couldn’t get my eye up to it; the curve of the faceplate was too far from my face. Oh, well; maybe the sparks would attract attention where pounding failed.
I took a few minutes and cut through the latch. On a class one hatch, there are multiple locking bolts to hold the hatch in place, even if the hinges are missing. A class two hatch will still hold pressure, but it’s meant more as a security door than at atmosphere barrier. Class two hatches only have one bolt holding them closed, but they mate to the coaming just like a standard hatch.
The door gave a little when I tried it, but it didn’t come open. I figured it was some bit of molten metal that had cooled on the seam. I lifted a foot and gave the door a solid kick; it gave way immediately, but the magnetic boots threw my reflexes off. I fishtailed in the low gravity and started to topple backward as the door flew open.
I had an instant to see someone in the next compartment before he shot me.
Chapter Nine
“Mistakes are a part of being human. Appreciate your mistakes for what they are: precious life lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Unless it's a fatal mistake, which, at least, others can learn from.”
—Al Franken (1951-)
A hardsuit might stop a bullet, if it hits at an angle. A softsuit will just slow it down some. My softsuit made a nasty tearing sound as the bullet ripped through several layers of material before it reached Mama Hardy’s first and only son. This was not a good thing. It still had more than enough speed to tear through skin, penetrate muscle, and lodge somewhere unpleasant—i.e., inside me.
It also had enough force to send me floating gently through the air. Microgravity has its drawbacks. While slowly sailing toward the far end of the compartment, I tried to keep cool. It didn’t hurt—at least, not yet—and there was no second shot to finish me. That was comforting.
“Luna, this is Max. An inhabitant of the station has shot me. Please advise.” I bounced helmet-first off the far bulkhead, gently. A bullet doesn’t have enough mass to make me go anywhere fast; my awkward kick had more to do with that. The slight impact with the bulkhead was enough to show me how intimately connected my entire body was with a small point just under the right ribcage. That’s when it started to hurt. I clamped my teeth together at contact.
“Max, say again!” Kathy demanded. “You’ve been shot?”
“Ow. Yes. Shot. Feels… feels like it’s about four centimeters off-center… just under my right ribs.” I landed on the deck, still gently—a three-foot fall not only takes a while, it’s also short on momentum—and the pain hit me again. I gritted my teeth and tried to land limp so I wouldn’t bounce in the micro-gee. I noted there were reddish droplets hanging in the air; they were moving, with most of them slanting slowly downward. I couldn’t see the front of my suit without bending; even in a softsuit, the helmet gets in the way. But I could touch the hole and lift my hand; there was blood on it. Not much, but enough to bother me a lot. I really don’t like having leaks in my personal equipment. I pressed my hand to the hole and held it there and tried to ignore the way it hurt. I did not succeed.
“We know where you are, Max. Help is on the way.”
I was glad to hear it. I’ve been shot before, but never a deep body wound. It was a new sensation and one I didn’t care to repeat. I wondered if I was about to die. If so, how long would it take? If not, was someone about to change that?
“Roger that,” I replied. “I’m bleeding.”
“Hold on, Max! We’re working as fast as we can!”
“I know you are.” I saw light and shadow shifting; someone with a handlight was coming closer. “Oh, crap; I have company.”
“What? Report, Max.”
Two men came into view and stood over me. One had a pistol in hand. They talked to each other and gestured at me on occasion. They didn’t appear to be disposed to shoot me again, so I kept still. At least they were something to focus on; I could avoid thinking about my present wound by worrying about the potential for another one.
“Two guys. One pistol. Old model; looks like a standard slugthrower. They’re arguing about something. I don’t think they can see me through the helmet tint; neither of them is shining a light inside. Maybe they think I’m dead.”
There was a pause from the other end before Kathy spoke again, coldly. “Roger that, Max. If necessary, you may inform them I have the habitat in my sights and will shoot it down if they don’t surrender you immediately.”
I digested that for a second. I didn’t hear her correctly. I’m sure I didn’t. Did I?
“I thought you were in the docking bay?” I inquired.
“I was. I’m backing out on thrusters. Nobody will board the Luna unless and until I say so—and that will only be after you come back aboard.”
“Oh. Good. ’Cause I’d hate to be a hostage.”
“I won’t surrender my ship, Max, no matter what,” she said, brisk and cold and efficient. Then her voice changed. “Max?” she asked, softly.
“Go ahead.”
“I… I just thought I should say it…”
Of all the times. Then again, this might be our last opportunity.
“Don’t even start,” I said. “I’d rather have this discussion up close and personal—so let’s figure out a way to save me without risking the Luna. I’m allergic to bleeding, unless it’s from your fingernails—that I kinda like.”
Kathy let a small bark of laughter escape before she managed to cut it off. I wondered if she was biting her lip. It wasn’t really funny, I guess, but I’ll crack a joke on Judgment Day. Come to that, I think I did.
“Roger that,” she replied. She sounded at least a little amused, so that was good.
About that point, one of the men crouched down next to me and tapped on my faceplate. He said something; I couldn’t hear it through the suit, but I could see his lips moving. I lifted my unoccupied hand and waved. If I hadn’t waved, he’d have opened my suit anyway. At least this way he wouldn’t try to strip me out of it. Hopefully. I’d need it if I was going to get home.
“Kathy, I’m leaving my mike open and cracking my helmet; they want to talk.”
“Roger that, Max. We’ll be listening. Galena is on her way.”
I undogged the faceplate and slid it up into the helmet. The air didn’t smell so good; it was also thin and cold. The man looked at me and asked his question again. Unfortunately, I don’t speak Chinese. I guess my lack of comprehension showed in my face.
“He is a Fed, Peng. Look at his suit,” said the other, in English. He must have had the handlight—mine was still attached to my wrist by a lanyard—because I suddenly felt center stage in the illumination.
“You speak English, then?” asked the man who was looking me over. “You have come from outside?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I came aboard to look for survivors. We’re here to rescue you.”
He looked startled, then pleased, then worried. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Oh, good. Does that m
ean you aren’t going to shoot me again?”
He hurriedly put the pistol away. “No. I mean, yes. That is, I won’t shoot you.”
“Wonderful. Got a doctor?” It was the foremost question on my mind.
“Um. Not anymore, no. Do you have a ship? We can take you to it. How many people can it carry?”
“We rigged it to carry everybody in one load, if you want to come. About two hundred seats. How many are there?”
“Maybe a hundred. Things haven’t been going well. My name’s Peng, by the way, and this is Chang. Uh… I’m really, really sorry I shot you.”
“If I live, I’ll forgive you. If I die, all bets are off. Why did you shoot me?”
“When you broke in, I thought you were one of the bad survivors. I shot before I realized you were in a space suit—it’s dark out here.”
I grimaced. “Is this a long story?”
“Uh… yes.”
“Then can we just get everybody to the debarkation lounge and get ready to board? I want to go home, all right?”
“Oh! Right! Right! You just wait right there! Chang, will you stay with him?”
Chang settled next to me like a leaf landing on water. Peng took that for assent and hurried back through the door I’d opened; he moved fast, proving he had a lot of practice at this gravity.
“Hello, Chang.”
“Hello.”
Talkative sort. “My name is Max.”
“You are Lieutenant Commander Hardy.”
I blinked. “You know that?”
“Yes.”
“What are you, a mind reader?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know my name?”
“It is written on your suit.”
I decided to keep a blood reserve in my face; at least it wouldn’t be going out the new hole if I kept using it to turn my face crimson. I blushed and mentally kicked myself for a fool. Fortunately, Peng came back with a bunch of people and I was spared further conversational embarrassment. The people were all carrying lengths of pipe or other implements and seemed scared; most looked older than my grandfather. Everyone had several layers of clothes on, many of which were drastically mismatched. They looked like a ragged, uncertain mob.
“All right, we’re ready to go. Can you stand?”
“Probably,” I admitted, around clenched teeth. “But I’d rather not move when I can be moved. I think I’m hurt pretty bad. I know it hurts a lot.”
“We’ll carry you,” Peng offered. About that point the door to the compartment opened. Peng yelped, started to draw his pistol—and changed his mind. He slowly raised his hands, staring. The people with him also stared and several clutched at each other for comfort, obviously frightened. A few stepped casually behind other people, to put the unwitting shield between themselves and the door. I tried to see what the fuss was about, but, darn helmet…
“Max?” Galena asked. “Tell me you live, please.”
Aha. Judging by the tone, an angry Russian lady was the source of the fuss.
“I’m not dead yet,” I replied.
“Shall I kill the one with the gun?”
“No. It’s just been a case of mistaken identity, I think. He’s going to—very slowly and gently! —toss his gun to you. Then he and a couple of buddies going to carry me to the Luna and we’re all going to get off this station. Isn’t that right, Peng?”
Peng nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes, absolutely right! May I please move very carefully to give you my gun, ma’am?”
“Da,” Galena replied. I wished I felt well enough to sit up and see her expression. Peng’s was certainly amusing.
Peng did nothing to imply he wanted to be shot. He could have been a wonderful mime, if there is such a thing. Without a word, he conveyed a sincere desire to be utterly helpful and non-threatening. He tossed Galena the gun and very gently lifted me. The whole group of us started moving under Galena’s watchful eye. We went to the debarkation lounge I’d entered by. The observation window was shuttered; I couldn’t see where the Luna was.
I noticed Galena had a gun of her own. The only place she could have gotten it was from Kathy—the Luna carried one weapon, and that in a lockbox. Kathy was being extremely trusting—far too much so for the captain of a ship. She was obviously dead-set on getting me back from this station. “Everyone comes home” may be a nice sentiment and a wonderful goal, but it isn’t always possible. Handing a crewman pro tem a lethal weapon and letting her go into a hostile environment on a rescue mission could be construed as foolish.
Not that I’m ungrateful, you understand, but it still wasn’t by the book. Captain Carl would have words with her about it. On the other hand, he’d also probably promote Galena on the spot, so I guess it all works out.
I should take a second and clarify something. The gun Peng had was an old-fashioned slugthrower, designed for knocking a hole in a man by handing him a high-speed chunk of metal. Essentially, it was a chemically-powered slingshot.
The weapons we had in Luna Base and aboard ship were slightly different. They were gas-cartridge weapons that fired extremely fragile, needle-like projectiles; the needles are actually about three millimeters in diameter and three centimeters long—and rather amazingly sharp. Put a needle through someone and their priorities alter faster than you can say oh-crap-I’m-going-to-die. Needle guns are the government’s way of telling you to stop what you’re doing and seek prompt medical attention.
Needle guns have a lot less noise than a gunpowder weapon and can be fired a lot faster with accuracy. They also don’t have nearly the recoil, so getting blown off your feet by the kick of your own weapon isn’t as much of an issue in the low gravity.
But the main reason for having needle guns was simple: Vacuum. An old-fashioned nine-millimeter pistol can punch a hole through a surprising thickness of aluminum. A needle gun’s projectile usually just shatters against it—but it can punch right through fabric and flesh. They are rather amazingly good at letting out both air and blood. Especially if the long, fragile, rapidly-spinning needle hits something solid inside the body—like bone. The needles fragment. Messy.
Peng was right to look scared when Galena pointed that thing at him. I would be.
“Max?” Galena asked. “How can we make dock with the Luna?”
“Normally, I’d connect the docking tube and override the airlock—hey, how did you get in so fast?” I asked. “The airlock was pressurized.”
“I brought magic crowbar,” Galena replied.
“Say what?”
“Electric minitorch,” she clarified. “Is good you close doors behind self. I made hole, let out air, entered airlock, patched hole. Is not good repair, but is good enough.”
“You’re hired,” I said. “Now, to get these people aboard, we need power for the docking tube.” I looked at the mob. “I don’t suppose any of you guys are part of the maintenance crew?”
Chang nodded. “I am.”
“Is there a good way to power up the docking tube so we can board?”
“No.”
“Do you have enough spacesuits to let everyone use the airlock and just float over?”
“No.”
“Crap. Then how are we going to get back aboard?”
“Close the docking bay and pressurize it,” he said.
I blinked. I’m going to blame this one on the blood loss. Normally, I have a much better grasp of the obvious. “Oh. Yes, that ought to work. Can you seal the doors?”
“Does your ship have an external power umbilical?”
“A port for one, yes.”
“I can seal the doors.”
“Kathy?” I asked. I reached up to touch my earpiece by reflex. I shouldn’t have. It hurt to move. Besides, my glove was covered in blood. My blood. Yuck. “Have you been listening?”
“Yes, Max,” she answered. “I don’t like the idea of parking my ship where they can swarm over it and capture it.”
“Oh.”
“As a result,”
she went on, “we’re going to do this the way he described, but with a few small wrinkles of our own…”
* * *
It took a little fiddling around to get everyone aboard. First, we applied a suit patch over my suit leak. Peng got into a station suit and came with Galena and me. Kathy nosed the Luna partway into the hangar pocket and they floated me aboard.
Peng got to spend some time strapped down where they could see him. Kathy explained what was going to happen while Galena helped me get out of my suit and strap down for treatment.
“Peng, is it?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He didn’t salute, but his whole attitude was respectful. I think he felt guilty about shooting me.
“Well, Peng, I’m glad to meet you. You’ve shot a member of my crew while he was on a rescue mission to save your sorry ass. This does not make me want to trust you; it makes me want to unscrew your head. Are we clear on that?”
Peng gulped. “Yes, Ma’am!”
“Now I’m going to work with a doctor one and a half light-seconds away to try and save Max’s life. I don’t need distractions and I don’t need interference. Add that to the fact I don’t trust you and you’ll see why you’re about to be restrained.” She paused, hand on what used to be Peng’s pistol, and looked him over. He was shivering.
“Now, there are two ways I can do it. You can be a good example to everyone and give me your parole—your word—that you’ll do exactly as I tell you without hesitation. That means I strap you down in a chair so you can’t get up quickly. I promise Galena or I will only shoot you if you start to squirm.
“The other option is to not give your parole. Then you’ll be a horrible warning. I will shoot you immediately and dump your body out the airlock as a warning to the others.
“Pick one. Good example or horrible warning?”
“I give you my parole, ma’am,” he answered, very respectfully.
“Good choice. And Peng?”
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“What’s going to happen if I have any sort of trouble with you?” Kathy asked, smiling sweetly.
“I’ll regret it?” He sounded scared. Peng’s a smart man.