Starfire

by Unknown

  “…an exceptional career, Commander Braide, and a reputation as a no-nonsense, by-the-book career astronaut. How does that professional reputation square with your well-publicized private lifestyle.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read in Us People, Hugh.” The crowd of reporters tittered, but clearly they were hungry for more. “Hugh, since I’m not eager to go into the details of my private life, let me put it this way”—the image on the screen suddenly jittered into quick cuts, grainy fax blowups: Robin in a bikini beside a pool, flanked by muscle boys; Robin in a sequined gown at a craps table; Robin in fire-proofs at the wheel of a sticker-plastered Porsche—“I think of Houston as the place I vacation. Space is where I live. I spend way too much time on vacation.”

  Suddenly Melinda’s image came on the screen, speaking into the camera. “So here’s an intimate view of Robin Braide at home.”

  The screen displayed Melinda’s point of view as she floated through Starfire’s corridor, which looked both bigger and darker on screen than it was in reality. The camera discovered Robin, hunched over, pulling at something in the wall. Melinda’s low voice-over explained, “Here you’ll recognize our commander changing the lithium hydroxide air filters. In space, everybody pitches in to do her share.”

  Robin looked up at the camera. “Want a demonstration?”

  “We were actually here to get something more personal,” said Melinda’s off-screen voice.

  “Come back when the crapper breaks. And it will.”

  Melinda’s face reappeared, distorted by the wide-angle lens of the camera she was pointing at herself. “The commander seems unwilling to talk while the whole world is watching, so we’ll have to wait till she’s off guard. Next, let’s introduce the boy who once referred to himself, in a moment of drunken abandon, as the world’s fastest android…”

  The scene switched back to the press conference, as the camera was zooming in on Spin.

  Travis switched it off. The chip was what the video people called, by tradition, a jolly reel—in-jokes and outtakes, something for wrap parties, not for public consumption. Maybe someday he’d find it amusing.

  He pushed the heels of his hands into his weary eyes. Gently he settled toward the floor.

  Perigee. With no eye to watch, Everest streaked through the sun’s corona at the astonishing velocity of 300 kilometers per second. The terrifying ball of flame filled fully twenty-eight angular degrees of sky. The surface of Everest was white-hot, dissolving, where it faced the sun—the dull red of banked ashes where it was turned away.

  “Commander, the window program is in the launch sequence.” Melinda’s voice was quivering with exhaustion as she keyed in the last loops, completing the work she had expected to share with Linwood.

  “Thanks, Melinda. Time you got suited up.”

  Melinda encountered Travis outside his bunk, squeezing into his cooling and ventilation suit. The two of them were on standby for EVA. “Travis, Linwood…”

  He turned away from her, his eyes puffy. “Died trying, didn’t he? Like he said. Guess he had the best of it.”

  “You liked him a lot. I didn’t know that about you, until a little while ago. How much you care.”

  Still he avoided her eyes.

  “Second thoughts about me, cowboy?” she asked.

  “Hell, no.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Hate for you to see me looking like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Old.”

  “Your imagination. I think I love you, Travis.”

  “Maybe I love you, too.”

  Their kiss was silly and awkward and brief.

  “Guess we’ll have to go into it later,” she said. “In more depth. I mean at greater length…”

  “Cut it out!” He was sheepish now. “I think you really mean, over time.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean. Thanks.”

  Travis was strapped into Linwood’s couch, peering at the unfamiliar console in PROP and hoping he wouldn’t have to do anything with it, when Melinda slid into NAVCOM opposite. A tremor rattled the ship, but they paid it no attention. He watched her hungrily as she climbed into her couch. She turned her head and winked at him.

  “Everybody secure?” Robin asked on comm.

  “Roger.”

  “Roger.”

  “All right, we just sit here about an hour and wait until this thing decides to kick us in the butt.”

  The computer constantly updated its calculations. At any moment within the optimum launch window the program could decide that the mass balance in the asteroid was satisfactory, or as good as it was likely to get. The bomb would detonate. Simultaneously, inside the narrow cave, Starfire’s thrusters would fire for a few seconds, providing enough thrust to balance the instantaneous acceleration of the bomb and keep the ship from falling to the floor.

  “Listen, I don’t want anybody getting up and wandering around until this is over. After the time we’ve spent up here, one gee even for a few seconds is going to feel like ten. Let’s not have any twisted ankles.”

  They let her nervousness pass without comment, except for obligatory mumbled “rogers.”

  “I’ve got T minus forty-five and counting,” Spin said. “To computer’s best guess.”

  “Wish I was doing the counting,” Robin grumbled.

  “Attention. Attention,” said the ship.

  “Robin,” Travis said. “Commander…”

  “I see it.” A red light was blinking on their boards. “If it’s another goddam flaky sensor I say screw the computer, we’ll play this by ear.”

  “No, it’s in the shot cable,” Travis said. “A break, maybe a bad connection.”

  “You and Travis, Melinda,” Robin said. “By the book. Spin at the air lock. Emergency air.”

  “Copy, wilco.”

  “Wilco.”

  They went to the air lock. Spin helped them into their suits. “We’ve got time. You can breathe fifteen minutes; we can ease the pressure down some.”

  “If I can’t move in this thing I’m going straight to twenty-six,” said Melinda.

  “You’re not gonna move at all if you get the bends,” Travis said. “Do it by the book, like the woman says.”

  Spin closed the inner door and started evacuating the air lock. After ten minutes of waiting Melinda’s weary impatience got the best of her. “I’m popping this door if you don’t, Spin. I’ll breathe on the way down.”

  “Okay, okay. Grab hold.” The outer hatch unseated, and residual air rushed out.

  Outside, Travis and Melinda pulled themselves awkwardly down the tethers, fighting against their overinflated suits. They reached the service module, where the bomb’s power cable issued from an access panel.

  “I’m going deep,” she said.

  “You’re pretty tired, maybe I—”

  “By the book, cowboy.”

  “Yeah, roger.”

  She pulled herself away from him, heading down past the tanks, past the dark wings and the engine, her dingy white suit fading out in the thick gloom. He watched the play of her helmet light a brief moment, then turned to examine the connector where the thick black cable left the hull.

  “Hull connection looks good,” he said.

  “…opy,” Robin’s scratchy voice said in his ear.

  On the flight deck, Robin watched her board, her clock, her monitors. She had a monitor on the air lock, and cameras outside the ship picked up Travis’s head lamp erratically darting over the lower part of the hull, but beyond that she was blind.

  …fway to the bot…” Melinda said.

  “Copy, Melinda,” said Robin.

  “…one’s g…?” Travis inquired.

  “Negative, Travis. No change.”

  In the blurry scene on the monitor, ice chips shaken from the quivering walls gleamed like swarming plankton. Travis’s light dwindled as he headed down toward the next cable connector, and she lost sight of him altogether.

  Melinda arrived in the geode. Diamonds s
haken from the walls filled the hollow space, but back in its crevice the bomb and all its thoroughly taped detonators seemed secure.

  “I’m at the bomb. No obvious problems.”

  “…opy.”

  She moved closer and steered the beam from her helmet lamp slowly over each taped nipple. All neat, but neat as it was, it was still patchwork. In the time she had, with the limited flexibility of her suit, she would not be able to check and reconnect even half the detonators; the mathematics of probability said leave them, move on up the cable, check the connectors that were easiest to check.

  She started up the shaft again. Squeezed into the passage in a stiffened suit, she took a moment to consciously suppress her rising panic. She came to the first cable splice.

  “I’m at the first connection.”

  “Copy.”

  She unscrewed the knurled ring that locked the male and female plugs and unsnapped the connection. She inspected the pins and sockets, then snapped the plug together again.

  “Reconnected here. Got anything?”

  “No change. That’s not it. Do you rea…?”

  “Copy no change. I’m moving up, over.”

  Far above her, Travis was moving down into the shaft. “What about that one?”

  “…egative. Still red,” said Robin.

  His helmet lights caught standing waves in the icy dust, set up by the steady tremor of Everest.

  He heard Melinda on the radio, her voice excited: “Hey, Robin, this one looks loose! Could be…” She was washed out by static. “…putting it back together. What say?”

  “Negative, repeat negative, Robin. Spin, I nee…” The static seemed to be getting worse; the shaft was a waveguide, and they were on the wrong frequency. “…nversion tables. Travis, can you see Melin…?”

  “Negative. Pretty thick dust in here.”

  “…barely read…switch over to RF…switch your…”

  “Okay, I’m in RF,” he said.

  “Any bett…?”

  “Not much.” He had grabbed another cable junction, twisted it apart, and reconnected it. “Does this one do anything for you, Robin?”

  “No change. Getting tired of the color red.”

  Travis was getting plain tired, fighting his stiff suit. He resisted the temptation to lower the oxygen pressure.

  On the flight deck, the clock was winding down. When the window opened, the bomb could go at any moment unless Robin chose to override the program.

  “T minus seventeen minutes thirty. We need both of you in the air lock in twelve.”

  Melinda’s voice crackled from the radio: “No use…out bomb.”

  “Copy that, but you will be in the air lock in twelve minutes.” If the damn bomb doesn’t work, we’ll just have to think of something else, Robin thought. But she didn’t say it. She didn’t figure it would play.

  Melinda was moving up through the shaft. Far above her, Travis’s helmet lamp was bouncing light from the icy walls. She heard him say, “I’m connecting…” and a moment later Robin replying, “…egative.”

  “I’m at number five junction,” Melinda said. She grasped the connector and twisted it. She peered through her faceplate, inspecting the interior of the socket half—nothing. Then the other half, with the pins.

  Bent pin.

  Cursing her clumsy ballooning gloves, she bullied the pin back into vertical. She tried the connection again.

  “Robin?”

  “…irmative! I’ve got…een light! Repeat…” Static washed her away, but the message was clear.

  “Copy you have a green light. I’m locking this turkey. Travis, get your ass out of the way”—she twisted the locking ring, which was oddly loose in her hands—“’cause I’m comin’ up.”

  Travis pawed at the walls, boosting himself with his fingertips. He flew from the shaft, tugged himself up the length of Starfire toward the circle of yellow light that was the open air lock. He flew into the lock. Behind the inner window, Spin’s face was a haggard mask in the worklight.

  Travis turned to face the outer hatch. In the yellow light, ice plankton swarmed.

  “T minus three minutes forty-five seconds,” said Robin. “Where’s everybody?”

  “Travis is in the lock,” Spin said.

  Melinda’s voice came through static: “…see the lock.”

  Melinda rose smiling into the misty golden light, framed by the circle of the open hatch. She moved toward the lock.

  “She’s in,” Spin said, exultant. “Ready to seal.”

  A violent tremor swung the ship.

  “We have a flickering red light,” said Robin. “I am overriding the ignition sequence.”

  Melinda did a somersault and hooked her boots against the upper rim of the hatch. She dived out of sight.

  Spin slammed the hatch switches. The hatch swung toward Travis as, off balance, he tried to exit.

  “Damn you,” Travis shouted, yanking at the interior air lock control with no result; Spin was overriding him. “She needs help.”

  “I don’t need…eking help,” said Melinda’s voice on the radio.

  “She doesn’t need your help,” Spin said. “It’s a job for one.” The hatch was down and sealed. The air lock filled with a whistle and crescendo of air. “Get out of that suit, Travis. You’re blocking the air lock.”

  The inner hatch popped up and away. Travis hesitated, but Spin had left him no choice. He unlatched his helmet. Spin moved in to help him shuck the suit. They returned to the inner corridor, and Spin slammed the inner hatch down and turned on the pumps to evacuate the air lock.

  Melinda’s voice came over the comm system. “Okay, at five, see the prob…got to tape this togeth…”

  Robin said, “Melinda, I can override for two or three minutes before Everest’s attitude is completely fucked. After that we lose the window. Repeat, you have a maximum of three minutes.”

  “…oger, let me just get this tape…”

  “Travis, be seated,” Robin demanded.

  Spin pushed his face at Travis’s. “You’re loose cargo, cowboy. Tie yourself down.”

  Robin’s voice boomed from the speakers. “We have a green light and it’s holding. Come aboard, Melinda. Repeat, come aboard. Travis, go sit down, dammit. Spin, find a flat place.”

  “You think you can do this job better than I can?” Spin demanded of Travis.

  Melinda’s voice cut through the silence. “A-OK, clear the decks, I’m com…”

  Still Travis didn’t move. He couldn’t explain his reluctance to leave the air lock, to strap himself down, to wait passively while Melinda conducted her own affairs—except that his heart cried to see her again.

  “What the hell is it with you?” Spin yelled at him. “You think you’re the only one who cares?”

  Travis looked at Spin and saw him rattled. The sight shook him.

  The only one who cared about her? The only one who loved her? Travis shook his head. He turned away and pulled himself up the long corridor. The ship bounced wildly in its wiry cradle, then settled down to growling vibration.

  Spin turned to the air lock window and saw nothing but an empty room, its round door open to murky swirling night. He looked back up the corridor and saw Travis pulling himself into PROP, high above.

  “Spin, I will enable the ignition sequence when Melinda is in the air lock. Give me immediate word. Melinda, what’s your status? Do you read?”

  “Okay, Robin, I’m at the air…coming inside. Repeat, I’m coming inside.”

  “Welcome aboard. As soon as you are in, put yourself on the floor. Spin?”

  But Spin was staring at an empty air lock. “Uhh…”

  “Confirm that she is in and secure.”

  “I’m in, Robin. Just get…suit off.”

  Spin was looking at an air lock as empty as a blown egg.

  “Repeat, I’m in,” said Melinda. “Suit out of the way. Thanks, Spin…out of the cold.”

  “Uh, roger, Melinda,” Spin said, the words sear
ing his tongue. “And copy you, Robin, she’s in good shape, uh, she’s inside…”

  There was no one in the air lock.

  Robin knew it, because the monitor showed an empty air lock. The monitors showed Spin still in the corridor beside the empty air lock and Travis yanking at his straps as he tied himself into the unfamiliar couch in PROP. The monitors showed an otherwise empty ship. The monitors showed nothing outside the ship but drifting debris.

  Robin knew all there was to know, then. She knew why. She stared, frozen, at the empty air lock. “Spin, find a flat place, right now. We are in the window.” Spin lifted his head and peered bleakly at her, through the monitor camera over his head. “Spin…” Robin had not yet reset the switches she had disabled. But Spin began to move, to swim up the corridor, and his action relieved her paralysis; she reached for the switches—“Ignition sequence enabled. Repeat, ignition sequence enabled”—but even though she had just said she did, still she did not throw the switches. She told herself that she knew what she must do and that she would do it, but she would just wait the ten or twenty seconds it would take Spin to reach the flight deck.

  Melinda was in the shaft, her knees pulled up and jammed against the walls, braced against the asteroid’s shuddering. She held the two halves of the cable connector tightly together. She had run out of tape.

  “Okay, we’re in and sealed, everything is A-OK, I’m real comfortable. Let’s get the hell out of here.” There were arguments on both sides of this, and Melinda was still running them in her mind. She really resented having been rushed into a situation that begged more thought.

  Only one of the monitors in PROP was patched into the comm channels; on it, Spin was seen swimming up the corridor. After Travis strapped himself in, he reached up and jabbed at the channel selector. Click. Nobody in the wardroom. Click. Nobody in the bunk area. To his left Spin moved past him toward the flight deck—Travis already knew nobody was in NAVCOM. Click. The air lock was open and empty.

  “Spin, dammit…!” Robin’s voice splintered the audio.