by Mark Gardner
He found the strap again and resumed his sawing. It came away quickly. Viktor pulled the severed harness over his head, and then he was free.
One problem solved. Two new problems created.
He steadied himself with his hands, grabbing onto the familiar shape of a hand-hold in the wall. Through an ever-receding clear spot in his visor, he saw he was in a completely different room than the launch hallway. A bigger room with crates of supplies along the wall. A problem for later.
Judging by the pitch of the hiss in his helmet, the room pressure was continuing to drop. Following that thought to its logical conclusion, he would be in a vacuum soon. He could either try to find a room with stable atmosphere or get control of his suit pressure.
The Kerwood had experienced an explosion. Some rooms had lost pressure. Maybe all of them. And even if some were stable, in an emergency, most rooms would be airlocked to contain the damage.
Viktor looked down at his belly, imagining he could see the puff of oxygen floating away. The smell of blood and something nastier permeated his suit. Better get that under control first.
He reached down and grabbed the second item from his utility pocket: a plastic tube as long as his finger. Emergency sealant. It was nothing more than industrialized super glue made to quick-dry in vacuum or semi-vacuum environment, but it would get the job done. He’d hold his suit at the cut at his belly and glue it shut. Then he’d slather it on the helmet crack.
He clung to the plan. A simple plan. Fix the problems, one at a time.
Okay.
Something felt wrong with the sealant. He held it up to his visor, squinting through the fog. The tube was shriveled and flat, long since expended. He flipped open the top and gave a test squeeze anyways. Nothing came out.
He screamed in rage at the glue-heads who’d probably used the sealant for a quick intoxication and at the corporation for not checking the supplies regularly. Because of them he was going to die.
The screaming made him feel better, but it left him more lightheaded than before. The edges of his vision had already darkened, and it had nothing to do with the helmet fog. His suit wasn’t replacing the oxygen fast enough.
Feeling around the wall, he got his bearings. He pushed to where the door ought to be. Surprisingly, he was right, the metal outline of the hatch happily beneath his fingers. He tried the door latch. Unsurprisingly, it would not open.
He’d expected that since the room’s atmosphere was compromised. Oh well. Worth trying.
He pulled himself to the right, to the emergency box mounted in each room. He knew it had more tools than his utility pocket: small rivet gun, carbon mesh rolled like black gauze, industrial solvent applicator for burning it in place. All of it made to repair a major hull breach, not a launch suit. An ounce of the solvent would probably burn all the way through his suit rather than melt it together.
Good thing it was his only option or he would have agonized over it.
The sounds of the ship were distant, nearly mute.
Viktor felt around until he found the handle of what he hoped was the solvent applicator. He couldn’t be certain. The dark continued spreading at the corner of his vision, and even the simplest thoughts were difficult to grasp. They kept floating away when he tried to latch onto them.
Oxygen. Hypoxia. Death. Helena.
He gripped the solvent applicator and pointed it at his helmet. It clinked against the glass. For a split second he imagined he’d grabbed the rivet gun by mistake. He pictured a thick bolt shooting through his helmet and skull.
He pulled the trigger anyways.
There was no gunshot-like blast. Instead, in his fingers he felt the soft buzz of liquid spraying from the applicator. When he thought he’d sprayed enough, he stopped and waited.
Something queer happened to his helmet. The fog still remained on the inside but, behind it, the clear material seemed to warp and bubble. Smoke drifted outside his suit. The crack on the visor cleared, then distorted, then fogged again. Not the fog of condensation on the inside, but the fog of a perfectly transparent material becoming grey and cloudy.
Viktor made himself look at his heads-up display. Suit pressure still dropped, but slower than before. At least, he thought so. It was working!
The solvent continued bubbling, and soon Viktor could hear the hissing noise it made. The fumes were inside his helmet, stinging his eyes. Fire scalded his throat with each breath. He clenched his eyes shut but couldn’t hold his breath, not while already so oxygen deprived. He continued gasping for air, desperate for the tiny fraction of inadequate oxygen in each breath.
The burning is good, he lied to himself. The pain goes away only when you die.
Pinpricks on his cheeks meant the solvent had gotten inside his suit. It bubbled like acid. He could smell his skin burning before he could feel it, the sensation either incredibly hot or incredibly cold, at one end of the spectrum but too extreme for the human nerves to discern. He kept his eyes clenched and suffered the rising pain and prayed the solvent would harden.
Twenty seconds lasted an hour. The bubbling sound stopped.
Viktor opened his eyes.
The crack in his helmet had morphed into a bulbous splotch, like he’d sneezed inside his helmet and rubbed the mucous all over the glass. It obscured a third of his vision, the third directly in front of him, but it had done the job. The fogging had stopped and he could properly see!
The hole at his gut, however…
He turned the solvent applicator toward his belly. Each breath took momentous effort, like his lungs—and only his lungs—were being squeezed by a python. He tilted his head to see out the left side of the splotch. A four inch cut marred his suit. Blood dribbled out in time with his heartbeat, tiny red marbles that froze before they were a hand-length away from his body.
The only sound was his hollow breath inside the helmet. The black continued creeping in from the sides of his vision, surrounding him. Death, closing in.
Too groggy to think of any other option, he aimed the gun and sprayed the solvent around the cut. Then he used his other hand to pinch it all shut.
Heat sizzled inside his suit, a match lighted and dropped, wedged against his belly without extinguishing. He gritted his teeth and welcomed the rush of adrenaline, clearing his thoughts. The burning spread to his gloved hand. Unlike his cheek, the nerves in his fingers had no trouble interpreting the sensation. Agony inflamed Viktor‘s fingers. He sucked air through his teeth and squeezed his hand tighter, praying the solvent closed the breach. The suit pressure indicator blinked insistently. It seemed to match the throbbing in his hand.
The solvent burned, and hissed, and melted, and hardened.
And then Viktor’s suit pressure warning disappeared as if it had never been there at all.
He barked a cheer, which turned into a wince of pain. Contracting his diaphragm caused his hand to move. Carefully, he tried pulling his hand away from the breach. That tugged on the skin of his belly. He tested moving it in all directions before coming to the realization he’d melted his hand to his gut, suit and all.
He was a teapot. A big, Russian teapot.
A problem for future Viktor, if he still lives.
He took a few deep breaths—the air tasted so clean, even with the smell of blood—before finally eyeing his heads-up display. Suit pressure held fine, but the air outside was full vacuum. Not a surprise, but it was a jarring reminder of the greater problem.
Looking around the room proved difficult with part of his visor smeared. Since the splotch was in the center of his view, it kept his eyes from seamlessly blending their respective views together. Instead, each eye had an independent view of the world beyond his visor, which his brain struggled to accept. It made him dizzy. Viktor ended up closing one eye to peer around.
He was definitely in one of the supply rooms, based on the marked crates bolted to the wall in neat rows. His launch chair—the fun seat—drifted near the ceiling to his left. It took him several heartbea
ts to remember he’d originally been in the launch hallway with the other miners. The departure from Egeria-13’s child-like gravity.
The wall to his right explained that. A hole three meters long gave a view of the launch hallway, the metal curled inward like wax.
With a voice command, Viktor turned on his local comms.
Several noises buffeted his ears at once. The crackle of static. A steady ping, ping, ping, sound. Mumbling.
I have three good limbs, at least, Viktor thought. He pushed off the wall and floated through the gash in the bulkhead like a bird with a broken wing.
Red emergency lights bathed the launch hallway in a harsh glow, reflecting off the dull metal. It also glinted off suit helmets, marking each thing that would have been a person.
Many of them were wrong. It took Viktor a long moment to realize why.
The first floating thing was only half a person, their suit ripped away around their belly button and black snakes drifting out the bottom. The glare kept Viktor from seeing the face; a blessing.
A hand floated across his view, ungloved. It ended at the wrist. The black skin meant it belonged to Nakomi or Kulo. The hand rotated and a wedding band glinted into view. Nakomi, then.
Many more miners remained strapped into their launch seats. The few careless ones who hadn’t worn helmets. Several more who had followed protocol, only to be impaled by a cluster of metal rods sticking through the wall. One body bore no visible damage except for a shattered visor, revealing the face behind.
Viktor floated to that body first, using his free hand to stop himself where he could peer inside the helmet.
Connor’s face looked cold, as if it had been frozen for years. His Irish eyelashes seemed darker than usual against his pale face, and his eyes stared straight ahead.
Viktor wanted to close the ops manager’s eyes, but the jagged edges of the helmet made it too risky. He said a short prayer and pushed away.
He could still hear mumbling over the radio. Painful incoherence.
“Hello?” Viktor asked.
The mumbling stopped.
“You are not alone,” he said, looking up the launch hallway. Searching for movement. “I can help. Tell me where you are.”
Three short breaths, then a woman’s voice, each word bitten off painfully, “Aft. Airlock. Please.”
The mumbling began again.
Viktor used Connor’s body to twist himself around. The hatch to the aft airlock glowed red at the end of the hall. Floating bodies littered the distance between.
The airlock. It was one of the few rooms that wouldn’t become locked-down in an emergency. The airlocks were accustomed to dumping and filling all the oxygen within seconds. Smart.
“I am coming,” Viktor said.
Hand-holds were mounted in the ceiling at convenient intervals. Viktor grabbed the closest and pulled himself down the hall. He felt like a one-handed monkey swinging through the jungle. Though it was a painful exercise, he paused at each body he passed, searching for any sign of life.
Carter’s face was twisted in a silent scream, and when he twisted him around, Viktor found a hole in the back of his suit caused by a piece of metal.
Isabelle, the chesty Spaniard who flirted with Viktor on the outbound trip, had lost her left arm at the elbow. Her brown hair swirled around the inside of her helmet like seaweed.
There was Nakomi, wedged halfway through the wall by one of the launch chairs, eyes white. An arm was outstretched as if reaching for help, the hand missing.
Viktor began to lose all hope when he came to Jimmy.
The kid from Brooklyn sat in his launch seat like it was a throne, stiff back and hands gripping the armrests. He’d gotten his helmet on, though it didn’t seen to matter. His eyes were closed, for which Viktor was grateful. He didn’t need another pair of unseeing eyes haunting him later.
He shook his head, feeling a moment of shame. Jimmy was dead, and Viktor’s first thought was about his own emotional response?
Stop it, he told himself. Focus on the tasks before you. Survival now, blame later.
He gave Jimmy’s body a pat on the knee and began to twist away.
Jimmy’s leg flew up, kicking Viktor in the gut where his hand was fused to his suit.
Viktor cried out as he flew backwards, bumping against the far wall. Excruciating pain spread around his gut, forcing his eyes clenched and nearly causing him to vomit. Slowly, it subsided. He opened his eyes and stared at Jimmy.
The kid’s eyes were open. He shouted inside his helmet.
Viktor shook his head and tapped the side of his own helmet. Jimmy stopped yelling, then issued a voice command to turn on his comms.
“Holy slag, Vicky,” he said in Viktor’s ear. “I mean, holy slag. You scared me near to death, which isn’t very far right now, let me tell ya.”
Viktor couldn’t help but smile at the sudden life in the hallway. He felt a fraction less alone. “I thought you were dead.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “You and me both. Something blew up, and everyone started screamin’. There was so much smoke I couldn’t see nothin’, and the screams weren’t helpin’ my heart rate, you know, so I shut off my comms. Not that it would’ve mattered. Been stuck in this damned seat the whole time. Harness locked. Front row seat to the carnage, only it ain’t a show I exactly wanted to see.”
Viktor pulled the folding knife from his utility pocket. “You could have cut your way free.”
“Hey, I know I’m not the smartest rock-hauler on this ship, but I’m not that dumb.” Jimmy patted his own pocket. “Mine’s empty. No tools at all. I reached into Izzy’s—rest in peace—but all she’s got is a tube of glue.”
Viktor grimaced. “Good thing I’m here, then.” He floated his knife to Jimmy.
Jimmy caught it in a gloved hand, then opened the blade. “I’m guessing the reason there’s blood all over this is the same reason you’re holding your arm like a cripple?”
“Yes.”
Jimmy looked like he wanted to make a joke until a piece of an arm floated across the space between them, red tendrils of flesh drifting behind.
He quietly sawed away at the harness.
“Is it just us?” he asked.
Viktor heard the fear in his question. “A woman is alive, in the airlock. I think it’s Jessica.”
Jimmy looked up from his work and grimaced. “Yeah, uhh, I saw Jessica. During the commotion. Somethin’ took the top of her helmet clean off. Blood everywhere. She was squirming down the hall when I lost sight of her in the smoke.”
He cut through the second strap and drifted above his seat.
“Let’s find out,” Viktor said.
They moved down the hall, checking each body along the way. Viktor made sure to shake them, though none jolted awake the way Jimmy had. Most had suit punctures, presumably debris from the explosion.
Jimmy remained silent during the task. Viktor had never been around the kid like this. His somber mood affected Viktor more than the gruesome hallway itself.
The airlock control panel glowed with life. Viktor steadied himself above it with his good arm. The airlock was currently pressurized and stable. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Until he realized the problem.
“Hello?” he asked. “Can you hear me in there?”
Silence.
“We need to open the airlock door to get inside. Since the launch hall is a vacuum, that means dumping the atmosphere from your room first.” He paused. “Can you tell me if you’re wearing your suit?”
Silence, except for Jimmy’s breathing.
“I cannot open the door unless I’m certain you are safe from vacuum.”
“If she’s dead…” Jimmy said.
Viktor gave him a harsh look. “If she’s unconscious outside her suit, and we cycle the air, we could kill her.”
“We can’t help her from out here,” Jimmy said. “And the only way inside is to cycle the air.”
“If you can hear me, make sure
your suit is on.” Viktor took a deep breath. “We’ll give you a minute.”
“Boss…” Jimmy said.
“I want to make sure she has enough time.”
“It won’t matter if she’s dyin’ in there.”
Viktor knew he was right. Why was it so hard to accept?
“Okay,” Viktor said.
Jimmy raised his voice as if that would help the woman hear. “Hey, lady? We’re comin’ in now. We’ll fast-dump the atmosphere and be quick, alright? If you don’t have your suit on, keep your eyes shut tight. It’ll be…unpleasant.”
He tapped at the control panel. A bar graph showing air and pressure levels quickly shrunk, changing from green to yellow to red.
“Get ready, boss,” Jimmy said.
The air dump completed. The door opened like a vault.
Jimmy pulled himself through first, with Viktor one-arming behind him.
It was only a secondary airlock, which meant it had been built large enough for a few suited workers to pass through. It was immediately crowded by their entry.
At first, Viktor thought there were two people floating inside. Then he realized that one was a person, and the other was an empty spacesuit. Its helmet floated nearby, the top of it shaved away cleanly as if by a laser, edges stained red.
Jimmy went straight to the interior control panel to restore atmosphere so Viktor floated to the suit that had a body inside. A glance confirmed it was Jessica, her blonde hair visible behind the visor. Blood matted her face, and her eyes were closed.
Viktor grabbed the wall for stability. “Jessica? Can you hear me?” He tapped the visor with his knuckle.
Her eyes fluttered behind their lids. It looked like she was breathing.
With one leg brushing against the wall, Viktor felt the airlock door close rather than hear it. Then the pressure pressing against his suit began to change as the atmosphere poured back inside the room.
Jimmy flashed him a thumbs-up, then tentatively removed his helmet. He reached out to help Viktor’s off, and the big Russian didn’t protest.
The air smelled too clean, like chemicals and ozone, but he drank the cool air like a starving man.
Jimmy removed Jessica’s helmet, then gasped at what was underneath.