Pressure Suite - Digital Science Fiction Anthology 3

by Various Writers

  Keats checked. It was pre-recorded. As usual, instead of starting a conversation, she had spent hours recording an argument tree, anticipating everything he might say in response to her and programming the computer to spit out whatever response was most appropriate.

  The Venus Surface Rover had a slower terminal velocity than a human body. It had taken Keats four hours before he touched bottom and could go in search of the latest victim’s remains, only to discover that they were no longer there. It had taken another 20 minutes to disconnect the guide line from the two-meter-thick anchor cable, report the drifter, and set the V.S.R.’s insectoid feet to the task of clambering across the basalt plain in the valiant hope that the body was drifting close enough to the ground for his grapple line to catch it.

  Dorothy, no doubt, was off at work trying to get the crops to adapt to the high solar-radiation environment, leaving Keats not only chasing a runaway dead body, but also posting arguments back to his not-listening wife. It was a tedious way to fight. “I left 30 minutes before my shift. You were asleep.”

  “And how am I supposed to keep track of your schedule?” It was no worse a response than he’d have gotten if he’d actually been talking to her.

  “It’s posted. The same place as yours.”

  On the surface, the only light was a dim, orange glow filtering down through the clouds. Up in the dirigible city, the sunlight was almost twice as bright as on Earth. Down here, it felt like the murky depths of Hell itself.

  Keats felt like someone was shoving his eardrums into his skull. The pressure at the surface was about the equivalent of a dive to 90 meters on Earth. The V.S.R. did nothing to relieve the pressure. Every time Keats came down this low, he had to decompress for at least 12 hours on the way back up.

  During the long pause while the argument tree was stumped, he noticed a signal he shouldn’t be getting from the dead body.

  “Control, this is V.S.R.,” Keats reported. “I’m getting vital signs from the victim.”

  Keats didn’t like the length of the silence that followed.

  “We’re not getting anything up here, but you’re a lot closer than we are.” Keats recognized the voice as Mildred’s, which meant there had been a shift change. A glance at his panel confirmed that he’d been down almost six hours. That upped his decompression time to 18 hours. “It’s most likely the heat short-circuiting it. Even if she could handle the pressure, those suits can’t protect her from the temperature. Her re-breather should be fully melted by now.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Keats said. “Thank you, Control.”

  Keats pressed on across what should have been a sea floor. The organizers had promised that the terraforming would take 5-10 years. Fifteen years later, they still hadn’t gotten any plant life to take hold; the clouds surrounding the dirigible city were still composed of deadly acid, and the surface remained stubbornly unchanged.

  The argument tree had apparently either worked out a response or queried Dorothy at work because it started up again: “Have you ever considered what your work schedule does to me? I need a husband, not a roommate.”

  Dorothy had her own ridiculously long shifts, of course. Everyone on Venus did, but she’d have answers for all the logically related points. “If you need someone to keep you company, why don’t you go down and talk to Blythe and Evan Tinswaddie. Their daughter fell this morning. I’m sure they’d appreciate condolences.”

  Dorothy never bothered to keep track of anyone else’s problems, so Keats was sure she couldn’t have anticipated that response. She would either have to actually talk to him or spend a significant chunk of additional time programming a new argument branch. Or concede the argument…but that was like asking for snow on Christmas Day on Venus.

  Even inside the V.S.R., with the cooling system running at full, Keats sweated profusely.

  His ears popped again. A high-pressure system was making the surface worse than usual, and oxygen toxicity was a very real risk. Keats adjusted the oxygen mix—a slow process since the control panels were now hot enough to burn.

  The dead body’s locator beacon was coming from way too high of an angle.

  “Control, this is V.S.R. Could you help me re-triangulate my target, please?”

  “Sure thing, V.S.R. Pulling your data now.” Letting Control pull the data remotely was always preferable to working the scorching-hot controls himself. After this long on the surface, controls that weren’t insulated could literally burn. The V.S.R. had a cooling system, of course, but keeping 500 degrees centigrade at bay was a function of slowing the conduction, not preventing it.

  “Huh,” the voice of Mildred in Control came over the radio. “I’m guessing you’re wondering why it looks like she’s six kilometers above you?”

  “That would be my question, yes. Never heard of a body going neutrally buoyant that high up before.”

  “Well, she was installing a new hydrogen tank when she fell. Might still be clipped to her.”

  “If you agree she’s really that high up, then I can’t do anything from the surface level. I’m going to abort and come back up. Can you give me a direction to the nearest anchor cable?”

  “Sure thing. Give us a minute.”

  Keats passed the time by flushing the V.S.R.’s body coolant and listening to the breakups in the locator signal on the dead body.

  As if emerging from the orange haze in front of him, he heard the pattern.

  The locator beacon put out a steady C-sharp. Interruptions in the signal weren’t uncommon, especially through this much atmosphere, but the dropouts were coming in a predictable rhythm. Three short clicks, three long clicks, three short clicks, steady locator tone, repeat. Somebody was interrupting the locator beacon to send an old-fashioned S.O.S.

  “Mildred, can you hear the locator tone?”

  “Sure thing, Keats, why?”

  “Do me a favor and listen to the dropouts.”

  Keats listened too. It was still there. The pattern was definitely still there: S-O-S.

  “It’s not possible,” Mildred’s voice came back.

  “Give me another explanation, then.”

  Dorothy’s voice interrupted. “O.K., whatever, don’t change the subject.” Keats wondered momentarily if she had actually recorded the trope as a new response or just manually pointed the argument tree to an unrelated branch, still safely arguing only in her own mind while he tried to figure out how to save a life.

  “And do me a favor and block messages from my wife,” Keats said.

  “Yeah,” Mildred’s voice said. “It looks like those interruptions are at the source.”

  “How long ago did she fall?”

  “Fourteen hours.”

  “We have to get to that suit,” Keats said.

  “I’ll check with the organizers and see if we have anything that can operate at that altitude.”

  “Any chance she’s drifting near an anchor cable?”

  “Not close enough to be useful. Not for the next several weeks, probably.”

  “Then get me to the nearest one upwind of her.”

  “Fifteen degrees, 535 meters. What are you thinking?”

  Keats grabbed the controls, his gloves doing little to stop the heat, and steered the V.S.R. at its best speed toward the cable. His battery warning sounded almost immediately. After this long at the surface, he was meant to move slowly and steadily.

  “Keats, what are you thinking?” Keats’ heat-addled mind heard the voice as Dorothy’s at first, but he belatedly realized it was Mildred again.

  “I may be able to get close enough to her if I jump.”

  He heard the sound of Mildred’s mic opening, but she didn’t say anything.

  Keats maneuvered the nose of the V.S.R. up to the cable. Ascending required him to clip in by the V.S.R.’s nose—logical if your goal is to inspect the cable, but putting a two-meter-thick cable right in front of the only viewport seriously inhibited one’s ability to see anything else. He’d be blind until he
actually released, and he hoped he’d be pointed in the right direction then.

  Dorothy’s voice interjected. “Don’t ignore me, Keats!”

  “Dorothy, Venus is in a lower energy orbit than Earth. Going back to Earth uses an order of magnitude more energy. Without surface operations, there’s no way to launch a rocket large enough to return a person. We’re here, whether we like it or not.”

  Dorothy’s argument tree had apparently anticipated the non sequitur, however, because it responded very quickly. “Why do you assume this is about that?”

  “Because it’s always about that, Dorothy, so we can either talk about it or not. Either way, I’m done until you’re ready to kill the argument tree and actually communicate.”

  “Oh, real mature, Keats. Real mature. Glad to see you’re such a big boy.”

  “Mildred, please block those messages.”

  “I’m working on it. She’s a damned good programmer.”

  He didn’t blame Dorothy for missing Earth. He missed Earth. He missed parasailing on their honeymoon, the one time they were truly happy. He missed day trips to the beach with her family, who had never warmed up to him. He missed the low-wage job and the tiny apartment they shared with two other professional families. He even missed the technical diving stint—a job he couldn’t wait to quit and never would have applied for if he had realized it would get him drafted to be the V.S.R. driver. All those little stresses on Earth were better than life on Hell.

  The battery warning indicator grew steadily more insistent as Keats ascended too quickly. When he had reached an altitude of eight kilometers, he could tell the fallen suit was now comfortably below him and not so far afield.

  “Control, this is V.S.R. Could you help me triangulate one more time?”

  John’s voice responded. “Keats, the organizers don’t like this plan.” John wasn’t scheduled to be back until tomorrow, but he had a lot more experience than Mildred. The organizers were clearly taking the situation seriously. “That’s the only V.S.R. we’ve got.”

  “Just help me get a good vector to that suit.”

  The vector appeared on the monitor. Yes…Keats estimated he was high enough to parasail over to it. He spread the V.S.R.’s legs to maximize the surface area, and released the ascender clamps.

  Keats’ stomach lurched up into his lungs momentarily until the legs caught enough atmosphere to slow him down again. The urine catch rattled out of its cubby but mercifully didn’t spill.

  Then Keats saw it. He shouldn’t have been able to see a suit at this distance, several hundred meters off and almost two kilometers below, but he saw it. A moment later he resolved it: a huge tank, its ribs visible, its skin stretched painfully inward by the atmospheric pressure.

  Keats threw his body weight forward to tip the V.S.R. in the right direction. The parasail analogy only went so far. No one had ever tried to steer the V.S.R. in free-fall before. Keats went momentarily weightless as the nose tipped too far. He threw himself back to level out again.

  “O.K., Control, I can’t see. I’m going to need you to tell me when I’m right over her.”

  “You’re probably already close enough to use the grapple,” John said.

  “I’d rather use the remote manipulator arms if I can.”

  “O.K. You need to head slightly north,” Mildred’s voice said.

  Keats tipped to his right, again momentarily catching sight of the tank, much closer and still below him.

  “Right there,” Mildred said. “I don’t know your relative altitude.”

  “Neither do I,” Keats replied. “I’m improvising.”

  “If you can stand the heat,” John said, “try venting a little coolant to see if you can set yourself up into a slight spin. That way, you can see her as you pass.”

  “Good idea, John.”

  He had to vent more than a little coolant to get the spin going. The urine catch on the floor began to steam, but it worked. Every thirty seconds or so, he saw the tank, closer below him each time.

  The controls for the manipulator arms were so hot he felt his skin burning even through the gloves, but he held each firmly.

  He reached left with both arms. The tank came into view, right in front of him but just slightly out of reach. He threw his weight forward, falling faster, and reached up with the right manipulator arm. Its fingers found one of the ribs. He released his grip.

  The manipulator hand automatically snapped shut, grabbing the tank’s rib firmly.

  “I’ve got it!” Keats barked, throwing his weight back again to slow his plunge.

  “Great!” John exclaimed. “Now what?”

  Keats was still falling. Not as fast, but still falling. And he couldn’t see the fallen suit attached to the tank anywhere.

  On a hunch, Keats switched over to the close-range suit-to-suit frequency. “Dr. Tinswaddie, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” came a weak female voice in response. “Yes, I’m in the tank. Thank God.”

  “Hang on, I’ve got the tank.” Keats switched back to the control frequency. “She’s alive. She sounds weak, but she’s alive. Inside the tank.”

  He realized what she had done. As she had fallen, she had climbed inside the tank and purged the gas out of it, creating a vacuum to protect herself from the worst of the heat. Her rebreather wouldn’t keep operating much longer, though, and if they kept descending, the atmospheric pressure would eventually pop the tank.

  “Keats,” Mildred’s voice said, “do you think you can use the grapple on the anchor cable?”

  “That’s the plan,” Keats said.

  Another uncomfortable silence.

  “Acknowledged,” John said.

  “Keats,” Dorothy’s voice interrupted, “this is inexcusable!”

  The pressure was pushing on Keats’ ears, eyes, and chest again. He had no idea what his altitude was, but his oxygen mix was probably off.

  Keats roared as he threw his weight backwards to steer the V.S.R. and the tank towards another anchor cable. Holding the tank had stopped his spin, but now he couldn’t see where he was going.

  “Now!” John’s voice said. “Keats, now!”

  Keats fired the grapple. The spool on the top of the V.S.R. buzzed as the cable spun out behind the rocket-powered claw.

  And then the spool stopped buzzing.

  “No good on the grapple,” Keats reported. “Heat seized.” The grapple’s failure rate had always vexed them, but had never been life-threatening before.

  “What’s plan B?” Mildred’s voice sounded shrill, more excited than he’d ever heard it before.

  “Working on that.”

  Keats saw the anchor cable sail past on his left. Possibly close enough. He threw his weight forward again, leaning sideways and extending the left manipulator arm all the way out to the side.

  He felt the collision before he heard it. The V.S.R. jerked sideways, and then the distinct ceramic-on-metal screech came up the side of the vessel. He quickly retracted the manipulator arm, yanking the V.S.R. closer to the cable.

  The V.S.R. tipped backwards. Keats felt himself going weightless again. He jumped to the main controls and retracted the legs. Ceramic-on-metal screeching came again, but the descent stopped. At least one of the legs had caught hold.

  The battery warning alarm gave off its emergency shriek, and Keats grabbed the controls for the ascender and tried to get it attached.

  Everything went silent. No fans. No alarms. Just the sound of his breathing. The ascender controls were locked in place. The lights on the control panels died.

  The batteries were drained.

  He was at least 50 kilometers down. Without power, he couldn’t descend safely. Plus, the temperature was already rising, and he’d use up all his oxygen soon.

  The bit of anchor cable he could see had a patchy discoloration on it—black in this light, but from experience he knew it was really green—where it had begun to corrode. It would have to be replaced soon, and it might not be able to support
the weight of the V.S.R. if he tried to crank it up the cable manually—assuming it was even possible to get the ascenders attached without power.

  An emergency ascent was possible. Most of the V.S.R.’s weight was in the leg unit. If he ejected, a balloon would inflate and carry the passenger compartment up through the clouds. It would carry him up too fast and he’d have decompression sickness, but it would carry him up.

  Assuming it didn’t tangle with the tank above him.

  That was only half the problem, though. The manipulator arms were part of the leg unit, and the right arm still had a firm hold on the tank containing Dr. Tinswaddie. He’d have to release the arm manually first, or she’d be stuck down here with the legs.

  “Control, does the tank have a clip point?”

  Keats has spoken without thinking. Without power, they couldn’t hear him. He was totally on his own.

  The tank should have a clip point. Everything has a clip point, he reasoned.

  Keats pulled the lever to switch the right arm over to manual. His throat burned and he could barely see any more, but he slowly turned the tank until he spotted it.

  The V.S.R. had a hoist joint on its nose. If he could get the clip joint close enough to the hoist joint, they should magnetically lock—and the tank would then be connected to the same unit that could make the emergency ascent.

  Even without power, Keats could hear Dorothy’s voice nagging in his head. “What are you doing, Keats?” the imaginary Dorothy said. “Trying to save a life, dear,” his own imaginary voice responded. “What a waste of time, Keats,” imaginary Dorothy fired back.

  A clang shocked Keats out of his own thoughts. He had a magnetic lock.

  Something was burning but he didn’t want to look. He doubted he could have seen anyway. Everything had gone dark, even though there were still eight weeks of sunlight left in the current Venus day. He started turning the wheel to release the manipulator arm’s grip on the tank.

  “Don’t bother, Keats,” imaginary Dorothy said. “You can’t survive this anyway, and, really, I’m better off without you.”