A Dark World: The Complete SpaceMan Chronicles (Books 1-3)

by Tom Abrahams

  Standing there with the knife in her hand, Nikki picked up her foot and kicked her heel into the back of Junior’s head. He dropped forward onto the highway with a sickening crack.

  Rick hadn’t let go of the TP9. Still crouched low, he spun to retrain the weapon at a dumfounded Frank. The man was speechless. His mouth was moving, but he wasn’t talking.

  Nikki had moved so swiftly, so surprisingly fast, everyone stood silently for a prolonged beat. She stepped over the dying man and marched defiantly toward Frank.

  “Give me the gun,” she said to Rick. He handed it to her without question. She leveled it at Frank’s face and moved to within a couple feet of him.

  Tears streaked down his sallow face, his lips trembled, and his feet seemed cemented where he stood. He was in shock.

  “Give me the hat,” she said to Frank. “Now.”

  Frank was frozen.

  Nikki closed the distance, pressed the gun against his cheek right under his rapidly blinking eye, and pulled the hat from Frank’s head. She flipped it over and put it on.

  Frank swallowed hard. “Is Junior dead?” he asked sheepishly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “No.”

  Nikki backed away from Frank, the gun steady in her hand. She was fearless. She walked up to Rick and handed him the weapon.

  “Here you go,” she said.

  Rick studied her emotionless gaze. Mesmerized, he blankly took the TP9. She spun the knife, folding it over into the bolster with one hand, then offered it as well.

  Rick shoved the knife into his pocket and the two of them started walking back to the boys. They were nearly there when a loud, guttural roar from behind shook him. He turned back in time to see Frank running at them. His face was twisted into an angry red mess of teeth and bulging eyes. A deep purple vein strained across his forehead. His hands were outstretched like talons as he pounded the highway.

  Rick raised the TP9, but knew he wouldn’t be able to get off a shot in time. Frank lunged at him. Rick pulled the trigger and a shot ricocheted with a snap off the pavement.

  Frank grabbed at Rick’s gun hand, but as he did, Nikki had somehow turned, dropped to the ground in front of Rick, and forcefully punched her fist into Frank’s groin. Like a pneumatic drill she repeated the jab three or four times, vocalizing a loud grunt with each powerful release.

  Frank’s momentum was stalled with that first punch. The following blows doubled him over before he fell to the ground, curling reflexively into a fetal position, gagging and coughing.

  Nikki looked up at Rick. “That oughta do it. Let’s get out of here.”

  Rick held out his free hand and helped her to her feet. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “That was the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my life.”

  She smirked and tipped the hat. “Thanks. Told you I could handle myself.”

  Mumphrey had already led the boys back to the Jeep and was sitting in the backseat with them.

  “You can be in the front,” Nikki said.

  “You earned it,” Mumphrey said in admiration. “I ain’t never seen anything like that.”

  Rick put the TP9 back in the glove box, started the engine, and rolled past the two injured men in the street. He eased past the wreck and pressed the accelerator. There was a clear path across the river and closer to the interstate.

  The boys sat in the backseat quietly. Both looked haggard. They’d seen things in the last couple of hours no child should see.

  “We’re getting you home, boys,” Rick said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be okay.”

  Rick couldn’t tell whether they believed him or not. He wasn’t sure if he even believed himself. They were only a few miles from the park and already they’d survived two life-threatening situations. It was surreal. How could people have grown so desperate in a matter of hours? What would happen if the power was out for good?

  He shook off the thought. He couldn’t let his mind wander. It didn’t do anybody any good.

  He looked over at Nikki. “Where’d you learn that?”

  She shrugged. “My dad was a cop. He made me take self-defense classes.”

  “That was more than a self-defense class. That was…”

  Mumphrey leaned forward. “Incredible. Like I said, I ain’t never seen anything like that.”

  “Agreed,” said Rick. “It was like you were a pro or something.”

  Kenny snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. I do know you.”

  Nikki shook her head. “I’m sure you—”

  Kenny’s face lit up with recognition. “You’re Deep Six Nikki!”

  Rick pressed on the accelerator, speeding past a pair of stalled cars. “Deep what?”

  “Deep Six Nikki,” said Kenny, his voice energized with the excitement of a new discovery. “She’s one of the best MMA fighters in the world!”

  Rick glanced over at Nikki, who was avoiding his eyes. “MMA as in mixed martial arts? Like the WWE?”

  “That’s wrestling, Dad,” said Kenny. “MMA is like kickboxing but better. It’s UFC, actually. Deep Six Nikki is famous for her sleeper hold. She calls it the ‘Shut Off Valve.’ If my phone worked, I’d show it to you on YouTube.”

  Nikki fidgeted in her seat and adjusted the shoulder strap on her seatbelt. She looked out the window.

  Rick thumped her on the thigh with the back of his hand. “Is that true? Are you Deep Six Nikki?”

  “Yes.”

  Nikki’s glare dared him to laugh or chuckle or make any sort of joke about her alter ego.

  “That’s amazing,” he said with a tone he hoped conveyed the sincerity with which he meant it. “It’s like you’re a superhero or something.”

  She ignored him.

  Rick’s eyes moved between the road ahead and Nikki. “Seriously,” he said. “All superheroes have hidden identities. I’m not joking.”

  “It sounds like a joke.”

  “Sensitive?”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s cool,” said Kenny. “So cool. Can I have your autograph?”

  Nikki’s cheeks flushed. She half turned to face Kenny. “I don’t have a pen or any paper. Later maybe, okay?”

  “Nikki Six,” said Rick. “I like it.”

  She playfully punched his shoulder. “Shut up and drive.”

  CHAPTER 10

  MISSION ELAPSED TIME:

  72 DAYS, 13 HOURS, 59 MINUTES, 58 SECONDS

  249 MILES ABOVE EARTH

  Help? The person on the other end of the radio needed help?

  A jolt of anxiety rippled through Clayton.

  “This is KD5XMX on the International Space Station on one forty-six dot five two,” he said. “I am monitoring. What is your QTH?”

  There was a crackle. The voice returned. Clayton was certain it was a woman this time. She had an accent he couldn’t quite place.

  “Help, please,” she said. “We’re trapped.”

  The crackle returned and Clayton knew he wasn’t talking to someone who was a HAM. She didn’t understand “QTH” or the other HAM shorthand. Clayton knew he had no more than ten minutes. The radio pass was short because of Earth’s curve. The ISS was moving too fast to keep the connection any longer than that.

  Foregoing his training, he said, “My name is Clayton Shepard. I am an astronaut on the International Space Station. Who is this? Where are you? Over.”

  A pause.

  “Astronaut? In outer space?”

  “Yes. But close to Earth.”

  “You can’t help us. Power is not work—”

  “Where are you?” Clayton asked. “What is your name?”

  “Calcut—” said the woman, her transmission stopping short.

  “Calcutta?” Clayton asked. “Are you in Calcutta?”

  There was no response.

  “Are you in Calcutta?”

  Clayton swore and turned his chin to ease the stiffness in his sore neck. The tension radiated from his shoulders. He yawned to release the pressure in his ears.

>   He keyed the radio again. “This is KD5XMX clear with unknown transmission with Calcutta. Any other stations monitoring please call now. Over.”

  He switched frequencies. No response. Clayton pinched his nose and popped his ears again.

  “This is KD5XMX,” he said wearily. He was ready to give up and fly blind. The brief but bothersome communication with Calcutta had both raised his hopes and elevated his concerns for what lie below.

  The power was out, people were stuck in something or on something, and whoever’s radio it was, they clearly weren’t able to operate it. None of it was good news.

  Clayton was about to switch frequencies again when the radio crackled.

  “This is KH6XZ,” said a deep male voice through the static. “I hear you, KD5XMX. What is your QTH? Over.”

  Clayton thumbed the radio. “This is KD5XMX. I’m aboard the International Space Station. You? Over.”

  The response was immediate. “This is KH6XZ. Did you say the International Space Station? I’m in Honolulu. Over.”

  Clayton smiled. “This is KD5XMX. That is affirmative, KH6XZ. My name is Clayton Shepard. I am alone aboard the ISS. Please provide your situation. Do you have power? Over?”

  There was a long silence before the man returned. “This is KH6XZ. Not sure I believe you. Can you prove it? Over?”

  Clayton’s smile evaporated. Prove it?

  He opened his mouth to clear the pressure that had again built in his ears. He was beginning to feel pressure around his eyes.

  “This is KD5XMX,” he said. “Check QRZ.com and input my call sign. You’ll see it was registered six months ago. I have a tech license. The address is NASA, Johnson Space Center, Houston. Also, if the ISS radio was working, the call sign would be NA1SS. Over.”

  Another pause. “This is KH6XZ. I can’t check. No Internet. No electricity. No transportation. Something happened here. It’s nighttime. Everything is pitch black. No cars on the roads. No parties. How is it where you are? Over.”

  That was a complicated question with an even more complicated answer. “This is KD5XMX. I’m alive and working on a plan to get back to Earth.”

  “This is KH6XZ,” said Honolulu. “What happened? Why did the power go out? When is it coming back?” The signal crackled.

  Clayton paused with the radio in his hand. “This is KD5XMX,” he said. “It was a solar storm. A big one. I don’t know when the power’s coming back.”

  “This is Kilo Hotel,” the radio crackled. “When—I—this—”

  Clayton started to respond, then decided better of it. Honolulu couldn’t hear him. He opened his mouth wide to release the pressure building again in his ears.

  “Wait,” he mumbled, clearing his ears. “That’s not right.”

  Clayton pressed his fingers to his sinuses beneath his eyes. There was pressure building again.

  A rush of panic leapt through him. He disconnected the radio from the antenna and pushed himself free. He needed to get back to the service module. There was a leak. Somewhere on the station, a seal was leaking. The pressure was dropping. It could kill him.

  “Where’s the alarm?” he mumbled. “There should be an alarm.”

  Clayton knew the intermodule ventilation would shut down if there was a leak. That hadn’t happened, which meant the automatic response system wasn’t functioning as it should.

  The Caution & Warning system should have produced an emergency alarm for a depress, or rapid depressurization. It was a repeating beep that would have appeared on the laptops. Clayton hadn’t heard it.

  “The computers,” he said, pushing himself frantically through the ISS, maneuvering as quickly as he could in the microgravity environment of low Earth orbit. The CME must have damaged components he couldn’t immediately determine by checking the basic systems in Node 1 or giving the Zvezda a cursory check. He hadn’t taken the time to do a thorough systems analysis as he should have.

  “Stupid, Clayton,” he muttered breathlessly. “It ain’t brain surgery. You lazy, single-minded…”

  He stopped the verbal self-flagellation as he neared the Zvezda. He remembered distinctly from their safety training that protocol instructed he close, but not lock, hatches manually and head straight for the Soyuz until he could be sure there wasn’t a catastrophic failure. That was the smart thing to do.

  He wasn’t going to do that.

  Clayton wasn’t going to launch without Ben and Boris. It wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t leave their bodies behind. Something deep in his psyche compelled him to take them back to Earth. There was no negotiating that in his mind. He’d already risked his life once to save them. He would do it again to bring comfort to their families and honor the sacrifice both men had made.

  Instead of doing what he was trained to do, he decided without pause to do what conscience demanded of him. He needed to find the leak and stop it. He prayed he had enough time as the pressure built again in his ears. Clayton knew what would happen if he couldn’t find and isolate, or fix, the leak. He’d die. It wouldn’t be pretty.

  “Under pressure,” he hummed. “Under pressure.”

  He’d always liked Queen. He liked David Bowie too. It seemed appropriate to offer his best version of their collaboration as he tried manipulating the computer in the Zvezda. Plus, he was trying to maintain his sanity. He felt like the little Dutch boy who kept sticking his finger in a leaking dyke.

  He yawned to alleviate the relentless pressure building in his ears and sinuses.

  “How Vanilla Ice ever thought he could get away with copying the beat,” he said aloud, “is beyond me. But the dude knew what he was doing, I guess. Was he Canadian?”

  He mouthed the unmistakable syncopated beat of the tune and found the data, which brought him back to the moment. The ISS software was designed to trigger Caution & Warning alarms if the pressure dropped too low. They hadn’t worked, so Clayton was manually searching the data to learn what he could.

  He knew that as the pressure slipped lower and lower, he’d be closer to unconsciousness. At fifty percent of the needed pressure, he’d start experiencing hypoxia.

  He’d get confused, which he feared was already happening, as his mind floated from the merits of rock and roll to saving his life. His skin would change color. He’d cough. His heart rate would increase and so would his breathing. He’d sweat. He’d wheeze.

  At fifteen percent, he’d have about ten seconds before he lost consciousness. Then it was over. His blood would essentially freeze and his organs would expand.

  Clayton’s mind flashed to Schwarzenegger’s disgusting scene in Total Recall. He looked at his hand. It wasn’t a normal flesh color, having faded to a bluish gray.

  “I look like a Smurf,” he said, poking at his skin. “A Smurf running out of time.”

  Under normal circumstances, the protocol was definitive. He’d stick to it as close as he could without abandoning Ben and Boris. First and foremost he needed to know how much time he had left, how long he could cheat death again.

  The Reserve Time, also known as Tres, was the time left before the station reached its minimum habitable pressure. If the ISS hit that number, he’d have to evacuate. The reserve time populated on a device called a manuvacuumeter.

  Clayton cursed the display and thumped it with his finger, hoping the readout was wrong. He had twenty-two minutes.

  Twenty-two minutes. Thirteen hundred twenty seconds. Shorter than an episode of Family Guy without the commercials. Less time than it took to bake a pizza. He could listen to “Under Pressure” five times. During the sixth play, he’d be dead.

  “Better than nothing, I guess,” he said, popping his ears again. If the leak was coming from the Soyuz, that was a problem. Regardless, twenty-two minutes would evaporate before he knew it.

  Clayton hurriedly pushed himself from the display, which he hoped was providing accurate information, and moved to the opposite end of the module. Strapped against the wall with Velcro was a white Nomex cargo transfer bag. He pulled
the bag from the wall and carried it with him to the Soyuz.

  The bag contained an ultrasonic leak detector. Once he found the leaking module, he could use the detector to better find the exact location before using an O-ring, self-adhering patch to stop the leak.

  He reached the Soyuz, drew himself into the orbital module, and let go of the bag. He positioned himself behind the hatch and shoved it closed.

  Floating in the module, he pinched his nose to even the pressure in his ears. If the pressure returned, he’d know the leak was in the Soyuz.

  He closed his eyes and started humming again. “Under pressure,” he mumbled. He floated there in the module, his hands pressed against the hatch. Waiting.

  Thirty seconds. A minute.

  Clayton exhaled. He was good. No leak in the Soyuz.

  Still, he was losing time. Less than twenty minutes. Maybe eighteen.

  Fighting the building panic, he opened the hatch and moved back into the ISS. The next step was isolating the modules. He needed to know if the leak was coming from the Russian or US side of the station. The pressure immediately built in his ears. He could feel it behind his eyes.

  He flew to Zvezda and stopped his momentum at the monitor. His eyes scanned the data. Fourteen minutes. The pressure was dropping fast.

  “Fourteen?” He coughed. “Mother—”

  Clayton’s vision was blurring. He started the wrong way before turning around to find his way to the American side of the ISS.

  Toting the case, he pushed himself toward the spot where the American and Russian modules joined. He stayed on the Russian side, let go of the case, and closed the hatch joining the two sides. He coughed again.

  He released the pressure in his ears and waited. He was having trouble breathing. His heart pulsed against his neck. His chest felt heavy.

  If the pressure returned, he’d know the leak was in the Russian side and he’d have to isolate it and fix it in whatever little time he had remaining. An increasingly unlikely possibility.