by Baen Books
His friend grinned back. "That's the only way it should be, sir."
Tethers
by William Ledbetter
Sievert was a jerk at the best of times, but he was mad at me and that made him much worse. He was tied with Alyona Gusarov at being four hours away from breaking the long standing one thousand hour EVA record. He'd wanted to tell the ground station I was sick so he could go EVA and make the repairs, but I was the mission engineer and had refused. To pay back my insolence, he opened an intra-suit connection the minute I left the ship and hadn't stopped harassing me since.
"You techies make bad astronauts," Sievert said then gave me a long peal of barking, hiccupping laughter. His French accent grew more pronounced when he was angry and it made him sound even more condescending.
"You're too cautious and too timid, Hartman," he said. "By-the-book takes twice as long!"
I gritted my teeth and made another tiny adjustment to my slow, but steady, course toward the malfunctioning orbital fuel depot. Sievert could probably have made the repairs, just as I could fly the Stolid, but it was my ass on the line. Tyco Space Services Corporation had a ninety-eight percent quality rating for its orbital equipment and this was the first time one of these refueling depots went offline. I couldn't screw this up.
I ignored his ongoing abuse and watched the sun rise slowly over the Pacific below. Like every human who left the Earth before me, I never stopped being stunned by its beauty. Since this depot was in geosynchronous orbit, I wouldn't get to see the jewel encrusted night side during this EVA, but that also meant I didn't have to work in the dark.
My focus returned to the task at hand as the depot slowly dominated my field of vision. It was a cluster of round tanks surrounded by steel struts, all interconnected by armored piping and roughly the size of a two-bedroom house. Fueling probes jutted outward in four directions, easily accessible by either crewed or automated spacecraft, and solar arrays sprouted from the top and bottom. Printed in huge letters, next to the Tyco Space Services logo on the wide equatorial band, was the identifier TRD27. Or officially Tyco Refueling Depot number 27.
"Are you too nervous to talk, techie? Do you clench your teeth tight to keep them from chattering?"
"Twelve meters," I answered over the open company channel, but he was right about my being afraid. I just wasn't afraid for me. I had to stay alive for Dad.
My dad stood on the back porch, looking out at the dust cloud above the seventy acres of corn behind our house. Like him, the neighbors driving the combine and pulling the wagons were still wearing their dress clothes from the funeral. When the condolences were given, the food consumed and most people had left, these men had stayed to help with the already late harvest.
He turned to look at me and tears streaked his cheeks.
"Please don't hate me for this, son. I couldn't bear to lose you too."
The statement pulled me up short. "Lose me? I don't . . . "
"Because this is my fault," he said. "You were in space when the goddamned leukemia finally took your sister, but I was here. I was here and didn't support your mother. I went into the fields and the barns. I just . . . I didn't know how else to deal with it."
I swallowed hard.
"It was a cruel thing I did to your mother. She begged me to stay in the house with her in those days after Dana died. She was in so much pain and so very lonely, but I shrugged it off and went out to work."
Suicides only hurt the living. My mom's pain was ended, but it was the first time in my twenty-seven years that I'd seen my dad cry.
TRD27 loomed larger as the seconds ticked off and Sievert still hadn't shut up.
"It would be sad if you had a problem out there and wished you hadn't wasted that precious oxygen," Sievert said, then made gasping sounds and laughed at his own humor. The gas for my suit's maneuvering jets came from my breathing stock. The minuscule puffs I'd used so far might give me another couple minutes of air in an emergency, but Sievert had ranted on what he considered wasted oxygen many times before.
As the proximity counter dropped to zero I readied myself. When close enough, I grabbed the nearest ring handle and held tight as I thumped down to the primary service platform, then rebounded slightly.
Per the regulations, I pulled the short safety tether from its pouch on my tool harness and connected one end to me and the other to the TRD. Then I detached the line tying me to Stolid and reconnected it to the depot structure. Only then did I allow myself to relax and report that I'd made contact.
Sievert laughed again. "If you get scared or see any alien monsters lurking around Turd27, just call and I'll come rescue you."
He was stupid to use that word to describe a TRD. More than one Tyco employee had been fired for that joke. Agatha Winston-Nguyen took the company's image very seriously. In her mind, the TRD's were a symbol of reliability and quality, but thanks to the acronym she selected, these depots would instead forever be associated with smelly brown lumps.
I pushed my boots into the spring-loaded cleats that locked me down to the platform. Having my feet anchored gave me the physical leverage I needed to use hands and arms during the repair. Then for the first time, I turned my attention to the real problem.
The insulation blanket had peeled away from one of the hydrogen storage tanks. Remote instrumentation indicated the tank's naked skin had heated in the direct sunlight, causing a pressure increase that triggered an automatic shutdown of the fueling nozzles. This was an "out of service" condition that greatly upset Agatha Winston-Nguyen.
I pulled the loose blanket farther away from the tank and moved my helmet lights slowly over the surface. Nearly the entire blanket had detached. From time to time, fasteners would fail—allowing a small gap or a corner to fly loose—but this was very odd. When I examined the blanket's attachment points, the failure was obvious. The blanket hadn't torn loose from the fasteners, because there were no fasteners.
"Come in, Stolid. This is Hartman."
"Reading you, Hartman. What did you find?" Even over the open connection, I could still hear a hint of condescension in Sievert's voice.
What I found would get several employees and probably a few managers fired, so I decided to be careful with my wording.
"Can you check the TRD parts list and find out what fastener we use for blanket attachment? I'm going to need twelve of them."
I hoped he would understand and keep chatter about the failure to a minimum. Accusations and blame should be taken up by the Engineering Review Board, not orbital repair techs.
"Why twelve? Did they all break?"
I took a deep breath and mentally cursed. "No, they're all missing."
The connection was quiet for several minutes, presumably while Sievert discussed it with the ground.
"You're mistaken, Hartman. There is no way this TRD could have been launched with that much missing hardware."
I was shocked and immediately pissed off.
"I'm not mistaken. The grommets aren't torn. There is no hardware in the holes. My guess is that the flap's velcro was sealed for some reason before the bolts were installed. That would have held it in place through the launch, but once . . . "
"You're wrong, Hartman."
I gritted my teeth. I didn't want to argue with him over the radio, but I had to get this damned thing fixed.
"Just look at my video feed, Sievert," I snapped.
"No need to get angry, Hartman. Light plays tricks out there. The video doesn't clearly show the attachment condition, so I'm coming out."
I cursed under my breath. There was nothing wrong with that video feed. Sievert was just being an ass and seizing an opportunity for an unscheduled EVA. Under normal operating circumstances one of us was required to stay in the ship. I wondered if he made the decision on his own or if someone on the ground had classified it as an emergency. Both explanations made me grind my teeth.
Since he was already wearing his excursion suit—also standard procedure when one of us was out of the
ship—it took him less than ten minutes to don his helmet and cycle through the airlock. I spent that time getting extremely close video of the insulation situation and making sure it was relayed to the ground station.
Sievert made the leap between Stolid and the TRD without tether or gas jets. It was of course against company safety policy, but he was a macho, hot-shot space pilot and exempt from those silly rules. I could already see that he hadn't even worn his tool harness. He was going to be no help at all.
There were no women or news reporters around to see it, but he couldn't resist showing off. As he neared the TRD, he extended an arm and at the last second, grabbed a strut and let momentum swing him around in a tight arc toward my position.
When I saw his speed and where he would land I panicked. "Sievert, no!"
His armored boots impacted the already stressed hydrogen tank's bare skin about ten feet above me, hard enough that I felt vibrations through the service platform.
The carbon-composite tank deformed in an almost fluid-like undulation, then exploded.
A bright flash flung me backwards. My boots—still locked into the service cleats—acted as an anchor point about which I swung a full hundred and eighty degrees, slamming back first into one of the lower LOX tanks. Fiery pain erupted in my lower back and I screamed as something snapped in both knees.
I must have blacked out, but the cacophony of pain, beeping warnings and incessant radio calls kept dragging me back to consciousness. At first I was confused, trying to make sense of the sounds and strange pains, then the fog in my head started to clear and alarm took over.
My eyes were blurry with tears or sweat and I had to clench my teeth to keep from crying out from the pain in my knees, but I had to focus. First priority was my suit integrity. I scanned the lights on my helmet display. Several yellows, but only one red. My suit exterior had been punctured in several places, but not with enough force to penetrate all three layers. The oily second layer, when exposed to vacuum, immediately hardened and if the holes were small enough, sealed them like a high tech scab. I hoped it would hold.
Beneath the litany of status requests from the ground station, I heard an underlying chaotic string of grunts and cursing. It must have been from Sievert. Was he hurt? For the first time since the explosion I looked past my helmet display and saw the carnage surrounding me. Bits of carbon composite and insulation floated in a hydrogen haze on the lower edge of my vision. When I looked up I saw Sievert's partially shredded boots wrapped in hastily applied leak tape floating above me.
Why hadn't the explosion sent him tumbling into space? Maybe it had and he used his jets to fly back and help me. My blackout must have lasted longer than I thought.
I was about to call out to him when I realized he was tugging on me. With each of his grunts, the top of my utility backpack pulled upward. It took several seconds for his movements to register in my still addled brain. The bastard hadn't come back to help me, he was trying to get my oxygen reserves.
"Stop it, Sievert!" I shoved at him until the tugging stopped. At first there was no reply, then he uttered a low string of curses followed by a quick apology. "Sorry, I thought you were dead."
He was lying. The ground station received a constant feed from my suit's health monitoring system. He knew I was still alive. I kept my eye on him and took a deep breath to help me focus before finally responding to ground control.
"This is Hartman," I said, trying not to pant or groan. "I'm hurt, but my suit's intact. Both of my legs are hurt. Severe ligament damage for sure and possibly broken."
The woman's voice was reassuring and calm. "Good to hear from you, Hartman. We were worried for a while, but your vitals look good. No indicators of severe blood loss. Do you have pain other than in your legs?"
"Some in my lower back, but nothing compared to my legs."
“Any difficulty inhaling?"
"No," I said, and started to wonder just how long I'd been out.
"Good. You're going to have to hang on for a while, Hartman. We have a rescue team prepping to leave Tyco Orbital, but it'll be a long wait."
My brain was still a bit foggy, but something didn't add up. Why were they sending a rescue team? It would take them at least nine hours from Tyco Orbital. And why was Sievert trying to steal my air instead of helping me return to Stolid?
Then I understood.
I saw only a frayed stub of the cable I had used to attach the ship to the TRD, but Stolid was gone. At first I thought the spacecraft had vaporized in the explosion, but that didn't make sense. Sievert and I were both right next to the tank when it blew and were still alive. Then I saw her. The slowly tumbling object just hadn't registered as a ship. It was much too small. Made small by distance.
The explosion shouldn't have been strong enough to push a ship that size. I made myself focus on the Stolid and finally noticed a small plume of gas spewing into the void. Shrapnel from the explosion must have ruptured one of the small attitude thrusters, causing the spin and pushing the ship away.
Was that why Sievert was after my tanks? I did a quick calculation and determined that if I could push off hard enough with my legs, then use my jets to adjust my trajectory, then I should have enough air to reach the ship. My legs were still locked into cleats. I had to act fast.
Sievert chose that instant to strike again. This time he was ready for my resistance. He shoved me backwards, again slamming my back into the tank, then wrapped an arm around my helmet ring, grabbed the TRD structure behind my head and levered me tight against the metal. I screamed as bones and torn cartilage ground together, sending a tsunami of red hot agony through my entire body and swirling spots to cloud my vision.
The radio squawked in my ear "Hartman? Give us a status!"
But, I couldn't breathe or talk, only yank ineffectively at Sievert's pinning arm. He didn't tug on my pack this time, but instead started pounding hard against the side of my helmet.
"Sievert! Get off!"
"Say again, Hartm . . . ," came a partial response from ground control.
"Sievert's crazy," I yelled as I tugged against his arm. " . . . trying to kill me!"
My boots were not only still locked down, but my legs were too badly injured to give me leverage anyway. I was pinned tight. Through my watering eyes, I saw something white, about the size of a tennis ball, float past trailing wires and bits of plastic. It was the transmitter node from my helmet. Sievert had broken it off. Aside from my ragged breathing and thundering heartbeat, my world had grown very quiet.
I started hyperventilating, wasting more of my precious air. If I couldn't talk to the ground, Sievert would tell them anything he wanted. His arm still held me pinned to the TRD and I knew what would come next. He would try to kill me in some way that wouldn't breach my suit and waste my precious gas supply.
I didn't want to die, especially to help keep someone like Sievert alive. I groped at my tool harness until I found the screwdriver, then pressed its point against Sievert's arm and pushed as hard as I could with both hands. I was rewarded by a mist of venting gas. His arm jerked away, nearly tearing the screwdriver from my grip, and momentum carried him out to the end of his tether. He floated there—knowing he was out of my reach—while applying repair tape to his damaged suit. I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was glaring at me and I suddenly knew why.
His suite was patched in various places, even the hard to reach legs. He must have lost a lot of gas right after the explosion and didn't have enough to get to Stolid.
Screw him. Just let him try for my air again.
He pulled himself along the tether until he reached the TRD structure, then moved farther away around the curve of the depot.
Tether? He hadn't used a tether when he came across.
I looked down and saw that mine was gone. He must have planned my demise in great detail and now I would have to be very careful when freeing myself from the cleats. And I had to get loose quickly. Sievert wouldn't give up, so that meant his retreat around t
he TRD was only a means to reposition himself and come up behind me. It would be easy enough to do with me locked in place.
Normally, a quick push from my heel would have released the cleat's spring lock, but I was already having a hard enough time thinking through the pain and suspected forcing my damaged legs down that hard might make me black out. I couldn't allow that. If Sievert didn't pounce on me I would still lose too much precious time.
I stretched my arm downward as far as I could, but my fingers were at least two feet from touching my heels, so I took stock of the tools in my harness. None of them were long enough to reach on their own, but I also had every astronaut's best tool: suit repair tape. I taped my long screwdriver to the end of my torque wrench, then placed two smaller wrenches and another screwdriver around the first joint and wrapped it as tight as I could. I paused for a second to groan at the nice splint I'd just made for a pair of tools. Maybe I should have splinted my legs instead?
"Probably not enough tape anyway," I mumbled into my quiet helmet. I glanced at my air gauge, noted that I had four hours and twenty-seven minutes left, then looked around for Sievert. I couldn't see him, but I didn't have a good view below me or behind me, so he might still be nearby.
I positioned my makeshift spear against the back of the cleat and shoved hard. The tape held and the spring opened easily, but the downward motion made me curse and add a little more to my liquid waste bag.
My perch was now even more precarious. With the freed leg floating about, but of little use, it played hell with my balance and coordination. I quickly checked the taped joint, it had loosened some but was tight enough. I touched the screwdriver's tip to the cleat and pushed. It didn't open and I felt the taped tools starting to fold in the middle. In a fit of desperation or panic or just plain impatience, I shoved the tools again and shoved down with my hurt leg at the same time.
It felt like super-heated barbed wire had wrapped around the nerves in my leg, and then been yanked out pulling the bones and nerves with it. I swooned, cried out and clenched my teeth against the blackness that threatened to drag me down.