Interplanetary Thrive

by Ginger Booth

  Kassidy jumped back a foot, and stood frozen. Her hair stuck out from skin and scalp from the jolt, and the scissors dangled, rocking from her fingers. “Wires,” she breathed.

  “Wires,” Eli agreed. “Hoses, too. Little air lines and…” His voice drifted off as he turned back to following some instructions on the screen. The auto-doc had requested he prepare extra IV solution from assorted stuff in the cabinet.

  Kassidy shook her head to clear her mind of her little electrocution. She snatched up a latex glove from the dispenser. She didn’t bother to put it on her hand, but it served as a quick insulator between her and the scissors. She couldn’t cut through the pressure suit’s main seal, but a flap was enough for her to slip the sensor in.

  The hole also gave a glimpse of Cortez’s belly, the worst purpling bruise Kassidy had ever seen, distending her flat abdomen.

  “Dear God,” Eli murmured. He reached to swivel the display so Kassidy could get a good look, brushing the sheaf of new popup complaints out of the view. The computer issued instructions, but Kassidy wasn’t listening. She looked for herself first.

  The sensor proved a little north of the damage zone, horrific as it looked. She poked it down Cortez’s belly toward the pubic bone. “Left of center,” Kassidy murmured. “Massive hemorrhage. Probably large and small intestines, bottom of stomach, bladder, uterus.” She poked the sensor a bit further. “Maybe a bit of the pelvis, possible damage to one kidney. Damn.”

  A little door opened in the auto-doc’s lid. A yellowish plastic hose extruded. “Computer, repeat instructions,” Kassidy ordered. “Where do I insert the drainage tube?” Her anatomy vocabulary was fluent. She tapped the spot for reference.

  She caught Eli’s raised eyebrow as she hurried to wash her hands and don gloves. She opened the tool drawer with her hip – they were spring-loaded – and selected a scalpel. She tugged the little hose out of the lid to make sure it was long enough. “I know what I’m doing,” she defended herself.

  “I can see that,” he agreed.

  But the suit was in her way. She handed him some tongs from the drawer, and the alcohol bottle. “Hold the suit out of my way here. And pour some alcohol over the area to disinfect.” He nervously complied.

  Kassidy swallowed, then made the incision. Not too deep, not too long. Blood immediately welled and overflowed, a stream running down Cortez’s belly to pool inside the suit. She slipped the tube in, and the auto-doc immediately began suction.

  Kassidy allowed herself to blow out slowly in relief, just for a moment. “Computer, next task.”

  Neither of them asked for a prognosis. Not yet.

  “Don’t get distracted, John,” Sass murmured to her engineer. He stood frozen to the spot, watching as Cortez was floated into med bay. “She’ll either make it or she won’t. Eli and Kassidy have her. Trust them. Our job is to save the rest of us.”

  “Right,” he breathed, forcing his gaze away. He moved woodenly to eject the empty fuel barrels and their pallet through the front air lock.

  “Jules,” Sass called. The girl waffled just outside the med bay. “You’re fine right where you are. Only go in if they ask for a hand.”

  The teen nodded gratefully, and called in to offer her help. Apparently the grownups within confirmed Sass’s advice to stay put.

  Sass rendezvoused with Copeland by the lock. “One. Restore the ship to full operation. Two. Retrieve our containers. How are we doing on job one?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, then nodded. He hailed Abel rather than answer her directly. “Abel, change of plan.”

  Abel replied, “Glad to hear it. ’Cause this one ain’t going so well.”

  “Yeah. What we need from that container is fuel. Ice. Space to work. Everything else is an acceptable loss.”

  “A rego huge loss –” Abel argued.

  “Acceptable!” Copeland overrode him. “Point is, the fuel reserves for the return trip are at the far end of that container. And that’s closer to the spot I need to get at. That box already has two holes in it.”

  “Two?”

  “Yeah, there’s a big hole blown out star-side. Opposite where something is stabbing into my grav conduit. Note that whatever is shorting the grav is probably high voltage. Fatal.”

  “Good to know.”

  “So new constraints on your problem,” Copeland continued. “You can leave that container swiss cheese. It’s not good for anything but to eject once we’ve solved our problem. Cut any hole you want on the star-facing sides. Does that help?”

  “On it,” Abel agreed.

  The engineer sighed. Then suddenly he pulled out his tablet. To follow up a thought, Sass figured.

  “Abel?” Copeland added. “One more thing in that container. Asteroid harpoons. I need those.”

  “Cope?” returned the harried first mate. “Why in rego hell do we have asteroid harpoons?”

  “I have a budget,” Copeland rationalized.

  “I gave you a budget to hire consultants, not buy…what?”

  “Cheer up, Greer,” Copeland scoffed. “My harpoons are going to save your ass.”

  19

  Then again, Copeland had to admit his asteroid harpoons might have also been the source of their predicament. Hours later, he and Abel were finally face to face with the weapons of their misfortune. Stars shone through the many access holes sliced into the container. Sass, Clay, and Wilder were still busy repacking the salvage.

  They could have been here hours ago if Abel were more willing to eject cargo. But some of the priciest items from the Sagamores were stowed in this box. And Copeland was deeply relieved they managed to reclaim its reserve fuel drums.

  “Hell of a thing,” Cope muttered, staring at the harpoon embedded in the belly of his ship. “But that didn’t blow the hole.” He indicated below the spear to the gaping breach. The stay-home anchor end of the harpoon assembly was still here, at rest against an intact stretch of the overhead, as he mentally dubbed the star-side surface of this can. What was left of it, anyway.

  “A star drive core, like you thought,” Abel supplied. “They were upside down. Clearly labeled ‘this side up.’” He paused, and his tone took on a wheedling edge. “I saved those…”

  “Of course you did,” Copeland replied, but he shrugged. “Alright. I say this harpoon is expended.”

  “Agreed.”

  Copeland squirted some steel-cutting gel onto its cable, then added the second tube of goo that ignited the airless torching system after about 30 seconds. “Next part is tricky,” he shared.

  “This is new?”

  Cope chuckled and drew a gel box on the ‘floor’, a half meter surrounding where a spear stabbed his ship. “What we need to do is get this container out of our way.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And someone has to add the second line of cutting gel. Or better yet, two someones.” He handed Abel a second toothpaste-like tube. “Once we add that, only the external cables hold this container to the ship. Right? So get out of here quick.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Working together, they set off the steel cutting and high-tailed it out of there, both heading for the central trap door. Then they worked their way around the outside of the container, cutting the steel lines they’d worked so hard to rig, to secure the box while they emptied it. They made sure to cut opposite corners at the same time.

  “It’s shifting,” Abel said.

  “Get out of there!” Copeland barked. “You safe?” Abel agreed. The engineer waited another moment to make sure the box wasn’t planning to cut itself free the rest of the way, pivoting in unfortunate directions.

  “Sass, Clay?” he asked. “If a container clobbers you against the ship, you’d heal yourselves. Right?”

  “Yes,” Sass pounced. “You two get safe. Clay, you’re with me.”

  With a few further instructions, the elders handled the last of the cable cuts. Then the four of them each took a corner, grabbed onto the ship with two
hand-holds and tried to kick the box free. It took a few more minutes – they were applying force rather far from the connection point. But finally it worked loose, and drifted slowly away.

  “That wasn’t enough momentum,” Abel worried.

  “I can add more,” Copeland returned. “You want to stay well back from this next trick. Actually, double-latch yourselves, too.” With that, he scrabbled to the harpoon, still sticking out of the ship. He drew another box of goo, just outside the remaining square of container steel still speared there. That part he did slowly.

  He took a deep breath, and blew out. He had only 30 seconds to finish the job and get out of its way. “Ben, watch the pressure in the cargo hold. If there’s a slow leak, we’re about to find out.”

  “Roger that,” Ben replied.

  Unable to think of any further safety measures, Cope rapidly squirted the second line of curing gel over his latest lines, backed up, and held on for dear life.

  The sudden blowout of the pressurized grav plate compartment did indeed kick the swiss-cheese container away.

  “Safe to come close again,” Copeland muttered, eyeing his work. “Actually, Sass, Clay, you can go back to stowing cargo. Abel, remember the high voltage part of this.”

  “Oh, man! The spear is still stuck in there?”

  “It is.” Copeland selected his crappy rubber-handled screwdriver, the one his ex-wife gave him. He stuck it into a gap the air had exploded out of, only to curl but not dislodge the cut square of hull. To his astonishment, the tool’s extra little bit of prying was all he needed. The harpoon, impaling two squares of steel, flipped out of its hole. And suddenly Mahina-normal gravity glued Copeland to the bottom of the ship.

  “Ben, cut grav!” he yelled.

  “Grav off, external only,” Ben confirmed.

  “Sound off on EVA,” Copeland prompted. Sass mercifully took over on the roll call and status checks. The brief bout of gravity had returned the harpoon assembly to the engineer. He chucked that into the stars. Then he and Abel stuck their heads together to peer into the grav compartment.

  “You’re going to hate this, Abel,” Copeland shared. He racked his screwdriver and selected another tube from his tool vest. Tubes of goo worked well in zero-g.

  “More than I hated the rest of the day?” Abel countered.

  “Yup.” Copeland reached in and squirted a bit of silver into the gash on the grav conduit. He selected yet a fourth tube and applied it. That layer was insulation.

  “So how long are repairs going to take?” Abel inquired.

  Copeland nudged him out of the way. He chose a plate of steel, his standard medium-large patch plate, and neatly centered it over his hole. He cleaned both surfaces of oxidation, then pressed the patch in place, and waited a minute for the cold weld to form. Then he asked, “Ben, try pressurizing grav plate compartment. Does it hold air?”

  “Looks good, Cope,” Ben replied in a minute. “All internal pressures nominal, grav compartment coming up nicely.”

  “Gah!” Abel yelled. “Seriously? That’s it?”

  “Abel?” Sass inquired in alarm.

  Copeland tapped his patch teasingly. “The hard part is always getting to it. You know? And cleaning up afterward.”

  “Abel? Cope? Report!” Sass demanded.

  Copeland thoroughly enjoyed Abel’s grimace in the dim interior light of his helmet. A small but precious bright spot in an otherwise miserable day. “It’s all good, Sass,” he replied on behalf of the first mate. “Grav conduit repair complete. We can restore external gravity whenever you’re ready on the cargo.”

  Abel just had to spike his moment of triumph. “Then it’s time to hunt our other containers. And don’t you need to prepare the mounts? Replace the missing camera?”

  “Yes, Abel!” Cope’s voice mounted. “And install the harpoons, fetch and mount 3 containers, and dissect a star drive core! And it’s 21-hundred and I’m about to drop! Oh, and visit my assistant. Who’s in the rego med bay! Damn you!”

  “Cope?” Sass intervened. “Take a break.” Judging by Abel’s eyes, she had more choice words to say to the first mate on a private channel.

  He was already halfway through the airlock when Abel got back to him privately. “Sorry, Cope. Fantastic job out here. As always.”

  “Yeah? Shove it, Abel.”

  The engineer racked his pressure suit for the first time in 14 hours, plugging it in to recharge. Gravity was restored to a normal 1-g throughout the ship. He luxuriated in stretching the kinks out of his neck. Then before anything else could happen, he pulled out his comm to reply on another private channel. “Good work on the cargo, Greer. Hell of a job.”

  “Hell of a job,” Abel concurred.

  Day 116 outbound from Mahina

  43 days to Denali and rising

  “And we are arrived,” Abel announced with satisfaction. He sat back in his pilot’s chair and wiped the sweat off his hands, with a deep breath.

  Ben, dark circles under his eyes, shot him a wan smile and a thumb’s-up from the gunner’s seat beside him.

  Abel crooked a lip fleetingly in return. They were all running on fumes by now. Terror and drama, combined with exhausting physical labor, and only brief naps, for well over 38 hours – he checked. He’d never caught himself zoning out, asleep with his eyes open, at the con before. Now wasn’t the time. His fuel, his fortune, and his wife and children’s future, lay out there to be reclaimed. This was do or die time. He popped another caffeine pill.

  Ben held his hand out for one. Abel smirked and gave it to him.

  He opened a channel. “Sass, launch at will. And let the hunt begin.”

  She must have nodded off, too, waiting in the shuttle with Clay. It took her 15 seconds to respond. “Right. Ready. Release my clamps.”

  Wryly, he did so. And they waited for the shuttle to clear out of their sky. Two of the containers were nearby, more-or-less at rest relative to the Thrive. Of course, none of them were at rest. They were all hurling toward Denali at over 4,000 klicks per second. And their previously empty sky was a bit cluttered with debris in the neighborhood. Ben had to shoot two cargo bits out of their path as Abel piloted them here to match velocity.

  As Abel relaxed, Ben beside him got mildly busy. He checked angles and distances, and prepared for his inaugural harpoon shot.

  “Any chance you’ll be careful where you hit that thing?” Abel quipped.

  “There is a chance I can hit that thing,” Ben replied. “Not a very good chance. But some.”

  Abel chuckled darkly. “Right.” Actually, it was pretty amazing they had a harpoon at all. And the thing plugged in nicely to one of the forward laser mounts.

  Ben finished convincing himself of his calculations. “Ease me in 175 meters closer, please, Abel. Ending at dead rest relative to the box.”

  “Can do,” Abel allowed. He plugged in the parameters and hit the execute button. “In 10, 9, 8… Back to relative rest.”

  The container floated before them, shining in the unobstructed sunlight, lazily tumbling end-for-end. The ship coasted backwards these days, its rump pointed at Denali for the decelerating leg of the journey. Pono was out there to the right, no more than a yellow star now, a bit pointier than most because of its faint rings.

  Abel forced himself to focus again.

  Ben shot the harpoon. They both leaned forward intently to study the plot. He missed, which surprised no one. The question was how he missed, so he could compensate for his next shot. “Up and left, 20 meters,” he muttered.

  “I make it 17 left,” Abel corrected him, “and 3 up.”

  “Yeah, but…never mind.” Ben recalculated his aim while the harpoon retracted at dead slow. Shooting the harpoon was relatively easy. Managing the carbon cord that anchored it to the ship was not. The last thing they needed was for that cable to boomerang back and loop de loop around the Thrive.

  That part would only get harder when – if – Ben managed to spear a massive container. Abel mentally re
hearsed what moves he could make as pilot to prevent that. Then recalled he’d forgotten to keep tabs with Copeland. “Cope, first shot missed. We’ll shoot again as soon as the line is retracted. Sorry. You all set?”

  No response.

  Abel switched channels. “Sweetie? You free? Could you go wake up Copeland?”

  “Huh? I’m awake!” Jules replied, sounding just as she did when he woke her up in the morning. In bed, her hair all tousled. He smiled a private smile. No, she hadn’t been awake. He bet she was sitting at the galley table, head down on her arms.

  I married the right girl! He repeated his request, then tried Copeland again directly.

  “Harpoon ready in 30 seconds,” Ben updated him.

  “The engineer might take longer.”

  “He’s beat. We all are.”

  After a couple more minutes of companionable silence, Copeland finally piped up on the damage control channel. “Ready on the grav grapples. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Abel replied. “Keep Jules with you to stay awake, OK? Ben, fire at will.”

  Face propped on one fist, Ben yawned mightily as he punched a button. They both leaned in to watch again.

  The harpoon really looked like it was going to hit. It missed by only a meter, if that. Ben hastily gave it a little more line. The container touched the cable, and the harpoon swooped around the box twice. “Huh.” He tried retracting the line. After a couple meters’ slack, the full resistance of the box’s mass kicked in.

  “Cool, Ben,” Copeland critiqued. “You weren’t supposed to tie a bow around it.”

  Ben laughed out loud. “But it worked!”

  Abel clapped him on the back. “I thought it was awesome! No cargo damage!”

  Then he bent to work. For this part, he coordinated with Cope, not Ben. They couldn’t reel in the container. If that mass tried the loop de loop thing around the ship, the engineer assured him they’d all die slowly in space. The trick was a give-and-take between the ship dancing in toward the container, and tugging just enough with the line and grav grapples to bring the container to rest relative to them. Once that alignment was achieved, the ship could grab the box and snap it into the patched and empty slot waiting for it.