Bones Burnt Black: Serial Killer in Space (13 page)

Three more helmet bumps later she swung at the ship and
succeeded in stabbing the screwdriver into the foamed aluminum. This stopped
her tumbling but cost her her grip.

As the screwdriver shrank in the distance—resembling a
penknife stuck in the side of a whale—she glided along just out of reach of the
ship’s mirrored surface. For a moment her reflected image distracted her by
mutating rapidly through many distortions: her head, hands, feet and body
changing size and shape—large, small, thin, fat.

She spotted a handhold on the ship’s curved horizon
that looked to be directly in her path. When it came close she grabbed for it,
got it, and screamed.

The velocity difference between her and it attempted to
dislocate her shoulder as it swung her body ape-like around the handhold and
slammed her face-first into the ship. Her immediate fear was of explosive
decompression, but after several seconds passed without an excruciating death
she concentrated on squeezing the life out of the handhold while she assessed
the pains throughout her body. Her shoulder joint’s pain was matched by that in
her knees, ankles and toes; though there was plenty in her chest—thanks to the
suit’s chest-mounted gear—stomach—thanks to the bulging patches—and nose—thanks
to the inside of her faceplate.

Next she realized the universe was dark. This was not a
problem with the universe, or even with her eyes. Her faceplate, as well as the
rest of her suit, had made a dent in the foamed aluminum that conformed exactly
to its shape—a dent five inches deep.

Pulling herself out of the dent, she switched
gripping-hands to test her shoulder for painful limitations on its range of
mobility—it seemed to hurt equally in every direction—then looked around for
nearby handholds. Predictably, there weren’t any.

Chapter Nine

All the miscellaneous supplies that had been blocking
the door to the vertical hallway were now cleared out of the way and this
portion of deck six was uniformly, though dimly, illuminated by two large
circles of light on the otherwise undistinguished gray floor above Mike’s head.

The lighting was Gideon’s invention. He had pulled two
rolls of toilet paper out of a twelve pack and slipped a lighted flashlight
into the hole in each, as though corking a couple of short fat bottles. This
provided a wide base to prevent the flashlights from falling over when he stood
them on end. He had chuckled and dubbed them
floor lamps
.

Zahid had not joined in the chuckling. The injured man
now sat in the doorway to the vertical hall with his feet dangling over the
edge and one hand locked in a death grip on a rung about even with his head. He
slouched pathetically in the two and a half gees, looking as though he weighed
every bit of his estimated 400 pounds. Below his feet the depths of the
vertical hallway were as black as a bottomless pit. The improvised harness Mike
and Gideon had made of yellow nylon straps crisscrossed his shoulders, hips and
crotch.

Mike tugged discreetly here and there to check its
soundness. “Now remember, we won’t let you fall, but we’re not going to haul
you up. You’re not a twenty pound bag of supplies. We can’t lift you in these
gees. Instead, this will be an assisted climb. You’ll have to climb the ladder
with your hands and one good foot. When you create slack in the rope we’ll pull
it tight and secure it. You can then make more slack and we’ll pull that and
secure that too. And so on. Any questions?”

“No. I understand,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Good. I’ll go up and join the others, and let you know
when we’re in place and ready to begin.” Mike pulled a flashlight from one of
the two floor lamps and placed it—still pointing upward and still turned
on—into the pocket on the front of his right thigh. He tucked the pocket’s
Velcroed flap behind the flashlight’s head so it wouldn’t block the light. Its
beam shone in his eyes when he looked down, but in the blackness of the
vertical hallway it would be far better than nothing.

Patting Zahid on the back for encouragement, he sat
down beside him and—easing the man’s grip loose from the rung and his arm out
of the way—climbed out onto the ladder. He ascended carefully, straining
against his own 450 pounds.

The rungs in front of his face were lit from below by
his pocketed flashlight. The light’s harsh angle brought out the rough texture
of the paint on the wall behind the rungs. The paint’s surface looked like a
vast field of microscopically small mountains.

The illumination was distractingly unsteady. It bobbed
and weaved and sometimes went out entirely—usually when Mike was raising his
right leg and the beam shone into his hip or a large wrinkle in his jeans. When
it disappeared Mike found himself swallowed by blackness. It was during just
such a moment that he thought he heard someone whisper: “Mike?” He wasn’t sure,
however. It was so soft and— “Mike?”

He stopped climbing. He looked up, then down. Decks six
and ten were too far away; the voice couldn’t be coming from either of them.
The gees were down to about one and a half at this location in the vertical
hallway so he held the rung with one hand and used the other to grab his
flashlight. He pointed its beam up and down and all around but he saw no one.

“Mike?” said the whisper. “Are you alone?”

“Who are you?” He whispered back.

“It’s me: the ship. I’m still conscious, though not for
long. I’m running on batteries. Your pocketsize tells me you are alone. Is this
true?”

“Yes, but why do you have to ask? Can’t you see what
we’re doing through the hallway cameras?”

“No. The power outage affects all ship’s cameras,
internal and external, as well as the ship’s microphones and intercom system. I
am effectively blind, deaf and mute.”

“Then how can you talk?”

“My radio com-link for relaying cellular phone
connections has a backup battery system for emergencies. I’ve used it to call
you through your pocketsize.”

Mike glanced up at the open door on deck ten where the
others were waiting for him. He saw no heads poking through the door looking
down and watching him, but that didn’t prove that no one was standing near the
door secretly eavesdropping. He decided to risk it. “Have you completed your
analysis of the library information?”

“No. And I’m not sure if my batteries will last long
enough for that.”

“Have you been able to eliminate anyone?”

“Yes. Akio Yamaguchi and Tina Jennifer Bernadette:
partly because they are too young but also because they have well documented
personal lives which verify they were both in grade school on Earth during that
time period. There is also no indication that any of their relatives or friends
were ever associated with the event.”

“What about the others?”

“Gideon’s personal history is sketchy during that time
and there is some indication that much of it was modified at a later date. I
have not been able to determine if this was done simply to correct information
that was erroneous to begin with or if it was a falsification of records—to
cover illegal activities or to cover government sanctioned activities for
security reasons.

“Zahid’s personal history is also sketchy, but it does
place him on the Moon during that time.

“As for Nikita: her personal history is almost
nonexistent. It’s more like it’s been wiped clean than modified. I haven’t been
able to find out anything she’s done since she graduated college. I can’t even
place her on the Earth or Moon during the time period in question.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Mike said, “my arms are getting
awfully tired hanging here. How about if you download the rest of your results
into my pocketsize and I’ll read them after I finish climbing this ladder?”

“If you wish. But before we end this conversation we
must agree on a set of secret signals.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I want to tell you something I will have your
pocketsize chime like this.” Mike heard the gentle sound of a church bell
ringing in the distance. “But I won’t speak to you, instead I’ll write my
messages as text on its display surface.”

“And if I want to talk to you I’ll just go off by
myself and tell my pocketsize to call you. Same as always.”

“Yes, but a word of caution: do not tell anyone that I
am conscious. Not even someone you trust.”

“Why not?”

“Because even in my weakened state I am still a threat
to the saboteur. And if he or she discovers that I am not dead, he or she will
surely attempt to kill me again, and the next attempt might be successful. I
can continue to search the library information for clues to the murderer but
only so long as my existence remains a secret.”

“And your batteries hold out.”

“Yes. That too.”

_____

Still hanging from the handhold and half in and half
out of the suit-shaped dent, Kim’s good arm was getting tired.

Looks like it’s time for a better plan.

Pulling out a pair of medium-sized screwdrivers, she
grasped one in each fist and began stabbing her way back up toward the airlock
on deck nine. Proceeding slowly, she made a special point of keeping the
handles tilted away from her so that if one did slip it wouldn’t slide out of
the foamed aluminum but instead would dig in even deeper. Soon, she became so
comfortable with this new method of climbing that she ignored the doors and
handholds altogether and simply stabbed a long winding path toward the airlock.

It occurred to her that she was making a terrible mess
of the ship’s exterior. Pausing next to a cargo door, she looked back at her
trail of forty or more holes.
Whoever owns this ship is going to be furious.

She shook her head and stabbed another hole.
Too
bad. I’m way past caring.

The emergency airlock’s door frame on deck nine was
painted with red and yellow diagonal stripes and formed a one foot ledge all
the way around the airlock’s clean white door.

She continued stabbing until she hung alongside the
airlock, then grabbed a handhold on its door frame and gently swung herself
into position in front of the airlock door. Once there, she planted both feet
on the red and yellow ledge and stood normally. The ship’s rotation provided
her with about one third of a gee. It felt so wonderfully natural and familiar
that she smiled.

Man, I’ll be glad to get inside. I’m ready to rejoin
the civilized world.
She imagined herself sleeping in a real tube-hammock
and eating real food with a real fork and spoon.
This adventure is
officially over.

But even as she embraced these comfortable thoughts she
became increasingly aware that a darkness was sweeping across the door over and
over again about every five seconds. Deciding this had been going on ever since
she’d stepped onto the ledge, she now decided it resembled a human shape.
Is
that… Is that my shadow?
It swept across the door again.
Yep, that’s me.

Since mirrored surfaces do not display them, she’d not
seen her shadow earlier, but now that it circled her endlessly it was
impossible to ignore.

Turning, she faced the sun. It appeared to be running
around the sky in a huge circle, like a child playing with her, teasing her.
She watched it through several circuits. Its path was a circle so large it
divided the sky into two unequal sections of about one third and two thirds of
the sky’s total area.
Too much of this and I’ll get dizzy.

Closing her eyes, she turned her back to the sun and
tried to get her mind back on track.
I’ve had enough adventure to last a
lifetime. It’s time to go inside.
She reached for the airlock’s control
panel. It was shoulder high and recessed into the door frame on the right si—
The control panel was missing. The place where it should have been was smooth
and contiguous: unmarked, unaltered and most definitely unrecessed.

She froze in position. Her confusion grew into fear. No
matter how hard she struggled, it seemed, she was not going to be allowed
inside this ship. Her pulse accelerated and she teetered between frustration
and panic until she happened to look down.

The control panel was on the left and level with her
knee.
What kind of a moron designed this ship? They’ve got the gravity
upside-down!
It was at this point that she noticed the airlock’s little
window was also knee-high.
This is crazy!

Remembering something she’d seen earlier, she glanced
farther down: past the ledge on which she stood. The cargo door with the big
black twelve painted on it had been right-side-up.

Scowling, she shuffled clues in her mind.
That cargo
door had been on the other side of the ship’s center of rotation, but on this
side everything is upside-down, therefore the rotation has nothing to do with
providing the passengers and crew with the convenience of artificial gravity.
The
final realization took shape.
This ship was never intended to rotate.
Something’s wrong.

Regardless of the ship’s problems, she knew that her
biggest problem was that she was still outside it.

Kneeling to reach the airlock controls, she flipped the
chrome-plated cover open. None of the indicator lights glowed. The panel looked
dead. Hitting the button marked with the upside-down words
Entry Cycle
,
she pressed her helmet against the door to listen for an air pump sucking air
out of the airlock chamber.

There was no sound.

She pushed the intercom button a few times to page the
ship’s computer or captain. She wouldn’t be able to talk to them through
vacuum, of course, but any idiot knew it was possible to press a helmet or
faceplate against the intercom and communicate by yelling at the top of one’s
lungs. Though in truth, at this point Kim only planned to bang on the thing to
let them know somebody wanted in.

She waited. Nothing happened. The intercom lights
remained dead.

Guess I’ll just have to do it manually.

A little door no bigger than her hand, painted
cherry-red and located about waist high was labeled
Manual Cycling Controls
.
Sliding it open, she read the upside-down instructions for entry. She already
knew the procedure but safety required strict adherence to any and all
instruction sets provided. This was company policy.

Whose policy? Who do I work for?
She almost
remembered—or felt as if she almost remembered—but the information slipped
away.

She finished reading.

The procedure was simple.
Step One: look to see that
the airlock’s inner door is closed and bolted
.

Lowering herself onto her hands and knees, she looked
through the little window. It was too dark inside to see anything so she
flipped her helmet lights on. The three beams—one from the right and one from
the left and one from above her faceplate—illuminated the airlock’s chamber
nicely. The inner door was closed and bolted.
Good.

She stood.
Step Two: open the red-handled valve to
vent all the air out of the chamber.
As she turned the red handle a jet of
white gas similar to the breathing air she’d used to propel herself to this
ship came spraying out of an opening in the airlock’s door frame above her
head. The gas headed off in the general direction of the sun.

When the jet faded to nothing it was time for,
Step
Three: close the red-handled valve,
and,
Step Four: unbolt and push open
the outer airlock door, step inside, and then close and bolt the door.

Once she finished these steps, she opened another
little cherry-red door about waist high which was also labeled
Manual
Cycling Controls,
but was located inside the airlock.