Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (8 page)

“That will be fine. Anyone who can follow directions while we get you out.”

“That’s me, I guess. Gordon Rodriguez. What do you need?”

“Gordon, I need an accurate count of everyone in that compartment, and I need to know about anyone else in that air space, if you know what that means. That’s first, more afterwards.”

“Okay, hold on.”

The crying and calling went on, distant sounding, but plaintive. Small kids were unhappy, slightly older ones were being bossy and scared, a few were trying to offer advice, and Rodriguez was counting out loud. “Twelve, thirteen, dammit,
stop
! The soldier wants me to count you, let me do it! One, two . . . ” His voice faded with distance or pressure, then finally came back with, “Seventeen, officer. Can you hear me?”

“Seventeen, one-seven understood. Stand by.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stadter was glad he couldn’t actually watch the engine shutdown procedure. On the far side of the hull from the Blazers, their boat crew proved themselves equally gutsy, or equally mad. He listened in as they began, and set a screen to track IDs. He didn’t know how they’d do this without modern commo. He could tag one way or two way for anyone involved, or go through the chain, or listen in, and it would transcribe and tell him who each speaker was.

“Milton on winch.”

Aufang: “Winch on.”

Milton: “Four zero. Five zero. Six zero. Seven zero. Slow to one meter per second.”

Aufang: “Slowing to one meter per second.”

Milton: “Eight zero . . . nine zero. Slow to point five meters per second.”

Aufang: “Slowing to point five meters per second. You have four-seven seconds safe exposure.”

Milton: “Nine two . . . nine three . . . nine four . . . stop.”

Aufang: “Stop. Four-two safe.”

Milton: “Adjust down one zero centimeters.”

Aufang: “One zero down. Three-nine safe.”

Milton: “Set payout length. Images and data transmitting.”

Pause.

Aufang: “Received. Three-two seconds. Length set.”

A rich alto voice said, “Sarendy now on winch.”

Aufang: “Winch on.”

Milton: “Three-five millimeter connection at seven zero newton-meters torque.”

Aufang: “Recorded. Two-five seconds.”

Milton: “Sarendy will need to reach inside far left at once to have time to adjust Feed Number Two.”

Aufang: “Recorded. One-eight seconds.”

Milton: “Released locking clamp on Feed Number One. Expect gee boost before reduction.”

Aufang: “Noted. One-two seconds.”

Milton: “Two-three turns for full closure. Commencing.”

Aufang: “Eight seconds . . . seven seconds . . . six seconds . . . five seconds . . . ”

Milton: “Achieved four turns. Secure and clear of frame.”

Aufang: “Kick and cut. Two seconds.”

Milton: “Kicking. Cut. Clear. Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!”

Whoever the man was, he’d voluntarily taken a lifetime safe dose of radiation, and cut himself free into space, trusting in others for pickup.

The female voice said, “Sarendy on station. Inside, far left. Will release locking clamp. Advise at one-five seconds.”

A young male voice sounded. “D’Arcy on winch.”

Aufang: “Winch on—Break—Sarendy, your exposure is increased inside hull. You are at two-zero seconds, one-nine, one-eight, one-seven, one-six, one-five.”

Sarendy said, “Clamp released. Withdrawing. Stuck. Unstuck. Outside hull.” She sounded mechanical, emotionless.

“Six seconds. Kick and cut.”

Her voice was sharp as she said, “Kicking. Cut. Clear. Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!”

“D’arcy on station.”

Then it was, “Aufang on winch.”

Diaken: “Winch on.”

They were so calm it almost sounded like an exercise.

Vela cut in with, “Don’t worry, sir, I have them both. Their own boat is intercepting, and will shadow for the others. Three of the
Mammy Blue
lifeboats are in tow. One was depressurized, and the one I mentioned earlier ran dry. There was no way to reach it in time. Twelve passengers in one, sixteen in the other. Fourteen survivors in process, some with anoxic brain damage. Third boat has fifteen alive.”

“Understood. I trust you on this, just let me know if you need help.” The endless tally of casualties, rad levels, elapsed times and coordinates were a blur he couldn’t track. Perhaps those with brain damage could get reconstruction and save some function and memory. If not, it might have been kinder if they’d died. He shifted to relieve pressure on his spine. A wrinkle in his suit was irritating his shoulder, too.

“You won’t like this. One was nothing but cabin crew and what passed for first class. They abandoned ship first.”

Stadter felt conflicting emotions.

“Well, I guess the crew knew how crappy it was and bailed. They also probably aren’t up to date on proper response. Nor can I believe the owner paid for good people.”

“Most of them are dead.”

He said, “That’s something I’m not going to pass judgment on for now.” He locked that down and concentrated on managing the disaster. Dead could be lashed outside, towed or buried in space worst case. That eliminated some capacity and O2 problems, leaving only some reaction mass problems.

On the hull over the youth lounge, Lowther said, “They’re going to panic. I can’t imagine they won’t.”

Bowden nodded. “Likely.” His harness was tight under boost. His circulation suffered from the constriction. He wiggled to ease things.

“Any suggestions?”

Marchetti said, “Well, I was in Combat Rescue last assignment. I have one suggestion. You won’t like it.”

“I like it.”

“One of the canisters in the standard boarding kit is SV Three. If we can vent it in there before we blow, they’ll all be pretty well relaxed or even blotto.”

That was unorthodox. “I like it.”

Marchetti continued, “The side effects include some panic as they go under, and nausea. Good chance they’ll puke all over the place, as we can’t control the dose and it’s made for adult combat troops, not youth.”

“I still like it.” Puke on a space suit wasn’t bad. Puke in a space suit was bad.

“In that case we need a shipfitter and vacuum welding gear, fast.”

“That would be Hensley.”

From aft, Sergeant Hensley replied, “I heard. I have my gear. Roping that way now. I know where we keep it.”

The ship vibrated again, and rolled a fraction. Everyone clutched lines and padeyes.

Arvil said, “I’m loose! Hull separation at radius two one zero, frame four zero. Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!”

“Understood, Arvil. Got your transponder. Relaying to recovery ops. Ops, do you have him?” Bowden tapped IDs into the comm on his left forearm, hoping not to lose a good man.

Stadter said, “We have him. He’s in range of something. I’ll have whoever that something is grab him in about ten segs, if he can last that long.” He sounded giddy with exhaustion.

“Yes.” Yeah, ten segs wasn’t a problem, assuming they did get him. There were lots of craft, so the odds were very good. Still.

“Good luck, Blazers, we’ll do what we can.”

Hensley said, “Approaching. I could use a line transfer to speed things up.”

Bowden bent over, snapped another line in place and tossed the bag at Hensley as he came over the horizon of the ship’s skin. Hensley caught it, pulled the free eye out, and clipped it to his harness. He popped the old one free and let it dangle, then fall in the acceleration. The lines cost better than Cr500 each, but they could gather them afterward, if time permitted. Even then, most were only proofed for one hard yank or one abrasion. Space was not the place for corner-cutting.

“Thanks much. Where do you need me?” the fitter asked as he climbed the metal cliff.

The ship shifted violently and they all grabbed lines, but it was a reduction in acceleration. Perhaps 1.2, close to surface normal for Grainne.

Bowden said, “Anywhere here you can make a hole and pass gas.”

“One dutch oven coming up,” Hensley joked. “Is that a bypass valve next to the emergency panel? When was this piece of crap built?”

Bowden looked where Hensley’s light splashed. Yes, that was an archaic emergency fill pipe. Ancient, but convenient, if it was intact.

“It’s forty-eight Earth years old, thirty-three of ours.”

“Gods, this thing should have been lashed up as a museum or broken for scrap. Okay, I need five segs.”

“Make it three.”

“Five it is,” Hensley agreed.

Bowden nodded to himself. Sometimes reality didn’t bend. Hensley leaned forward and took a bend in the line to hold himself steady. He pulled out a grinder, then contact fluid, then his portable inductor, and hermetically welded the hose fitting to the valve.

One of the trailing lines slackened and Marchetti sprang into view. He let his legs collapse and soak up momentum from the landing, while tightening a retainer. The man had enough experience he didn’t even hop, but simply stood from the skin, maneuver complete.

“That should be enough gas to disorient them. I’m worried about brain damage or other ill effects, though.”

Lowther pinged in and said, “I checked with the station medical officer. He said he couldn’t hear my transmission and suggested we discuss hypothetical research questions after the fact.”

Bowden felt a bit nervous, on top of the shaky and nauseated and icy and wired and adrenaline-soaked. He didn’t think anyone would blame him for the attempt, but if anything exacerbated the disaster, he could wave his career a hearty goodbye. If he pulled it off, however . . .

He choked all that down. This was about saving a hull full of kids.

He heard an override chime, and Stadter cut in.

“Bowden, I need to know your timeline, and what you’ll be doing with rescue balls.”

“That depends on how these ships are going to catch them. We’ll lash them together and can tow them or drop them. Otherwise, someone has to get close enough to line them over.”

“Just keep them out of the engine wash. Record. Cluster of three. Cluster of four. Cluster of four. Cluster of five. One single. Give them enough drift to clear the engines, and minimize other momentum. I’ll tag ships to match departing velocity and recover, but Bowden . . . ”

“Recorded, sir. Go ahead.”

“We’re rapidly reaching the point where all these ships will need secondary rescue on fuel, power and oh two.”

Hensley took that moment to say, “Ready.”

Bowden said, “Ops, we’ll be flinging them in two hundred seconds, I hope. Stand by.”

“Understood. Also, the ongoing loss of structure and mass is affecting trajectory and acceleration.”

“Damn. I thought it felt a bit brisker again. Understood.—Break—Lemke, are you ready on charges?”

“Ready.”

“Marchetti, ready on gas?”

“Ready. I need twenty-six seconds, per the medical officer, who advises against doing this.” He waited at the gas bottle, with a metal shield they’d use to avoid sharp edges on the entry.

“Do it. My order.” He tensed at that. God and Goddess, it better work. “Listen on the hull phones, and stand by to cut and breach.” He clicked through to the hull phone again. “Gordon, I need everyone to hold still and relax. The atmosphere is going to change, and we’re about to come in. Stay clear of the hull.”

“Understood, sir. We’re on the far side.”

“Ready.” “Ready.” “Ready.” “Ready.” “Ready,” echoed through his helmet. Five was correct. He hoped Arvil was okay. Lemke stood with his detonation controls, waiting.

Marchetti said, “Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-si—”

Lemke thumbed a pad, a nimbus of boiling debris, expansion-chilled vapors and particles illuminated by a searing flash erupted from the hull, and faded to glitters of gray.

Marchetti took the number-one spot, lifting his feet and letting the acceleration slide the ship under him. He bent and twisted like a gymnast, planted his shield against the aft side of the breach, and swung in. Lowther followed quickly and smoothly, then Bulgov. Bowden twisted and threw himself down, glad of the near normal G after the torture of 3 G. The hull was two thin plates perhaps six centimeters apart, and he glimpsed crumbled faramesh as he went past. One good solar flare might have done this beast in, too.

Then he was inside, as Hensley followed, and Lemke came last. Bowden made sure he wasn’t going to crush anyone, and settled on the effective deck, the rear bulkhead. It was a deck under boost. However, that boost eased off enough to make his ears spin. Less than 1.0 G, he guessed.

The reduced gees helped, but the craft’s motion was very irregular, shuddering and rumbling. Still, the kids were unconscious on the boost deck, rear bulkhead, from gas and hypoxia. Some of them had puked, and all looked rather wrung out.

Lemke slapped a balloon patch over the breach, and Lowther punched the emergency O2 canister. That, at least, worked. He then punched the one they’d brought with them. The pressure wouldn’t be great, but it should be enough to prevent major brain damage, hopefully. This assumed any airtight doors in this section remained functional. You did what you could, and sometimes it worked.

The bulkhead shifted as if in an earthquake, but the acceleration dropped again. He recovered from his two seconds of thought and got to work.

The smallest kids were at greatest risk, and easiest to handle. They were first, when there was a choice. He scooped up a girl perhaps two years old, a delicate little thing, and slid her into a ball. He zipped and yanked and it inflated. Then he saw he’d missed her stuffed critter of some kind. He grabbed it and stuck it into his harness as he shook out another ball and reached for the boy next to her.

By the time he reached the next, the rest were all ready to go, bundled and with transponders already lit. The last one he handled was a teenage girl, and it felt somewhat obscene, the way he had to shove her legs and butt into the sack.

“Seventeen?” he asked.

“Seventeen.”

“Is that confirmed from manifest?”

“No. Bulgov is searching aft.”

Bowden considered. He didn’t want to leave anyone behind. If need be, they could split into elements. But the ship was failing, time was running out, and the risk increased for the rest of them the longer they delayed.