Part 5 (1/2)
I ground my teeth viciously. ”Tera?”
”I'm trying, too,” her voice joined in. ”The computer's frozen up.”
”Then cut all power to that whole section,” I snapped. ”You can do that, can't you? One of you?”
”Working on it,” Nicabar grunted.
”Computer's still frozen,” Tera added tautly. ”I can't see him-is he all right?”
”I don't know,” I told her harshly. ”And we won't know until we get him back-”
I broke off suddenly, my breath catching horribly in my throat. Concentrating first on Chort's fall, and then on getting the gravity shut down, it hadn't even occurred to me to wonder why Chort had fallen that far in the first place. Why Jones hadn't had the slack in the primary line properly taken up, or for that matter why he hadn't already begun reeling the Craea back into the wraparound.
But now, looking at the outside of the entryway for the first time since the accident, I could see why. Hanging limply over the sill of the hatchway beside the equally limp primary line was a vacsuited hand. Jones's hand.
Not moving.
”Revs, do you have a suit back there?” I called, cursing under my breath, trying to key the camera for a better look inside the entryway. No good; Jones had turned the overhead light off and the shadow was too intense for the camera to penetrate.
”No,” he called back. ”What's the-oh, d.a.m.n.”
”Yeah,” I bit out, my mind racing uselessly. With the entryway open to s.p.a.ce, the wraparound was totally isolated from the rest of the s.h.i.+p by the pressure doors at either end. I could close the hatch from the bridge; but the way Jones was lying, his hand would prevent it from sealing.
The only other way to get to him would be to depressurize one side of the s.h.i.+p so we could open the door. But we couldn't depressurize the sphere-there were only two vac suits left for the four of us still in here, and I wasn't about to trust the room or cabin doors to hold up against hard vacuum. And without a suit for Nicabar, we couldn't depressurize the engine room, either. My eyes flicked uselessly over the monitors, searching for inspiration- ”He's moving,” Nicabar called suddenly. ”McKell-Chort's moving.”I felt my hands tighten into fists. The Craea's body was starting to twitch, his limbs making small random movements like someone having a violent dream.
”Chort?” I called toward the microphone, ”Chort, this is McKell. Snap out of it-we need you.”
”I am here,” Chort's voice came, sounding vague and tentative. ”What happened?”
”s.h.i.+p's gravity came on,” I told him. ”Never mind that now. Something's happened to Jones-he's not responding, and I think he's unconscious. Can you climb up your line and get to him?”
For a long moment he didn't reply. I was gazing at the monitor, wondering if he'd slipped back into unconsciousness, when suddenly he twitched again; and a second later he was pulling himself up the line with spiderlike agility.
Thirty seconds later he was in the wraparound, pulling Jones out of the way of the door. I was ready, keying for entryway seal and repressurization of the wraparound.
Two minutes later, we had them back in the s.h.i.+p.
THE EFFORT, AS it turned out, was for nothing.
”I'm sorry, McKell,” Everett said with a tired sigh, pulling a thin blanket carefully over Jones's face. ”Your man's been gone at least ten minutes.
There's nothing I can do.”
I looked over at the body lying on the treatment table. The terminally sociable type, I'd dubbed him back at the s.p.a.ceport. He'd been terminal, all right. ”It was the rebreather, then?”
”Definitely.” Everett picked up the scrubber unit and peeled back the covering.
”Somewhere in here the system stopped scrubbing carbon dioxide out of the air and started putting carbon monoxide in. Slowly, certainly-he probably didn't even notice it was happening. Just drifted to sleep and slipped quietly away.”
I gazed at the hardware cradled in those large hands. ”Was it an accident?”
He gave me an odd look. ”You work with air scrubbers all the time. Could something like this have happened by accident?”
”I suppose it's possible,” I said, the image of that ma.s.sive search Ixil and I had spotted out in the Meima wilderness vivid in my memory. No, it hadn't been any accident. Not a chance in the world of that. But there was no sense panicking Everett, either.
”Hm,” Everett said. For another moment he looked at the scrubber, then smoothed back the covering and put it aside. ”I know you're not in the mood right now to count your blessings, but bear in mind that if Chort had died or broken his neck in that fall, we'd have lost both of them.”
”Blessings like this I can do without,” I said bitterly. ”Have you looked at Chort yet?”
He grunted. ”Chort says he's fine and unhurt and refuses to be looked at. If you want me to run a check on him, you'll have to make it an order.”
”No, that's all right,” I told him. I'd never heard anything about the Craean culture being a particularly stoic one. If Chort said he was all right, he probably was.
But whether he would stay that way was now open to serious question. With thatphony murder charge someone had apparently succeeded in scaring Cameron off the Icarus, and the guilt-by-a.s.sociation bit had nearly bounced me, as well. Now, Jones had been rather more permanently removed from the crew list, and Chort had come within a hair of joining him.
And all this less than eight hours into the trip. The universe was spending the Icarus's quota of bad luck with a lavish hand.
”A pity, too,” Everett commented into my musings. ”Jones being the mechanic, I mean. He might have been the only one on board who could have tracked down what went wrong with the grav generator. Now we may never know what happened.”
”Probably,” I agreed, putting the heaviness of true conviction into my voice.
If Everett-or anyone else, for that matter-thought I was just going to chalk any of this up to mysterious accident and let it go at that, I had no intention of disillusioning them. ”That's usually how it goes with this sort of thing,” I added. ”You never really find out what went wrong.”
He nodded in commiseration. ”So what happens now?”
I looked over at Jones's body again. ”We take him to port and turn him over to the authorities,” I said. ”Then we keep going.”
”Without a mechanic?” Everett frowned. ”A s.h.i.+p this size needs all eight certificates, you know.”
”That's okay,” I a.s.sured him, backing out the door. ”Nicabar can cover for the few hours it'll take to get to port. After that, I know where we can pick up another mechanic. Cheap.”
He made some puzzled-sounding reply, but I was already in the corridor and didn't stop to hear it. Cameron's course plan had put our first fueling stop at Trottsen, seventy-two more hours away. But a relatively minor vector change would take us instead to Xathru, only nine hours from here, where Ixil and the Stormy Banks were due to deliver Brother John's illegal cargo. We needed a replacement mechanic, after all, and Ixil would fit the bill perfectly.
Besides which, I suddenly very much wanted to have Ixil at my side. Or perhaps more precisely, to have him watching my back.
CHAPTER 4.
THE PARQUET DOCKYARD on Xathru was like a thousand other medium-sized s.p.a.ceports scattered across the Spiral: primitive compared to Qattara Axial or one of the other InterSpiral-cla.s.s ports, but still two steps above small regional hubs like the one we'd taken off from on Meima. The Parquet's landing pits were cradle-shaped instead of simply flat, smoothly contoured to accommodate a variety of standard s.h.i.+p designs.
Of course, no one in his right mind would have antic.i.p.ated the Icarus's lopsided shape, so even with half its bulk below ground level the floors still sloped upward. But at least here the entryway ladder could be reconfigured as a short ramp with a rise of maybe two meters instead of the ten-meter climb we had had without it. Progress.
Nicabar volunteered to help Everett take Jones's body to the Port Authority, where the various death forms would have to be filled out. I ran through the basic landing procedure, promised the tower that I would file my own set of accident report forms before we left, then grabbed one of the little runaroundcars scattered randomly between the docking rectangles and headed out to the StarrComm building looming like a giant mushroom at the southern boundary of the port.
Like most StarrComm facilities, this one was reasonably crowded. But also as usual, the high costs involved with interstellar communication led to generally short conversations, with the result that it was only about five minutes before my name was called and I was directed down one of the corridors to my designated booth. I closed the door behind me, made sure it was privacy-sealed, and after only a slight hesitation keyed for a full vid connect. It was ten times as expensive as vidless, but I had Cameron's thousand-commark advance money and was feeling extravagant.
Besides, reactions were so much more interesting when face and body language were there in addition to words and tone. And unless I missed my guess, the coming reaction was going to be one for the books. Feeding one of Cameron's hundred-commark bills into the slot, I keyed in Brother John's private number.