Dawn of Procyon (5 page)

Chapter 7

PSD 29-212: 1637 hours

The bank of solar panels located on the hull of the scout, just behind the cockpit, was about the size of a clipboard.
Not large at all
, Landry thought, as he wedged his flathead screwdriver underneath its edge and attempted to pry it upward.

It wasn’t large because it didn’t have to be.

The Himura Seagull was equipped with a bank of lithium-air batteries on its belly, which provided power to the ship whilst in operation. However, those batteries were ruined and scattered in a hundred pieces across the landscape, having busted apart when the ship was torn in two.

There was a second source of power, though. The small, almost insignificant group of solar receptors Landry was prying up fed a backup battery with a sole purpose: to provide the scout with power in the event of a catastrophic failure to the primary system. It was like the equivalent of the ram air turbines used in old Earth aircraft, the ones that drew power from a small propeller that deployed beneath the belly of a jumbo in an emergency.

It was the last hope of a pilot who’d lost power to his engines mid-flight.

And it’s my last hope, too.

With the screwdriver poised, he forced himself to stop and take a breath. Although things were desperate, he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

Is this really the best option I have? Once I rip this thing out of here, there’s no turning back.

I could sift through the larger lithium-air batteries from the undercarriage to maybe find one that’s still holding a charge, but that will take too long. And judging by the state of the lower section of the Seagull, I’m not going to have much luck.

What about finding another way to signal home? Build another antenna from makeshift parts that have broken off the scout?

Time is the limiting factor. I would need to trawl through the debris trying to find parts that would do the job, and then somehow cobble them together without welding gear. Then, after all of that, I’d need to sit here and wait for a rescue crew to assemble and make their way out to the crash site.

No, this is it. The little panel will have to do.

He lifted the panel clear, being as delicate as he possibly could so as not to damage the wiring beneath. He could see that everything looked intact. The wires ran into a conduit, and not far below that was the battery itself.

He checked his oxygen readout.

One percent. If that’s true, I have Four or five minutes left.

Not enough time. Not even close.

Screw it, why stop now?

He fumbled with the screwdriver and freed the battery housing, then lifted it clear. The battery was there, a rectangular slab about the size of box of cereal. It looked in good condition to him. No visible signs of damage.

That wasn’t a reason to celebrate. Not yet, anyway.

With the utmost care, Landry removed the connectors that were hooked into the backup power system and unscrewed the mounts. After untethering the battery, he was able to lift it clear and remove it from the scout.

Landry hustled around to the other side of the scout, his prize clutched in his arms.

He was panting, using more oxygen than he should.

Couldn’t help it.

He didn’t look at the reading on his HUD. He knew it would be at zero, or close enough. He was on fumes.

Climbing up onto the edge of the cockpit, then to the roof, he wormed along precariously until he had found his next target: the OXEE. Little more than a curved slot in the hull, the little gadget performed a vital task: sucking in the CO
2
rich atmosphere of Proc-One and splitting it into oxygen and carbon monoxide. The former was funneled into the cockpit so that pilots could breathe, and the latter was vented back outside the ship.

That little baby was Landry’s ticket to a fresh air supply, but there was a problem.

There was no power to run it.

But there was a chance he could change that.

Wasting no time, he began to work away at the panels around the OXEE, attempting to get a clear look at the innards of the device. He’d replaced several dodgy units that had failed in the past, and that knowledge became invaluable. He knew the design, and how it all fit together. Even though working in the suit was cumbersome, especially when it came to the finer work with his hands, he still had the unit at his mercy within a couple of minutes.

He reached in and lifted the assembly clear, then examined the power connectors. They terminated inside the device itself, and there was no way he would have enough time to take the whole thing apart and do it neatly.

Pulling out his snips, he cut the wires.

Over his shoulder, Procyon A was setting. The stars were coming out overhead.

That was his next problem—the encroaching dark. He had a flashlight mounted on his suit, but didn’t want to drain the power unnecessarily by using it during the repairs.

Don’t worry about it. Think happy thoughts, like how you’ll choke to death on CO
2
long before the light runs out.

He stripped the wires, then attached them to the backup battery and wrapped the joins in electrical tape from the toolkit. He gave them a gentle tug. The joins were firm. Then he used gaffer tape to secure both the battery and the OXEE to the hull.

He tensed up, watching the intake of the OXEE for any sign that it had begun to function. All he could hear was the sound of his heart hammering in his ears.

He figured there was no point sitting there like an idiot, so Landry grabbed the toolkit and slid back down toward the cockpit. Hooking his hand over the edge, he wormed his way back inside and located the vent through which O
2
entered from the OXEE.

He could see a few motes of dust stirring in the deep afternoon sunlight.

Yes. It’s working!

He fought back a wave of elation. He hadn’t solved his problems yet. He still had work to do, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

His oxygen supply must have gone altogether, he realized. It was suddenly becoming hard to keep his thoughts coherent. Soon, he would become delirious, and then . . .

Think, Landry! Figure it out!

So, there was a pretty good chance that oxygen was being pumped into the cockpit. That in itself wasn’t helpful, he knew. With the canopy warped and possibly ruined, it was unlikely that he would be able to make it fit snugly again. He wouldn’t be able to pressurize the cabin.

He had to get the O
2
it into his EVA suit. Direct input.

So how am I going to do that?

If there was ducting lying outside, thrown clear during the crash, he could possibly use it to channel air from the vent and into his suit. However, he didn’t remember seeing any earlier, and now in the fading light it seemed unlikely he would be able to locate it quickly enough—assuming it was even out there.

What about pressing forward against the vent and somehow attaching the EVA suit to the vent? It would be mighty uncomfortable, for a start, and he would effectively be pinned in place. He knew that was not a workable solution.

Another idea came to him.

Jamming his screwdriver into the side of the vent, he began to furiously push it outward, abandoning all pretense of caution. There was no point being gentle. He needed the OXEE ducting, and he needed it
fast
.

With a loud
snap
, the vent came free, and Landry fumbled inside for the ducting, a flexible grey pipe that was connected at the other end to the OXEE, and yanked it forward. There was always a bit of give in the length the conduits, fortunately. Straining with the effort, he cleared enough slack to reach down to the SCU, the Servicing and Cooling Umbilical connector on his suit, and attempted to hook it up.

But of course, the conduit was not designed to link into the SCU connector.
Why would it be?
he thought drily.

Another roadblock.

“You
idiot
,” he hissed at himself.

Was this the best plan you could come up with? Really? Might as well have—

No, wait. I’ve still got an ace in my sleeve.

He rummaged around in his toolkit and brought out his roll of gaffer tape and gave the edge a sharp pull. He positioned the OXEE conduit against the SCU as well as he could, then began to wrap the tape around it, using a liberal quantity to try to ensure it was airtight. In a few seconds he’d made an ugly wad of it, like a big black lump of garbage on his hip.

He was on the verge of blacking out and quickly opened the valve on the SCU.

He could feel cool air flooding the suit. Or maybe it was his oxygen-starved brain shutting down, making him feel numb all over.

No. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was getting easier to breathe already.

He allowed himself to smile, just a little.

Gaff to the rescue.

If the OXEE really was producing oxygen, he thought, and the pressure swing adsorption system that was built into the device continued to remove the CO
2
from the suit, he might live a while longer.

How much longer, he wasn’t sure.

But one way or another, he had bought himself a little more time.

Chapter 8

PSD 29-212: 1702 hours

“Yo, Underwood. Dodge wants you.”

Cait pulled her head out from under the T1-X transport and looked across the workshop, where Pasternak stood watching her expectantly. Another Optech like her, he was dressed in the stock uniform: grubby, navy blue coveralls and steel-capped boots. At the end of a long shift, his clothes were covered in grime, and a thin sheen of sweat dappled his brow.

Cait glanced back at the drive train she’d been working on. “I’m not done here yet.”

“Are you deaf? The boss man is looking for you. You gonna keep him waiting?” Cait hesitated, and Pasternak made a condescending shuffling motion with his hands. “Go on, little girl. Get moving.”

Twisting her mouth, Cait snatched up a rag and wiped at her hands as she headed toward the workshop exit. Even though it was late in the day, the workshop was still abuzz with noise and the shuffle of Optechs moving about. It was always this way, she thought, when the troops were due to ship out. All hands on deck in order to get the war machines ready to go.

“Little girl, huh?” she smirked. “So that’s how it is?”

Pasternak suppressed a smile. “Uh-huh.”

“You mean the same little girl who ground you into the dust down at the hoop yesterday?”

“Hey, that’s not fair—”

“What was the score again? Fifty-seven to thirteen?”

“Fourteen,” Pasternak said, raising a finger in objection. “That last shot I made was a three-pointer.”

“Right.” Cait flicked the rag into Pasternak’s face as she breezed past, causing him to stumble backward. “Hold onto that for me, will you?”

Pasternak grabbed the rag from his face and grinned, then stood watching her go. She was peripherally aware that other men in the workshop had also turned to watch her leave. Being called in to see Dodge was generally not a good thing, she knew. He wasn’t the type to give pep talks, or even engage in idle chat, so this was most likely a reprimand of some kind.

Cait made it out into the corridor, and the clamor of the workshop began to diminish as she left it in her wake.

Some days I can’t wait to get out of there
, she thought.

Although there were parts of the job she enjoyed—the physicality of the work, the problem solving aspect of fixing a circuit array or making an engine purr smoothly again—there were also aspects that made her dread coming into work at all.

More often than not, she felt as though no one in there respected her, that they didn’t believe she could do the job as well as a man. She was still stewed over the “little girl” comment, even though she knew she was projecting her father’s values onto Pasternak, and that her vision had been skewed by her obsessive feud with the old man, but she couldn’t help it. She felt as though they regarded her as some kind of ornament, an amusing and pretty-to-look-at diversion, but not an integral, functioning part of the team.

The truth was that Cait had loved to get her hands dirty as a kid, spending hours pulling the family lawnmower apart, or trying to fix the busted television set, instead of sitting around putting clothes on dolls. That was all she’d ever wanted to do.

And that had gotten under her father’s skin, big time.

Her old man had always tried to steer her into a “woman’s” vocation, a career that was more befitting of a “lady.”

“Wear a dress to work,” he’d said one day as she was nearing the end of school.

“Wear a dress?” she’d shot back. “What is this, the 1950s?”

“You’re not cut out for hard labor is all I’m saying. Look at you, you’d blow away on a puff of wind.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Cait, I don’t want you to go out there and do something that’s too tough. You’re going to look stupid.”

Cait hadn’t bothered to argue further with him. Over the years that followed, their fights had escalated, and the eventual heartbreak had driven her to take the toughest job she could find, on an outpost in the middle of nowhere, eleven light-years from Earth.

Eleven light-years from both him and his backward advice. That would shut him up.

More than that. One day she was going to run this place. She was only twenty-eight now, but within the next few years she was going to be the most accomplished Optech that Proc-One had ever seen.

She couldn’t wait to see the old man’s face when that happened.

She reached Dodge’s office quickly, rapping on the frosted glass door before proceeding through. The office was relatively small and cramped, and stuffed full of crap—boxes of parts that were awaiting inventory processing, for the most part. On the wall hung several certificates from the dim dark past, one declaring Dodge as Employee of the Year at some place called Werner’s Auto in Calamvale.

Behind the squat plastic desk sat the boss himself, a rotund, middle-aged man with a jowl as thick as a heavy transport tire, with meaty, hair-covered fists protruding from his sleeves. As usual, he wore a perennial three day growth, and his hair was slicked back against his scalp.

Standing beside the desk was a neatly presented man in a black suit, with dark hair and olive skin. He seemed very much out of place in Dodge’s office, like a classy businessman visiting the slums.

“Underwood,” Dodge grunted. “What took you?”

Cait tore her eyes from the man in the suit and looked at Dodge. “I was working on something.”

“Working on giving me an ulcer,” Dodge said. “Come over here. I won’t bite.”

Cait began to move forward. The floor was so messy that she had to weave her way across it like she was following a meandering garden path. She stood at the edge of the desk where an engraved silver name plate read
Lionel Dodge
.

“So, what did you want me for?” she said.

Dodge leaned back in his chair, causing it to squeal madly. “You know Barakula, from Outpost Control?” he said, extending a hand toward the man in the suit.

“Administrator Barakula,” she said, nodding in greeting. “I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

Barakula inclined his head. “Ms. Underwood.”

Dodge cracked his knuckles, then hunched forward over the desk again. “You raised a complaint this morning, Underwood, and Mr. Barakula here would like to know a few more details.”

“Is this about Landry?” she asked.

Dodge made a quizzical expression. “You raise any other complaints today?”

“No.”

“Then, yeah. It’s about Landry.”

“Okay, so what do you need to know?”

Barakula stepped forward slightly. “Ms. Underwood, can you tell me exactly what happened this morning during the incident with Landry Stanton?”

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” She thought back to earlier in the day. “I was coming in early for my shift when I saw lights in the scout hangar. I thought that was a bit odd, since the Seagulls were all given a clean bill of health a couple of days ago, and there haven’t been any missions since because of to the UEM embargo.”

Barakula nodded. “Yes. Go on.”

“Well, like I said when I lodged the complaint, Landry was in the hangar acting funny. Looked like he was working on one of the scouts, but when I asked him about it, he just came up with some silly answer. Sounded like he was being evasive.”

“And you saw someone there with him?” Barakula said.

“Yeah. I think the guy’s name is Gus. Comes in here to the workshop to talk to Landry now and again. He’s one of the scout pilots. He was suited up like he was ready to go out on an EVA.”

Barakula seemed to consider that. “Did they say anything about where they were going?”

“No. Landry said he was looking at a faulty transponder. That’s all. The pilot was carrying a box, but I don’t know what was in it.” She glanced between the two men. “Why? What’s going on?”

“We investigated the incident, and it seems that you were right. One of the scouts was taken out this morning without authorization.”

Cait had to suppress a smile.
You complete fool, Landry. You’re going to fry over this.

“There’s going to be punishment for this, right?” she said.
Landry’s supervisor role might be in jeopardy
, she thought. “He can’t get away with doing that.”

“Once we find out all the details, I’m sure there’ll be disciplinary measures,” Barakula said.

“Where did they go?” she said.

Barakula shrugged. “As I said, we don’t have the details at this point. Although, I can tell you that this kind of thing happens now and again. Pilots make a discovery out in the wilderness, a find of some kind, then enlist an accomplice to help them go and inspect it in secret. Could be a gold or mineral deposit. Once verified, they sell the information to prospectors back on Earth.”

“Really?” Cait said. “Landry went out digging for gold?”

“As it turns out, Mr. Stanton’s accomplice Gus is being sent home on the next transport,” Barakula said. “I believe he was probably trying to organize a nice little nest egg for himself before he was dismissed.”

That means Landry will probably get sent home, too.
“Have they admitted it?” Cait said. “What did they say when they got back?”

“They haven’t returned,” Barakula said.

Cait glanced between the two men, confused. “Huh? I don’t get it.”

“We don’t know where they went, Ms. Underwood. A scout is missing, but we’ve seen nothing on radar, and there’s no ping from their transponder. They must have disabled it.”

“So they’ve just disappeared?”

“It seems that way,” Barakula said.

“But that was eight hours ago. Those scouts are only built for short-range missions—”

“They’ll come crawling back before nightfall,” Dodge said. “And when they do, they’ll get their butts handed to them.”

“We take this kind of thing very seriously,” Barakula added.

“So what happens in the meantime?” Cait said, trying not to sound too excited. “Someone needs to run the workshop, and that can’t be Landry. Not after what he’s done.”

“Landry is going to join his friend and take a long ride back to Earth,” Dodge said. “Which means we have a new opening at the supervisor level.”

Cait’s heart leapt, but she tried to keep her voice steady.
Play it cool
, she thought. “Good. It’s about time.” She held eye contact, trying her best to look not just confident, but expectant.

“I’ve been watching you for a while now, Underwood. I like the way you handle yourself out there in the workshop.”

That was garbage, and Cait knew it. She’d never once seen Dodge get off his fat butt and visit the workshop. Still, she wasn’t about to turn down the compliment.

“Thanks.”

“I think I’d like to give you a shot at supervisor. How do you think you’d handle that?”

She straightened a little, aware of the scrutiny of both men. “Fine. I mean, great. I can do that.”

“Then it looks like you’re moving up,” Dodge said, pointing a stubby finger at her. “Go and clean out Landry’s desk. It’s
yours
now, Supervisor Underwood.”

Cait felt her cheeks flush, and could not suppress a smile. “I will. Thank you. You won’t regret this.”

“You deserve it,” Dodge said.

“Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Ms. Underwood,” Barakula said. “If you remember anything else you think might be pertinent, please contact my office.” He tapped on his omni-device, and a moment later Cait’s own omni-device vibrated, indicating a message had been received.

“I’ll do that.”

Barakula smiled. “Good luck with the new job.”

“Now get outta here,” Dodge said. “Collect Landry’s stuff and put it in storage. He can pick it up on his way out the door.”

Cait turned, still smiling, and left the room.

You stupid, greedy moron, Landry
, she thought.
Got what you deserved.