Under Strange Suns (9 page)

He felt off balance for a moment and wondered if the curvature of the station was playing tricks on him. He shuffled his feet, focused on the floor between them.

“Getting a bit wobbly?” Vance asked. “Coriolis effect messing with your inner ear. You’ll get used to it. Come on.”

Vance led him spinward, up an alley to a side street, then up a stairway to the hotel where she’d booked two shoebox-sized rooms. He left his duffel and took the Vance Aerospace credit card shopping. He purchased a 6mm pistol, four thirty-round magazines, and four rechargeable batteries, each with a manufacturer-guaranteed two hours operating time per charge. Aidan had no desire to engage in field-testing that claim; if he was in a position to need to fire continuously for two hours, he’d probably need more than a pistol to survive the encounter. Also, he doubted Vance would let him bring aboard the pallets of ammo he’d need to maintain that rate of fire. Instead, he bought a dozen boxes of frangible safety slugs. As security officer he’d be armed aboard the
Yuschenkov
, but he had no desire to perforate her hull. The tips of the bullets contained minuscule bird-shot pellets that were incapable of penetrating the skin of the ship. He also bought a dozen boxes of standard hollow-point ammo for dirt-side excursions. Each caseless round contained its own, electrically ignited propellant, rendering the pistol recoilless, easier to keep on target, clean and maintain. The shopkeeper handed him the case containing the pistol and a sack filled with boxes of safety rounds, but Aidan was required to provide his departure time and launch number in order to arrange delivery to the shuttle of the standard rounds.

While he was still in the shop he also bought a second pistol in the same caliber, a little hide-out piece for an ankle holster. It possessed about half the range and took a little box magazine that held only a few rounds. He tried to decide if it was an indulgence, or a common-sense back up and convinced himself it was the latter–simple prudence, something nice to have in a pinch.

Aidan spent a large part of the “day” shopping, the concept of “day” determined by the twenty-four-hour Greenwich Mean Time clock kept by the station and by the gradual dimming of the ceiling until it approximated twilight. He purchased meal-packs, first-aid kits, and thumb-size friction fire-starters. He bore in mind Captain Vance’s admonition to keep weight and bulk to a minimum, but he intended to begin his new position prepared. He had a fresh start, and he had no intention of fucking it up.

Captain Vance had chosen a restaurant for the rendezvous point. Aidan arrived early and snagged an empty stool at the bar. Beer was expensive but cocktails were reasonable, probably because of mixers concealing the industrial taint of orbitally distilled alcohol. Aidan splurged on beer. He was launching into deep space; he could justify indulging himself.

Idly rolling his lucky twenty-sided die on the bar, he listened to a couple of locals next to him discussing work. They were longshoremen. They puttered about on jet-scooters outside the station, collecting cargo launched from railgun systems. The work didn’t appeal to Aidan–spending the day with nothing between you and hard vacuum but a spacesuit, your only connection with home not much more than a jet-ski fitted with thrusters that couldn’t hold much fuel.
Then again
, he thought,
I’ve just signed on with a starship about to launch without the standard redundant partner vessel
. He wondered if, mathematically, the scooter jocks sitting a couple stools over, drinking their Cuba Libres, were engaged in a much less risky line of work.

What was he thinking, getting involved in this half-baked rescue scheme? He must have one cheek slipping off the seat of his rocker. And if he was a loon, what must the rest of the
Yuschenkov’s
crew be like? Where had Captain Vance dug up spacers willing to face those odds?

Aidan wondered what life would be like here. The place seemed prosperous. Funny thing–well, not ‘funny’ funny–but after DC, even while fighting economic collapse and spasmodic terrorism, the remaining functional governments all banned terrestrial possession of Y-Drives as well as assemblage of Y-Drive components beyond a certain level of complexity. Prudent enough, after the fact. But it had the result of sending essential, high-paying work off-planet, enriching orbital platforms. This station and the others like it were invaluable conduits, linking Earth-based economies with those of the rapidly expanding colony worlds.

He looked at the die in his hand. Should he roll for it? Go AWOL? It could be an exciting environment for a young man looking to make his mark, getting in on the early stages of what was essentially a quasi-independent state: Venice in orbit. And it involved less chance of being stranded light-years from the nearest inhabited world. Maybe he could start a brewery, help bring down the price of beer.

Vance entered, smartly tailored, hair released from its usual ponytail and artfully arranged. Looking good. No, Aidan was a man of his word. He’d signed on with the
Yuschenkov
. He wanted a new challenge, and the station struck him as not too far removed from what he’d just left below. He raised his beer in salute to the Captain, drained the glass, and rose to join her for dinner.

* * *

“Aidan Carson, I’d like you to meet Sam McAvoy,” Captain Vance said. They were in the departure lounge of the lunar shuttle launch facility. Aidan had just signed for his ammunition delivery, and shuttle personnel were loading stacks of gear into a narrow cargo elevator for delivery to the designated launch bay. Aidan turned to see a tall man, his sparse hair and mustache a mix of sandy and gray.

Aidan gripped the outstretched hand, a workman’s hand, calloused, nails cracked but clean. “Aidan, Security Officer,” he said offering a neutral smile.

McAvoy said, “Sam, Geologist. Miner. Don’t know if I should append ‘Officer’ to either title. Captain?” He laughed.

“How about Exo-geology Sciences Officer?” Captain Vance suggested, then said to Aidan, “McAvoy worked with me on the
Kimberly A
, mining asteroids.”

“A good berth. But, alas, not meant to last.” McAvoy’s voice took on a confidential tone. “The bosses Earthside–not a one of whom ever sucked in a breath of canned air–took exception to my occasional forays into liquid entertainment. Never missed a shift, never mishandled a digger. Identified lode after lode. But send one drunken message to the wife of the Vice President of Sales, and that’s the end of a twenty-year career. Black-listed, can’t get another berth. Until Brooklynn, bless her heart, called. Anyway, that’s my sad story. Why’d you sign on with this ship of fools?”

“For the generous benefits package,” Aidan said, eliciting a sharp bark of laughter from McAvoy. He considered the geologist, assessing him as he assumed a ship’s security officer should, sizing him up as a potential liability. A drinker. Up front about it, not a closet dipsomaniac. The eyes looked fine. The nose didn’t display the gin-blossoms that betrayed the chronic alcoholic. Captain Vance knew him and had requested him personally, so Aidan doubted there was a history of disciplinary problems or that his drinking had interfered with his job performance. Evaluation, then: a man to keep an eye on, but not one to cause any immediate concern.

“Got your gear, McAvoy?” Aidan asked.

“Personal items and tools fit in one bag, Mr. Carson. Stowed on the shuttle, they tell me. The
Yuschenkov
already carries the majority of what I’ll need. And call me Sam. A mining survey ship is a tiny neighborhood. Some people think formality helps maintain relationships in tight quarters. I hold a different view.”

“Fair enough, Sam. And I’ll answer to just about anything.”

“Aboard the ship, gentlemen,” Captain Vance interjected, “I am Captain Vance.”

A speaker requested that lunar shuttle passengers embark now, terminating the conversation. Captain Vance led the way to a circular platform set just below the rim of an airlock door. They stepped on. An attendant punched a button and the platform began to descend. Staggered on either side–spinward and anti-spinward–were airlocks leading either to docked shuttles or open berths. At the other poles of the circular elevator platform were ladder rungs, inset far enough in the wall to allow a pressure-suited climber to squeeze by the platform’s edge.

The lift stopped at the third docking port on the spinward side. Captain Vance pressed a button on the panel next to the airlock door and waited. A green light flashed above the door and Aidan heard a metallic click. Vance pushed another button and the door slid open, the hydraulic motors audible in the echo chamber of the elevator shaft.

The lunar shuttle proved roomier than the capsule that had delivered Aidan to Cayman Station. Other than that, from a passenger’s perspective there wasn’t a great deal of difference. He was in a windowless can in space, chauffeured to another destination in space by pilots he couldn’t see, separated from him by a bulkhead and an airlock. Aidan was getting used to it, the ubiquitous redundant safety features. He’d lived in near-constant paranoia for about two years. Space travel required a mechanical variation of that; compartmentalization, instead of violence, available at a moment’s notice.

“Is there drinks service available on this flight?” asked Sam as the lunar shuttle eased back from Cayman Station and the artificial gravity released its grip.

“Sorry, Sam, this is a no-frills outfit,” Captain Vance answered. “You wanted first class and stewardesses, you should’ve stayed out of the coms room after tying one on.”

“See how she holds it over my head, Aidan? She’ll never let me live it down, uses one little mistake like a club. You should have seen her in salary negotiations. Brutal. I’m lucky I’m not paying her for the privilege of the job.”

Aidan allowed a half-smile. He enjoyed the banter, even from the outside. It reminded him of some of the better moments with his A-Team. Shit might be piling up faster than at an elephant family reunion, but joking camaraderie always provided a mental safe harbor, no matter how brief.

The lunar shuttles were not equipped with Y-Drives, so Aidan took a nap. He woke to Captain Vance nudging his shoulder.

“Take a look at the monitor,” she said. “There she is. Your new home. Isn’t she beautiful?”

At first, all Aidan saw was the moon–a big, gray mass occupying most of the screen. Then he saw what her fingertip indicated. His immediate impression was a lamp floating in space, a long body with a blunt base topped with a circular shade. The shade, he knew from studying the plans of the
Yuschenkov
, was the habitation module, spinning about the central shaft to provide a semblance of gravity, like Cayman Station. The base housed the fusion reaction engines, separated from the living section of the ship by the length of the central shaft. A bump–a rounded area a short way up the shaft from the main engines–was the Y-Drive compartment. Further up sprouted a garden of solar panels. Then, close to the habitation module, the shaft swelled into a boxlike section housing the radiation shelter and water storage tanks. Just beyond that, he knew, were a trio of docking ports, but the magnification wasn’t sufficient to show whether they were currently occupied. Right beyond that the habitation module rotated lazily about the axis of the shaft. The hab module, made of highly polished metal or painted with a bright, reflective paint, circled the shaft which thickened there to house the motors providing the spin and to support the four spokes that connected the habitation module to the shaft. A bit more of the shaft projected beyond the habitation module, the nub containing attitude thrusters and an auxiliary command section.

The moon provided no context, so he had no concept of the ship’s size. He had no firsthand experience with starships, and other than understanding that there ought to be a similar vessel orbiting somewhere nearby, he could reach no conclusions regarding its condition just by looking at it.

“It’s a relic,” said Sam. “Who sold you this lemon, Captain?”

“She’s not a lemon, Sam,” said Vance. Aidan thought she sounded both defensive and proud. “She’s solid. That’s a tried and tested model. Sturdy is what she is. She’s old enough to have worked out all the kinks.”

Sam raised his hands, surrendering. “You’re the boss, Captain. She’s a beaut, a thoroughbred, queen of the stars. I’m sure the reactor won’t blow up as soon as we leave orbit.”

The shuttle neared, jets correcting its course as it approached. The shaft resolved into an oddly fragile-looking structure of girders. As the shuttle pulsed even closer, Aidan could see that two of the docking ports were occupied. One held a small shuttlecraft that appeared atmosphere capable. The other held an odd looking object, a lumpy, crablike craft. The third docking port blinked welcoming green lights in concentric circles. The circles grew until they filled the monitor entirely. They were docked. Home.

Aidan followed Captain Vance and Sam through the airlock doors. His first impression upon entering the
Yuschenkov
was that he had just exchanged a small tin can for a larger one. Progress of a sort, he supposed. The docking bay was cylindrical, the three airlock doors of the docking ports evenly spaced about its circumference. Pressure suits, extra-vehicular maneuvering packs, harnesses, and tool chests were racked neatly along the curving walls. At either end of the cylinder were more airlocks. Two men bobbed gently in the docking bay’s absence of gravity, the two evidently waiting to greet the Captain.