Chapter 16
PSD 29-213: 1231 hours
Landry gripped the hammer and bashed away at the edge of the chunk of aluminum alloy. He was sweating with the effort of it, having worked for close to half an hour, but he was comforted by the thought that at least he seemed to be getting somewhere.
He stopped for a breather, then got to his feet to examine his handiwork. The scrap metal was almost a meter long by half a meter wide, extracted from the remnants of the aileron and part of the trailing edge from the scout’s left wing, pieces that had broken off in the crash. After his modifications, one end of the aileron had curled back at an acute angle, creating a crude approximation of a toboggan.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” he said, shrugging.
“Yes,” HAIRI said. “This should be adequate.”
He gripped the edge of the toboggan and pushed it forward, and it swept smoothly across the gritty soil. Landry suddenly felt like he was back with Grandpa, building a gravity racer go-kart when he was eleven. They’d put it together from spare parts around the garage, as well as a couple of wheels from old Mr. Blake next door. Landry had been in a hurry to try it out, and ended up cutting corners in the construction, much to Grandpa’s chagrin. The thing had been a death trap as a result, breaking apart on his first downhill run and sending him skittering across the asphalt in his sleeveless shirt and shorts.
He’d lost a lot of skin that day and become the butt of jokes from the other kids at school for weeks on end. He still remembered them re-enacting his ungracious tumble, pretending to scream in pain as they went sprawling on the grass.
Still, he’d learned a lot from that experience. Those abrasions on his elbows and knees had been long-lasting reminders about being thorough, about doing things right. Checking over one’s work, taking pride in it, and making sure it was up to scratch.
That wasn’t really a luxury he had here, though. He knew that he didn’t have the time, the tools, nor the materials to make this thing perfect.
It was a good old-fashioned hack job. He just hoped that, unlike the go-cart, it didn’t come apart on the first hill. Then he’d have a lot more than abrasions to worry about.
He ran his eyes over the Seagull, trying to determine if there was anything else that might come in handy. Now that he’d stripped the solar panel, the backup battery, the AI, and the OXEE and its hose, he had what he need for life support. The rest of the scout was basically a big chunk of spare parts.
He had the toboggan ready, and the next task was to load up his gear.
He arranged the components as best he could. The solar panels had to go on top to avoid being obstructed, that much was obvious to him. He placed the other parts in an orderly fashion along the toboggan, securing them together with gaffer tape (
Gaff to the rescue
again, he thought) to prevent any stray wires from snagging and ripping off.
Digging through the cockpit, he removed the pilot safety harnesses and laid them out next to the toboggan. He had about five meters of it, enough to suit his purpose. He punched holes through the toboggan and threaded sections of the harness through like a shoelace, then secured the harness to the strongest mount points on his life-support gear. When he was done, there was no give in the load. It sat snugly on the toboggan without any hint of slack.
It’s not going to fall off in a hurry. That’s a good thing.
He was left with about two meters of play in the OXEE hose between his umbilical and where it connected to the guts of the OXEE itself. He figured it would be a very bad idea to try pulling the toboggan with the hose—if it broke, or more aptly
when
it broke, he’d lose his air supply.
Instead, he used the remainder of the harness straps to fashion a tow line, which he threaded through another pair of holes in the toboggan. Linking the strap over his shoulder, he gave it a test run, walking forward and watching the behavior of the toboggan behind him. The OXEE hose was longer than the harness, and remained slack the whole time. That was good. The last thing he wanted was for the hose to take the weight of the load. As he pulled, the toboggan edged slightly sideways, meaning he hadn’t quite centered the harness, but that wasn’t a big deal.
It was good enough, he figured. He was mobile.
“Landry, you appear to have solved your issues with locomotion,” HAIRI said.
“Solved? I
owned
this bad boy. Look at this thing, it’s a work of art.”
“Agreed. It is like the Mona Lisa on crack.”
“Damn straight.”
“Was this phrase correctly applied? ‘Mona Lisa on crack?’”
“No, but I like it anyway.” He looked around. “I think we’re ready to blow this joint.”
His eyes fell on the dead body lying nearby, and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. All the while he’d been working, he’d been conscious of Gus lying there like just another piece of wreckage, discarded and forgotten.
Landry frowned.
This isn’t right. I can’t leave him like that.
“There’s still one last thing to do before I leave,” he said. “Won’t take long.”
As gently as he could, he gripped the awkward bulk of Gus’s EVA suit and pulled his body from where it lay near the fuselage. After dragging him across the ground, he laid him down a short distance from the wreck and positioned him neatly, legs straight and arms at his sides. Then he collected rocks and arranged them around and on top of the body, forming a cairn of sorts. When it was done, he stood back and stared solemnly at it.
“What is the purpose of this?” HAIRI said in the intervening silence.
“Saying goodbye.”
“But the gesture is lost on the pilot. He is dead.”
“It’s not lost on me.”
“Landry, this is not the best use of your energy. If you had told me of your plan to do this, I would have advised against it.”
Landry stood silent for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Do you know the worst thing about his war? The cost of one life has become meaningless. No one cares. I’ve seen it time and time again. It’s not just the Marines in the front line, either. It’s all the people caught up in collateral damage, civilian pilots like Gus. Countless others. In the end, we’re just a statistic, a metric used by politicians to justify expenditure.” He shook his head. “I don’t want Gus to go out like that. He deserves more.”
“I have many psychological profiles at my disposal, but I am not sure I have one that describes what you are suggesting.”
“Forget about it. I’m done, anyway.” He turned away and gave the harness a tug, turning the toboggan in the opposite direction. “Let’s get going.”
He began walking up the slope, lugging the considerable weight of the gear behind him across the uneven ground, leaving the crash site in his wake.
Chapter 17
PSD 29-213: 0812 hours
Cait didn’t make it very far before the day completely fell apart.
After leaving the workshop, she made her way over toward Outpost Control. Initially she had been inwardly seething about the way Dodge had spoken to her, the way he had dismissed her so contemptuously and sent her on her way. She knew that the guy was a jerk, and that he probably treated everyone the same way, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the guy had addressed Landry with the same disdain he had shown to her.
I’ll bet he doesn’t. I’ll bet they’re real chums. A boy’s club.
She had no basis for that assumption, she realized, since she never really saw Landry and Dodge interact, but once the notion gripped her, her imagination began to go wild. She pictured the two of them behind the frosted door of Dodge’s office, laughing and slapping each other on the back as they shared some private joke while the other Optechs slaved away in the workshop down the hall. The very thought of it made her blood boil, made her fingernails dig into her palms as she clenched her fists.
Suddenly, she laughed. The notion was so foolish that she couldn’t help it.
Landry and Dodge
friends?
No. Now that she thought about it, Landry wasn’t friends with anyone in the workshop, and Dodge wouldn’t stoop to fraternizing with his underlings. No way. The two of them would make the most unlikely pair imaginable, she figured.
She was getting worked up over nothing. She just needed to relax.
Still smiling, she took a deep breath and managed to calm herself down as she neared Outpost Control. There was no need for her to get bent out of shape. She knew that this was going to be a good day. Once she sorted out the mess with Landry, she could go back to the workshop and really get her teeth into her new role—
Sirens began to blare around her, and Cait stopped dead. Down the corridor, a man in a suit who had just stepped from the doors of Outpost Control dropped his mug of coffee. It fell through the air and shattered on the concrete at his feet, sending its steaming contents in all directions. The man froze. He stared stupidly at Cait, as if expecting her to say something, to explain what was going on, but she merely shrugged.
The emergency sirens almost never sounded. Something big was going down, she realized.
The calm female voice of the automated response system sounded around them. “Attention. Please make your way to designated safe zones immediately. Repeat, please make your way to designated safe zones immediately. Bulkhead containment system will activate momentarily.”
The man in the suit blanched then turned so hurriedly that he slipped on his own coffee dregs. Discarding all attempts at maintaining dignity, he scrambled on hands and knees and disappeared quickly back inside the door to Outpost Control.
What’s going on here?
Cait thought.
Is it the Argoni? Are we under attack?
A bulkhead behind her slammed shut, sending a loud boom resonating throughout the corridor. Moments later, Cait heard more bulkheads in the distance doing the same, effectively compartmentalizing that section of the outpost.
As the sound receded, she became aware that the omni-device on her hip was sounding off. She snatched it up and began to read through the information that came scrolling into view.
Epidermal breach, Segment 17, Section 3.
A breach
, she thought. That would explain the sirens. The outpost epidermis was a thin structure that had been constructed around the outer edge of complex, designed to offer an extra layer of protection from the harsh environment of Proc-One. “Bubble-wrap,” as some of the Optechs jokingly called it, although a compromised segment of the epidermis was no laughing matter.
She kept reading.
Immediate investigation required. Closest detected Optech: Cait Underwood. Please respond.
Segment 17 of the epidermis wasn’t far from OC, and the emergency maintenance system had flagged Cait as the most suitable candidate to respond to the crisis due to her proximity to the breach.
Her omni-device continued to flash.
Please respond.
Cait hit the button to acknowledge the alert. Maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but regardless, she knew this was her responsibility. She had been trained to deal with situations like this, and she wouldn’t back away from it.
A moment later, the omni-device transitioned to a map of the outpost, guiding her toward the breach.
She moved briskly past the door to Outpost Control, fragments of the broken coffee mug crunching under her boots, and then she reached the first bulkhead. She raised the omni-device to the control panel and they beeped in unison. The bulkhead light turned from red to green, then it slid upward and allowed Cait to pass. As she continued on, she heard it slam shut again as the emergency response system reasserted control.
She ran down the corridor bathed in red and yellow hazard lights as the omni-device directed her to a stairwell half-way down. She badged through again, then stomped her way up the steel checker plate steps and onto the next level.
She proceeded through the door at the top, then turned right and through the next bulkhead. She was getting close.
Up ahead, a swath of bright light lit up the corridor, and for one panicked moment, Cait wondered if this was part of the breach—that perhaps the damage had been more extensive than initially reported. Then she realized that she had simply been disoriented by her twists and turns across the levels, and that she had in fact arrived at one of the Ag-rooms.
She paused as she passed the door labeled
Ag-room Three
. Through the glass she saw rows of plants and small trees, the main sources of food for many who lived on Proc-One. Rather than utilize energy-hungry grow lights, she knew the Ag-rooms had been built into the outpost epidermis, their ceilings comprised of transparencies that admitted light, but which were in fact stronger than steel. The material also happened to be incredibly expensive to manufacture, which was why it wasn’t used in most other parts of the outpost.
“Just stay there,” Cait called out to the agitated Cultivators. “We’re on it.”
She moved on to the next bulkhead, and the omni-device indicated that the breach was a short distance away. It also displayed a secondary destination—the location of a repair closet. She hastened across to the closet and used the omni-device to activate the door. Inside were two EVA suits and an assortment of tools that could be used in the event of a breach.
Everything was covered in dust, and the gear looked as though it hadn’t been used in a long time.
That wasn’t necessarily surprising, she figured, considering this was an unusual event. Although there were around ten other repair closets situated around other parts of the outpost epidermis, Cait had never had cause to crack one open before today, and she doubted many of the other Optechs had either.
She turned at the sound of a bulkhead opening behind her and saw Spud ambling through. The old Optech looked as though he’d been interrupted from a nap, his wispy grey hair sticking out all over the place.
“So you drew the short straw too, huh?” she said.
“Just my luck,” Spud grumbled. “I’m gonna die a month away from retirement.”
Cait began to fumble with the first EVA suit. “You’ve said that every month for the past three years, Spud.”
“And this time it’s true.”
“Cheer up. Don’t they say it’s better to burn out than to fade away?”
Spud reached her and grabbed the second EVA suit. “Not when burning out means turning into an Argoni’s breakfast.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The breach,” Spud said. “It’s an attack. Isn’t it obvious? The Toads are moving in. This is their big assault on the outpost.”
“Relax. The Marines would be crawling all over the place if that were true.”
“Trust me. When we open that bulkhead, they’ll be waiting for us.”
Cait slipped into the top half of the EVA suit and poked her head from the top. “Just get in your gear, Spud. Time’s wasting.”
“They snap your head right off your shoulders, I hear,” Spud said. “Then they drink your brains out through your ears.”
“There’s only one person who’s been drinking around here,” Cait said drily, “and it’s not the Toads.”
“Not me,” Spud said earnestly. “I’m sober as can be. Wish I weren’t—”
There was a loud thud from beyond the bulkhead, and Spud abruptly stopped. He glanced nervously at Cait.
“Get in your suit,” she said again. “We’ve got work to do.”