DSR

By the time Hawke made his way to the TelePortal room, Bishop had her men assembled. They stood, not quite at ease, with their fingers nervously gripping their pistols. He was pleased to see Snelling wasn’t with them.

"Are you expecting trouble, Major?"

"It could be an ambush, Commander. I thought it wise to be prepared."

Always suspicious. Hawke turned to Ben. "Did you receive the access codes from the Blitzkrieg?"

"Yeah. I’m all set over here. Just say the word."

Hawke contacted Starling on the bridge. "Jim, can you please open a COM line from here directly to the Nova?"

"You got it." After a few seconds, "Go ahead, Hawke. They should be receiving you."

"Commander Davies, this is Commander Hawke. Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Commander." The reception was noticeably clearer now that they were within close range of the German-made vessel.

"We’re ready to begin teleporting. Are you ready?"

"Ready and waiting. The first man is in our TelePortal."

Hawke nodded to Ben. Red lights flashed around one of the portals indicating it was in use. There were four of them in the room, each large enough for one person to stand without feeling too claustrophobic. The Nova was fitted with only a single TelePortal, so they would have to teleport one at a time. TelePortals on spacecraft were primarily designed to operate ship-to-ship over short distances. They could not teleport directly onto a planet. A planetary atmosphere and the lack of any direct hard wire connections created too much interference. The vacuum of space provided a considerably controlled and sterile environment through which to transmit – not that the process was without its own inherent risks.

The lights continued flashing, but nothing else happened.

"What’s wrong?" Hawke asked when he saw Ben frown.

"Working on it. I’ll let you know in a sec." Ben’s eyes roved up and down, intently analyzing the readouts on the screen, his fingers typing commands to the various prompts popping up as he worked deeper and deeper through diagnostic menus. "Okay. Got it. The problem’s not on our end."

Given the current state of the Blitzkrieg, Hawke wasn’t surprised. "Can you troubleshoot it any further?"

"The results are coming through now. Apparently the decompiler isn’t receiving any input from the signal receiver. My guess would be the embedded emitter array is either malfunctioning or out of calibration. Either way, it’ll be an outside fix."

There was a buzz of low conversation taking place on the European vessel. "I hate to be a bother, Commander, but my co-pilot has just informed me we have less than two hours left in our oxygen stores."

"Are you kidding me, Commander?"

"I assure you, sir, I’m not."

"Shit. All right. Frank, you’d better hustle your guys over to the maintenance ready room. It’s going to be tight." Frank remained rooted in place, his jaw jerking side-to-side. "What’s wrong?"

"Fixin’ the array and calibrating it is a two-man job. Petey broke his hand and busted up his face and elbow a few days ago when his levi-belt quit on him. Took a hard fall in a vent shaft. Kinda looks like I did after my first wife’s lawyer got done with me. Anyway, that leaves me’n Joe, and there ain’t a space suit on this wreck that can hold all this manliness." He patted his gut fondly. Ben rolled his eyes.

"Alright, Frank, maybe you won’t have to. Commander Davies," Hawke announced loudly, "do you have anyone who could assist us?"

"Negative. I’m afraid we, ah, don’t have the necessary pressure suits onboard."

Bishop broke the silence, "Commander. Lieutenant Rottmann was trained in zero gravity survival methods."

"You have any welding experience?" Frank questioned.

"No, sir. And my training was over twenty years ago in a simulated zero-G environment."

Frank grimaced. "Anyone else?"

No one spoke.

"I’ll do it."

"What? Nathan you can’t–" Jim said across the intercom.

"Why not? It’ll be fun. I haven’t done any spacewalking since my ensign days before the Academy. And I know how to use a welder."

"Damn you. I knew you would say something like that. Look, we can’t risk you. If something should happen–"

"We can’t risk anybody. And I’ve at least stayed current in my training and certs. Unless you have a better idea." Jim didn’t, nor did anyone else. "Let’s go. We don’t have any time to waste."

Hawke and Frank arrived at the ready room to find Joe already thrusting his legs through one of the pressure suits. Joe was a tall, lanky fellow with tattoos adorning his arms and neck and a shock of unruly hair on his head. He had a slight drawl and all in all, he was a likable sort of guy, though his jokes tended to run a bit on the coarser side. Frank thought highly of him, and that was all the assurance Hawke needed about his competence.

Frank ushered him to the locker. There were few suits to select from, but all seemed to have been tailored to fit someone of slender build – at least, someone considerably more slender than Frank. The suits were fashioned in a clamshell design. First you inserted your legs, then performed a series of Houdini-like contortions to wriggle your arms and head through the upper portion. A self-sealing zipper wrapped around the suit to protect against the outside environment. The one-piece construction simplified manufacturing processes, but as he struggled clumsily into it, occasionally aided but generally hindered by Frank, he had to wonder how anyone in their right mind could fail to see the impracticality of it.

He pushed his head through the opening in time to catch Frank saying, "I just like having both feet on the ground. You know what I’m saying?"

"Sure, Frank. But I hope you understand when I scratch your name off as beneficiary to my estate."

"Awww, hey. It ain’t my fault you volunteered. But don’t worry. Joe won’t let anything happen to you." He pointed to the cord wound and latched at his belt. "Most important thing you do, first off, is plug that in at the hub. Pumps oxygen in. Also allows us to monitor your vitals – heart rate and shit like that."

On the bench opposite him, Joe slid his visor down and was strapping different plasma-powered pocket tools to his suit. He looked like a marine going into battle.

When Hawke was ready, he followed Joe to the airlock. Frank trailed along. "Now listen. I’ll be watching through the cameras. If you run into trouble, just give a hoot." He pushed a button on the wall and the door slid down between them, only his face visible through the two inch thick porthole. The airlock was small, meant to hold only five or six people.

"Ready, sir?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

Joe pressed the alphanumeric sequence into the door lock. The air was immediately sucked through vents. The temperature in the room plummeted, but all Hawke felt was an easing of the pressure of the suit against his skin and a lightness in his feet. The status light changed from green to red, indicating a lack of oxygen. Joe yanked on the handle and slid the door open, then heaved himself through, swinging his feet up and out, and disappeared from view.

Hawke followed, spotting the handholds placed around the opening. This was the tricky part. Joe was already a good distance ahead, crabbing along the ship’s superstructure. Hawke followed more slowly. Fortunately, the hub wasn’t far from his current position. When they were both safely plugged in, Hawke took note of their surroundings. Thirty meters off their port side was the Nova. Seeing it up close, its diminutive size, Hawke was amazed at how many men were trapped in there, and how they had endured such a long voyage in such cramped conditions.

"The array panels are over there." Without waiting for Hawke to acknowledge, Joe leaped, effortlessly bridging the gap between the two spacecraft. By the time Hawke rejoined him, Joe was already examining the damage.

"The trouble’s right here, all right. Plain as a baby’s balls. Half of these welds is broke off. Shoddy workmanship, too. And see how these brackets are bent? One of them is completely gone. My guess is some piece of space junk whacked it right here." Joe bent right to work. "I’ll have that fixed in a jiffy," he added. ’That’ was a jumble of wires that looked like someone had dropped a plate of spaghetti. They waved about like the flagellates of a sea anemone, though there was no current to propel them.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Here." He handed over a powered screwdrive. "Take off those brackets. The whole fucking thing is gonna need to be taken off and re-seated." He also handed over a thin cord. "And tie this to the struts and knot it through this handhold. That way, there ain’t no way it can float away on us."

For the next twenty minutes they worked in virtual silence, passing tools back and forth. The tips of their gloves contained billions of tiny hairlike cilia, a biomimicry technology lifted from gecko lizards decades earlier, minimizing the risk of losing small parts and pieces while working repairs in a zero-G environment. The soles of their boots were constructed in the same fashion, making it harder to float free from the hull – but not impossible.

"You know, if this doesn’t work, we could tie off a line between ships and pass our spare suits to ’em through their airlock. Or we could rig a way to pump some air in to give us more time."

"That’s actually not a bad idea. Where were you when we were discussing options?"

Starling cut into the COM. "Nate, don’t want to pressure you two, but an alarm just sounded on the Blitzkrieg. Their oxygen is down to critical levels. My guess is fifteen minutes."

"They should’ve had at least an hour."

"Apparently the leak is more significant than they realized."

Shit. "Alright, we’ll start hustling. Joe, did you copy that?"

"Yes, sir. We’ll get ’er done." The glare of the cutting tool cast his pockmarked cheeks into contrasting lines of bright blue and dark shadow. He hadn’t even paused in his concentration. After a minute, Joe announced, "Okay. She should be ready to re-position. This is where I need you. Give ’er a shove toward me. Gentle, though. These panels might not look like much, but they got more inertia than you might expect."

Tentatively, then with more effort, Hawke tried to move the array from its deep-seated mount, but it wouldn’t budge.

"Put your weight into it," Joe suggested with a lopsided grin.

"Very funny."

Hawke braced his legs as best he could and heaved ineffectually. Again. And again. The veins in his temples started to bulge as he strained. The last stubborn bracket tore free unexpectedly. The sudden shift in resistance caused him to careen awkwardly, losing his grip on the panel and his footing on the toehold. He pinwheeled until his tether caught him neatly in a slow, head-over-heels tumble.

Joe instinctively steadied the panel with both hands as it lumbered toward him, but by doing so he let go of his torch. He made a quick swipe at it, hooking his foot under a handhold, but the welder floated just beyond his outstretched fingers. Joe watched it blankly, mouth agape. He recovered himself quickly, tried a few more times to no avail. "Don’t worry. We got another one in the locker. I’ll go–"

Hawke shook his head. "There’s no time. I’ve got an idea."

The welder’s vector was putting it closer to him than Joe. Hawke bunched his legs against the hull and gave a firm push. He snapped to a halt at the end of his tether and reached, but the tool was maddeningly beyond his reach. He acted quickly and yanked himself back to the hub of the Xī Wàng. This time, he detached the umbilical. The self-sealing valve clamped shut, preventing the minute amount of oxygen in his suit from being sucked out. Still, he only had about a two minute supply.

"Jesus Christ, Hawke, what the hell are you doing? Your biometrics just went flatline." Jim’s voice.

"It’s alright. The cord wasn’t long enough. Don’t worry, I’m fine."

"Don’t be stupid. Plug it back in, dammit! Frank’s helping Pete into a suit now. We’ll get you the spare in a minute."

"Jim’s right, Nathan. Listen to him." Ben now.

He ignored them both. His fingers trembled, not from the cold he knew was just millimeters from his skin, but from dread anticipation. On top of it all was a strange giddiness he fought to quell. It would be easy – too easy. Just a small push. Drift away, alone.

He fought the sensation. It even had a name: Rodgers’ Syndrome, named for first astronaut who had mysteriously, yet consciously, removed his lifeline and allowed the vast emptiness to swallow him. He was not the last, though his suicide had been the most sensationalized by the media. The whole sequence had been captured on camera.

Hawke watched the welder. Tried to judge its path and speed. Then, with a calculated effort, he let go of both hub and tether. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. For a second, he thought he’d leaped too far to the right, but he snagged the instrument by one of its handles.

"Joe, push out to me. Catch my line." Joe understood immediately and clumsily kicked off from the Nova. At the same time, Hawke coiled his tether and sent it unraveling toward him. Joe caught it just as he had reached the limit of his own tether and wrapped it around his forearm for good measure. It was awkward, but he hauled both himself and Hawke back safely and plugged in the umbilical.

Meanwhile, thanks to Joe’s foresight, the panel array floated harmlessly against the ship, held in place by the safety line he’d instructed Hawke to tie. Within minutes they retrieved it and had it re-mounted. Joe made final calibrations to its position and verified its performance using a handheld frequency modulator. "I think we’re ready to go."

"Alright. Let’s head back." They used the umbilicals the way a climber would use a rappelling line. At a nod from Joe, Hawke unhooked his line, rolling and latching it at his hip so it wouldn’t present a snag hazard. He headed toward the hatch, conscious of the tech following behind in his wake.

"That was a crazy stunt you pulled," Jim chided. "If Joe had missed your line, you’d be dead."

"Yeah, and so would they."

"You know there’s nothing I can say to that. It’s just...well, you’ve done shit like that before."

"But I’m still here."

"Not funny. It’s not like it was back then and you know it."

Hawke sobered under Jim’s parental tone. "You’re right. We can talk later. We still have men in trouble. Ben, how do things look from your side?"

"Systems check out. It’s going to take a minute or two for their processors to reset."

"Let’s hope they have a minute or two. I’ll get there as soon as I can, but don’t wait for me. Bring them over ASAP."

"Roger. And for the record, I agree with Jim."

Hawke and Joe clambered through the portal and sealed the hatch. There was a rush of roaring white noise as the compressors dumped air into the chamber. When the warning light changed from red to green, they opened the inner door. Frank was pacing in the ready room. "What the fuck was that out there?"

Hawke rolled his eyes. "You, too?"

"That kinda shit ain’t funny, Hawke. I ain’t never lost a man, and I don’t intend to. Capiche?" He clapped him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, I get it, Frank. Didn’t mean to worry you."

"Nah, I was just thinking of all the paperwork I’d have to fill out. And I don’t think them pack of hot dogs I ate two hours ago are sittin’ too well."

Hawke shimmied out of the pressure suit and touched Joe on the shoulder. "Thanks for your help out there." Joe nodded. Then Hawke was racing toward the TelePortal Room. How much time had elapsed? He nearly collided with Rottmann standing just inside the door. Ben looked up. "Perfect timing, as always. Just came online."

"Then let’s do it. Commander, we’re ready to give it a go again."

"Mighty pleased to hear it. Given the dire state of our oxygen levels, I’ll save my sigh of relief for when I’m aboard."

"Affirmative." Hawke pointed a finger to Ben.

The lights stopped flashing moments later and the hatch opened. A tall man with prominent cheekbones emerged. He had piercing gray eyes and his hair, prematurely gray, looked to have once been a gleaming yellow. He grinned at the line of strange faces confronting him.

"Greetings, my friends. Thank you for your timely rescue. I am Lieutenant Mats Henriksson, copilot of the Blitzkrieg," he announced with a heavy Swedish accent. He extended his hand in gratitude. Hawke took it firmly in his.

"A pleasure, Lieutenant. I’m Commander Hawke and this is Major Bishop, Chief of Security. If you don’t mind, I need you to hand over that military issue pistol you’re packing. And she’d probably like to check the duffel bag you’re shouldering, too." The Lieutenant made a face, but then shrugged and surrendered his weapon and bag.

Meanwhile, Ben worked to bring the next crewmember across. The man who stepped out next was a sharp contrast to the Swede. He was shorter and much older, with thin gray hair. Where the copilot was muscular, the second man’s frame was small and stooped, rounded but not overweight. He introduced himself as Dr. Dimitri Dimopoulos. Like the other, he too carried a personal bag which was quickly handed over. Hawke arched his eyebrow. The fact that an elderly, civilian scientist was onboard the European military spacecraft only confirmed his suspicions.

Ben continued to teleport the other astronauts. In addition to the copilot and the Greek scientist, the rest of the crew made for an eclectic mix of ethnic and educational backgrounds. There was a German geologist who introduced himself as Dr. Adolf Herrmann, Dr. Miklos Dvorák, a Czech environmental specialist, and Jean-Claude Kern, a Swiss engineer. The remainder of the military crew consisted of Lieutenant Angelo Marinucci, the Navigation Specialist, and Staff Sergeant Dietrich Müller, the Teleportation Engineer.

All of the men held personal belongings which were inspected by Bishop’s security team for weapons, explosive residues, microphones, and other suspicious items. They stood together in a cluster while their bags were checked, nervously eyeing the men who kept their plasma pistols aimed at them.

The last to teleport was Commander Davies. He was a tall man with short-cropped reddish-blonde hair, a long pointed nose, and a bushy, drooping moustache which completely covered his upper lip. He promptly identified Hawke by his rank insignia and introduced himself. "Good gracious day, Commander! Commander Charles Davies, at your service." He saluted.

"A pleasure, Commander, but we can skip the formalities out here. You can call me Nathan, or Hawke, whichever you prefer."

Commander Davies wrinkled his nose. "You Americans are all the same, always in a rush to get down to business. Well, then, call me Charles."

"Well, Charles, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn over any weapons you may have in your possession to my CSO, Major Bishop. And I’m sure she wants to have a look in your bag, as well."

"Surely you don’t think we mean to conduct some sort of hostile takeover?" he asked jokingly, but his grin faded when he saw their grave expressions and drawn weapons. He huffed but turned over the requested items.

Hawke smiled. "Look at it from my point of view. We’re millions of light years from our solar system and receive a distress call from an unauthorized spacecraft."

"Unauthorized?" Commander Davies bristled.

"Yes, unauthorized. We checked the Global Launch Log and there’s no record of your ship anywhere in it."

"So because some nitwit didn’t do his job, you’re going to assume we’re a bunch of space pirates? I assure you, on my word of honor, all the men in my care are honorable, respected professionals."

"I believe you, but it doesn’t change anything. You’ll be confined to quarters until I receive official orders from my superiors in Washington." Davies opened his mouth to object, but then thought better of it. "I promise you, you and your men will receive due courtesy. But this is a delicate situation that needs to be handled according to protocol."

Davies exhaled loudly through his ponderous moustache. "Very well, I accept your word as one pilot to another. After all, I did agree to those conditions before we teleported. Well then, lead the way. After the stress we’ve been under the last few days, we’re all a bit knackered."

Major Bishop led the Europeans to the storage room she’d selected and readied to house them. The room contained eight cots, complete with bedding and a few empty file drawers which were intended to serve as dressers for their personal belongings.

When he saw the living arrangements, Charles tried to appeal one last time. "Really, chaps, don’t you think you’re overdoing this a bit? Surely there are other quarters that would be more suitable than this drafty storeroom?"

Hawke shook his head. "This is going to have to do for the time being. This isn’t a prison ship and we have a limited number of secure rooms. And I don’t have the manpower to assign a full-time guard detail."

"My men are scientists and researchers, not bloody criminals!"

"If you prefer, we can put you back on the Nova."

Charles looked peevishly at him from beneath bushy brows. "You’ve got me by the short hairs, sir, and you know it. Well, perhaps you could at least do me one favor?"

"I can’t make any promises."

Davies grinned, revealing big, broad teeth. "Is there any way I could have a bit of tea? We ran out weeks ago. Earl Grey, if you have it."

Next Chapter: The European Team