Year’s Best SF 15 (52 page)

“Michael,” he said, and frowned at her hand when they shook.

“Those are just calluses from the needles,” Petra said. “Don't mind them.”

 

“Ms. O'Rourke's kimono is ready for you to look at,” Petra said, bringing the mannequin to Simone's desk.

“No need,” said Simone, her eyes on her computer screen, “you don't have enough imagination to invent mistakes.”

Petra hoped that was praise, but suspected otherwise.

A moment later Simone slammed a hand on her desk. “Dammit, look at this. The hair ornament I need is a reproduction. Because naturally a reproduction is indistinguishable from an original. The people of 1743 Kyoto will never notice. Are they hiring antiques dealers out of primary school these days?”

Simone pushed away from the desk in disgust and left through the door to the shop, heels clicking.

Petra smoothed the front of the kimono. It was heavy grey silk, painted with cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums. Near the hem, Petra had added butterflies.

 

The light in the shop was still on; Petra saw it just as she was leaving.

Careless, she thought as she crossed the workshop. Simone would have killed me.

She had one hand on the door when the sound of a footstep stopped her. Were they being robbed? She thought about the Danish Bronze Age brooches hidden behind the counter in their velvet wrappers.

Petra grabbed a fabric weight in her fist and opened the door a crack.

Simone stood before the fitting mirror, holding a length of bright yellow silk against her shoulders. It washed her out (she'd never let a client with her complexion touch the stuff), but her reflection was smiling.

She hung it from her collarbones like a Roman; draped it across her shoulder like the pallav of a sari; bustled it around her waist. The bright gold slid through her fingers as if she was dancing with it.

Simone gathered the fabric against her in two hands, closed her eyes at the feel of it against her face.

Petra closed the door and went out the back way, eyes fixed on the wings at her feet.

When she came around the front of the shop the light was still on in the window, and Simone stood like a doll wrapped in a wide yellow ribbon, imagining a past she'd never see.

Petra turned for home.

Disease Control hadn't made the rounds yet, and the darkness was a swarm of wings, purple and blue and gold.

Eric James Stone
(www.ericjamesstone.com)
lives in Eagle Mountain, Utah. He has a degree in political science and a law degree, and currently works as a website developer. He began publishing in the genre in 2004, when he was a winner of the Writers of the Future Contest. He has since sold seven stories to
Analog,
six to InterGalactic Medicine Show, and several more to various other publications. In 2009 he became an assistant editor for InterGalactic Medicine Show.

“Attitude Adjustment” was originally written for a contest held by the Codex Writers Group
(www.codexwriters.com),
of which he is an original member, and was published in
Analog,
which survives by persisting in publishing the same thing it always has. This story is good old-fashioned problem-solving space SF in the Astounding tradition, done well. It has a touch of the Heinleinesque in its characterization and resolution.

D
anica Jarvis switched off the
Moonskimmer
's main engine, and her stomach lurched in the familiar way that marked the change to zero gravity. She fired the attitude thrusters, turning the mushroom-shaped ship until it floated head-down over the Moon, so the long stem of the engine wouldn't get in the way. The clear diamondglass of the
Moonskimmer
's hull allowed an unobstructed view of the lunar landscape.

From her pilot's chair in the center, she looked around at the eight tourists strapped to their seats along the circumference of the cabin. “This is the fun part of the trip. Unbuckle your seatbelts and float while you enjoy the view.”

“Fun?” A teenage boy—Bryson Sullivan, according to the manifest—snorted. “Can we go back to the Hilton now?” He sported a bright purple datavisor and a shaved head.

Danica mustered her best be-nice-to-the-people-who-pay-my-salary grin and said, “Don't worry, Eddie and I will have you back to Luna City before the basketball game tonight. Right, Eddie?” Lunar-gravity basketball was a major tourist draw.

“Yes,” said Eddie, the
Moonskimmer
's A.I. “Our total flight time is less than two and a half hours. You'll get to see the far side of the Moon, something fewer than a thousand humans have seen with their own eyes. You should enjoy it.” Eddie's voice was enthusiastic.

The boy rolled his eyes, then opaqued his visor.

Danica decided to ignore the useless brat and turned her
attention to the rest of the passengers. She pointed to one of the craters below and began her routine tour-guide patter.

 

“Okay, folks, if you'd please return to your seats and buckle up,” said Danica. “I'm going to turn the ship so you can see the Earth rise over the lunar horizon.”

It took a couple of minutes for everyone to get settled. For most of the tourists, this was their first zero-gee experience, and it showed.

“Wait, I want to try zero-gee,” said Bryson. He began unbuckling his seatbelt.

Danica couldn't believe it. The kid had stayed in his seat the whole time, probably playing videogames on his visor. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but we—”

Fwoomp!

The
Moonskimmer
jerked sideways, then lunged forward at its maximum acceleration of 0.75 gee.

Bryson yelped as he hit the floor.

“Eddie, what was that?” asked Danica.

Eddie didn't reply.

Above the engine's hum came the hiss of air escaping the cabin.

Fix the air leak first.
That was Sergeant Conroy's first rule of disaster preparedness, drilled into Danica's mind during space pilot training. She quickly unbuckled her seatbelt and stood in order to go get the leak kit off the cabin wall.

But before she took a step, her conscious mind overrode her instinctive reaction.

The
Moonskimmer
was accelerating toward the Moon. Every moment of delay in shutting down the engine meant more altitude lost. She looked at her control panel and found nothing but blank screens. Not just Eddie—all the computers were down.

Manual engine shutdown required her to go down to the ship's lower level through the hatch in the main cabin's floor.

And sprawled on top of the hatch was the teenager.

She was beside him in two steps. “Out of my way,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him off the hatch.

“Get off me!” He yanked his arm away.

She unlocked the hatch and pulled its recessed handle. It resisted her, and air rushed by her hand to flow down into the lower level. The leak was below.

Pointing to the leak kit's shiny red case, she said, “Someone grab that and drop it down to me.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled as much as she could while yanking the hatch open.

Air swirled around her as she slid down the eight-foot ladder. There was still atmo on the lower level, although the pressure difference made her ears pop.

The main engine cutoff switch was right next to the ladder. She twisted it clockwise a half turn, and the engine died. Even though she was now weightless, the airflow from above kept her feet pressed against the deck.

Her lungs demanded air, and she decided it wouldn't hurt to take a breath from the thin atmo. She'd expelled her breath before coming down in case it was hard vacuum.

“Heads up!” said a man's voice from above.

One of the older passengers, Mr. Lyle, gripped the edge of the hatch opening with one hand and held the leak kit in the other.

She waved for him to toss it down. He did, and she caught it with her right hand while anchoring herself to the ladder with her left. She removed the sealant grenade from the kit, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the middle of the room.

The grenade exploded into a cloud of light-blue fibers.

Air currents caused by the leak made the fibers swarm like insects toward the hole in the hull. Some were swept out into space, but some stuck to the edges of the hole and caught others as they passed. In less than a minute the leak was sealed as the fibers congealed over it.

With the
Moonskimmer
airtight again, Danica manually released air from the reserve tanks to bring the pressure up to normal. Then she carefully checked the lower level to assess the damage.

 

“I think my arm's broke,” Bryson said as Danica floated up through the hatch. “My mom is
very
gonna sue you. You'll be lucky to pi lot a garbage truck in the future.”

At least he was back strapped into his seat.

Danica ignored his comment and returned to her chair in the center of the cabin. “Well, folks,” she said, “looks like we got hit by a meteor. Our computers are down, and I had to shut off the main engine manually. But the leak is sealed, and we've still got plenty of air, so I think the danger is past.” With the computer destroyed, Danica had been unable to calculate their trajectory to know whether she had stopped the main engine in time. She hoped she had.

“That was very heroic, what you did, young lady,” said Mr. Lyle.

She shrugged and smiled at him. “Just doing my job. And thanks for the assist.”

“What do we do now?” asked Ms. Paloma, another of the vacationing retirees.

“We wait,” said Danica. “Traffic control will realize we're overdue and start searching for us. They'll send a tug to pick us up eventually.” She looked at Bryson and said, “I guess you're going to miss that basketball game.”

“Why can't we just call and ask them to come get us?” asked Bryson's younger sister, Maddy.

“Coms are out, too,” said Danica. “That meteor really did a—”

“It wasn't a meteor,” Bryson said.

Danica blinked. “Well, I guess you're right. Technically, it's a meteoroid.”

“It wasn't a
meteoroid
.” He stared defiantly at her from behind his purple visor.

“Just shut up, Bryson,” said Maddy. “Why do you always act like you know everything?”

“You shut up, dumwitch,” he replied.

“It doesn't really matter what hit us,” said Danica. “What matters is we're—”

“Nothing hit us,” said Bryson.

Danica let out a slow breath. “Maybe I just imagined the hole in the hull and the air leaking out of the ship.”

Bryson shook his head. “Yeah, okay, I'm just a kid. I don't know zot. But my A.I.—” he tapped his datavisor “—says the engine activated slightly
before
the sideways jolt.”

Danica raised her eyebrows. An A.I. small enough to fit in a visor would be so expensive that this kid had to come from one of the trillionaire families. His last name clicked in her mind—Sullivan, as in Sullivan Space Technologies. “Then what did it?”

“Sabotage,” said Bryson. “Someone did this to us.”

Maddy gasped.

Shaking her head, Danica said, “Why would anyone sabotage the
Moonskimmer
?”

“I know,” said Maddy. “Our mom's chief negotiator for L.M.C. The union's made threats.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Mr. Lyle. “My son's a union steward. They would never—”

Several people began talking at once.

“Stop!” Danica said. “Who did this and why is a matter for the authorities back in Luna City. We survived. That's all that matters right now.”

After a few seconds of silence, Bryson said, “We have forty-seven minutes left to live.”

As the others responded with shocked exclamations, Danica asked calmly, “Our trajectory?”

Bryson nodded. “My A.I.'s done a nice little animation. In just under half an orbit, we're going to make a tiny new crater on the moon.”

Obviously she had shut down the engine too late. But…She unbuckled herself and moved to the hatch leading to the lower level.

“Come with me, Bryson,” she said as she opened the hatch.

Instead of unbuckling, he folded his arms tight. “You gonna lock me up? I'm only telling the truth!”

“I know,” Danica said. “Congratulations! You and your A.I. have just been promoted to navigator. Now get down here and see if you can link up with what's left of the computer.”

“Already tried through the wireless. The software's skunked,” said Bryson. “No way for my A.I. to make sense of it. And rewriting from zot's gonna take a lot more than forty-five minutes.”

Danica tightened her lips for a moment. “Look, it's just our attitude that's the problem.”

Bryson snorted. “If we just think positive, everything'll turn out brightwise?”

“No, the
Moonskimmer
's attitude,” said Danica. “The main engine will push us forward if I switch it back on, but we can't turn without the A.C.S.—Attitude Control System.”

“There's no manual override?” asked Bryson.

“There was.” Danica pointed down to the lower level. “Unfortunately, whatever fried the computer also fried the A.C.S. board. The only way we're controlling those rockets is by computer. Have your A.I. focus on that.”

Mr. Lyle's voice came from behind her. “I think I can get your radio working again.”

Danica's heart seemed to jump inside her. “Keep working on the A.C.S.,” she said to Bryson. She launched herself back to her seat at the center of the cabin.

“What've you got?” she asked Mr. Lyle, who had started taking apart her control panel.

“Well, it seemed strange to me that a computer problem would take out the com, too.” Mr. Lyle tugged at some multicolored wires.

Danica shrugged. “It's all digital.”

“Yes, but radio doesn't have to be digital. I can remember the days when even TV was still analog. Terrible picture, but at least the shows were better back—”

“Honey,” said Mrs. Lyle, “fix the radio?”

“Oh, right,” he said. He pulled out a circuit board and frowned at it. “Anyhow, I figure even if the digital part doesn't work, the radio part might. And if we can send an S.O.S., someone might pick it up and come to rescue us.”

Danica doubted anyone would be listening for non-digital radio signals, but there was no harm in letting Mr. Lyle try. “Do what you can.”

She turned to the other passengers, still strapped in their seats. “Anyone have any experience repairing computer control systems?”

After a few seconds of silence, Maddy said, “We're going to die, aren't we?”

“Not if your brother and his A.I. can get the attitude rockets to work,” said Danica. “We just need to get into a safe orbit, and someone will eventually pick us up.”

Bryson shook his head. “Can't.”

“What do you mean, ‘Can't'? Keep trying,” said Danica.

“No point. Got into the A.C.S. enough to read the fuel pressure: zero. Explosion must've taken out a fuel line.” Bryson shook his head.

“So we can't do anything but float until we crash?” asked Mrs. Park, a retired high school teacher who had chatted merrily with Danica earlier in the trip.

“What about the main drive fuel?” Danica asked.

“Nothing wrong with the main drive, far as I know.” Bryson shook his head. “They wanted it to work until it smashed us into the moon.”

“So we can accelerate, but we can't turn,” Danica said. “We've got to find a way to…spacesuit!” She floated over to the cabinet where her spacesuit was stored. “I'll attach a line to the nose and use the suit thrusters to swing us around.”

She opened the cabinet and grabbed her suit. The composite fabric, stronger than woven steel, tore like cotton candy. She stared at the wispy handful. Nanobots. That was the only possible explanation: someone had infected the suit with composite-eating nanobots.

With little doubt as to what she would find, she checked the fuel gauge on the thrust-pack. Empty.

She shoved the suit back into the cabinet. She swung over to the cabinet holding the “Breach-Balls,” inflatable life-support bubbles with breathable air for two passengers for up to twelve hours. Nanobots had ruined all four of them. No one would be doing any E.V.A.

She turned to face her passengers. All but Mr. Lyle, still working at the radio, stared back at her.

“Anyone have any ideas?” she said.

There was a long pause.

Mr. Godfrey, a wizened bald gentleman who had hardly said two words during the whole trip, broke the silence. “I read a science fiction story once where people were ma
rooned in orbit, and they made a hole in their water tank so that it acted like a rocket.”

“Good thinking,” said Danica. “Our drinking water tank isn't big enough, though. The only liquid we have enough of is fuel, and we need that for the main engine.” She wrinkled her brow. “Plus, the only access to the fuel tank is from outside, and we haven't got a spacesuit. But we need to think of all possibilities.”

“Young man,” said Mrs. Park, looking at Bryson, “you said we had less than half an orbit before crashing. Is it more than a quarter?”