Zero-G (30 page)

It's all Prakesh can do to hold on.

They're flying away from Outer Earth, stars whirling past the cockpit viewport. Movement inside the tug is practically impossible. They might be floating in zero gravity, but there are at least twenty people inside, and there's hardly an inch of free space. Earthers and Tzevyans mingle together, huddled in the dim red light.

One of them floats past Prakesh, a knee half an inch from his nose, and he pulls back reflexively. He bangs his head on the wall, and gasps, tightening his fingers on the handhold. The lack of gravity is tearing his stomach apart – some of the others couldn't take the pressure, and there are already chunks of vomit floating in the stale air, glistening, catching the light.

He keeps seeing the airlock doors give way, keeps hearing the terrible roar as the air was sucked out. He doesn't know if the station can survive a breach that big. Riley will be OK, he knows it, refuses to think otherwise, but what about his parents? They're still on board.

He makes himself focus. He's near the front of the tug, near the two pilot seats. They're taken up by Okwembu on the right, and Mikhail on the left. They've managed to strap themselves in, and Mikhail is fighting with the control stick.

“Everybody hold on,” Okwembu says. “It's all under control.”

“
Under control?
” Syria's voice comes from the back of the craft. “You just blew a hole in the side of the station.”

“It's the only chance we have,” Okwembu says. Prakesh stares at her in silent wonder – she sounds calm, almost bored, like the breach was part of her plan.

He makes himself speak. “We have to go back. We have to help them.”

“Help who, Mr Kumar?” She doesn't turn to look at him. He wants to reach out and grab her by the hair, shake some sense into her, but he can't seem to remove his hand from the wall. His fingers have stopped listening to him.

“Everybody on Outer Earth,” he says. “They're still there. We can't just
leave them
.”

Now she does turn to look at him. In the red light, her eyes look like black holes.

“We can, and we have to,” she says.

He feels anger, real anger, at the thought of following Janice Okwembu into anything. But, then, what choice does he have? What choice do any of them have?

Preserve life
, he thinks, and grips his handhold even tighter.

Sweat is pouring down Mikhail's face. “All right,” he says to Okwembu, almost mumbling the words. “We should be in range.”

“Where is it?” she replies.

“Jacket pocket. You'll have to reach over.”

Prakesh sees Okwembu shut her eyes, just for a second, then lean over to Mikhail. She's exhausted – he can see that now. Despite her calm demeanour, there are dark shadows under her eyes. She sticks a hand in Mikhail's jacket, and it emerges holding a small tab screen, a bulky antenna jutting out of it.

“You know what to do?” says Mikhail.

Okwembu mutters something unintelligible, tapping her way through the opening menus.

“
Hey
,” Mikhail says. “You make it work. That's the only reason you're still alive.”

He doesn't see the look Okwembu flashes him, and the pure poison on her face is enough to make Prakesh's eyes go wide. In that instant, she doesn't look human.

But she says nothing, turning back to the tab screen.

“What's happening up there?” Syria shouts.

“Yeah,” comes another voice. “We can't see anything.”

Okwembu is using a program Prakesh hasn't encountered before: all green backgrounds and sparse text. “It's going to take a few minutes,” she says. “I haven't used Ellipsis since I was at the Academy.”

“I thought you said you could do it,” Mikhail says.

She rounds on him. “I can. I'm the
only
one who can. You should remember that. You just need to give me time.”

And Prakesh understands.

They crew of the
Shinso
would never let them on board. They'd know what was happening on the station, and they'd have been told to get as far away as possible. So the Earthers are using Okwembu to override the ship, using her experience of the
Shinso
's dated operating system. It wouldn't take much – all she'd have to do is force the ship's airlocks to activate, to let them dock.

And, on cue, the
Shinso Maru
slides into view, a tiny speck in the void, shadowed by the giant asteroid behind it.

Before I realise I'm doing it, I'm unbuckling my straps. They whiz back into the seat, and I float upwards, my stomach rolling uncomfortably. Carver stares at me in disbelief. “Where are you going?”

I don't have time to respond. I'm trying to bring to mind everything I know about moving in zero grav, remembering my journey through the Core. There are hand grips on the wall, awash in the red light from its interior. I use them to pull myself up, wincing as I bump into the ceiling.

Each move you make sends you in a new direction. Go slow.

It takes an enormous effort not to rush. Carver has unstrapped, too, floating behind me, his feet tapping against the cockpit glass. When I look back, I see that he's left a smeared boot print behind.

It's hard to pick out details in the hellish red light. I don't even know what I'm looking for – I half hope that there'll be an escape pod of some kind, but I know even before I get to the back that there's no way there'll be one on a ship of this size. My eyes rove over the back of the tug, looking for anything that might help us.

“Riley?” Carver says. It comes out a nervous shout, the cramped space amplifying the word, hurting my ears. But I don't reply, because right then I see the lockers.

The man-sized ones. The ones I passed on my way in.

My breath is coming in quick gasps as I tug on the handle. The locker opens with a creak of metal hinges, and inside …

“Are those what I think they are?” says Carver.

I grab onto a hand grip to steady myself, a stupid grin plastered across my face. There are three space suits inside the locker, each with the block letters SCC stitched on the chest.
Space Construction Corps.

Carefully reaching into the locker, I pull the first of the three space suits out, and push it towards Carver.

“Riley, it won't work,” Carver says, even as he spins the suit, looking for the seals. “There's a procedure for putting these on – you're supposed to check each other for breaks, spend an hour depressurising.”

“Carver, now is
not
the time.”

My own suit is made from what feels like grainy rubber, inflexible and tough. There are arches of plastic on the shoulders, one on either side, bracketing the space where my head will go. Here and there, dotted across the body, are tiny vents edged in hard plastic. It's dusty, too, the grains hanging in the air before me. How long have these suits been here? Will they still work?

My fingers find the seal running down the torso, and even as I yank it open I'm trying to recall what I know about the construction corps suits. The one-piece units are supposed to be easy to use – or easier, at least, than the ones our ancestors wore. The backpack unit has air, and power thrusters that let you move around – those must be the vents. I can't think of anything else, so I just concentrate on getting inside it.

Legs first, then arms. The inside is made of the same rubbery material, and it rucks my jacket sleeves up as I jam my arms in. Working as fast as I dare, I close myself inside the suit. My hands feel as if they're made of lead, the fingers numb and clumsy in the thick gloves. The suit hisses slightly as the single long seal closes. It's tight around my neck, and like four small vices across my wrists and ankles. In the gloves, my fingers feel as if they're welded in place.

“Helmets,” I say to Carver. “Where are the helmets?”

For a horrible moment, I'm sure that they're back on Outer Earth somewhere – that the suits will be completely useless. Carver looks like some kind of freakish doll that has come to life, moving his hands up and down his suit, patting the rubbery surface. There's a hiss, and then out of nowhere, his helmet appears: flexible plastic, sliding through grooves in the arches on his shoulders, shooting up from behind his head and over it before locking into place at the front.

He grabs my arm and jabs at something on my wrist. A small control panel, set into the suit – I hadn't seen it before. There's a loud whoosh, right by my ears, and my own helmet shoots over my head. As it seals into place, the ambient noise vanishes, and I hear nothing but the tiny hiss of the oxygen supply. That, and my own breath, coming in terrified hitches.

“—crazy.” Carver's voice is tinny and faint, but there.

I try not to think about what he's saying. “How am I hearing you?”

“I don't know. Must be a frequency the suits are locked into.”

“Get the ramp open,” I say to Carver.

“If we go out there without pressurising properly—”

“You have a better idea?”

“There's got to be an airlock in here. We can—”

“There's not enough time!”

His fingers find the button, caressing it slowly, buoyed by the lack of gravity.

“Ry…” he says, and the fear in his voice is unmistakeable.

“Do it!”

Carver hits the button.

Nothing happens. The ramp stays obstinately shut. Carver jams the button a second time, a third. I don't dare take a look out of the cockpit window. I just close my eyes.

There's a deep click, and then the whine of a motor as the ramp starts to open. I have just enough time to catch Carver's eyes – wide with fear, just like mine – and then we're tumbling, crashing into each other, sucked sideways by the loss of air pressure.

We both hit the ramp at once, almost becoming stuck as our bodies tangle in the gap. It's like the dock breach all over again – the same rushing sensation, the same sense of panic. But this time there's no seat to strap into. No metal cocoon.

I have time to shout Carver's name, just once. And then we're pulled free of the ramp, rolling end over end, into space.

They're coming up on the
Shinso Maru
way too fast.

Its hull looms in the viewport. There's a muted bleeping sound, and a calm voice warns them of a proximity alert. Mikhail grips the stick, pushing it gently. The hull slides away as the tug tilts downwards.

Everybody inside the tug watches the movement play out. Prakesh's mouth has gone completely dry. His world has shrunk down to that cockpit viewport. It's like they're trying to sneak up on a gigantic beast, get close to it without touching it.

Could he take over the tug somehow? He and Syria could rush the cockpit, overpower Okwembu and Mikhail, turn this ship around and …

And what?

He grits his teeth, furious with himself. Without wanting to, he thinks of Riley – she would know what to do. She always has a plan, always has something she could try.

She's not here
, a voice in his mind says.
It's just you.

“Steady,” says Okwembu.

“I was a tug pilot for ten years,” Mikhail says, speaking a little louder than he should. “I know how to fly.”

He flicks a quick glance at Okwembu. “How much longer?”

The tug's comms system crackles. “Unidentified tug ship,” says a man's voice, crisp and efficient. “This is Captain Jonas Barton of the
Shinso Maru
. You are not authorised to—”

Mikhail fumbles at the control panel, snapping off the transmission. It's immediately replaced by another soft beeping. “Warning,” says the tug's electronic voice. “Fuel at five per cent.”

“Gods,” says someone behind Prakesh. He can't tear his eyes away from the viewport.

“Are you in?” Mikhail is almost shouting now.

“Nearly there,” says Okwembu. She's navigating across the screen at a blazing speed, her fingers opening and closing windows faster than Prakesh can track.

“Nearly isn't good enough,” Mikhail says. He's sweating so hard that it has started to drip off his face, forming opaque globules in the air in front of them. “We dock now, or we don't dock at all.”

“Almost got it.”

Mikhail pulls back on the stick. Prakesh's stomach lurches as the view swings upwards, the hull rushing towards them. Mikhail hits a few more controls, and the tug stabilises. They're really close to the hull now – so close that Prakesh can make out the details on its surface. The ancient warning labels, the handholds, the vents. He can see man-sized crusts of ice adhering to the hull, jagged and grey.

The thrusters on the side of the
Shinso
fire, all at once. At first, Prakesh thinks that they're trying to get away, to increase their velocity. But the angle is wrong. The thrusters are at ninety degrees to the body.

Mikhail peers out. “What are they doing?”

“Don't worry – that's me,” Okwembu says. “We have to stop the
Shinso
's rotation if we're going to attach to the airlock.”

“That'll disrupt the on-ship gravity.”

Okwembu ignores him. And –
there
– the airlock. A huge, round port in the side of the ship, with three scalloped hinges around the edges. Easily the size of their tug.

Without warning, Mikhail swings the tug around. This time, Prakesh almost does throw up – he feels bile climb into his throat, feels his mouth flood with saliva. The
Shinso
disappears, replaced by a backdrop of stars. What the hell is Mikhail doing?

He looks over. Mikhail's eyes are fixed on a screen set into the main console. It's a camera on the back of the tug. The feed is glitchy, but Prakesh can see the airlock. Mikhail is going to back them in, docking so that the ramp can lower and they can enter the ship.

“I'm going in,” Mikhail says. He starts to reach for the thruster control.

“No,” Okwembu says, and a note of fear has crept into her voice. “I don't have access yet.”

“If we don't dock now, we'll run out of fuel.”

“It won't accept us. You have to give me time.”

Prakesh closes his eyes. He tries to picture Riley, and his parents, and Suki. He tries to think of the Air Lab, of the light filtering through the tree canopy, of the quiet, cool algae ponds.

“Warning,” the electronic voice says. “Proximity alert.”

One of the Earthers starts to scream.

“Proximity alert.”

Without wanting to, Prakesh opens his eyes. The
Shinso
's airlock fills the screen on the console.

“Got it!” Okwembu says.

There's a
thud
, reverberating through the tug, shaking its occupants. The lights flicker. Whoever was screaming stops abruptly.

A second later, the tug's ramp hisses open.