“You sure about that battery?” Ben asked.
Bird hit CYCLE 2. The pumps vibrated. “Hell of a time to ask.”
“Are you sure?”
“Thirty years at this, damn right I checked.—Whoa, there.”
The HUD in the faceplate suddenly showed a yellow flasher and a dataflow glowing green. The one on the airlock wall glowed a sullen red.
“CONTAMINANTS.” Ben let go a shaky hiss of pent breath. “It’s not going to be pretty in there.—Bird, do we have to go through with this? There’s nothing alive inside.”
“We’re already there. Can you sleep without knowing?”
“Damn right I’ll sleep, I’ll sleep just fine.—I don’t want to see this, Bird. Why in hell do I got to see this?”
“Hey, we all end up the same. Carbon and nitrogen, a lot of H 2O…”
“Cut it out, Bird!”
“Earth to earth. Dust to dust.” The indicators said 740/741 mb. and PRESSURE EQUALIZED. “Lousy compressor,” Bird said, pushed the INNER HATCH OPEN button. Air whistled, rushing past the pressure differential and an uneven seal. The doors ground slowly back. External audio heard it. 10° C, his HUD said about the ambient. Not quite balmy. “Heater’s going down. Heater’s always next to last.—You do know what’s last, don’t you, Ben-me-lad?”
“The damn beeper.” Ben’s teeth were chattering—nothing wrong with Ben’s suit heater, Bird was sure. Ben’s breath hissed raggedly over the suit-com. “So Mama can find the salvage. Only this time we got it, Bird, come on, I don’t like this. What if that leech pulls out?”
“Plug won’t pull out.”
“Hell, Bird!”
Inner doors labored to halfway open. Bird caught the door edge and shoved himself and his backpack through into the faintly lit inside.
A helmetless hardsuit, trailing cables and hose, drifted slowly in front of them, spinning in a loose, cocoon of its attachments. A cable went from its battery pack to the panel, last sad resort: the occupants had had time to know they were in trouble, time to drain the main batteries and the leech unit, and finally resort to this one.
Bits and pieces of gear drifted in the dimmed light, sparked bright in their suit-spots, cords, clips—everything a tumble could knock free. Fluids made small moons and planets.
“Mess,” Ben’s voice said. “Isn’t it?”
Bird caught the hose, tugged gently to pull the suit out of his way, and checked the suit locker. “One suit’s missing.”
“I’m cutting that damn beeper,” Ben said. “All right?”
“Fine by me.”
Stuff everywhere. Cables. A small meteor swarm of utility clips flashed in the light. Globules of fluid shone both oily-dark and amber. A sweater and a single slipper danced and turned in unison like a ghost.
“Lifesupport’s flat gone,” Ben said. A locker banged in the external audio, while Bird was checking the spinner cylinders for occupants. Empty. Likewise the shower.
A power cell floated past. Dead spare, one from the lock, one guessed.
A globule of fluid impacted Bird’s visor, leaving a chain of dark red beads.
“Come on, Bird. Let’s seal up. Let’s get out of here. They’re gone. Dead ship, that’s all. Don’t ask what this slop is that’s floating. The ‘cyclers are shot.”
Drifting hose. More clips. A lump of blankets under the number two workstation, spotted in Bird’s chest-light. “Looks like here’s one of them,” Bird said.
“God! Let it be! Bird!”
“Carbon and water. Just carbon and water.” Bird held the counter edge and snagged the blanket.
The body drifted past the chair, rolled free as the blanket floated on to dance with the sweater.
Young man in filthy coveralls. Straight dark hair and loose limbs drifted in the slow spin the turnout gave him.
Not much beard.
Bird caught a sleeve, stopped the spin, saw a dirty face, shut eyes, open mouth. Dehydration shrank the skin, cracked the lips.
“Don’t touch him!” Ben objected. “God, don’t touch him!”
“Beard’s been shaved, maybe three days.”
“God knows how long ago—he’s dead, Bird. That’s a dead body.”
Bird nudged the chin-lever over to sensor array, said, “Left. Hand.”
The HUD showed far warmer than the 10° ambient.
Pliable flesh.
“Isn’t a body, Ben. This guy’s alive.”
“Shit,” Ben said. Then: “But he’s not in control of this ship. Is he?”
Long, long door closing, with an unconscious man crowding them three to the lock, and the underpowered motors going slow and threatening breakdown. Then they could Mode 2 Override their own airlock, mixing air supplies and keeping pressure up for their passenger’s sake. “Go ahead and seal it behind us,” Bird said. “Keep it just the way it was, in case Mama asks questions.”
“God, we got a CONTAMINANTS flashing in ourlock now. Why the hell don’t we have a transfer bag? God, this guy’s all over crud.”
“We’ll think of that next time. Come on, come on. Do it.”
Ben swore, made the numbingly slow seal of the wreck’s doors, then pulled their leech free and hit HATCH CLOSE on their own panel, sending One’er Eighty-four Zebra toward an electronic sleep, still docked with them, her last battery on the edge of failure.
“Man was a total fool,” Ben muttered. “He should’ve hooked the ship in to feed that suit, not the other way around. Should have let her go all the way down.”
“Would’ve made sense,” Bird said.
“So where’s the partner?”
“God only. Push CYCLE. I can’t reach it.”
Ben got an arm past him and the rescuee and hit the requisite button. Their own compressor started, solid and fast, a healthy vibration under the decking.
Then the whole chamber went red and a blinking white light on the panel said INTERNAL CONTAMINANT ALERT.
“Shit,” Ben groaned.
“You got that right.”
“Bad joke, Bird. That stuff got past the filters!”
“Just override. Tell it we’re sorry, we can’t help it.”
Ben was already punching at the button. Ben said, “We don’t need any damn corpse fouling up our air, howsoever long he takes to get that way.—God, Bird, we ownthat ship!”
“Just let’s not worry about it here.” Bird felt the slight movement in his arms. Hugged the man tight, thinking, Poor sod. Hold on. Hold on awhile. We got you. You’re all right. He said to Ben, “He’s moving.”
Ben drew an audible breath. “You know, we could put him back in there. Who’s to know?”
“Bad joke, Ben.” The PRESSURE EQUALIZED lit up. “Hatch button. Come on, give me a hand, huh? I can’t turn around.”
“We can’t damn well afford this!” Ben said. “We’re into the bank as far as—”
“Ben, for God’s sake, just punch the damn button!”
Ben punched it. The hatch opened, relieved the pressure at Bird’s back, gave him room to turn and haul their rescuee inside. He carefully let the man go and let him drift while he sailed back into the lock and secured the leech into its housing. Then he drifted back through and shut the inside hatch.
Ben was lifting his helmet off—Ben was making a disgusted face and swearing. Their air quality alarm had the warning siren going and the overhead lights flashing—it was that bad. Ben grabbed their guest by the collar and started peeling him out of his clothes.
Bird got his own helmet off and let it float, stripped off his gloves and helped Ben peel the unconscious man to the skin, trying not to breathe, bunching the coveralls and stimsuit continually as they peeled them off, trying not to let them touch the air. He hesitated whether to go for a containment bag or shove them in the washer and maybe foul the cleaning fluid for the rest of the trip. The washer was closer. He crammed them in, slippers and all, levered the small door shut and pushed the button. The stench clung to his bare hands. His suit was splotched with yellow and red stains.