And a second later it caught up to our hindmost straggler, Glenn.
I’ll remember the sound of her death until my dying day, because there was so little to it. It was a sound that would mean nothing to a groundhog, meant nothing to me then, and that every spacer dreads to hear: a short high whistle, with an undertone of crashing surf, lasting for no more than a second and ending with a curious croaking. It is the sound of a p-suit losing its integrity, and its inhabitant’s final exhalation blowing past the radio microphone.
Later examination of tapes showed that the first thing to hit her was a hunk of shrapnel with sharp edges; it took both legs off above the knees, and that might well have sufficed to kill her, emptying her suit of air instantly. But you can live longer in a vacuum than most groundhogs would suspect, and it is just barely possible that we might have been able to get her inboard alive. But a split second later a mass of superheated steam struck her around the head and shoulders. P-suits were never designed to take that kind of punishment: the hood and most of the shoulders simply vanished, and the steam washed across her bare face—just as she was trying desperately to inhale air that was no longer there. When Sulke had us decelerate and regroup, she kept on going, spinning like a top. A couple of people started off after her, but Sulke called them back.
No one else died, but there were more than a dozen minor injuries. The most seriously injured was Soon Li, who lost two fingers from her left hand; she would have died, but while she was gawking at her fountaining glove, Sulke slapped sealant over it and dragged her to the nearest airlock. She suffered some tissue damage from exposure to vacuum, but not enough to cost her the rest of the hand. Antonio Gonella managed to crash into Top Step in his panicked flight, acquiring a spectacular bruise on his shoulder and a mild concussion. Two people collided more decisively than I had, and broke unimportant bones.
But the casualty that meant the most to me was Robert.
Chapter Ten
Once is happenstance;
twice is coincidence;
three times is enemy action.
A small piece of shrapnel, the size and shape of a stylus, was blown right through his left foot from bottom to top. It was a clean wound, and his p-suit was able to self-seal around the two pinhole punctures. If he cried out, it was drowned out by the white noise of dozens of others shouting at once, and when Sulke called for casualty reports, he kept silent. I didn’t know he’d been hurt until we were approaching the airlock, several minutes after the explosion, and I saw that the left foot of his p-suit had turned red. My first crazy thought was that some Symbiote had gotten into his p-suit somehow; when I realized it was blood I came damned near to fainting.
Cameras caught the entire incident—there are always cameras rolling around the docks—and replay established conclusively that Robert was following me, keeping me in his blast shadow, when he was hit. Or else that shrapnel might have hit me.
The explosion had shocked me, and Glenn’s ghastly death had stunned me, but learning of Robert’s comparatively minor injury just about unhinged me. I think if Reb had not been present I would have thrown a screaming fit…but his simple presence, rather than anything he said, kept me from losing control. He got us all inside, kept us organized and quiet, did triage on the wounded and had them all prioritized by the time the medics arrived. Sulke was the last one in, but when she did emerge from the airlock she paused only long enough to inventory us all by eye, and then went sailing off to goddammit get some answers.
Robert was pale, and his jaw trembled slightly, but he seemed otherwise okay. The sight of his torn foot, oozing balls of blood, made me feel dizzy, but I forced myself to hold it between my palms to cut off the bleeding. It felt icy cold, and I remembered that was a classic sign of shock. But his breathing was neither shallow nor rapid, and his eyes were not dull. He seemed lucid, responded reassuringly to questioning; I relaxed a little.
The medical team was headed by Doctor Kolchar, the doctor I’d seen briefly during my first minutes at Top Step. He was a dark-skinned Hindu with the white hair, moustache and glowering eyebrows of Mark Twain, dressed as I remembered him in loud Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. He handed off Nicole to Doctor Thomas, the resident specialist in vacuum exposure, and came over to look at Robert. He checked pulse, blood pressure and pupils before turning his attention to the damaged foot.
“You’re a lucky young man,” he said at last. “You couldn’t have picked a better place to drill a hole through a human foot. No arterial or major muscle damage, the small bone destroyed isn’t crucial, most of what you lost was meat and cartilage. Even for a terrestrial this would not be a serious injury. Do you want nerve block?”
“Yes,” Robert said quietly but emphatically. Doctor Kolchar touched an instrument to Robert’s ankle, accepted its advice on placement, and thumbed the injector. Robert’s face relaxed at once; he took a great deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Don’t mention it. That block is good for twelve hours; when it wears off, come see me for another. Don’t bother to set your watch, you’ll know when it’s time. Meanwhile, drink plenty of fluids—and try to stay off your feet as much as possible.” He started to jaunt away to his next patient.
I was in no mood for bad jokes. “Wait a minute! Are you crazy? You haven’t even dressed his foot. What about infection?”
He decelerated to a stop and turned back to me. “Madam, whatever punctured his foot was the size and shape of a pen. There’s nothing like that in a cargo hold, and that’s the only place I can imagine a bug harmful to humans living on a spacecraft. And you know, or should know, that Top Step is a sterile environment. His bleeding has stopped, and there was a little coagulant in what I gave him. If it makes you happy to dress his foot, here.” He tossed me a roll of bandage. “But I’m a little busy just now.” He turned his back again and moved away. I looked down at the bandage and opened my mouth to start yelling.
“It’s all right, Morgan,” Robert said. “Believe me, I won’t bang it into anything.” He smiled weakly in an attempt to cheer me up.
My rage vanished. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
“Nerve block is a wonderful thing. That hurt like fury!”
I pulled his head against my chest and hugged him fiercely. “Oh, Robert, my God—poor Glenn! What a horrible thing.”
He stiffened in my arms. “Yes. Horrible.”
A thought struck me. “Her body! Somebody’s got to go and retrieve it! Teena, is anyone retrieving Glenn’s body?”
“No, Morgan.” Her voice was in robot mode; she must have been conducting many conversations at once.
“But someone has to!” Why? “Uh, her family might want her remains sent home. They can still track her, can’t they?”
“Her suit transponder is still active,” Teena said. “But in her contract with the Foundation she specified the ‘cremation in atmosphere’ option for disposition in the event of her death.”
“Oh. Wait a minute—her last vector was a deceleration with respect to Top Step. She was slowing down in orbit—so she’ll go into a higher orbit, right? I did the same thing myself yesterday. The atmosphere won’t get her, she’ll just…go on forever…” Oh God, without her legs, boiled and burst and dessicated! Much better to burn cleanly from air friction in the upper atmosphere, and fall as ashes to Earth—