Aftermath (19 page)

"We have attained zero relative velocity." Jenny Kopal's calm voice sounded over Celine's suit radio. "Distance from ISS-2 is eighty meters."

"Hold there pending further instructions." That was Zoe Nash. "All right, no point in waiting. Let's go."

She led the way out of the hatch. Celine and Ludwig followed more slowly, drifting across toward the space station. By the time they joined Zoe she was waiting at a point between the two orbiters where a station entry hatch was located. She moved the airlock door a few inches with her suited hand, making it clear from her action that the hatch was not sealed. If the inner lock was open, too, the interior of a large part of ISS-2 would be airless.

Celine, moving abruptly from sunlight to shadow, felt a cold like death inside her. It could only be psychological, because her suit maintained internal temperature control. During the return journey from Mars they had talked often about the return to Earth space, and the joyful reunion they would have with the staff of the big stations when they docked there.

"The orbiter access external airlock is open." Zoe spoke for the benefit of those aboard the
Schiaparelli.
She had the hatch fully open and was moving inside. "The inner door of the lock is not sealed. No mechanical locks are engaged. ISS-2 appears to have been relying on electronic control. That was probably the case everywhere on the station."

The crew of the station are all dead.
Celine added those words only to herself. Everyone on the
Schiaparelli
was capable of drawing the same conclusion without assistance.

Once they were through the inner airlock door, she and Zoe moved away in different directions. Zoe had assigned their duties in advance. Ludwig would remain outside and determine the condition of the two single-stage orbiters. Celine would head for the control room and decide what elements of ISS-2, if any, might be restored to useful function.

Zoe had reserved the most unpleasant job for herself. She would inspect the station's living quarters.

But unpleasantness was all relative. Celine, easing her way along the corridor that led to the deep interior and heart of ISS-2, had to push her way past four bodies. They rested against the corridor wall, contorted as they had been at the moment of their deaths. She made a brief inspection, enough to confirm that they had all died in the decompression that followed the failure of the ISS-2's locks.

It had not been a quick death. This corridor was a hundred feet from the lock, and the air pressure drop to a fatal level had been far from instantaneous. There had been time to reach a bulkhead with its own safety airlock, and learn that it too would not work.

Two of the people were holding hands. Celine shone her suit light on their uniform tags and noted their names: Ursula Klein and Lawrence Morphy. United forever in death. They must have made that final gesture deliberately, and if she lived she would find a way to record the fact. Had they also, the living man and woman who now formed freeze-dried and desiccated corpses, had time enough to realize that the cause of all their problems was a failure of the microchips throughout the whole of ISS-2?

Surely not. The fatal
Gotcha!
was the one that you never expected; no one had expected this.

Celine recorded the other two names also, and forced herself to keep going. The control room had its own share of horrors. Seven more corpses. Three people, all women, sat in chairs before the control board, where not a warning light glowed or a single display was active. The interior temperature of the chamber, according to Celine's suit sensors, was hundreds of degrees below freezing. ISS-2 was dead. Unlike its doomed personnel, the station might one day be brought back to life. But that resurrection would require the replacement of thousands, perhaps millions, of electronic components. Celine had no hope that she and her companions could perform such a task with the limited resources available on the
Schiaparelli.
So far as the Mars expedition was concerned, ISS-2 was a derelict hulk and would remain so.

She made a final inspection of the seven bodies in the control room, again noting from the uniforms the name of every dead individual. She did not know why she was doing it. Earth records would certainly contain identification of everyone on ISS-2.

She did it anyway, a bizarre gesture of final respect. Then with the presentiment of death inside her she drifted back along the corridor to the airlock.

There was no sign of the other two. Zoe must still be inside, while Ludwig was presumably in one of the two orbiters. Celine headed for the nearer, noting as she approached how small it seemed. She had been to orbit and returned from it many times, but always in vehicles ten times the size of this one. It looked like a toy, a single-person reentry pod. And this little bug was supposed to hold three or four of them?

Celine made a determined effort to avoid negative thinking. This orbiter would take them home, because it had to. She had seen ISS-2, and she knew there was no chance of waiting on the station for a possible rescue from Earth.

Ludwig was inside the orbiter. He had pulled the front off the control board, and was studying what lay behind it using the light of his suit. He turned when Celine's light added to his in illuminating the panel. "Well? What did you find?"

"What we expected." She did not want to go into details. "We will have to use these orbiters. Maybe we can scavenge materials from the station, and fuel. But no working electronics."

He scowled at her. "Marvelous. But not surprising. And not good, because the electronics are shot in both orbiters. The other one is a bit bigger inside than this one, but they have identical computers and identical control systems. We won't need fuel, because both orbiters have full tanks. But we do need control systems, and that's going to be a problem. Zoe's one of the best, but even she can't fly a reentry without controls."

"She's going to if she has to." It was Zoe's voice, thin over the radio link. "We all do what we have to do. You two stay where you are, I'm outside the station now and on my way. I'm afraid it's all bad news inside ISS-2."

"I don't think we'll be forced to a seat-of-the-pants reentry attempt." Ludwig did not press Zoe for details on what she had found inside the station, any more than he had asked Celine. "These single-stagers, thank God, are built simple. Most of the control surfaces don't use computers, they're self-adjusting on reentry to external conditions. And where they do need computers, they're designed so you can pull and replace the whole box."

"You mean we can use what we have on the
Schiaparelli
?" It was the first good news of Celine's day. "Suppose we need it there?"

"We won't." Zoe had reached the hatch and was trying to squeeze inside. "We can take anything from there, because we won't be needing the Mars ship at all. We're going home."

Celine, trying to move to let Zoe in, became even more aware of the cramped interior space of the single-stage orbiters. There was no way that she and Ludwig could admit Zoe. The padded seats would have to come out before a third person could get in. And what would a reentry be like, without cushioning against deceleration forces?

Stop thinking negative. Whatever it's like, it's better than the alternative.

Celine turned to Ludwig, who had removed the little cube of the control computer. He was staring at it dubiously. "This sucker is dead. I can replace it with a good one from our ship, but that's not the hard part. The tricky bit is going to be software. We need the right program routines."

"Routines which we don't have." Even Zoe sounded discouraged for a moment. "The
Schiaparelli
never expected to need a program for Earth orbit reentry."

"Routines which we
might
have," said a new and unexpected voice. It was Jenny Kopal. She, like the rest of the crew on the Mars ship, had been silently listening in on the discussion.

"How so?" Zoe, like everyone else, deferred to Jenny on all questions related to computer software.

"Back when we were setting up the
Schiaparelli
data bases, I was given a free hand as to what programs I could load. So I decided it was best to be generous—"

"Thank God for a program pack rat," Zoe said. "Jenny, I've seen you gloating over your master files like a mother hen. I never dreamed it would pay off this way."

"I thought it best to be generous," Jenny said calmly. "I loaded every routine in the data base that had a 'space use' descriptor. They didn't take up much storage. Even if—"

"I don't care how much storage they took." Zoe interrupted again. "The question is, do you have the programs to control reentry of these particular single-stage orbiters?"

"I don't know. I downloaded many thousands of programs. I'll have to establish a search with the appropriate parameters."

"Do that. How long will it take?"

"I can set it up in half an hour. The search will take longer—a lot of the files are on DNA backup storage. Very high packing density, but it has long access times. Maybe three hours."

"Do it. Ludwig, I want these orbiters ready to receive new hardware as soon as possible. Replace chips wherever we have substitutes on the
Schiaparelli.
Patch around them if we don't. And mark the places where the pilot has to take over control of the orbiters and fly them directly."

"Yeah. Right." Ludwig stared quizzically at Zoe, then turned back to the dismantled control panel. "Like me to make 'em go faster than light while I'm at it?"

"Save that for next time. Can you finish this in twenty-four hours?"

"Naturally. I'm Superman, remember?"

"Get this ship ready to fly in less than twenty-four hours, and I'll buy you a new cape."

Zoe backed out of the hatch. When Celine joined her she was hovering motionless, staring at the great bulk of Earth hanging overhead. Since entering the station, ISS-2 and the
Schiaparelli
had moved together in their ninety-minute orbit of Earth, and now they faced the nightside of the planet. Ship and station were in an orbit with an inclination of thirty degrees, and at the moment they were close to their northern limit. Celine knew that North America lay beneath them. No lights were visible. The great cities were in darkness, or obscured by heavy cloud. She wanted to believe the second explanation.

"Two days." Zoe pointed up toward Earth. "Two days at the outside, and we will be there."

She spoke with total conviction. Celine felt her own surge of confidence. She knew that Zoe as expedition leader and chief pilot might speak optimistically to boost the spirits of the rest of them. But it wasn't that. This was straight-from-the-heart Zoe Nash, Zoe sure that she could do it, Zoe knowing that nothing could stop her; Zoe able to make things happen so that nothing
did
stop her. That was why she was the expedition leader.

Zoe said she would be on Earth within two days. Therefore Zoe would, beyond a doubt, be on Earth within two days.

12

Sometimes you didn't know when you were well off. Saul Steinmetz stared at the list in disbelief. For twelve days he had cursed the lack of telecommunications and satellite systems. Now they were creeping back to life, and his problems were worse than ever.

He was being swamped. According to the log in his hand, he had received—over an ailing and imperfect communications system—eighteen hundred and forty-seven calls in the past six hours. They had come from every state and almost every country. Each one requested, begged for, or demanded the urgent personal attention of the President of the United States.

Saul hit the intercom, and Auden Travis popped in with his usual promptitude.

"Auden." Saul waved the typed list, all eight feet of it. "Doesn't anybody in this place know the meaning of the word
priorities
? What am I supposed to do, answer these goddammed calls in order, first called, first served? I need a cut on urgency and importance. Take the fucking thing away and
organize
it."

Auden Travis was a handsome young man with clean features, a strong Roman nose, and curly brown hair. His sensitive mouth twisted with a look of pained embarrassment. Saul knew why. It wasn't the chewing-out, it was the cussing. Auden never swore, and he disapproved of it. Saul did not normally swear, either. But there were times when you had to do it to get the message across hard enough. This was one.

"Take this amorphous piece of shit out of my sight." He shook the list. "I never want to see it again."

Travis took the paper and vanished without a word. Saul turned back to his desk and stared out of the window. People thought he was the boss and they asked him for help. They were wrong. Nature was the boss. You could plot and plan and scheme and schedule all the things you were going to do when the communications system came back on-line, and when service finally returned you couldn't do a damned thing.

Saul looked out onto a world of white. For the third day in a row, snow blanketed the East Coast from Maine to Norfolk and as far west as Indiana. The food convoys were stalled in eastern Kansas. Steam locomotives, equipped with snowplows, stood helpless in twelve-foot drifts. High winds had brought down more trees and power lines, closing roads that had only just been opened.

When would the snow end?

God knows,
Saul thought.
But God's not telling.

The Defense Department had at last managed to bring up a ground station and communicate with one of their own orbiting metsats. The succession of images proved one thing beyond debate: predictions made by the numerical weather models were garbage. A three-year-old could do as well drawing patterns with colored crayons.

The intercom buzzed, and Saul turned to it. "Yes?"

"Two things, Mr. President." It was Auden Travis again, speaking in an unnaturally low voice. "DOD has a working feed from one of their high-resolution birds. They don't have the use of the maximum data rate antenna, so the nature and number of images is limited. We only have Australia so far, but General Mackay feels that these images really deserve your attention."