getting peeled off the ceiling.
That night there had been children at the club, and Gruber had held to the family-friendly lyrics, even in the part about Americans retreating in disgrace:
We kicked their butts in Montreal
It really was a sight
To see the G.I. Joes and Janes
Run naked through the night The referenced original incident had been a successful assault of what should have been a secured American base. The Canadians had been too busy laughing to bother rounding up the dozen soldiers who’d been showering when they attacked. Lee had been out-sung, but let Klaus buy her a beer after they were done.
“We’ve got the southeast door disarmed.”
“I told you,” Piering said. “If the door is mined, don’t mess with it.”
“Yes,” Gruber whispered. “I know, I know. But we’ve really got a chance to get behind them, I think. I figured it out. They expect us to avoid the traps, and go through the open door. If we let them-”
“Klaus, this isn’t a game!”
“We’re so close,” Klaus said. “I’ve almost got-”
And then there was a blast of static, so loud that Piering winced, staggered back against the wall in shock. The entire structure hummed with that blast. Then the alarm began to ring.
“Inner wall breach,” the automated voice screamed. “Alert. Inner wall breach. Immediately seek shelter. The outer door of lock Northeast-G has been damaged. The seals will erode in approximately thirty seconds. Alert. Seek shelter immediately — ”
“Good God,” Max Piering whispered, stunned. “We’re screwed.”
“What the hell?” Angelique said. Panic tightened her voice.
Scotty and Darla glanced at each other. “Alarm,” she said. “And I’m betting that’s the real thing.”
“All right,” Wayne said. “But what does it mean?”
“That there’s been a breach,” Scotty said. “And that the sensors are detecting an outer hull damage as well.” He paused. “And that,” he said, “is very bad news.” He slapped his hand against the bubble wall, not at all comforted by the solid thump. “They say these things will hold a full atmosphere against vacuum. We’re about to find out.”
33
1527 hours
The air pressure at Earth sea level is approximately 14.7 pounds of pressure per square inch. The air in the gaming dome was held at a pressure closer to 10 pounds per square inch, still dense enough for easy breathing, close to the cabin pressure of a jetliner. The dome, roughly the diameter of a football field, held a volume of about 175,000 cubic meters of oxygen, imported nitrogen and helium left over from He3 mining.
When members of Piering’s A team tried to avoid the ambush by exiting and reentering the dome through another lock, the air pressure had been stable. When Gruber’s unfortunate mistake with the explosive device shattered the inner door and damaged the outer, it was as if the air was a living thing, seeking a path of exit, testing and pushing against the outer door as emergency blasts of Liquid Wall sought to heal the breaches before they became fatal.
But (and there is no way to put this delicately) there had been human beings in that airlock. When the inner door exploded, what remained of Gruber and Enroy was spread around the lock like a layer of lumpy raspberry jam and shredded pressure suit fabric. Nozzles that should have spread Liquid Wall evenly and swiftly were twisted by the blast, and jammed with human debris. Damage to the outer door became the weak point attracting every pressurized molecule of the oxygen-nitrogen-helium mix.
The crack deepened, and split, and the outer wall breached. Instantly, the airflow pushed against the opening, deepening, widening, and then ripping the door from the inside out.
The gaming dome became a screaming hell.
The warning klaxon was drowned out by the howl of air, and for the first time in her memory, Celeste panicked. Their men scrambled toward the open bubble above them, and Celeste screamed, her hands slipping on the ladder as she tried to climb in. Already, in mere seconds, the air was so thin that her lungs felt as if they were going to explode. Within moments, even if they made it into the bubble, it too would contain an atmosphere so thin that their lungs would hemorrhage no matter what they did.
She slid down the ladder, knocking Shotz back, furious at herself for losing focus. She fought to keep her head, vision swimming as she pulled herself up and into the bubble.
“Alexander!” she screamed. No one used Shotz’ given name, ever. She had barely used it even in their intimate moments. But some part of her, looking back through the hatch where he was six rungs below her, knew that there was a last time for everything.
She couldn’t breathe. She saw him struggling to lift himself, one agonizing rung at a time. She watched him stretch out his arm, hoping, and yet knowing hope was lost.
He grabbed the door, designed to close from inside so that air pressure would keep it sealed… and swung it closed on himself.
Celeste rolled over. She saw Thomas Frost reach the far door linking them to the next bubble, and turn the manual wheel to open it. When it opened, air from the next bubble blasted in like a bomb burst and sent him rolling.
The three of them flopped onto their backs, gasping like beached trout. She cursed her weakness, cursed the fear that coursed her veins like waves of lava. Cursed the shame she felt. Decades ago she had sworn that she would never allow herself to feel shame. She had been a child in war-torn Montreal, bereft of mother or father and forced to steal, and worse, just to survive. All gentleness had died within her then…
Until a man harder than the hate that sustained her had recruited her to a quixotic dream called Neutral Moresnot, a fantasy of creating their own nation. Somehow, this wild man had awakened a heart she had thought long dead.
She crawled up onto all fours, and staggered against the doorway, trying to peer down into the depths of the dome. Just machinery. She couldn’t see the ladder, but knew that Shotz’ strong hands no longer clutched at its rungs. Knew that somewhere far below them, he lay dead, blood foaming his nose and mouth. His hands, his loving hands would never again hold her. Touch her.
Celeste screamed, and screamed, until Fujita touched her shoulder, perhaps intending comfort. She wheeled, smashing him with a backhand. The sumo-sized Asian fell back, eyes wide, staring up at her as if viewing his own death.
She felt disconnected from herself, floating above her own head in some odd way. Shock, she recognized dimly, struggling for clarity. I am in shock.
She should have begun breathing deeply, slowing herself. Begun normalizing the systems now pumping overtime. But didn’t. She embraced this floating sensation, and dreaded its retreat. Dreaded what would happen when she plunged back down into grief.
She heard her own voice: “Can we… get his body?”
Fujita shook his head, eyes still focused on her face. “No. We have no pressure suits. We can’t open the door,” he said. “I think it’s over. The gamers could all be dead, Celeste. We need to-”
Shrieking, she lifted Fujita and slammed him into the wall. On Luna, the explosive uncoiling of her leashed rage and grief was almost enough to break bones.
She pushed her forearm against his neck, and Fujita struggled, barely able to breathe but afraid to fight back. He knew what would happen if he did.
