“Be sure to vent your fuel,” Armis advised. “And fill as much of your suit as you can with patch to help insulate.”
“Took the same safety classes you did, Half Pint,” Brogden somehow managed a chuckle. “How’s it look in there?”
“We’re good,” Armis assured him, as though he could see the gauges which were well above his head.
“Get ready,” Brogden warned. “Now!”
Armis opened the valves, counting to seven before he shut them again. It was only after the rushing stopped that he realized Brogden had not given the close order.
“Brogden?” he asked. “You still with me?”
Static. Static and maybe a groan.
“Brogden!” shouted, knowing his voice would be a scratchy whisper in the other’s ear. If the other was in any condition to hear.
Armis hadn’t been counting the seconds since the last burn ended. Without Brogden he had no way of knowing when to open the valves again. He waited, straining to hear any sound from the other cadet.
Now? he wondered, trying to count back the seconds in his head, Now? His hand twitched on the valve control, but he fought the urge to throw them open. A vent at the wrong time could undo all work they’d done.
It had been too long. He knew it had been too long. He’d missed the moment to vent; he must have. He knew there was no way to way to see outside and trigger the valves at the same time, but he tried to think of one anyway.
Anything was better than sitting blindly in the dark waiting to die.
A cough on the radio, a gasp and then: “Now!”
Armis’ hands already gripping the controls, twisted in a painful spasm, throwing the valves open.
“Close!” Brogden croaked.
“Good to have you back,” Armis said.
“Yeah,” Brogden answered tersely. “Hang on.”
“What?”
“Hang—”
Armis was slammed back against the shroud, his ears ringing from the helmet’s impact. Then he was slapped forward, his faceplate hitting the pipes so hard he forgot everything else in a frantic check for microfractures.
His radio light flashed for attention. One of the commercial frequencies, he realized.
“Brogden, I’m switching to channel L-four,” he broadcast, and waited a moment for the other to answer. Silence. With a sigh, he chinned the frequency selector.
“Merchant Cadet Armis Tolan here,” he reported crisply, or as crisply as he could.
“You the monkey on the valves?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
“Aye.”
“Lay off. This is the Castle Hayne, we’ve got a grapple line on you.”
Armis didn’t recognize the name, but only a DropShip would have the mass to capture a tumbling water cylinder. Even one that was mostly empty.
“How’s my partner?” he asked.
“We’ll know in a minute.”
There was another jerk; a second and perhaps a third grapple, Armis guessed. And faint clangs through the metal pipes; people landing on the cylinder?
There was a slight pause.
“His suit integrity’s good, he’s got pressure,” said a voice. A female voice Armis thought he recognized. “His faceplate’s fogging.”
Armis nodded to himself in the dark as he listened to them secure the injured cadet for transport to the DropShip. An inflated suit and evidence of breathing; anything beyond that was detail. Brogden was going to make it.
“Avast, Tolan!”
“Ahoy,” Armis corrected Jenkins—for it could only be Jenkins—but not loudly enough for his mic to pick up.
“Stay clear of the shroud,” Jenkins continued. “We’re going to blow the bolts.”
Not questioning how he was supposed to stay clear of the titanium steel plates which surrounded him, Armis hugged the pipes before him tightly.
“Clear!”
There was a pause, perhaps a dozen heartbeats, then the yellow flare of explosive bolts and the sky opened up around him. His vented fuel flashed, a pale blue nimbus that dissipated almost instantly. Then there was only space, home, black with cold and distant stars.
Twisting sideways, Armis tilted his head back, trying to see the DropShip that had rescued them. The Castle Hayne was the wounded Mule that had hit the gantry, which made sense now that he had time to think about it. It had been the only ship in position, already moving in their general direction. Of course it had scooped up the scattered cadets and come after the cylinder.
Suddenly the other cadets were around him. Alison caught hold of his shoulders, bracing him, while Jenkins bent to work on his trapped and broken leg. He had never noticed the sword-and-sunburst patch on Jenkin’s shoulder before. There were others, but he could not see their name patches nor their faces through the polarized ferroglass of their helmets.
Beyond them the golden crescent of Kathil cut across the sky as the cylinder swung on its tether, blotting out the stars. Armis pulled his mouth into a hard line.
He never wanted to be this near a planet again.
ECHOES IN THE VOID
by Randall N. Bills
Voidjumper III, Quetzalcoatl-Scout-class JumpShip
Triangulation
24.631 LY from Manotick
15.662 LY from Gibraltor
9.739 LY from Silver
Abbey District, Free Worlds League
6 July 3066
“Just cannot be right. You go on an’ check it again.” The deceptively soft voice breathed across his neck, reeking of Tamarind dorith-jerky.
Colt wondered if Cap might be going senile. Serve him right; Colt couldn’t stand the smell of the acerbic jerky, much less the way it made Cap sweat vile from every pore. (Colt never did figure out how the stuff could survive the air scrubbing so well.)
Then again, Colt just couldn’t stand Cap, jerky or no.
He turned and did as ordered. After all, whether plying the waters of ancient Terra, or the black voids of space, a ship captain was god incarnate. And on the Voidjumper III that couldn’t be more true.
No way would Colt Stevens be “accidentally” walkin’ out an airlock!
He tapped on the pilot’s console for almost five more minutes, the sounds echoing through the small confines of the JumpShip bridge. He turned to Cap, subservient look painted large.
“Captain, just not here,” he said.
Could’ve been a funeral service for the sounds coming
