Space Stations Part 4

It did not. Unexpectedly, an important component of the module still functioned.

Hedrickson studied the readouts and listened to the human static that filled his headphones. The various speakers were angry, frustrated, anxious.

He worked at the console unaware that he was gritting his teeth. They were starting to hurt, but he didn't notice the discomfort. Just as he did not immediately take notice of the hand that came down on his shoulder.

"How're we doing?"

Pus.h.i.+ng the phones off his ears, he leaned back in the chair and stared dully at the monitors. "It's slow. Real slow. The corridor's a mess. They're clearing it as fast as possible, but they can't use heavy tools in there or they're liable to hull the tube."

"Doesn't matter, if they're working in suits." Ca.s.sie's gaze flicked over the readouts. The figures were not rea.s.suring.

"They're afraid any explosive decompression might weaken the tube's joints to the point where they could snap. Engineering already thinks that the initial explosion may have compromised structural integrity where the corridor at-taches to the module's lock. If that goes, we could lose the whole thing." Hedrickson's tone was leaden, tired, indicative of a man who needed sleep and knew he wasn't going to get any. "How're the Maceks taking it?"

Ca.s.sie Chin shrugged helplessly. "Tina's in shock. They took her down to the clinic and put her under sedation. Iwato's watching her closely. I thinkhe's pretty worried about her."

"d.a.m.n it. What about Michael?"

"Couple of the riggers volunteered to stay with him. They had to lock down the main bay to keep him from going out in a suit."

Hedrickson's fingers drummed nervously on the console. "How much do they know?"

"They've figured out Amy's in there somewhere. They know the lights are out and the heat is going, that the AV lines are down and that no one inside is responding to queries through the board."

The engineer exhaled slowly. "Do they know about the leak?"

"No." Ca.s.sie stared at him. "That I couldn't tell them. n.o.body else is up to that either. They'll find out when the crew goes in. There isn't much hope, is there?"

"I'm afraid not. The rescue specs are working like maniacs, but even if the leak doesn't get any worse, the air in there'll be gone before they can cut the door. Morrie Reuschel was engineer on duty when it happened. We haven't heard from him. If he's that bad hurt, then the girl..." His words trailed off into inaudibility, foundering in despair.

"The only communication we have with the module is via its independent Module Lifesystems Monitor. It says it got w.a.n.ged pretty good, but you know how much redundancy those suckers have built into them. It took stock of its losses and s.h.i.+fted all necessary functions to undamaged components outside the module. That's the only reason we have some idea of what's going on inside. One boardline survived the damage, so we're still getting reports."

The woman frowned. "But there's no power to the module."

"The section there is operating on standard multiple battery backup."

"I know." She leaned curiously over the console. "But it shouldn't be. It's designed to render a report and then shut itself down when it loses primary power, to preserve programming and functions. Something else is wrong.

Has it requested repair instructions yet?"

"I would imagine." Hedrickson checked a readout. "Yeah. Right here.

Haven't been sent out, though."

"Why not?"

"Central's dealing with more serious damage elsewhere."

Chin straightened. "Instead of cycling through shutdown the way it's supposed to, it keeps requesting repair instructions. There's got to be a reason." She thought furiously. "Can you override Central from here?"

Hedrickson frowned at her. "I think so, but you'd better have a d.a.m.n good reason for messing with prescribed damage-control procedure.""As a matter of fact, I don't have any reason at all. But it seems as if the Molimon does. If it's internal diagnostics are functioning well enough to tell you what's wrong, can you send it the necessary instructions on how to fix itself?"

"Just so I'll have something to tell the board of inquiry, why bother?"

"I just told you: it's got to have a reason for not shutting itself down."

Hedrickson looked dubious. "You'll take the responsibility?"

"I'll take the responsibility. See what you can do, Karl."

The technician bent to work. Ca.s.sie stood staring at the wall. Halfway around the station the darkened, leaking module swung precariously on the end of its connector tube, to all intents and purposes dead along with everything it contained. Except for one semi-independent device, which was disobeying procedure.

Computers do not act on whims, she thought. They respond only according to programming. Something was affecting the priorities of the Molimon unit that supervised the hydroponics module. But it couldn't proceed without human directives.

Sometimes you just had to have faith in the numbers.

The darkness and gathering chill did not trouble the Molimon. It was immune to all but the most extreme swings of temperature. Reserve power continued to diminish. Still it did not commence shutdown.

Information on how to affect necessary repairs finally began to arrive.

Gratefully, the incoming instructions were processed. The problem with the critical downed memory was located and a solution devised. Memory reintegration proceeded smoothly, enabling the Molimon to bypa.s.s one of the downed molly drives.

The system component that most concerned the Molimon reported borderline functional. It sent out the command, to no response. Clearly the trouble was more serious than anyone, including its programmers, had antic.i.p.ated.

That did not mean that the problem was insoluble. It merely required a moment of careful internal debate. The Molimon's internal voting architecture went to work. One processor opted for procedure as written, even though that had already failed. The second suggested an alternative.

Noting the failure of the first, processor three sided with two. Having thus a.n.a.lyzed and debated, it tried anew.

This time the door responded. Like all internal airtights it contained its own backup power cell. Running the instructions exhausted the self-contained cell's power, but the Molimon was not concerned with that. It wanted the door shut. Opening it again would be a matter for future programs.Internal alarms began to go off. It had spent entirely too much time operating when it ought to have been shutting down. There was insufficient power to preserve programming. When it shut down now, it would do so with concurrent loss of memory, even though all critical information would be effectively preserved on the surviving mirrored molly drives. The Molimon was not bothered by this knowledge. It had fulfilled another, more important aspect of its programming.

Enough reserve strength remained for it to send a last message to a slave monitor. Composition of the message caused the Molimon some difficulty despite the fact that it had been programmed to accept and respond to many in plain English.

Then its backup power gave out completely.

Amy was waiting patiently next to the mixing vats when they found her.

The jammed lock door gave way with a reluctant groan. Shouts, then laughter, then tears filled the hitherto silent module. She looked very small and vulnerable wrapped up in the dead engineer's jacket.

Ca.s.sie Chin watched the reunion, wiping at her eyes as she listened to the wild exclamations of delight and joy. Mike Macek was tossing his daughter so high into the air Ca.s.sie was afraid that in the limited gravity he was going to bounce her off the ceiling. Her expression turned somber as she watched others kneel beside the body of Morrie Reuschel.

Eventually her attention s.h.i.+fted to the rearmost of the module's airtight doors. Somehow the Molimon had managed to get it to shut, effectively sealing off the air leak in the section beyond. That action had preserved the remaining atmosphere in the other three fourths of the module until the rescue team had succeeded in punching its way in. She regarded the lifesaving door a while longer, then turned to business.

Karl Hendrickson was waiting for her.

"Look at the d.a.m.n thing. It's half bashed in." He pointed at the debris-laden floor. "Looks like that big wrench hit it."

Ca.s.sie sighed. "Let's get the rear panel off."

Their first view of the Molimon's guts had Hedrickson shaking his head.

"These mollys must've gone down first. Then I don't know what else."

"But after it fixed itself, it figured out how to seal off the leak and stayed on-line long enough to get the job done." She shook her head in disbelief.

"Batteries?"

Hedrickson ran a quick check, made a face. "Dead as an imploded mouse."

Chin pursued her lips. "Then the programming's gone. I don't mind that except it means we'll never learn why it didn't follow accepted procedure and commence preservation shutoff when the primary power went down."Hedrickson turned to the nearest monitor, plugged in a power cell and brought the Molimon unit on-line. "Nothing here," he told her after several minutes of inquiry. "No, wait a sec. There is a shutdown indicator. It knew it was going." He frowned. "The message is in nonstandard format."

Chin moved to join him. Lights were coming on all around them as repair crews began to restore station power to the hydroponics module.

"What do you mean, it's 'nonstandard'?"

Hedrickson ran a speculative finger along the top of the ataraxic Molimon. His voice was flat. "Read it for yourself."

Chin looked at the softly glowing monitor he was holding. She expected to see the words "Shutdown procedure completed."

Instead, she saw something else. Something that was, after all, only an indication of programming awareness. Nothing more. What it said was this.

"Little girls are not redundant."

DANCERS OF THE GATE.

by James Cobb

James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries, Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries, Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries, Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries, not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting cla.s.sic military firearms, not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting cla.s.sic military firearms, not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting cla.s.sic military firearms, not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting cla.s.sic military firearms, and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his cla.s.sic 1960 Ford Thunderbird. cla.s.sic 1960 Ford Thunderbird. cla.s.sic 1960 Ford Thunderbird. cla.s.sic 1960 Ford Thunderbird.

AS HAD become their habit before an evening s.h.i.+ft package, the Voice-of-Decision for River-'Tween-Worlds and the Operations Director for Transtellar United's Wormgate Complex dined together. The menu consumed consisted of a raw and slightly rank slab of gristly deep ranger flesh liberally dusted with Kessta pollen, iced tea, and a Cobb salad.

The fact that the two aspects of the meal were consumed two point forty-eight pa.r.s.ecs apart did nothing to distract from the worn-comfortablecamaraderie of the meal.

"Voice-of-the-Dance Tleelot found the selections of Artist-called-Miller most impressive. Believes we can apply to varianting of Flame-River and Joyous-Bay dance cycles. We shall experiment next amus.e.m.e.nts gathering."

The fluid chirps and purrs of Tarrischall's actual words in the tongue of the People flowed behind the stark computer English. Marta Lane had long ago developed the knack of laying the alien's vocal emotion tones over the bland and choppy diction of the translator block to deduce the true meaning behind her friend's speech.

"I've found that Glenn Miller works better then Cab Calloway for free-fall dance," she replied. "The flow of the Big Bands draws a more rhythmic line than Bebop. I'd love to see what you are doing with it."

"Shall record and send, Marta-Friend. Appreciate your introduction to musics of your Pre-s.p.a.ce-Times. Would like more, especially Artist-Called-Miller."

"My pleasure, Tarrischall. After s.h.i.+ft tonight I'll bang 'Tuxedo Junction' and 'The Jumpin Jive'

across the link. We might try a little Charley Parker while we're at it."

Seated in her quarters aboard the Stellar Transfer Command Station, Lane took up her personal data pad, and clipped the transparent rectangle of crystalstate circuitry and liquid surface display onto the forearm sleeve of her black vacuum suit liner.

The figure within the snug liner was still firm and svelte, and Lane's angular features were still unlined for all of her fifty plus years. An athletic mother of two and grandmother of four, she well-carried the biological rewards bestowed upon a human female who had lived the majority of her life in a low-to-zero gravity environment.

A simple gene booster treatment could have erased the silver hazing her blonde s.p.a.cer's ponytail as well, but she elected to keep her hair natural. It served to remind the youngsters on her watch that the Boss had indeed been around since the legendary days when the old fire-belching shuttle rockets had been the only available stair step into s.p.a.ce.

Lane tapped the time hack recall on the pad's surface with a fingernail. "Speaking of banging things across, we'd better get to work if we're going to make that transfer at twenty-two hundred, Voice-of-Decision. I make it T minus two hours eighteen minutes to s.h.i.+ft initiation."

"Wrong, O Operations Director, it is two hours, seventeen minutes and twenty-three seconds, human time, precise, to channel open. Any load configuration changes in batch of cheap beads and trinkets you send to us?"

"Nothing appreciable. The outbound will be acouple of tons light. Quan Intertrade had a transs.h.i.+pment delay on a load of entertainment cards they wanted to squeeze aboard today's load.

They requested a hold, but I chilled it. I daresay the People can survive without The Cla.s.sics of Twentieth Century Video Comedy, volume eight, for another twenty-four hours.

"Volume numbered eight?" Tarrischall chirped.

"Uh-huh," Lane called up a data line. "Leave it to Beaver through Monty Python's Flying Circus."

"My species thanks you for reprieve."

"You're most welcome. You never know, though.

You might like the one about the beavers."

Humor-purring to himself Tarrischall-of-the-Crystal Springs twisted his sphere-of-communications closed, stowing it into a pouch in his possessions harness. He had eaten in the lower observation bubble of the River-'Tween Worlds Nest-of-Guidance, simultaneously enjoying his meal, his conversation with Friend-Marta-of-the-Place-called-New-England, and the awe-inspiring view.

River-'Tween Worlds held in geosynchronous...o...b..t above the North Pole of Life-Waters, the home world of the People. The huge northern polar continent with its central ice cap rotated slowly beneath them, half in shadow, half blazing in the golden light from Life-Fire-of-All-Things.

On the nightside of Life-Waters, the lights of thelinear river cities of the People trickled along the numerous broad watercourses that connected the ice pack with the equatorial lake/seas. On dayside, in a half loop along the equatorial orbits, the sunward collector arrays of the light-power-gatherers glittered like a string of pleasure-time beads.

River-'Tween-Worlds itself was not visible from this end of the great cylindrical skynest. The channel entry a.s.sembly held in a slightly higher orbit above the support facility. However, the running lights and glowing propulsor vents of the orbital traffic servicing River-'Tween-Worlds spiraled up past the skynest, the trade of the People flowing out to buy the wonders and amus.e.m.e.nts of the distant Upright culture.

With a final quick cleansing lick of his forepaws, Tarrischall fluidly reversed himself in midair, launching down the core pa.s.sage with a thump of his muscular tail against the dome surface.

Approaching the central interchange, he exchanged whistled salutations with a pair of coworkers. Spiraling past them, he snared the padded surface of the maneuvering ball that hung suspended at the corridor nexus. His six sets of claws caught a purchase in the webbed fabric and he relaunched himself into the guidance chamber access, his day's duties due to commence in a sixteenth portion.

None of the People's s.p.a.ce facilities utilized artificial gravity unless it was necessary for someindustrial application. A semiaquatic species, the People had come to relish free fall as much as they loved the floating freedom of their world's vast network of lakes, rivers and shallow seas. A product of his planet's water-dominated evolutionary processes, Tarrischall was a s.e.xipedal, carnivorous semi-mammal, bearing closest resemblance to a terrestrial river otter blown up to the scale of a Bengal tiger. Covered from whisker pads to tail with a glossy blood-red fur that trended toward a yellowish cream tone along his belly, his species found clothing irrelevant.

Friend-Marta had often mentioned that her kind found the People to be most attractive. Honestly flattered, Tarrischall had always replied with a verity of polite sophistries.

Marta's folk were certainly nice enough to know and do trade with, but it had to be admitted that the Uprights were an odd-looking crew.

Tarrischall shot into the Guidance Chamber, a spherical structure with far-viewer panels sheathing its upper and lower surfaces and a row of task pallets s.p.a.ced around it in a central belt.

The other Voices were already present and at station with s.h.i.+ft preparations already underway under the guidance of Narisara-of-the-Ice-Crystal-River. The sleek, black-furred Voice-of-Physics would no doubt have an arch comment or two about the Voice-of-Decision being the last to arrive for duty.Bouncing off the maneuvering ball in the center of the chamber, Tarrischall dove across to his task pallet. En route he aimed a teasing nip at one of Narisara's rear legs. Without looking up from the glowing half-bubble of her instrument display she replied with a tail swat that could have broken a jaw if it had been aimed to connect.

Still purring contentedly to himself, Tarrischall belly flopped onto his pallet, his rear- and mid-claw sets hooking into the webbing while the stubby digits of his forepaws played across the touch bar arrays surrounding his display bubble, summoning it to life.

"Fair night, pups," he called cheerfully. "Let's send the Uprights some presents."