It took a tediously long time to cycle everyone through the lock safely, make sure they were all clipped in, and advance through the greasy murk toward the actual leak. Since the problem was known, at least in part, four of the last in the chain lugged a great awkward roll of bulkhead fabric, which when stretched across a gap and foamed would provide an airtight seal with some structural integrity.
Barin, in the lead, slithered and slid from one obstacle to another, barking his shins and his ribs on things he couldn’t see clearly until he fell over them. This was only fair, he knew, since he had less actual experience than most of the team. He knew he was going the right way, because the wisps and tendrils of vapor blew past him—all he had to do was follow. He reported at intervals, when his helmet display prompted him to.
Suddenly his lamp threw back a bright sparkle . . . a rime of ice now outlined a line of pipe and shapes that should be a row of scrubbers. He could see past them to an irregular white shape bordering a jagged black line. Could that be the—
His boots slid on the greased icy decking again, as the strengthening current of escaping air and vapor whipped about him and sucked him toward the gap. He managed not to yelp and felt the jerk when his safety tether came up short.
“Don’t worry, sir, we’ve got you.”
He tried to think of something offhand and casual to say, but couldn’t. That black crack . . . how big was it really? Not big enough for his whole body, surely . . . but an arm? A hand? “All that ice,” he managed to say finally. “We’re supposed to patch on a dry, clean surface.”
“We can always torch it off,” someone said.
“No! This vapor may be explosive,” Barin said. “It’s got hydraulic fluid in it, remember?”
“Well, then, we’ll—” A fan of light brighter than the brightest day scythed into the compartment through the crack, giving structure and substance for a moment to the roil of vapor, striking blinding highlights off the ice.
“What was that?” yelped a frightened voice. Barin caught his breath, trying to think.
“The war’s not over,” the petty officer said. “The battle’s still goin’ on, and it’s time we quit sightseeing.”
He should have said that, but he was noticing the glow . . . it had not died instantly. It came again, another flash.
“Hitting the shields,” the petty officer said. “Hope they hold.” He sounded as unconcerned as if it made no difference either way. Maybe it didn’t.
Barin reported in that they’d located a crack, and the margins were ice-covered.
“Ackman, you an’ Wahn get to chippin’ it off.”
“Won’t it just re-form?” Barin was glad someone else had asked that question. The petty officer grunted.
“Notice there’s less fog? Most of the water vapor’s out now, and the pressure and temp are both way down. Pretty soon it’ll be clear enough to see.”
It already was, Barin saw, when he flashed his lamp around. The fog was below waist level; he could shine his light all the way back to the portable airlock. Something glittered across the darkness, a fine wire . . . no . . . the hydraulic leak, still spitting a fine stream of the fluid. He reported where he thought it was coming from. Another scythe of light blazed through the crack. Barin ignored it.
They still had to fix the leak. Very carefully, in short moves each restrained by a tether, they moved toward the crack. Ackman and Wahn chipped the ice off the bulkhead. “Carefully,” the petty officer warned them. “We don’t want to damage it . . . lay your irons down just about horizontal to it.” They chipped from the outside toward the crack; Barin and the others unrolled the patch material and cut off strips to use as supporting surfaces. As soon as they cleared ice from a strip, someone laid down a bead of adhesive and a strip of patch material.
No more ice formed on the upper surface of the patch cloth rimming the crack. Barin laid another bead of adhesive on the cloth rim, and then—turning the roll around—put the end of the roll flush with the bead at the bottom, and began unrolling upwards, sealing one side, while Averre sealed the other. The suction was less now, but still pulled the patch cloth tight against the crack. Someone—Barin couldn’t tell who—pumped the foam gun and sprayed quickset foam on the cloth.
One leak down. Were there others? Barin checked the pressure in the compartment, and realized it was so low they’d have to wait quite a while to be sure. He reported in to the Damage Control Officer.
“We need you to do a check of the environmental system,” he was told.
“We don’t have any moles,” Barin said.
“That’s all right. You don’t need to make it run, just report on what you find. I’ve got a checklist—I’m flashing it to your suit comp.”
“Yes, sir.” What he could see of the list in his heads-up display looked easy enough. Check each tank for leakage, check the lines, test for certain contaminants—Barin recognized some of these but not all.
“You’ll report on channel six, that’s the environmental officer this shift, but don’t bother him unless you have to. They’re trying to patch the remains of the starboard system upstream of you into the hard-chem backups.”
This meant nothing to Barin, who had always considered Environmental the dullest of all specialities. Of course it was important—everyone liked to breathe—but it had none of the glamor of drives or weapons. He had passed the required courses by dint of dutiful memorization, and he’d put most of it out of his mind immediately after the exam.
The checklist was long and detailed. Every vat, chamber, pump, connection, pipe and tube . . . and the whole place was full of them. Barin looked at the time, at his own air supply, and calculated that they’d have to cycle out for air at least once. He wanted a margin of safety—he’d send half the team out when they had an hour’s air left, then the other half. He set his suit alarm to remind him to check with the petty officer, and took his half-team up to the forward end of the compartment.
Here there was less ice on the deck. Barin flashed his headlamp around and wondered if it would be safe to rig lights—it would speed up their assessment. He clicked on his comunit, and heard a spirited argument about whether some unpronounceable compound could be used to do something equally hard to say to something he’d never heard of. When he clicked twice, the voices stopped, and an annoyed one said, “Yes?”
“Serrano with damage control in SE-14. Is it safe to rig lights in here?”
“What’s your gas situation?”
He called Wahn over—Wahn had the chemscan—and had him read off the numbers.
“That sounds safe enough. No methane? No hydrogen sulfide? See any big leaks?”
“No methane, no hydrogen sulfide,” Wahn said. “I’m not sure my chem-scan has all that stuff on the list . . .”
“No visible leaks since they cut off that hydraulic line,” Barin said. “But we can’t see much yet.”
“All right then. Rig your lights, but watch your pressure. We’re not airing up that compartment until it’s secured, so any increase in pressure means you’ve got a leak of something coming in. Some of that stuff’s nasty.”
“Yes, sir.” Barin clicked off, told O’Neil they were clear to rig lights, and should probably bring in something to sop up the flammable stuff on the floor.
A few minutes later, two of his team came back in, lugging strings of lights and a sack of the flocculant for the deck.
With lights strung as best they could, the damage was certainly more visible. Bulkhead material had spalled in a broad cone across the aft end of the compartment—there most of the tanks and vats were dented and one was holed, with a now-frozen mass of stringy stuff—filamentous algae? worms? Barin couldn’t guess—firmly adhering to the side of the tank and the deck. Chunks of bulkhead like big flakes of obsidian lay where they’d fallen. He walked around, noting which tanks were damaged and how badly. When he got back to the forward bulkhead, he checked the pressure gauge. Seventy-eight. It was up, but very slightly.