She saw a kind of ripple around the belly of one of the shuttles-shuttle A, up near the hull’s blunt nose. She’d seen this often enough in simulations. It was a sign of latches releasing, catching the ship’s floodlights as they opened. Then the shuttle shuddered, and with a kind of wrench, as if it was having trouble coming unstuck from a docking interface that hadn’t been broken in decades, it lifted up and away from the Ark. Small attitude rockets squirted sprays of exhaust, fans of crystals that dissipated in the dark.
All this in utter silence.
Venus, shocked, tongued the switch on her comms unit. “Halivah, Jenning. Somebody just launched a shuttle. Control, what’s going on in there?” If this was some kind of exercise, she ought to have heard about it. Damn it, she was out here; if the shuttle snagged on the manipulator arm it could be disastrous. But what kind of exercise would necessitate a physical undocking, such a waste of thruster fuel? They had lost enough to leaks already.
No reply. She tried to recall who should have been on overnight watch tonight. More disturbingly, she didn’t even hear the usual hiss of static. There was a backup. She pulled a toggle from her belt and plugged it into a socket on the arm. This was an alternative comms channel passed through the arm’s own cybernetic control circuitry. “Halivah, Jenning. Some asshole just launched shuttle A. Are any of you even aware that I’m out here? Halivah, this is-”
“Venus?”
“Holle? What the-”
“Thank Christ you called in. Listen. All hell is breaking loose in here. Steel Antoniadi, some of the young ones-they lost their heads. They’re taking on Wilson.”
“Shit.” She’d always known this day would come; it was typical of her luck to be out of the Ark and unable to deal with it. “I’ll come back.” She reached for the manual arm control.
“No. No, Venus- stay out there. I think we might need you. I-”
The line went dead.
Venus toggled the comms switch with her tongue, fiddled with the plug in its socket in the arm. “Holle? Holle!”
Holle pulled off her comms hat. “Damn it, they cut the fiber link too. They know what they’re doing.”
Grace said, “Maybe you said enough.”
“Break out, break out. Helen, you’re sure that was what they were chanting.”
“Yes!” Helen snapped.
“I think they’re coming out of the nose,” Grace murmured, looking up.
Helen, Grace and Holle huddled close together, here on Deck Fourteen, just above the hydroponics banks. This was the base of the hull, about as far as you could get from the bridge. Looking up along the length of the hull Holle could see the smashed-open bridge, still full of a pall of black smoke. Bits of broken floor partitions wheeled around the hull. Some of the crew were still in their cabins, strung out along the pole, peering out in bewilderment. Others were streaming away from the chaos in the nose of the hull, away from the smoke. People cried warnings, a sound like gulls, she thought, an odd fragment of memory surfacing amid the shock. Holle wondered how many had been deafened by the tremendous bang of the explosive charges that Steel had used to smash open Wilson’s barricade, a noise that still seemed to reverberate from the walls of the battered hull.
“I wonder where they got the charges from,” she muttered. “Maybe explosive bolts from the docking hatches, the emergency-separation stuff. But how did they get it inside the hull without sounding the alarms? And where-”
“Here they come!” Grace yelled.
Whatever small war had gone on in the hull nose was evidently concluded. Steel and her party came down out of the smoke, clinging to dangling cables and wall handhelds. They were all blackened, their clothes shredded; some of them looked injured. But that gun in Steel’s hand was clearly visible. She waved it around, triumphant.
And they had prisoners, men held by their arms and legs and hair. Holle tried to count them. Naked, bloodied, the men all looked the same. There should have been six up there, Wilson and his five “advisers,” his five closest thugs. She counted three. One might have been Theo; none looked like Wilson. They weren’t resisting.
Steel seemed to be directing them down toward a particular equipment rack on Deck Seven or Eight. Some of the rebels had gone on ahead to move the rack, exposing the curved wall behind it. It looked to Holle as if some kind of work had been done on that hidden section of wall, behind the rack. Now a couple of Steel’s people started to pull away a mesh covering, and turn screws in the panels.
Holle understood immediately, and saw that Helen had been right about what they intended to do. Holle hadn’t believed it. “No,” she breathed. “There’s no water tank behind that section. Just the fuselage. No, no-”
One of the captured men started struggling, screaming. Maybe he had figured out what was happening too. It might have been Dan Xavi, the one the mistreated children called the Pig. He almost got free, and the rebels fell on him, clustering like flies around a wound. Somebody got Xavi around the neck. Another got hold of his arm and did a kind of somersault, so the arm was twisted, breaking with a sharp snap. Fists slammed into his mouth and nose and eyes, and Xavi’s screams were choked by a bubbling noise.
“They’ve lost it,” Grace said. “They’re going to kill him.”
“He doesn’t matter,” Holle said. She was still watching the rebels patiently removing screws from that wall panel. “It’s our fault. My generation. Wilson, you prick, you couldn’t control yourself. And you mad-man, Zane, look what you’ve done! OK, OK.” She made an effort to calm down, to think. There might only be seconds left. “We have to get people to shelter. Somewhere airtight.”
Helen said, “The cupola. The shuttles-”
“Not shuttle A. Venus said somebody launched it, it’s gone. Wilson, maybe. Shuttle B, and the cupola. Get everybody in there, one or the other. Everybody who will come.” But the rebels wouldn’t come, no matter what she said. “And get Zane. Don’t forget Zane. Move, move!”
Grace cast one despairing glance at Helen. Holle saw a lifetime of love and helpless anxiety compressed into that one expression.
Then the three of them scattered, launching themselves toward knots of bewildered people.
The rebels shoved Jeb Holden and Theo Morell up to the curving wall, behind the detached equipment rack. Theo could see what they were doing, removing screws that secured some kind of temporary panel there. Jeb was weeping steadily. Tears and snot scattered in the air every time he shook his head. Dan Xavi was already dead, Theo could see. Blood-smeared rebels hovered around his twisted body.
And they were opening up the hull.
Theo struggled against the grip of those who held him. He couldn’t help it. But they only held him tighter, and some bastard launched a barefoot kick into his ribs. It was one thing he’d learned today, that this new generation who had grown up in microgravity were a hell of a lot better at fighting in it than any of Wilson’s men. They seemed to have an instinctive grasp of how to use their bodies: how to pivot in the air, when to grab something to push against so they could punch you or kick or head-butt or barge.
He gave up struggling, and shook his head to clear it. Think, Theo! If you don’t think now you’re not going to get the chance to work it out tomorrow.
“You can see what we’ve done,” Steel said. “What we’re ready to do. Today’s the day, Theo Morell. Today’s the day we expose the lie. Today’s the day we break out of this stupid sim tank, and then-”
“And then what? Even if you’re right-what do you think you are going to do, Steel? Take over Denver? Build a raft? Oh, God! This is crazy.”
There was a flicker of doubt in Steel’s eyes. Maybe she hadn’t actually thought it through that far, not past her fantasizing of this moment of rebellion and revenge. But she was full of momentum. “At least this will be over,” she said. “The lies, the wasted lives.”