Sudowski looked around clandestinely, and leant in closer to Halman so that he could speak in a stage whisper. ‘It’s a critical component,’ he repeated. ‘With the communications array working, we could scatter laser messages into space and hope to hit the shuttle, maybe find out if something has gone wrong with it. But without the comms. . . well. . .’
‘Shit. . .’ whispered Halman. His mind began to churn, incapacitating him. He stood that way, with his mouth slightly open, for some time before recovering. ‘No wonder you don’t feel so good,’ he said at last.
‘Do I do it? Because my team are waiting for the word.’
‘How long will the air stay breathable without it?’
‘Usually, we’d have a few days leeway. But we’ve been running the scrubbers at minimum power for days now to reduce data-flow through the chip.’
‘How long?’
‘Well, if the shuttle arrives tomorrow. . .’ Sudowski shook his head. Halman saw that his lower lip was a little raw, as if he had been biting on it. ‘Not long enough, I’m afraid. It could take us all day to patch in the replacement chip, maybe longer. We’re on the fine line between just in time and just too late right now. We can’t rush the job, because if somebody fries the chip accidentally then you can kiss Macao Station goodbye. When that shuttle finally gets here it could well find a tin can full of corpses.’
Halman exhaled heavily. He felt as if he had been gut-punched. ‘And if one of your guys frazzles the chip from the array, then we have no air and no communications, is that right?’
Sudowski nodded seriously. ‘Right,’ he said.
Halman had to clench his teeth to avoid a loud and obscene exclamation that could only serve to increase panic and distress amongst the scurrying techs. He breathed deeply for a moment, then finally said, ‘Let me send a last message to Way Station One, explaining what we’ve had to do. Hopefully the parts for the scrubbers and the comms are already en-route. But if not, I’ll ask them to flag the next shuttle down and load them. But with the extra acceleration time, the next shuttle will be delayed by almost a year if they have to do that. It isn’t much help, if that’s the case. But I’ll send the message.’
Sudowski was silent for a few seconds. His fingers massaged the flesh between his eyes. Halman could see the scars beneath Nik’s hair, standing out purple against his pale skin. ‘Do you think the way station might send a special transport just for the bits we need?’ Nik asked in a doubtful voice. ‘Like right away? I mean, if the part for the comm, or — even worse — the part for the scrubbers isn’t already en route for some reason?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Halman. ‘Remember last time we asked for a special transport? They told me we’d have to pay for it ourselves. But then, this time it’s really fucking urgent. They might. . . I don’t know. . .’ He trailed off. It seemed unlikely that the company would commit to such extra expense, even if lives were at stake. Perhaps this additional cost would be the final push they needed to just write the station off altogether. He felt a cold sweat on his brow. Could some company desk-jockey light years away really concede to kill him with the push of a pen? He’d worked for Farsight all his adult life, even fought for them. Could he really be of that little worth? He hoped he’d never have to find out for certain. He could pay for the shuttle, if he had to — and he would, if he had to. But the expense would virtually eradicate his savings, accrued over his years of service on Macao. My retirement fund, he remembered bitterly, aware that he was still, as always, getting older every minute.
‘Okay,’ Nik said softly, looking up into the Halman’s face. ‘I’ll have a team head up with you, then as soon as the message is sent they can begin removing the chip.’ He turned to go, but then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Good luck,’ he added.
‘Yeah,’ Halman said. ‘And you.’
Chapter Eleven
The pilot came to his senses gradually, the silken layers of sleep slipping away like a series of shrouds, one by one. His mouth was dry and his eyes stung, even in the relative darkness of the shuttle’s bridge. He groaned aloud and tried to lie still, inwardly cursing the suspended-animation cask he had slumbered in. All his joints ached, his head ached, even his damn teeth ached.
There was a muted hiss as the cask injected him with a reinvigorating drug. The effect was almost immediate, though faint at first. He tensed his limbs against the close confines of the cask, yanked away the straps that crossed his chest and wincingly sat up.
He looked down at his own body. He was in the navigator’s seat, which was in sus-an mode with its plastic cocoon still half-formed around it. He always slept in the navigator’s seat because its life support system was newer and presumably more reliable than those of either the pilot’s or co-pilot’s places. He was reassured by the familiarity of his surroundings. He looked across towards the main screen and the flight console, unconsciously intending to check the HUD.
There was somebody sitting beside the cask, magnetted onto a metal floor-chest, watching him. At least, it was the shadow of a person, framed against the weak multicoloured light from the control console.
The pilot jumped, his heart kick-started into a hammering drumbeat in his throat. ‘What the fuck?’ he cried, but it came out in a hoarse and unintelligible croak: Whurrthafack? He tried to recoil, but his muscles were still unresponsive. The shadow-person was within arm’s reach, much too close and too unexpected for the pilot’s liking.
‘It’s okay,’ said the shadow. The voice was clearly male. ‘It’s okay. Take a minute.’
The structure of the shuttle groaned and creaked — a faint, whining chorus of metallic voices. They were the sounds of a hull recently subjected to sharp braking forces, but the pilot’s mind was currently unable to snag on this detail.
The pilot nodded dumbly, trying to control his own panic response, struggling to get a grip. There was surely a good reason for this unexpected awakening, and the stranger seemed benign so far. It couldn’t be the prisoner, could it? Who would have woken him? No, it wasn’t possible. But that greasy little ball of fear kept trying to block his gorge. He reached down and fumbled the IV-lines from his thigh. Their loose ends floated away like coiling snakes.
‘I have taken the liberty,’ said the shadow conversationally, ‘of waking you early. I do hope you can excuse my impertinence.’
‘I. . . need. . . water,’ croaked the pilot.
The shadow nodded slowly but made no attempt to fulfil this request. ‘All in good time,’ it said.
The pilot wanted desperately to rise from the cask now, put a little distance between himself and this unexpected stranger, but he knew that if he tried to get up he might tumble out of the cask and go cartwheeling away across the bridge, possibly hurting himself on some protruding piece of equipment. Also, he wanted very much to turn a light on. The shadow watched him impassively. It disturbed him to think that this man had sat here beside him, in silence, all the time he had been waking up. ‘What do you want?’ he managed to ask.
‘It’s not me,’ said the man. ‘It’s the dragon.’
The pilot felt his face take on a puzzled expression. Had the shadow said dragon? ‘What?’ he whispered. His head felt stuffed with stupefying cotton wool. This would probably all make sense in a minute. Wouldn’t it? He tried to push his fears away — the world always seemed a little random on waking from sus-an. But man, he needed a drink.
‘It’s not me who’s the problem,’ said the man slowly, clearly labouring to be patient. ‘It’s the dragon.’