Chapter Six
Station-born and bred, Channa had gone space-walking as soon as she was old enough to fit into a juvenile suit. But there the difference between her Hawking Alpha Proxima Station days and now ended.
Theoretically, she knew that SSS-900-C was at the edge of the Shiva Nebula. Trade routes crossed here, carrying processed ores essential for drive-core manufacture. As the ship which had brought her had approached the dumbbell-shaped station, she'd watched the process on her cabin's screen with great interest. But theory, and that shipboard view in complete safety, had not prepared her for the great arc of pearly mist that filled her vision plate; mist glowing with scores of proto-suns in a score of colors.
"Spectacular, ain't it?" Patsy asked.
Channa came to herself with a start. "What are you doing out here?"
"This tug's my emergency station," she said, grinning broadly inside her bubble helmet. "The algae'll keep right on breedin' for a while without me, randy little bastards. An' I'm a right good tug pilot, too."
"Believe you, ma'am," Channa said, throwing a salute from her bubbled temple. What's Simeon on about? He's got a fleet-of sorts-to command. "Let's go."
In turn, they slid down into the cramped cabin of the tug and plugged suit feeds into the ship system. The tugs were stripped-down little vessels, just a powerplant and drive with minimal controls; wedge-shaped, with grapnel fields and an inflatable habitat for taking survivors in their dual role as rescue vessels. The docking bay and the cabin itself were open to vacuum, but she felt a low whining as Patsy brought the drive up and lifted them out. There was the usual disorienting lurch as they passed out of station gravity. Now the only weight was acceleration, and the barbell shape of the station was a huge bulk below them instead of behind. Her senses tried to tell her she was climbing vertically in a gravity field, then yielded to training as she made herself ignore up and down for the omnidirectional outlook that was most useful in space.
"Vectoring in," Patsy said into her helmet mike.
Other tugs were drifting motes of light, fireflies against the blackness. The analogy remained in force as they circled the drifting hulk of the intruder; it was big. Forward was a frayed mass of tendrils, and the rear still glowed red-white, heat slow to radiate in vacuum.
"Readings?" Channa asked. Her nose itched; it always did when she had a helmet on.
Simeon's voice answered her. "Main power system went out when they burned their drive," he said. "Be careful about that, by the way-it's radiating gamma, real museum piece. Main internal gravity field's down. There are localized auxiliary systems still operating amidships, and traces of water vapor and atmosphere. There might be a chamber in there still running life-support."
Channa scanned the bridge section of the ship again. The instruments available in the cockpit of the tug were basically little more than sophisticated motion detectors.
"I can't get a thing," she said in frustration. "Am I missing something?"
"Not much," Simeon told her. "There's too much dirt out there, which'll confuse readings. See if you can get aboard."
"Right," she said, and looked down the hull toward the equator where the shuttle bays should be located. "Bring us in there, Patsy."
Channa flicked an indicator light on the hull. They sank gradually, until the ancient ship filled half the sky.
"Don't build 'em like this anymore," Patsy said as they beheld shuttle bay doors which were easily two hundred meters long, big enough to accommodate a small liner.
"They don't have to," Channa answered absently. Drive cores were a lot cheaper and safer nowadays, which made ships this size obsolete. "Somebody did not like them."
This close in, the scars on the hull were enormous, metal heated to melting with a slagged look around the edges of the cuts, but miraculously there didn't seem to be much structural damage as they swung further into the bay.
"They have to be alive," Channa murmured. "Nothing could kill people this lucky."
"Except running out of luck," Simeon said grimly.
"There is that." She came at last to a smaller shuttle bay and attempted to open the portal with several standard call codes. "Simeon, what does the library suggest we use for a ship this old? I'm not getting any response with the usual ones."
"Three one seven, three one seven five?"
"Tried it, nothing."
Simeon relayed several more codes.
"Nothing's working," she said in disgust. "Could they have locked them?"
"Hard to say until we're sure they're crazy or not. Try another bay. That one might just be inoperative."
She had Patsy fly out and down the massive ship's side until they came to another shuttle bay. It, too, refused her admittance.
"This is ridiculous," she said in exasperation. "They got in, so there has to be an operable entrance!"
"Considering the visible damage, maybe you'd have more luck with a service hatch. There're close to a hundred of them and only six shuttle bays. Try something midship."
"That's a good idea," she said, feeling more optimistic with such odds. "Just in case, what do we use for a can opener? We don't want any survivors dead of old age before we reach them."
The very first hatch they tried opened, about half a meter. Channa looked at it, Simeon looked at it through her eyes via the implant which connected directly to her optic nerve.
"You're not that big, but you're also not that small," he said with a wistful note.
"I'm putting us down," Patsy said. "Contact." A faint clunk came through the metal of the tug as the fields gripped the big hull.
"And I'm going to try and effect entry. I think it's wide enough." Channa told Simeon.
"Just you be very careful, Channa-mine…"
"For Ghu's sake, Simeon, I've been space-walking since I was five. I'm a stickfoot."
"Yeah, but I don't think your station ever experienced a hostile attack. And there's all that flying junk! Could knock you right off the hull… or smear you across it."
"You do know how to give a girl confidence. I'm going, Simeon, and that's that." She muttered to herself about titanium twits and agoraphobic asses as she prepared to leave the tug. Patsy Sue at least gave her a cheerful grin and a thumbs-up. "We need to know what or who's in there."
"No problem," Patsy cut in, reaching into the toolbox under the pilot's seat. Her hand came out with the ugly black shape of an arc pistol.
Channa looked around, her jaw dropped. "Aren't those illegal?"
Patsy waggled the pronged muzzle. "Not on Larabie, they ain't."
Channa shook her head, then picked up where she'd left off. "You know, Simeon, they do give us brawns training. I've done search-and-rescue before."
"How often?"
"Once. My inexperience will only make me more cautious. I can do this, Simeon. Once I'm inside maybe I can do something to widen the hatch opening. Direct some of the other tugs this way so I'll have reinforcements nearby, if I need them."
Patsy waggled the arc pistol, apparently accustomed to the weight of the weapon.
"Assuming it's needed," Channa added cheerfully. "Have you got any positive life readings, partner?" she asked as she eased herself with practised care out of the tug. With one hand on a hull bracket, she let herself drift to the hull where the stickfield of her boots held her safely.
"According to my sensors, nobody's conscious. But there might be-"
"Stop being so reassuring," she said facetiously. "Have you got a medical team ready?"
"We were just getting to know each other," he said regretfully.