Free Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation by Michael Z. Williamson Page B

ship first.”
    Stadter felt conflicting emotions.
    “Well, I guess the crew knew how crappy it was and bailed. They also probably aren’t up to date on proper response. Nor can I believe the owner paid for good people.”
    “Most of them are dead.”
    He said, “That’s something I’m not going to pass judgment on for now.” He locked that down and concentrated on managing the disaster. Dead could be lashed outside, towed or buried in space worst case. That eliminated some capacity and O2 problems, leaving only some reaction mass problems.

    On the hull over the youth lounge, Lowther said, “They’re going to panic. I can’t imagine they won’t.”
    Bowden nodded. “Likely.” His harness was tight under boost. His circulation suffered from the constriction. He wiggled to ease things.
    “Any suggestions?”
    Marchetti said, “Well, I was in Combat Rescue last assignment. I have one suggestion. You won’t like it.”
    “I like it.”
    “One of the canisters in the standard boarding kit is SV Three. If we can vent it in there before we blow, they’ll all be pretty well relaxed or even blotto.”
    That was unorthodox. “I like it.”
    Marchetti continued, “The side effects include some panic as they go under, and nausea. Good chance they’ll puke all over the place, as we can’t control the dose and it’s made for adult combat troops, not youth.”
    “I still like it.” Puke on a space suit wasn’t bad. Puke in a space suit was bad.
    “In that case we need a shipfitter and vacuum welding gear, fast.”
    “That would be Hensley.”
    From aft, Sergeant Hensley replied, “I heard. I have my gear. Roping that way now. I know where we keep it.”
    The ship vibrated again, and rolled a fraction. Everyone clutched lines and padeyes.
    Arvil said, “I’m loose! Hull separation at radius two one zero, frame four zero. Dutchman, Dutchman, Dutchman!”
    “Understood, Arvil. Got your transponder. Relaying to recovery ops. Ops, do you have him?” Bowden tapped IDs into the comm on his left forearm, hoping not to lose a good man.
    Stadter said, “We have him. He’s in range of something. I’ll have whoever that something is grab him in about ten segs, if he can last that long.” He sounded giddy with exhaustion.
    “Yes.” Yeah, ten segs wasn’t a problem, assuming they did get him. There were lots of craft, so the odds were very good. Still.
    “Good luck, Blazers, we’ll do what we can.”
    Hensley said, “Approaching. I could use a line transfer to speed things up.”
    Bowden bent over, snapped another line in place and tossed the bag at Hensley as he came over the horizon of the ship’s skin. Hensley caught it, pulled the free eye out, and clipped it to his harness. He popped the old one free and let it dangle, then fall in the acceleration. The lines cost better than Cr500 each, but they could gather them afterward, if time permitted. Even then, most were only proofed for one hard yank or one abrasion. Space was not the place for corner-cutting.
    “Thanks much. Where do you need me?” the fitter asked as he climbed the metal cliff.
    The ship shifted violently and they all grabbed lines, but it was a reduction in acceleration. Perhaps 1.2, close to surface normal for Grainne.
    Bowden said, “Anywhere here you can make a hole and pass gas.”
    “One dutch oven coming up,” Hensley joked. “Is that a bypass valve next to the emergency panel? When was this piece of crap built?”
    Bowden looked where Hensley’s light splashed. Yes, that was an archaic emergency fill pipe. Ancient, but convenient, if it was intact.
    “It’s forty-eight Earth years old, thirty-three of ours.”
    “Gods, this thing should have been lashed up as a museum or broken for scrap. Okay, I need five segs.”
    “Make it three.”
    “Five it is,” Hensley agreed.
    Bowden nodded to himself. Sometimes reality didn’t bend. Hensley leaned forward and took a bend in the line to hold himself steady. He pulled out a