James Follett Sabre

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mule. He tried to focus on the displays and gave up. What
did it matter how many orbits they had completed or where
they were?
A tiny point of light flashing on earth. A city switching its
public lighting on and off. Several had been doing it. For a
few moments his befuddled, oxygen-starved mind distorted
reality and he saw the friendly gestures as beacons that were
mocking him:
Hey you up there! We're all safe down here! Shucks'.
Yahboo!
Hell - he felt awful. Part of his early training had included
sessions working in low-oxygen, high-CO2 atmospheres,
but nothing had been like this. There had never been this
blinding headache and his physical condition hadn't been
aggravated by hunger during the training sessions. There
was no food on a Sabre and yet no one, including himself,
had ever thought that crews should fast before their flight
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simulator sessions. Dear God, the mistakes were endless.
Virtually all the eventualities planned on the simulator had
been proved wrong. The Flight Management System computers
were worse than useless at dealing with a crisis thousands
of lines of source code would have to be rewritten.
A hundred design changes swam before him.
He forced himself to relax. Worrying about the future of
the spaceplane was pointless. Paul Santos was probably
right - the concept was finished. Innovative but flawed, like
the mighty airships of a century ago.
Time to show the flag. He floated from his seat and gave
a nudge that sent his body drifting into the dimly-lit cabin.
Using the Velcros took too much effort - conserving oxygen
was vital. Those passengers awake regarded him listlessly
without moving. They had heeded their admonishments
well and weren't even reading. The simple effort of holding
a book open and in position consumed precious oxygen.
The BASOR doctors had ruled that the cabin blinds should
be permanently closed to maintain the illusion of a long
night. His mind was too befuddled to recall the reasons.
Something to do with the frequent dawns and sunsets upsetting
circadian rhythms and respiratory rates. He noticed
that the kid who had helped plug the cabin holes after the
explosion was watching him, wide-eyed. He looked as if he
wanted to say something but Allenby held a warning finger
to his lips. The lad had done a good job: Nick Rowe had
inspected the repairs and declared them sound.
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'Anyone bigger wouldn't've been able to reach half of
them,' the second officer had declared. Allenby wondered
why Rowe's earlier comment should choose this moment to
start playing on his mind. For God's sake - this fucking
headache was preventing him from thinking straight.
There was a faint thump from below. There had been odd
noises from the service bay ever since the explosion -- two
large nitrogen bottles drifting around, bumping into the
floor every now and then under the influence of the Sabre's
micro-gravity.
'Skipper . . .'
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Allenby turned back to the flight deck. Rowe's calm tone
worried him.
Tush the door to, skipper.'
Allenby closed the pressure-tight door. 'What's the
prob--' But he saw the new message before he finished the
sentence. 'Oh, shit.'
'That noise just now must've been the feed pipe going,'
said Rowe, staring at the chilling message proclaiming that
the last of their depleted oxygen was leaching away.
'Probably weakened in the fire . . . And now it's burst. . .'
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The USAF fighter-bomber landing at St Omer woke Ralph.
He had been sleeping fully clothed, too exhausted to undress
when he had stumbled into his office and sprawled on the
camp-bed. He pondered the roar and remembered that it
was NASA's promised consignment from Florida. It was
three hours late but what the hell did it matter now? He
wondered whether he ought to get up but others could cope.
Sleep was vital. He drifted back into a fitful slumber and
was woken again by the pricker alarm on his wristwatch.
Then his Iridium was trilling.
'This had better be fucking good,' he growled into the
telephone after having accidentally knocked it on to the
floor.
It was the control room duty officer. He offered no
apologies such was the urgency of his message.
Ralph sat up suddenly - now wide awake and alert.
'What! All of it!' he shouted. 'For Christ's sake! What's the
loss rate?'
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'Captain,' said Jez hesitantly.
Allenby and Rowe whirled around from their task of
balancing the Sabre's dwindling oxygen, their faces pale and
drawn from the terrible decision that fate had forced on
them. They had decided to allow the oxygen to continue
flowing at its present rate. It would last thirty minutes and
then it would be another ten minutes before everyone would
become aware of their worsening breathing difficulties.
Lungs would start heaving, desperately trying to claw in
non-existent. The older passengers would succumb first, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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