The Fight for 221 KD
Part 6
From six and a half AU out, the sun was no brighter than moonlight back home. An intense orange-yellow circle, not a seventh as wide as either of Iphigenia’s moons at full, Tau Ceti cast sharp, inky shadows across the coarse rubble surface of the asteroid. The tank farm for refueling was midnight black on the horizon, with light glimmering on its upper ladders and rails, and the repair station’s ring towered on its axle well beyond the horizon, steadily rotating at not much more than one revolution a minute. On the docking deck at the core, Fantomo-3 gleamed dully, lights in every port, its position lights all on, a living thing waiting. The warning lights on the station rim and core blinked red, red, red, red. Red, red, red, red.
In this chiaroscuro world, two figures moved purposefully across the carbonaceous landscape. They were by far the brightest objects there and knew it and felt horribly exposed. Their progress was swift yet slow, a low, bouncing lope they couldn’t increase lest they tumble over themselves, each other, or into an unseen chasm or crater, or into a rotating ballistic arc that would eat precious seconds to land and recover from. Black regolith puffed from their heels.
Ghuidicello's breath came in quick bursts, fogging the inside of his visor. He hated low g. He felt awkward, stupid, and, right now, a helpless target. He’d been a good runner in upper-school track whenever he could be in school, and if he had a full g, he could have been out of sight of Fantomo’s gaze in no time.
No, he had to bounce like a rubber ball, but not even that fast. Drunkenly skipping across who knew what hazards.
He glanced at Mneme, her movements more graceful than his, adapted to the asteroid's minimal gravity. He recognized the signs. Oi, lucky, you’re used to it, doing hydroponics on whatever rock you all were hiding on. You can get around better than me …
She stopped short, waving her arms and teetering, settling back on her heels. He slowed and caught up. A crater dimly gaped below, about ten meters deep, maybe a hundred meters across. He knew this one from the chart, but it was too close, too young, smooth, and open for cover. She pointed into it.
He raised his left arm, patted hers, pointing at his suit tablet on his arm, and keyed in TOO CLOSE on a notepad screen.
She bent over his arm reading, then gave a thumbs up and gestured left. They made their way with painful slowness along the nearly invisible crumbling rim. Impact-fused crust broke away and slid into the night below their right hands.
We need to find cover, he thought, trying not to pant.
Mneme stopped again, slowly scanning the horizon and its frost of stars. He stopped by her, and she keyed on her arm tablet: CRACK AHEAD SEE?
She pointed and he bounced gently ahead a few meters, crouching down as she sidled up behind. The station chart wasn’t detailed about this zone, blandly labeling it Fissures. It looked more like house-sized boulders crammed together with narrow paths through or caves under, most too narrow for a suited crewman but others more promising.
He squeezed her arm, pointing forward, but then the suit radio crackled with the feed patched from station comms.
“Oi! Rock-biter! Where are you? Where’s my prisoner?”
***
Fantomo-3 slid out off the dock arms, its attitude jets blazing to keep it from settling to the surface. The spotlights swung out, turning the black matte surface of 221 KD silver-white.
“How are we going to find them?”
“Spiraling out, Exec,” Commandant Neri said. “Spiraling out. Every man of you have your eyes to the ports!” he roared on ship comms. “A week’s pay to the first one that sees ’em.”
The spots raced through the tank farm, through the emergency landing pads, by the station reactors, into the depths of three overlapping craters.
“Sir, they could be anywhere.”
“Shut up. Comms, listen for them breathing.”
“Aye, sir.”