Space Stations

After a moment's thought she decided to sit down by the door. All of its internal LEDs had gone out, so she knew it still wasn't working. The big manual lever was bent and twisted and wouldn't move even when she put all her weight on it.

It was very dark next to the door and away from the ports, but somehow she felt better sitting there. Pouring through the ports, Earthlight made shadowy silhouettes of the trees and bushes. The cabin in Residential Module Six with her stuffed animals and seashells and snug second-tier bunk seemed very far away. It would've been easier if Jimmy, or anybody, had been there with her. But they weren't. There was only poor Mr. Reuschel, and he was worse than no company at all. She was alone.

Except she wasn't.

There was another presence in the module. It wasn't dead, but it wasn't really alive either. Awareness is a matter of technical definitions and predetermined perceptive capability. Consciousness is something entirely more abstract.

The Molimon was aware of her presence but could not talk to her, could not provide reassurance or comfort. It was aware of the damage which had occurred, of Mr.

Reuschel, of the falling temperature and absence of light. It had detected the leak at the far end of the module and continued to monitor the rate at which air was being lost. It was aware of everything around it. That was the job it had been assigned to do. That was the job it did well.

Until now. It knew that the environment in which it operated had undergone an abrupt and drastic change. There was damage and destruction everywhere. Nothing was functioning within assigned parameters and try as it might, the Molimon could not restore anything to normal.

That was because it had suffered considerable damage itself. A pair of memories were gone and an IOP processor had been popped by the force of the explosion. Two molly drives had stopped spinning. Efficiently, effectively, the Molimon distributed the responsibilities of the damaged sectors among the components of itself that continued to function. It was wounded, but far from dead.

Internal communications continued to operate, allowing the Molimon to send details of the damage it and the module had suffered to Command Central. So far there had been no response. No doubt Central was concentrating on assessing the damage to those components and parts of the station that were unable to report on themselves. Knowing that the Molimon could take care of itself, Central would take its time responding.

Having reported the damage and requested instructions on how to begin repairs, the Molimon sat and waited for a reply. It could not wait long. If no instructions were forthcoming, it would have to shut itself down while battery power remained, thereby preserving its programming and functions until full external power was restored. This caused it no concern. Anxiety was not part of its programming. It had no concept of unconsciousness. Shutdown was merely another state of existence. There was nothing to be concerned about, since all systems within the module were fully redundant.

It was aware of the damage to the hydroponics module only in purely quantitative terms: the absence of light, of heat, of equipment functioning efficiently and according to plan.

Supervising the hydroponics environment was but one component of its mission, and it could not bring anything back on line until power was restored. Knowing this, it completed its observations, allotted them a sector on one of its still functioning mollys, and made a complete record of the situation. Programming now called for it to commence an orderly shutdown while sufficient reserve power remained for it to do so.

It did not. Unexpectedly, an important component of the module still functioned.

Hedrickson studied the readouts and listened to the human static that filled his headphones. The various speakers were angry, frustrated, anxious. He worked at the console unaware that he was gritting his teeth. They were starting to hurt, but he didn't notice the discomfort. Just as he did not immediately take notice of the hand that came down on his shoulder.

“How're we doing?”

Pushing the phones off his ears, he leaned back in the chair and stared dully at the monitors. “It's slow. Real slow. The corridor's a mess. They're clearing it as fast as possible, but they can't use heavy tools in there or they're liable to hull the tube.”

“Doesn't matter, if they're working in suits.” Cassie's gaze flicked over the readouts. The figures were not reassuring.

“They're afraid any explosive decompression might weaken the tube's joints to the point where they could snap. Engineering already thinks that the initial explosion may have compromised structural integrity where the corridor at-taches to the module's lock. If that goes, we could lose the whole thing.” Hedrickson's tone was leaden, tired, indicative of a man who needed sleep and knew he wasn't going to get any. “How're the Maceks taking it?”