Space Stations

Linda sat shoulder-to-shoulder between her crewmates, Pavel and Lili Wong. The three weren't directly involved in operations, so they waited, strapped into their seats along the starboard side of the little bridge, their backs to one of two emergency air locks, helmets ready in their laps. Pavel, to her left, had snapped on her helmet's tether, muttering under his breath. Null-g was always a possibility—gravity generators were reliable but not perfect. She'd been more grateful than embarrassed. They were all distracted by the conversation and its cause.

The captain and the two from Thromberg had moved back from the ops stations, though their bodies still screened the displays. Linda didn't need to see what was keeping the bridge somber and those less experienced swallowing repeatedly. The report had been whispered one to the other. What should have been the approach lane to the aft docking ring, their preferred access to Hamilton Station, was littered with debris.

Not just a hazard to ships.

The debris was from ships.

During the trip here, she'd looked over the stats. Hamilton Station was older than Thromberg by a handful of years, a difference reflected more in terms of interior decorating styles than any physical changes in design. What worked, worked. About a quarter of those carried by the shuttles were experts in station operations and should have no problem accessing Hamilton's systems. Stationers. Linda couldn't have told which they were.

Half were immigrants or their descendants. Immies. They had expertise of their own, as well as being willing hands. The rest? Not spacers. Not now. Outsiders, who'd existed during the blockade by attaching their ships to the exterior of Thromberg and bleeding off her power, air, and water. Parasites or survivors. Linda hadn't made up her mind on that yet, thoroughly offended by the sight of so many star-ships turned into scrap, stuck seemingly at random to Thromberg's hull. Outsiders were easy to spot: their coveralls showed wear from suit connectors—the kind of wear that only came after unimaginable use. For some reason, only older ones had volunteered for life on other stations.

Like the one standing between Leland and the captain, introduced as Torbjxrn Pettersen.

Tall, skeleton-thin, with ragged white hair that had likely been blond, he hadn't spoken, only consumed everything on the bridge with quick furtive glances.

“What are we facing, Captain?” Leland seemed oblivious to the startled looks his suddenly educated voice attracted, turning to his companion. “Torbjxrn?”

Pettersen's voice was equally cultured, but quieter, almost shy. “This is deliberate. They don't want company.”

The captain leaned forward and consulted with the com operator, then straightened with a curse. “Approach to the stern ring is worse. We'll have to move in slowly, that's all.

This material is matching the station in speed and trajectory—shouldn't be too difficult to do the same, and slide through the worst of it.”

The 'sider stiffened. Leland held up a thick-fingered hand to stop whatever Pettersen might have wanted to say, instead reminding them unnecessarily: “Other ships didn't make it.”

“These are asteroid mining shuttles, Mr. Leland, as requested by your station administration,” Captain Maazel countered. “My crew and I are used to working in heavy dust and particle areas. These ships can take a substantial amount of impact if we do the pushing.”

Linda should have been reassured by this, but something in the rigidity of the 'sider's back kept her hands clenched on her helmet. She hadn't realized she'd meant to speak until hearing her own voice: “Captain, recommend we suit up the passengers before proceeding into the debris field. As a precaution.” Pettersen swiveled his head, washed-pale eyes expressionless.

Captain Maazel nodded, her attention on what she and the others watched. “Take Romanov. See there's no panic.”

“No need,” Pettersen said, before Linda and Pavel could unstrap.

Leland explained: “If they need to suit up—they will. Let your people concentrate on getting us through this mess.”

To Linda's disgust, Captain Maazel agreed, immediately gesturing them to stay as they were. It didn't help when she took the 'sider with her, forward in the bridge compartment, to engage the three ops crew in private discussion.

Leland had stayed behind. He walked over to stand in front of Linda, most of his bulk trespassing within her personal space. She tried not to stare up his nostrils, which were bent and populated by large, black hairs.

“We appreciate your concern, Linda Gulliver,” the stationer told her. “But you won't get our people to move until those in the back rows give the word.”

“Why? Are they spacers?” Pavel's voice contained something of awe. Linda supposed deep space explorers were exotic beasts to those used to plying the Mars-Titan run.