Space Stations

“’Siders,” Leland corrected, propping an unwelcome thong-enclosed foot beside Linda's thigh. “We each bring our skills to this adventure, Earther. Stationers to get Hamilton working, immies to bring the place to life again, and ’siders—” He paused, his attention caught by something forward.

“—’siders?” Linda prompted, even as she froze with alarm. Pettersen was tearing open the bag he'd brought, pulling out what appeared to be damaged bits of a spacesuit.

“’Siders? They deal with disaster.” With this, Leland left them, hurrying to the others.

“So our passengers have nothing in common—no wonder they almost killed one another,” came from Lili, to Linda's left.

“They have something in common,” Linda said almost to herself, trying not to be afraid.

“They all survived.”

The situation might have been death-imminent, or merely pandering to Earther-paranoia, but Dave couldn't resist taking the time to enjoy the novelty of not only wearing a suit, but having such a fine one. He stroked its smooth, flawless sleeves and connectors. He could see most of the others doing the same, even Annette, who'd professed disdain for Earther extravagances. Their generation had experienced very little this new. He couldn't imagine why the 'siders chose to put on their own gear, taping up the untrustworthy seams, making do—but no one from Thromberg bothered trying to think like a 'sider.

Finally, he put on the helmet, drawing in its fresh plastic smell with delight, only to freeze as words roared through his helmet com: “…the approach to Hamilton is not routine. Check seals; keep coms open. Repeat. The approach is not routine.”

Pettersen's voice, the 'sider who'd gone forward with Sammie. Calm, cold, staccato urgent. Not routine. Station code for anything about to turn deadly. Another 'sider, now an unknown in a patched suit, began checking Annette's suit. Dave felt a touch from behind as someone else checked his. Suit air didn't taste the same, he found, fear drying his mouth.

The 'siders pushed them out of the way, into the seats, a tighter fit with suit bulk and air tanks added, but workable with the addition of the back rows and Sammie's. This done, the 'siders, moving with reassuring ease despite their suits, grabbed bags and loose gear and passed it hand to hand, to be dumped into the compartment parallel to this one.

Earthers' crew quarters—bigger than most families used on Thromberg—that they'd been using as a galley and exercise room. That door was closed and both aisles freed, but the 'siders kept moving, this time opening up the rear door—an air lock giving access to the cargo compartment. Several went inside, and didn't return.

Stationers and immies stayed put, silent, so the com could carry Pettersen's continuing report.

“Sammie wants me to remind you we're in the right ship to handle this—miners are built to shove their way through. Can take a fair hit as well, not that the crew plans to collide with anything avoidable. They might be Earthers, but they know their stuff.” This last with a wry reluctance that brought a chuckle from a few. “Might be some sudden maneuvers, loss of g.”

A pause, into which a question fell: “What's out there?”

Dave listened hard, straining for anything past his own breathing and the suit's background hum.

“Hamilton put up a fence, seems like,” came the slow an-swer. “Bit of a waste, if you ask me. Recyclables. Other—things.”

Hamilton Station hadn't replied to their messages, or those from Thromberg. As far as anyone could determine, she couldn't—a failure of equipment, knowledge, or, most likely, a lack of anyone to speak.

Dave now considered an even more terrifying possibility, given they were docking within the hour.

Maybe Hamilton chose not to answer.

“Bodies?”

“Shh.” An unnecessary admonishment, since no one was paying attention to them, but Lili made it anyway. “That's what Sinshi says. Thousands of them. Along with ship debris and who knows what else.”

“I thought they ate their dead,” Pavel hissed, leaning over Linda.

Common enough belief back home; a nightmare as they approached the grimly silent station. Linda shoved Pavel back. “You know that's crap,” she said firmly but quietly.

“Thromberg buried her dead by sending them toward her sun. They're a posted ship hazard. Other stations did the same.” She'd been in a class debating if that had been respect—or to avoid terrible temptation. People who'd know now shared the shuttle's air supply with her.

Finding Hamilton had kept her dead close was not reassuring.

Seconds became minutes, the time crawling down Linda's neck, arms, and legs like spiders she couldn't brush away. The captain had ordered a slow, careful approach, passing that recommendation to the other ships. Agony, to sit, strapped in place—

Concussion!