Space Stations

“All that saved us was those codes,” Pavel said. She wasn't sure to whom or how often he'd repeated it. There were so many of them crowded together here, the blending of Earther and stationer made complete by the suits and the horror of their welcome, that Linda no longer tried to identify individuals.

“Sammie must have been here before,” a woman answered. “Surprised he remembered them. Sure glad he did.” This brought a laugh from some.

Linda swallowed bile. She'd seen what the stationers had not, by virtue of being familiar with work in zero-g and to a horizon defined by a distant arc of sun-torched white.

Leland had been right. The ports had been traps. If they had tried to use the ship auto-dock system to attach themselves, the ports would have released their contents and destroyed them all. If they had tried to force entry? Same result. Destruction.

And if she'd stayed in Sol System, working a freighter, she'd never have had to see air locks crammed tight with explosives and the dead to carry them.

Leland had been the unlikely hero. He'd gone first, ponderously graceful, disguised as handsome in his Earther suit, and had punched in codes for the emergency hatch as well as the larger cargo doors. Codes only those on Hamilton Station would know. Codes a Thromberg Station bartender shouldn't have known.

Why him? Why here?

They'd waited for Leland's signal, Earthers and 'siders securing their cabled-together bags of gear and helpless, blinded passengers. Credit to the stationers—none had panicked, none had vomited until safely inside the station, helmets off. That had been the greatest risk for those who could see, who had to clear the contents of at least one air lock immediately to get the helpless inside.

Linda wasn't sure if it been courage or disbelief that allowed her to keep going. She'd been humbly grateful to the 'siders who took what she passed outward with the presence of mind to tie everything together so nothing would float free and endanger the shuttle, only steps away.

So this was Hamilton Station. Linda couldn't have told where she was now from the docking ring on Thromberg, save for a different, fresher taste to the air—and the silence.

She hadn't realized how noisy the throngs packing the other, living station had been, how comforting the background drone of thousands could be. Until she'd come here, where fifty-or-so huddled close, to make themselves feel like more.

Hamilton was messier. The stationers talked about this between themselves, uneasy.

Linda remembered Thromberg as having a broken-in look—everything possible being used and reused. Nothing wasted. Hamilton? No one had lived here. She felt gorge rising again in her throat and forced it down. They'd existed, long enough for destruction and fear. Not long enough to fit pieces together and keep going.

Perhaps goaded by similar thoughts, the stationers began moving. Linda was startled when a hand pressed something into hers—one of the metal strips. 'Dibs. She looked up and met the understanding eyes of the small, dark-haired woman she'd met in the shuttle, Annette Bijou. “Our turn, now,” Annette said. “There's work to do. You rest a while.”

Linda closed her fingers over the strip and stood, taking a deep breath. “What next?” she asked. Pavel slid upright beside her.

A keen look, then a nod. “Some are going to the 'vironment monitors, others to hydroponics. Dave and I are going to start checking the inward levels for working space and assess supplies. You're welcome to come with us.”

“Aren't you—aren't you—” Linda had trouble with the words.

“—looking for survivors?” Annette finished for her. “You don't understand what happened here, do you?”

“And you do?” Linda knew her voice was incredulous and overly loud, but none of the others took offense.

“They feared the Quill,” a deeper, more resonant voice answered. Leland and his shadow, Pettersen, were back from wherever they'd gone. The stationers clustered around to listen; Linda found the contact of strangers' shoulders oddly comforting.

“Everyone feared the Quill,” Pavel protested. “Thromberg did—and you survived. You were the same—”

Pettersen shook his head, tight-lipped. As usual, it was Leland who spoke. “We survived because we didn't close our ports, because we allowed ships to bring supplies and medicine.” The stationer paused, then put his hand on Pettersen's thin shoulder. “We survived because people eventually took the chance those returning to us didn't bring the Quill.”

Linda realized what she should have seen when on Hamilton's hull. “No 'siders. No ships at all.”

“Ships fled here,” Pettersen said at last. “Com logs say so. But Hamilton feared the Quill so much, station personnel laid mines to destroy any ship that approached. After that?

Maybe they feared reprisals as well as the Quill, so more mines. Which meant no ships.

No help. As they starved… as disease overwhelmed them… they put their dead on guard as well. Outside. In the 'locks. Until the last of them sealed him or herself within.”