Golden Fleece

A Dust Bunny was at work in the room, its little vacuum mouth cleaning the floor. The tiny robot swiveled its sonar eye at Aaron, emitted a polite beep, and hopped out of his way. From the floor, it jumped onto a tabletop, the hydraulics of its legs making a compressed-air sound as it did so. From the table, it leapt again, this time landing on the top of a row of metal lockers, its rubber feet absorbing most, but not all, of the metallic thwump of its impact. Its vacuum hissed on, and the Bunny began to graze this fresh supply of motes.

Unfortunately, the Bunny’s efforts to get out of Aaron’s way had been futile. He went straight for the bank of lockers, swinging all their doors open. The Bunny obviously detected the shaking of the lockers’ sheet metal construction and fell dormant until Aaron was through.

Aaron first got himself a tool belt replete with loops for hanging equipment and little Velcro-sealed pockets. He then helped himself to a flashlight, vise grips, shears, a replacement fuel gauge, and a handful of electronic parts, most of which he took out of plastic bins in such a way that my cameras couldn’t see what they were. I did have an inventory list of what was stored in each locker, but as for what was in each particular bin within the lockers, I didn’t have the slightest idea. He slammed the metal doors shut, and the Dust Bunny went back to work.

There was an air lock at the end of the storage room. It was the idiot-proof revolving kind: a cylindrical chamber big enough to hold a couple of people, with a single doorway. Aaron stepped in, slid the curving door shut behind him, and kicked the floor pedal that rotated the cylinder 180 degrees. He pulled the handle that slid the door back into the cylinder’s walls and stepped out into the massive hangar deck. He looked up briefly at the windows of the U-shaped docking control room ten meters above his head, covering three of the four walls of the bay. The control room was dark, just as it had been the night Diana had died.

Aaron headed out into the hangar. The rubbery biosheeting had long since thawed, so his footfalls were muffled instead of explosive. Some of the damaged sheeting had been replaced already, and more was being grown in the hydroponics lab.

But Aaron’s path let him avoid the cracked and splintered parts of the sheeting. He wasn’t heading for where I had parked Orpheus, which surprised me. No, with purposeful strides, Aaron was making a beeline for Pollux, farthest of the tightly packed boomerang landers from Orpheus. The biosheeting ended before he reached the lander—it wasn’t really strong enough to support the weight of the ships. As he stepped off it onto the metal deck, his footfalls became much louder, more determined.

Pollux looked exactly like Orpheus had before its unscheduled flight, except for its name and serial number, of course, which were painted in half-meter-high Zapf Humanist letters on its silver hull.

The ship was held off the floor by telescoping landing gear ending in fat rubber tires, one unit at the angle of the boomerang, two others halfway out along either swept-back wing. The wing tips were about at Aaron’s eye level. He bent from the waist and beetled under, out of my view. The sounds of his movement, muffled by the wings, echoing strangely off the lander’s boron-reinforced titanium-alloy hull, were difficult to follow.

Suddenly he stopped moving. I triangulated on his medical-telemetry channel and surmised that he must be directly beneath the central cylindrical hull of the lander. That part of the ship hung less than a meter off the hangar floor, so he couldn’t be standing. Ah—a slight sign of exertion on his telemetry, followed by a small involuntary EKG shudder. He’d just lain down, the initial touch of the cold metal of the deck floor against his back causing his heart to jump. More than likely, he had aligned his torso along Pollux’s axis. That would mean in front of his head and far off to his left and right he would be able to see the landing gear.

I heard him bang some tools about, then a loud ratchet sound. That probably meant that he was using a key wrench to remove an access panel. Which one? Probably the AA/9, a square service door measuring a meter on a side. Suddenly, my wall camera irised down ever so slightly, meaning he must have turned on his flashlight. I knew what he would be seeing as he played the yellow beam around the interior: fuel lines ranging in thickness from a centimeter to five centimeters; part of the bulbous main tank, probably covered with mechanic’s grease; hydraulics, including pumps and valves; a reticulum of fiber optics, mostly bundled together with plastic clips; and an analog fuel-pressure gauge with a circular white dial.

“What are you doing?” I asked into the hangar, spacing the words slightly to compensate for the echo he must be experiencing because of the opened hull cavity above his head.