Monkey Feet

Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Copyright 2015

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Monkey Feet

Survival

Training Mission

Sweeper

Dowser

Journey

A Way Home

The Universe

An Accidental War

Rescue

Tika

Beginnings

War

Ambassador

Party

Casualty of War

Epilog

Excerpt

As Falls an Angel

Survival

The com-link muttered curses, as it always did when Mark Porter was doing battle with things mechanical. Cal Shaefer focused on his magazine, comforted by the grumbling, which signified that all was right with the universe. If it became too quiet, then he’d worry. Around him the ship, too, muttered, as it went about its business of keeping him safe and warm.

Dropping his index finger, he tapped the screen for the next page, then reached for his coffee globe, to sip as he read.

That’s it, Buddy, Mark said, interrupting his reading. I’ve got the engine bolted down and ready to go. Give it a wakeup ping and let’s get this show on the road.

On it, now, Cal said, as he switched screens and called up the drive-unit’s program. He parked the coffee on a sticky pad at the edge of the console where it wouldn’t drift away. Hang on a second.... Are you clear of the engine? If so I’ll run the mass-check as soon as it comes online. He initiated the command sequence to wake the engine’s control module, then readied the system for the task of shoving the ice boulder they’d constructed—pushing it away from the asteroid belt, and hopefully, into a collision with Mars.

I’m clear, Cal, but I’ll wait until you check this turkey out before I drop my suit tether and cycle in. I’d hate to be stuck out here with no engine.

Roger. He hesitated a beat, as he studied the status display, then added, Okay, the beast’s awake, so cut loose the mooring.

There was no acknowledgment, but Mark would do the right thing. Experience and training said that his partner would do nothing unexpected—which in space is another way of saying death.

After a moment, the contact sensor chirped a disconnect warning, indicating that Mark had released the cable connecting the ship and the ice mass. The two were still touching, though no longer tethered. The ship’s computer knew precisely where they and the ice were in relation to Mars, and it must arrive at Mars at the right speed and trajectory, within a time window that would place the impact point within the shallow but growing sea that was transforming Mars into a living world. Each meter of deviation per day, on the three-year-long fall sunward, would add up to an impact position error of over 1000 meters. And while an error that threatened a colonized area could be taken care of by a laser blast—one that would cause the ice to enter the atmosphere as harmless pellets—too much of an error would cause the ice to miss the planet, entirely. Besides, accuracy was both a bragging point and a source of bonus cash. The number one position on the Ice-Jockey list, again this quarter, would make three in a row, something never done before. As he waited, Cal had a good feeling about this one.

Venting gases roared as the airlock cycled, bringing the chamber up to cabin-normal pressure. A moment of silence, then the airlock door clicked free. Before it was fully opened, though, Mark called, So, where do we stand?

I’m firing the calibration burst now.

Good, Mark said, as he lifted his helmet clear. I want to get this guy on its way, hook the engine back in place, here, and get my ass back to town. Three months is enough time for anyone to spend looking at your ugly face.

That rated an obscene hand gesture in return, accompanied by a smile to take the sting out of it, before he initiated the launch program’s test-sequence.

First burst went okay, he announced when the sequence terminated. The ice is on the move. He studied the instruments. The first burst was no more than a mass check. A measured amount of force was applied—that generated by firing one single micro-pellet of fuel. The resulting velocity change in the ice ball, though tiny, told the computer what its mass was, so the fuel burn profile could be generated. Once started on its way with the ion engine, power would be cut and the ice would fall free. The engine would uncouple and home in on the ten-meter diameter ball that was their ship, where it would be fitted into its cradle to power them in the direction of home—if a collection of worn-out ships strapped together as a way-station and tethered to a hollowed rock ball could be thought of as home.

Well? Mark’s voice carried its usual impatience with things mechanical.

Well, Dinah’s thinking about it. Give her a few seconds.

Dumb computer, he muttered. Slow as shit and just as useful. He turned away, headed for the kitchen area and a container of the ice tea he favored.

Cal shook his head, bemused. Mark’s remark was as predictable a ritual as his endless complaints about equipment that insisted on doing what he asked of it rather than what he wanted it to do.

The display changed and an alert chirped, so he said, Test burn number two about to start, Mark. Then all we have to do is wait for Mars tracking to report that they’ve acquired the beacon so we can light the fuse and get rid of this snowball.

No answer, so he called, What’s so important that after three Earth months you need to get back to the cluster instantly?

Mark drifted back through the doorway, bringing himself to a stop in mid-air with a heel-catch on the doorframe.

The thing that has me in such a hurry is Stacey Manus. I expected this job to take seven sols more than it has, and to get home after she leaves for Sunward Station. But now, if we don’t waste more than ten hours on this crap, she and I will have three standard sols of overlap.

Cal made a sexual gesture, laughing, as he asked, Thirty-six hours of that kind of overlap?

Cut the crap, Cal. I’m serious.

Ah-ha! So, all the garbage you’ve been feeding me about her being no more than a friend was just that, garbage.

For the first time in a long time, a blush colored his friend’s dark cheeks. Cal had no time for further comment, because the ice ball, which had drifted about seven meters from the ship, jerked into motion, headed in their direction.

The collision alarm shrieked a warning, but Cal already knew they’d be struck. Instinctively, he slammed his fist against the emergency burn button. But the engine was latched to the ice, not the ship. Ionic fire would not be their salvation.

The mass began to fragment, gaining speed as it did.

Mark. Grab something and brace for collision!

Collision? What’s—

"Do it now!"

Cal braced himself, hands clamped on the framework of the data console, eyes on approaching death.

The collision was gentle, surprisingly so. But that didn’t last. A crunching, grinding noise seemed to come from all around. Then came the sensation of an elevator lurching into motion—with the acceleration rising to nearly intolerable levels. But unlike the elevator, this went on and on.

The sounds of collision grew in volume as the outer hull buckled and insulation thinned through compression.

Death lay moments away, certainly, but with not the slightest control of the situation there was no panic—no goal or source of salvation to work toward. There was only death, demanding submission.

But if this particular bullet had his name written on it, and it probably did, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

Fuck you, Mr. Death!

He had time for that. Then, time only to do what had to be done.

The collision point was across the hull. And like a head-on collision in a car the force of it threw him toward the instrument panel.

Unable to do more than brace himself against the console mounts, he fought to protect the equipment against his weight. Any hope of survival depended on the computer and the sub-systems it controlled.

But then, as if a giant hand had batted at the spacecraft, it lurched to the left, then begin to rotate, jerkily, still under acceleration.

Unable to retain his grip as the direction of acceleration changed, he was swept away from the console and thrown against the #3 storage locker, a fall of no more than four feet. Under acceleration greater than twice Earth’s gravity the impact might well have killed him.

But Dame Fortune was smiling this day, and the face of the locker buckled, absorbing part of the blow.

He lived. But amid the rolling thunder of collision came the sickening snap of bone failing under stress.

Through it all; though he had not the slightest control of what was happening; though fighting desperately to stay alive, his mind—detached from the struggle—was hyper-aware of everything: the smell of burning wiring mixed with the fetid odor of the ruptured waste-disposal tank assaulted his senses. Overhead, something was throwing off a shower of sparks. His mouth tasted of blood, and his hearing overloaded, as the hull flexed toward the breaking point.

Death was an occupational hazard in his line of work. But to die helplessly, without being able to even send a message of alarm, brought a surge of anger that pulled him from the strange mind-state the collision had triggered. It also brought the realization that he’d screwed up.

They were in collision with a rogue mass—something not charted and tracked. The ice they were working with contained a high concentration of metallic dust, and that served to shield the approaching intruder—which must be a small asteroid—from the ship’s sensors.

He should have been alert; should have checked; should not have ignored the possibility. But what were the odds that something would come at them from precisely the direction of the ice ball? And further, that it would be large enough not to be stopped by the mass of the ice?

Were he to calculate the odds against such a strike they’d be astronomical. But that gave no comfort. The strike had occurred, was still occurring, and only the ice ball crumbling under impact and absorbing the brunt of the forces saved them from instant death.

Screw up and you die, was the mantra drummed into every ice-jockey from the time they began their training. But he’d gotten complacent and screwed up.

Damn!

The tumbling continued, with random changes in direction, as the ship settled through crumbling ice, rolling along the side of the invading mass as it did. It seemed to go on forever. In actuality, it was over in seconds.

With a thud, and a shock that drove the wind from his lungs, the ship finally struck something solid, bounced away, and stopped moving—at least as far as the senses were concerned. The sound of debris sliding over the hull continued for a few more seconds, then nothing but the wailing of alarms. One of them, the most strident, warned of a hull breach. Somewhere, a hole was venting breathing air to space. Maybe a lot of holes, but he tried not to think of that. Whatever hit the ship no longer plastered him in place with acceleration, so he was once more in control of his life—even had a surge of hope that life might not be over.

Cal? More croak than voice, Mark’s words carried a heavy freight of pain within them.

I hear you, buddy. We have a leak, but the skin monitors are down. Are you near it? Can you see or hear anything? Vision was of little help in the dim light from the monitor screens. No cabin lighting remained, and the instrument cluster, the only source of light, was probably on battery power. The backup lighting hadn’t come on, so something had failed or shorted. That the hull, itself, had not split like a clamshell was a miracle.

Can’t hear hissing, but I’m drifting toward the skin, so it must be a big one and I must be pretty close.... If I can find it I’ll wad something into the opening until you can get a patch over here.

The pain in Mark’s voice gave little assurance that the situation would soon be under control. The pain that erupted in his arm when he tried to move it brought a gasp and a hurried tucking of the arm under his belt, so he wouldn’t be tempted to move it again. Then, he dragged himself back to the ruined storage locker and searched for the container of patch sheets. He finally located it, and was tearing the seal on the pack with his teeth when Mark shouted that he’d located the hole—or at least the major hole. There were probably more. Hopefully, few enough that they could be sealed before the environmental system ran out of replenishment air.

He pushed off across the compartment, aiming the emergency flashlight—pulled from the storage locker along with the patch kit—in Mark’s direction, to make a fast check of his condition. The news wasn’t good. In better times Mark’s skin tone matched the caramel brown of his unitard. Now his skin was pasty looking, his eyes full of pain. His open hand was pressed against his chest, on the left side, with globules of blood gathered around it where they’d leaked between his fingers. Not good news at all.

How bad is it, Mark? he asked, as he halted his motion against a bulkhead.

Bad enough. I’m guessing the lung’s punctured. I can breathe, though, so it’s not collapsed...yet."

Cal grunted, but before he could reply, Mark waved his free hand in the direction of the hull, near his head. His words were wrapped in pain, as he said, Forget me, I can hold out. Just get the hull sealed and see to the life-support or we’ll both be dead before you can start on me.

Mark’s evaluation matched his own. But a few seconds spent keeping his partner alive till he finished with the ship made sense. Leaving the lamp parked in the air in front of him, he held the patches in his restrained hand, peeled one from the bundle with the other, and held it where Mark could take it. The patch was designed to stop an air leak—which also happened to be Mark’s problem. Certainly, it would work better than the palm of Mark’s hand. And if the lung wasn’t collapsed the patch just might keep it functioning. A collapsed lung was something he wasn’t equipped to handle, even with Dinah’s extensive medical database.

Without further conversation, he turned his attention to the bulkhead. Readying another patch from the kit he pulled aside the blanket Mark used to block the opening and turned the light on the area. Bad, but not as bad as he feared. A ragged tear in the inner hull, coin-sized, deformed it inward like the petals of a flower, star-points of light gleaming through it. Thankfully, enough atmosphere remained to maintain life, and as the internal pressure dropped, the rate of loss would decline.

Using teeth and his good hand, he peeled the backing from a patch and spread it over the hole. The cabin’s internal air pressure, low as it now was, pressed the soft material of the patch against the cut edges, enveloping the pointed shards and forming a drumhead over the hole. He ran a smoothing hand around the tear, sealing the tough but flexible plastic to the hull. With the patch secure, he used his teeth to flip open the protective cap on the catalyst rod, then touched it to one corner of the patch. A wave of darkness made its way across the patch as the self-catalyzing plastic became rigid, eliminating the possibility that it would be cut by the sharp edges of the torn hull.

That taken care of, he turned back to Mark. The good news was that he’d been able to peel back the top of his unitard and cover the injury with the patch, sealing the wound. Because Mark needed the patch to remain flexible so he could breathe, Cal sealed the catalyzing rod and slipped it into a pocket, lest it come in contact with the patch.

How are you holding out, Buddy?

Mark, wrapped around his pain and drifting, just waved him away. He thought about tethering him, or pressing him against one of the sticky patches scattered around the ship, but Mark was beyond caring where he was.

For the next ten minutes, he hurried through the ship, ignoring the crazily canted bulkheads, checking every inch of the hull. Once, Ice-Ship 1320W was a nearly perfect ten-meter sphere, like a giant Ping-Pong ball spanned by a spiderweb of structural piping and wireways, all meeting in the center, at the control consoles. With no up and down to worry about, and only gentle acceleration forces applied when they were on a mission, the ship was divided into functional areas by cloth bulkheads. Special functions, those that needed large-scale re-supply, like the kitchen and the fuel tanks, were attached like leeches to the outer surface of the ball, and accessed via safety ports, closed now due to the pressure loss within the ship. But the ship was no longer round, and as he moved around the ship he tried to ignore the gaps and buckles in the structural members that indicated just how far the ship now was from being a sphere. Nothing he could do would bring it back into shape—even had he been in a condition to do so. Even trying might cause the hull to fail.

Small cracks by the dozens needed a dab of sealant, but thankfully, that was it. Why there were no more leaks he couldn’t begin to say, but he breathed a thank-you to the nameless engineer who had designed a more robust hull than called for. The pounding the ship received was, assuredly, no part of the ship’s design specification.

Another half-hour passed while he unbolted and rounded up the emergency lighting fixtures, and then cobbled up a wire-harness of sorts to power them. When he finished the ship was alight again, powered by the main reactor—a rugged beast to which the ride they’d just been through was no more than a minor shake. The life-support system, too, functioned, happily extracting oxygen from ice they’d collected, releasing it into the cabin to restore a comfortable air pressure. The nitrogen storage gauge showed no pressure, so he reset the environmental system to supply oxygen only, but at lower than normal cabin pressure, to reduce the possibility of a fire and lessen stress on the hull.

The immediate emergency taken care of, he turned to his own welfare.

First came an analgesic from the medkit. The bone was almost certainly cracked, probably both the radius and the ulna. But the good news was that they’d not slipped out of line, so a cast, and immobilization, would take care of that.

To that end he wrapped the arm in a layer of soft cloth, then one of patch sheeting, forming a tube that would act as a cast when catalyzed. Hopefully, that would do, but the arm was the least of his problems. The odds of living long enough for it to heal weren’t very promising.

Okay, Cal said, as he turned his attention to Mark once more. Let’s get a look at you. Sometime during his hurried trip around the ship, he’d taken a moment to inject his partner with a dose of happy-juice and push him toward a sticky patch. Now, Mark hung with eyes closed, limbs floating loosely around him, breathing shallowly.

He weighed the idea of taking a shot, himself, because pain throbbed with his heartbeat and the arm felt twice normal size. But the shot that reduced pain would also lessen mental acuity, so he gritted his teeth and went on with what had to be done.

He anchored himself to a stanchion with his legs and peeled the patch from Mark’s chest—then hissed through his teeth as he smoothed it into place once more. Something had, indeed, punctured Mark’s chest wall, and the bubbles forming at the site of the wound each time he breathed proved that the lung, itself, was punctured and in danger of collapse.

It could be worse, he told himself as he headed toward the control console.

It could damn well have been better, came, as a silent answer from the ship around him.

Okay, Dinah, he muttered, as he raised the cabin pressure a bit more. Tell me about chest wounds. The increased oxygen pressure would reduce Mark’s respiration rate and make correcting the problem easier. At least he hoped it would, and until he knew more about repairing the injury more oxygen density was something that—like the proverbial chicken soup—couldn’t hurt. He forced himself to ignore the possibility that the added stress, caused by the higher pressure, might cause a catastrophic failure of the weakened hull.

Like all ships that spend their time away from those who might provide help, a lot of thought had been given to emergency conditions and what might be necessary to correct them. Thus the ship’s computer not only had an extensive database on medicine, the medical assistant program operated at nearly an artificial intelligence level. For all practical purposes, he’d be performing corrective surgery under the direction of a fully competent surgeon. Unfortunately, that surgeon was unable to do more than offer advice. If Mark was to survive, how well he implemented that advice mattered a great deal—a frightening idea. For a long moment the idea of what he was about to do, and the responsibility that rested in his hands, was overwhelming. But worry was lost time, and he had none to spare, so he opened the medical emergency kit, prepared Mark as well as he was able, breathed a small prayer, and got to work.

For a time, Cal hung, just watching Mark breathe. The wound was sealed and the space between the lung and chest wall had been aspirated to remove any air that had leaked into that space. The med program claimed that his friend would live. Unfortunately, that program also listed everything that might interfere with recovery. But little could be done about that other than to wait, watch and worry.

Stable and tethered within a bednet, Mark slept. Time then, to address the next problem.

With the major leaks and his partner’s wound taken care of, he turned to matters of long-term survival—things that couldn’t be put off. For the next ten hours, he drove himself to the point of exhaustion. First, he made a hurried inspection of the interior of the ship in an attempt to catalog their resources. The bad news was that none of the hatches leading to the external storage pods would open—not one. That meant the pods were no longer airtight, and would have to be sealed from the outside before he could inspect them and inventory their contents. Satisfied that Mark still slept peacefully, he donned a suit and hurried out to check the damage—hurry being a relative term. Just getting into the suit, with an elbow that could no longer bend, extracted a cost measured in both time and frustration. Then, because the outer door was jammed, he had to remove the door, along with its mounting plate, to leave the ship. That task, alone—the removal and later reattachment of the plate—chewed up eight of the ten hours, because he had to, first, hammer and pry the metal of the door back into near flatness to remove the stress jamming the mounting studs.

The ship still tumbled, but slowly, amid a cloud of fragmented ice, the broken surfaces sparkling in the distant sun’s light. Whatever had hit them wasn’t to be seen.

The rotation was minor and the ice posed no threat, so he focused on the hull. That now had more in common with a naturally formed object than a working ice-ship. Under normal circumstances, the tough plastic was almost impossible to dent or tear. But these were not normal circumstances, and the inspection of the outer hull took only minutes, because there was nothing to inspect.

The ship resembled a rough-surfaced meteor, pitted and streaked with age. The ice, as it was driven against the ship, gouged and bent it, grinding the heat-absorptive overcoat and changing it from charcoal black to dirty gray. Of more importance, the external equipment pods had been sheared off at their attachment points, so the access ports, had he been foolish enough to force one open, would show only a view of the uncaring stars. He breathed a thank you to whoever designed the pods with breakaway couplings that prevented even worse damage. Still, without the food and fuel those pods held, there were damn few options.

But bitching resolved nothing, so he turned to resealing the airlock and things over which he did have control.

What’s up, Buddy? Are we dead or do I have to go stir-crazy waiting for a pickup?

Hearing Mark’s voice should have been a plus, because it indicated that he was both awake and alert. Now, though, it came as a distraction, drawing him from his latest attempt to broadcast a distress call that might reach the way station.

With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the board and headed to where Mark was secured into his sleep net.

Hi, Mark, he said, forcing a smile. You look like shit so I assume you’re okay. Any problems breathing?

Hurts like hell, but I’m okay, Mark growled. Or at least I will be. How bad is it?

He took a deep breath and let the smile slip. Mark was never one to accept bullshit. It’s bad, Mark. Really bad. We’ve got hull integrity, and I’ve rigged up power, but the pods are gone, and so is the com-link connection. The external amplifiers and antennas have all been swept away. I rigged an antenna, of sorts, and made a connection to it from the computer, through a suit’s radio, but there’s not enough power available from that little radio.

Mark said nothing for a long time, then made a shrugging motion of his hands, accepting what must be. There would be no search, other than by radar, when they failed to call in on time. With their reflectors torn away, they were now no more than another unidentified lump, drifting endlessly through the void.

What about the engine? Mark finally asked. Can you call it in? There’s fuel in its onboard tank. It never did shove the ice, and that radio you rigged should reach that far.

Damn...you’re right. I’ve been thinking in terms of rescue, and using our own engine was something I just.... He waved his good arm in frustration. Just stupidity, I guess.

What else is new? Don’t I always have to think for the two of us?

You think? With what? Mark’s spirits were up, despite the injury. A good sign. And his remark on the engine was valid. Sure the attachment cradle on the ship was bent beyond repair. But the engine had been attached to the ice mass, and that was all around them, drifting in the same general direction. The engine was still attached to the cradle they’d sunk into the ice mass. With a little creativity, some ice, and a torch, the engine could be attached to the ship.

He began to pull himself toward the control console, calling. You’re a pain in the ass, Mark, but right now I damn near like you.

De nada. Just get us home in time for me to spend some time with Stacey, before she ships out.

He smiled at the idea of Mark going out with Stacey in his current condition, then shrugged. She might even find the idea attractive. Certainly, when the painkillers wore off, he’d need comforting.

So?

Cal turned his head to find Mark floating by his ear. One of the benefits of zero gravity was that as injured as he was, he could still move through the ship.

I got the engine’s control module to answer, and I’m trying to convince the thing to head in our direction. It didn’t want to, initially, because the latches are jammed and its sensors are still reporting contact with the cradle on the ice mass. I think I’m past that, though.

You can’t just tell it to head back here, as it normally would?

He threw up his hands in disgust, wincing as his hurt arm reminded him of the stupidity of that action.

Tell it to head back here? Mark, the homing reflector is gone, so it has nothing to aim for. I’ll have to guide it in close enough that I can stand on the hull to snag it, and I have to bring it in by guess, alone, because I have no camera to show me if I’m sending the damn thing towards us or toward the sun. In reality, the data displays and the guidance aids built into the engine’s control system allowed him to be fairly sure he was guiding it correctly, but at this point, he’d been awake for thirty hours, despite forcing himself to stretch out in his bednetting for a