“I can feel the warmth on my face,” Ivy said.
Dinah couldn’t think of anything useful to say to that. During their passage from her shop to the Flivver she had forgotten about the fact that the Earth was burning, and she didn’t enjoy being reminded of it. Instead she tried to focus on the red light emanating coolly from the screen of her tablet, which was running Parambulator. Flivver 3 had been picked up on the swarm’s collective sensorium and identified as a bogey that might potentially collide with as many as a hundred different arklets if it stayed on its current course. Rather than controlling its thrusters directly, which would lead at best to confusion and at worse to a chain-reaction disaster, Ivy was negotiating a solution with the rest of the Cloud Ark, telling it where she wanted to go and finding a way of getting there that would minimize the amount of maneuvering demanded of all the others.
It was not a speedy way of getting around, and indeed ran at right angles to the fighter-jockey ethos of many of the ex-military types who had come up here in the astronaut and cosmonaut corps. But as they got farther away from Izzy they were able to move into orbits that caused minimal consternation to the rest of the cloud, and move in a more direct way to rendezvous with the wayward X-37.
This had been placed, by whoever the hell had launched it, in an orbit with the same period and plane as the Cloud Ark, but with somewhat greater eccentricity. The orbit of Izzy, and hence of the Cloud Ark, was almost perfectly circular. The X-37’s was more oval, meaning that about half of the time it was “beneath” the Cloud Ark and the rest of the time it was “above,” but twice during each ninety-three-minute orbit it crossed through, each time touching off the havoc that was wasting so much propellant and causing so much annoyance to Markus. Right now it was “above” and due to cross over in another twenty minutes.
“Any bolides we need to worry about before I focus on this?” Ivy asked her.
“Nothing in particular,” Dinah said, meaning that there was nothing so big as to force the entire Cloud Ark to make a course change.
“Let’s make this fast then,” Ivy said, and went over to manual control. For they were now far enough away from the Cloud Ark that she could execute solo maneuvers without making Parambulator screens turn solid red. “Can you scope it?”
Dinah spent a minute refamiliarizing herself with the user interface for the optical telescope mounted to the Flivver’s nose; this was an electronic eyeball about the size of an orange. The controls were intuitive, but getting it to aim at a particular bogey took a bit of doing. Soon enough, though, she was able to see something white and bright. She locked on to it and zoomed in.
From longer zoom it was clearly a winged craft with a black nose, like the Shuttle of old, but it seemed to have taken on added parts. Zooming in further she was able to see that the cargo bay doors that constituted most of the X-37’s “back” had been opened at some point after it had reached orbit. Its payload had then been lifted out of the bay using the built-in robotic arm, which was still holding it, frozen in position. The payload was almost as big as the X-37 itself; it was yet another dome-ended cylinder. But unlike a Flivver or an arklet, it lacked thrusters or any sort of visible power source. It was just a burnished aluminum capsule, gleaming white on one side from sunshine, red below where it reflected the planetary firestorm.
Ivy was looking at it too, dividing her attention between the Flivver’s status displays and the window running this optical feed. “Can you get more detail on the forward end? There’s a fitting there that might be a—”
“Yeah,” Dinah said, zooming in and panning to center it. “That’s a docking port all right.”
“Well, I guess we’re being invited to dock with it,” Ivy said.
“It’s weird. I don’t like it.”
“I agree,” Ivy said, “but we can’t come back later. That thing is tiny. Less than four feet in diameter. If there’s humans in there, they are running out of stuff to breathe.”
“Why would they send a human up in something like that?”
“It’s some plan that went awry. An email didn’t get answered, a transmission got garbled, now these people are marooned and probably waiting to die.” Ivy spoke brusquely, a little irked by Dinah’s questions.
Dinah heard thrusters pop and felt them nudging her around as Ivy maneuvered. She knew better than to distract her friend when her brain had gone into orbital mechanics mode. She unbuckled herself from the jump seat and moved to the docking port on the Flivver’s “top” surface, steadying herself by reaching out to grab the adjacent handles whenever Ivy effected a little course adjustment.
Within a few minutes Ivy had matched orbits, maneuvered the Flivver into the right attitude, and driven it straight onto the capsule’s docking port.
“Got a positive mate,” Dinah remarked. She activated a valve that flooded the little space between the Flivver’s hatch and the capsule’s with air. “Here goes nothing.”
She opened the Flivver’s hatch. She was now looking at the outside of the capsule’s hatch, which, until a few seconds earlier, had been exposed to space.
A strange detail: taped to the aluminum hatch was an ordinary sheet of 8½ x 11 inch North American printer paper. On this had been printed a color image: a yellow ring encircling a blue disk lined with stars. Spread-eagled on its center, an eagle with a red-and-white-striped shield. The printer that had spat this thing out had been low on cyan ink and so the image was strangely banded and discolored. Exposure to space hadn’t done it any favors either.
Even though the United States had only ceased to exist a few minutes earlier—declared extinct by Markus under the authority granted him by the Cloud Ark Constitution—this image already seemed as old and quaint to Dinah as a pilgrim or a musketeer.
She heard a mechanism activating on the other side of it.
“It’s aliiiive!” she called. Then, in spite of this effort at jocularity, she held her breath.
The hatch swung open to reveal a haggard, space-bloated, sickly green face, hair floating around it in disarray. But the eyes in that face were as cold and hard as ever, and they were fixed on Dinah.
“Dinah,” the woman said. It was her voice, more than her face, that Dinah recognized. “Even in these tragic circumstances, what a relief to see a familiar face.”
“Madam Pres—” Dinah began. Then she caught herself. “Julia.”
Julia Bliss Flaherty looked as if she didn’t appreciate one bit being addressed that way.
Ivy was using the thrusters quite a bit. Now that the Flivver, the capsule, and the X-37 were all joined together mechanically into a single object, it was possible—though awkward—to maneuver them into sync with the Cloud Ark and clean up all of that Parambulator red. There was some lurching. Julia was getting knocked around a little, learning she had to keep a grip on those handles. Random stuff, including some filled barf bags and a large number of what looked like red marbles, were careering around inside her tiny capsule. Looking through it during a moment when Julia had been flung to one side, Dinah saw a man floating in the far end of the capsule. He was bloody, and he was kind of floppy too. He was dressed in the remains of a navy-blue suit. He was not the ex–First Gentleman.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dinah said.
“Who the hell is that?” Ivy was shouting. “Markus wants to know if we have survivors.”
“My loss?” Julia asked.
“Your husband,” Dinah said.
“He took the pill,” Julia announced, “in the limo.”
“Oh my god.”
“I’ll need your help getting Mr. Starling squared away. He’s too big for me to move.”
“No, he isn’t,” Dinah said.
“I beg your pardon?” Julia said sharply.
“You’re in zero gee,” Dinah pointed out. “So he’s not too big for you to move. But I can still help you if you want.”
“If you would be so kind,” Julia said. She got a hand over the rim of the hatch while reaching out w
ith the other for a shoulder bag, and looked expectantly at Dinah, who was still blocking her path.
Dinah looked at the back of Ivy’s head. “Julia Bliss Flaherty requests permission to come aboard.”
Julia let out a hiss of exasperation.
“Granted,” Ivy said.
“One casualty on the way too,” Dinah said, and cleared out of Julia’s way.
Julia launched herself through the hatch too hard, flew across the Flivver, and slammed into the far side of it elbow and shoulder first. “Augh!” she cried. But Dinah didn’t think she was hurt, and so she pushed through into the capsule. One of those red marbles was drifting toward her face and she reached out with a hand to brush it away before realizing that it was blood.
Pete Starling was suffering from a number of lacerations, as if he’d been in a stick fight or a car crash. He was groggy, and gagging on blood—probably from a broken nose—which he would cough out explosively when it got in the way of his breathing. Dinah grasped the lapel of his jacket, trying to find a usable handhold. When she pulled on it, the front of the coat came away from Starling’s chest for a moment, revealing an empty shoulder holster.
No matter now. She planted her feet, put her back into it, and got him stretched out in the middle of the capsule, head aimed toward the docking port, drifting slowly in that direction. She was looking to Julia to reach through and pull her companion through the hole. But Julia, banged up from her first attempt to move, was still flailing around, learning the basics of zero gee locomotion the hard way.
Dinah was at the back of the capsule, staring at Pete’s feet, which were kicking weakly. One of his feet was stocking clad; the other still wore an expensive-looking leather shoe. She grabbed a foot with each hand and tried to push him toward the docking port, but he reacted against it. He had no idea what was going on, didn’t understand that he was in space, didn’t like having his feet grabbed. She moved forward, got her waist between his knees, hugged him around the thighs, squeezing his legs together to either side of her body, and tried to get him re-aimed toward the port.
She heard a sharp pop and felt warm wet stuff all over her arms. More of it had splashed up her throat, all the way to the point of her chin. She smelled shit and heard a loud hissing noise. Pete Starling jerked once and then went limp.
She looked up toward the source of the hiss and saw starlight through a jagged hole in the skin of the capsule. The hole was about the size of a man’s thumb. Triangles of metal were bent back away from it.
On second thought, the hissing was coming from two places at once. Another hole had been punched in the other side of the capsule. Pete Starling’s body was between the two holes. The middle of his torso was just a rib-lined crater. Blood was hurtling out of it and accelerating through both holes.
Her ears had popped several times already.
She looked down the length of the capsule at Julia, who had finally gotten herself properly oriented and was looking into the hatch, wild eyed, utterly confused.
“Julia,” Dinah said, “we’ve been struck by a small bolide. We’re losing air, but not that fast. Pete’s dead. He’s in my way. If you could reach through and grab him by the collar and pull him toward you—”
The conversation, and her view of Julia’s face, was cut off by the Flivver’s hatch swinging shut.
ANY CURVE YOU COULD MAKE BY SLICING A CONE WITH A PLANE—A circle, an ellipse, a parabola, or a hyperbola—could be the shape of an orbit. For practical purposes, though, all orbits were ellipses. And most of the naturally occurring orbits in the solar system—those of the planets around the sun, or of moons around planets—were ellipses so round as to be indistinguishable, by the naked eye, from circles. This was not because nature especially favored circles. It was because highly elongated elliptical orbits tended not to last for very long. As a body in a highly eccentric orbit went rocketing in toward the central body and executed a hairpin turn at the periapsis—the point of closest approach—it was subject to tidal forces that could break it up. It might strike the central body’s atmosphere or, in the case of heliocentric orbits, come too close to the sun’s heat and suffer thermal damage. If it survived the plunge through periapsis, it would fly out on a long trajectory that would take it across the orbits of other bodies. After rounding the turn at apoapsis—the point of maximum distance—it would cycle back across the same set of orbits on its way back in toward the center. The solar system was sparse, and so the odds that it would strike, or come close to, any given planet or asteroid on any given circuit were small. But over astronomical spans of time, the likelihood of a close encounter or a collision was high. Collision would, of course, result in a meteorite strike on the planet and the destruction of the formerly orbiting body. A mere close encounter would perturb the body’s orbit into a new and different ellipse, or possibly into a hyperbola, which would eject it from the solar system altogether. The sun still maintained a stable of comets and asteroids in highly eccentric orbits, but their number dwindled over time, and they were rare events to astronomers. In its early aeons the solar system had been a much more chaotic place, with a wider range of orbits, but the processes mentioned had gradually swept it clean and, by a kind of natural selection, produced a system in which nearly everything was moving in an almost circular orbit.
What was true of the solar system as a whole had also been true of the Earth-moon system. The moon had circled the Earth in a nearly circular orbit. From time to time, a wandering stone from deep space would blunder in through a libration point and get captured into a geocentric orbit, but sooner or later it would hit the moon, hit the Earth, or be ejected by a close encounter with one of those bodies. Thus had the moon swept Earth’s skies for billions of years and protected it from most big meteor strikes, making it a suitable place for the development of complex ecosystems and civilizations.
All the rocks that made up the White Sky had once shared the moon’s orbit, and most of them, for the time being, remained at a safe distance of about four hundred thousand kilometers. Their orbits, for now, were of low eccentricity, meaning that they were nearly circular. However, the vast number of chaotic interactions within the White Sky had spawned a diversity of orbits. Some of those orbits were highly eccentric, meaning that their apogees might be far away, but their perigees were close to the Earth: close enough to get caught up in its atmosphere or to strike it directly. Any rock whose orbit was eccentric enough to come near the Earth could also come near Izzy. In general, rocks in such orbits were moving at about eleven thousand meters per second when they were that close to Earth. A bolide the size of a peppercorn, moving at that velocity, would have the same kinetic energy as a high-powered rifle bullet.
Of course, high-powered bullets were designed to strike things with great force and do damage in a predictable way, while moon rocks weren’t designed at all. So the results of collisions could be unpredictable.
What had probably happened in this case was that a rock closer in size to a chickpea, and packing the energy of several rifle bullets, had punched through the wall of the capsule but, in so doing, fractured into several pieces that had sprayed outward across the capsule’s volume in a narrow cone, striking Pete Starling’s body something like a shotgun blast but with much more total kinetic energy. Most of that energy had gone into his flesh and caused him to basically explode. The largest single piece of the original rock had kept going through his body, or perhaps missed him entirely, and punched its way out through the opposite side of the capsule.
If the rock had passed a couple of meters to either side, it would have missed them entirely and they wouldn’t even have known it was there. In the Earth’s atmosphere, of course, it would have been a different story. The rock would have dissolved in a bright streak, turning most of its kinetic energy into heat. The air in its immediate vicinity would have gotten warmer for a bit. Had it happened at night, keen observers might have seen a streak of light. When the same thing happened on a large scale, all over the Earth, t
he air became so hot that it glowed, as it was doing now.
In any case Dinah now found herself locked into a capsule, lit only by a few strips of white LEDs that were darkened by blood spatter, as the air leaked out of it. She had, of course, been drilling for events such as this one for a significant part of her life. One of the first things they taught you was that the air wasn’t really leaking out as quickly as you thought. Only so much air could get through a small hole. Nevertheless, plugging those holes was life-or-death. So Dinah’s first move, once she had recovered from surprise, was to shove Pete Starling’s remains up toward the larger of the two holes: the one through which the bolide had entered. With a wet sucking sound his bloody flesh sealed that hole. Her ears now enabled her to find the smaller exit hole, which was about the size of her pinkie. She slapped her bloody hand over it. The hiss stopped and she immediately felt a space hickey beginning to form where the Big Hoover was trying to pull her flesh out into the void. It hurt, but not that badly. She listened for a few moments until she was satisfied that there were no other hissing noises—no other leaks.
A bloody bandage floated past. She snatched it out of the air, peeled her hand away from the hole, and stuffed it in there. Some of it got sucked out into space, but then it formed into a wad that moved no further. The hole was still hissing, though, so she grabbed an empty plastic bag and shaped that over the irregular mound of wet gauze. The vacuum sucked it inward and created a nearly airtight seal.
A softer hiss, more of a whooshing noise, emanated from the “back” of the capsule. Dinah’s ears felt a change in pressure, but they didn’t pop—suggesting that the pressure had just increased. She knew nothing about this capsule, but she did know how simple life support systems worked, and she knew that they would likely contain a store of compressed oxygen that would be bled in to compensate for what was being turned into CO2 in the occupants’ bodies and absorbed by the scrubbers. The mechanism was probably trying to compensate for the air that had just been voided into space, bringing the pressure back up to normal.