More to come, but I have to go fix breakfast. People are hungry.
34: Touch and Go
Endurance, the cargo bay-
It was greyish-dim inside, after all of that searing, black-skied brightness. When the giant bay doors closed overhead and the 'garage' had once again re-pressurized, John Tracy pulled off his helmet and black-and-white snoopy cap, then did the same for Pete McCord.
The mission commander appeared to be semi-conscious and convulsing. Emergency situation, obviously, but it took John thirty long seconds to recall the proper response. Tethering Pete to the newly folded robot arm, he pushed off in the direction of a bulkhead-mounted first aid kit.
His thoughts were odd, misshapen things that had to be fumblingly turned over and around before he quite knew where to fit them. It was very hard to think.
At the bulkhead, he reached for a satellite repair box, then put it back in favor of the first aid kit (though he couldn't decide where he'd cut himself…). Only when McCord began vomiting again did John recall his mission.
A clumsy twist and jerk freed the white-and-red box.
"Okay, I'm coming," he said vaguely, working around a nasty, blinding headache. Pete, he'd decided, was the one who needed first aid.
Dodging bits of soaring vomit, he launched himself back toward McCord. The garage was quick to cross, looking almost abandoned without its tractor and power suits… but they were back on Mars, with all that computer gear and power plant stuff. Oh, well… more room to maneuver.
Back to the stowed arm, then, where he began unpacking whatever seemed useful; gauze pads, aspirin, water and medicated wipes.
Pete continued his bouts of weak shuddering. His eyes were rolled back, too, which John had the feeling was a bad sign. The last time he'd seen someone who looked like this… but that had been a woman, in… he was pretty sure it was Persia…
"John!" The voice, sharp with something that sounded like tears, was Linda's. She was floating at the other side of the cargo bay window, with Roger Thorpe.
"I'm getting some supplies together, and coming to help. I'll be just a few minutes. But, listen to me: get those suits off, and put them away in one of the sample casks. I'll…"
She wanted to come in? His wife did? John had several responses to that suggestion, with "hell, no!" topping the stack. Pushing away from Commander McCord, John drifted down to the window, behind which lay the rear cockpit, the cargo arm controls, Roger and Linda.
Damn it. She was crying. He hated when females did that… Trying not to sound as drunk as he felt, John told her,
"No. Not in here. Pete's not well. He could be contagious… and you've got a baby. Leave the supplies by the hatch, then exit the cockpit. Once you've, um… left, I'll go in after them."
Another, clearer thought, then, from some alien and unscarred part of his mind:
"I know what it's like to lose you, already. Both of you… and I'm not letting it happen again. Stay the hell out."
As an afterthought, and because he'd heard that cooperation was the secret to a long and successful marriage, John added,
"I'll get the suits put away, and you can, uh… give me medical advice over the comm. Okay?"
Her fists were clenched. Apparently, he hadn't been quite cooperative enough. But Kim Cho had shown up by then, severely crowding the rear cockpit. Linda scooted over and touched a hand to the window glass, saying,
"I don't know what you think is going on, Sunshine, but you and Pete have been exposed to highly toxic levels of radiation, and you need immediate attention. I'll put on a hard suit, if I have to, or…"
"I will go," Dr. Kim cut in. "I have sustained no serious injury, such as Roger has experienced, nor am I pregnant. I believe myself to be the best choice, then, for this task."
She looked at her Marine as she said this, seeking approval if not permission. Thorpe nodded, after a bit. He would have gone himself, but, like Linda's, his health was seriously compromised, already. Whether or not he liked to admit it, Cho stood the best chance of surviving contact with two dangerously radioactive patients.
By this time, though, John had forgotten the point of the argument. He pushed himself up and away again, leaving three worried people safe behind leaded glass.
Pete had roused somewhat, but he looked confused. John helped him to stop up the nose bleed, and then gave McCord a sip of water from the aid kit's plastic bottle. There'd been something about their space suits, too. But first, he said,
"S'okay, Pete. We're back inside. We're in the ship."
"What happened?" McCord asked, shaking-pale and clammy under the cargo bay's feeble LEDs. His voice was hoarse, and he looked like hell (one of the unimproved neighborhoods, at that).
John chased down and caught a fleeing notion.
"We went outside the ship," he decided. "Maybe had to work those repairs on Polar Orbiter… I dunno… I think we got sick. Maybe some radiation."
"Shit," the mission commander muttered, beginning to fade out again.
"Yeah. Got to get these suits off, though. Help me out for a second, Pete, and then you can go back to sleep. Promise."
For a weird, short moment, Pete McCord became utterly lucid. He opened blood-shot, pale blue eyes again and said, almost casually,
"Guess we're going to die, then."
John unlocked and removed the mission commander's right glove, then sent it drifting off and began on the left one, saying,
"Well… maybe. Everybody does, sooner or later. Something could happen, though. I mean… we've gotten this far."
Next the boots (and that was it for the easy part). Pete helped out as much as he could, but it remained a job and a half to remove stiff, bulky space suits when everything hurt and his thoughts moved as slowly as a glass marble dropping through honey. He kept blanking out; having tiny, short-lived seizures. Managed all right though, all things considered.
Then Cho was there, back in her black-and-yellow hard suit. She muscled John aside and bade him hold fast to a tethering ring, adding,
"Rest here, John. I will finish with Pete, and then return to see to you. All is well."
He nodded as Dr. Kim dropped her gaze and gave him one of those quick, closed-mouth smiles of hers. Like a geisha, almost; the slim, mannered girls in Okinawa.
Thus released, John pulled away from grey lighting, buzzing sounds, physical illness and pain. Away into silence and dark. Not as bad as it probably sounded, because he'd been there before, after his mother fell with the baby. She'd disappeared and, in a way, so had he.
It was a hiding place, insulative as the black shaft of a coal mine, with the outside world no more than a faint golden sparkle, as many miles away as he cared to push it. But something else happened, this time. He stumbled into someone else's life.