The Swarm (27 page)

“Stay here,” said Li. He unbuckled his harness and pulled himself forward in zero G. Bingwen strained to hear what was being said, but the group was speaking in hushed tones. After a moment, Li looked back down the aisle and waved Bingwen forward. “Bingwen, come up here.”

Bingwen undid his harness and flew to the group. The men were all gathered in the aisle. A few were high-ranking senior officers. They regarded Bingwen with a look of confusion, as if they were surprised to discover a child on board.

“Explain to Bingwen what you just explained to me,” Li said to the captain.

The captain hesitated. “Why?”

“Because no one here knows how to fix the problem, including you, and maybe he can,” said Li.

“This isn't something a boy can solve,” said the captain.

“Do you know this young man?” Li asked the captain, gesturing to Bingwen.

“Well, no, but—”

“Do you know what his capabilities are?”

“This is a complex issue,” said the captain.

“And this is a Chinese-engineered vessel,” said Li. “And I am a colonel of the International Fleet, giving you an order. I don't care if you're the captain of this vessel or not. This Chinese boy is the best-qualified person on this ship to solve the problem. Tell him.”

The captain looked miffed, but he did as he was told. “All right. As I was saying, we have a failure in the link to the quadrangulation system.”

“Sending or receiving?” Bingwen asked.

“What does he mean by that?” one of the officers asked. “Sending and receiving what?”

“If you make them stop to answer your stupid questions,” said Li, “you delay them from solving the problem. Your curiosity is less important than us getting to our destination. So shut up.”

The officer mumbled something under his breath and retreated back to his seat.

“Receiving,” said the pilot. “All the transmitters seem to be working fine.”

For the quad system to work, Bingwen knew, the shuttle needed to acquire four reference points. Any nearby object in its correct orbital position would suffice as long as it could ping back to the shuttle and confirm its position relative to the shuttle.

“If the problem is receiving,” said Bingwen, “the issue could be the reference point. Have you tried multiple objects?”

The pilot was surprised by the question. “Um, yes. That's the first thing we did. We've tried four objects. No response from any of them.”

“Then it's one of two issues,” said Bingwen. “Either the transmitter is misfiring, or it's firing correctly and one of our dishes is misaligned and missing the return ping. All the avionics up in the cockpit are working?”

“They seem to be.”

“Did you recalibrate each of the four stations before we took off?” Bingwen asked.

The pilot paused. “Well…”

“Were you
supposed
to recalibrate them?” Li asked the pilot.

The pilot looked defensive. “Look, I've got fifteen years of flight experience with this class of shuttle, and I know how to—”

“I don't care if you've been flying since the dinosaurs,” said Li. He turned to Bingwen. “Was he supposed to have recalibrated before we left? Yes or no?”

“It's on the preflight checklist,” said Bingwen. “So yes.”

“All four of the stations were completely operative on the last flight,” said the pilot.

“We're not on the last flight,” said Li. “We're on this flight.” He turned to Bingwen. “What do we do?”

Bingwen asked the pilot. “Which of the stations is failing? Front or rear? Left or right?”

“Rear,” said he pilot. “Left side. But, look, you can only access them from outside. This shuttle isn't equipped for spacewalks.”

“You can manipulate them from the inside,” said Bingwen. “If you're as small as me. We just need to remove some paneling. Do you have tools? A screwdriver? Socket wrench? And we'll need the calibrator as well.”

The pilot hesitated.

“Are you deaf?” said Li. “Get the boy the tools he needs.”

The pilot got moving. He dug through an emergency compartment and found the equipment Bingwen needed. Then Li, the pilot, and Bingwen moved to the back left corner of the ship. Bingwen gave them directions on what to remove. A shelf, a storage compartment, the wall paneling. It all came away easily once they found the right screws. Bingwen took out a small laser and began cutting into the wall.

“What are you doing?” said the pilot, panicked. “You can't cut into that.”

Colonel Li strong-armed the man when he tried to intercede. “He knows what he's doing.”

“It's fine,” said Bingwen, cutting a large square. “This isn't the hull. It's insulation.”

He peeled the paneling away, being careful not to cut himself on the jagged edges. Then he reached in and started pulling out the insulation. “It may get a little colder in here.”

The rest of the passengers had gathered, watching.

Bingwen next cut open a big conduit box, revealing several hundred different wires running parallel. He grabbed them, and pulled them out as far as he could, taking out the slack and being careful not to sever anything. He studied the wires, found the one he wanted and snipped it.

“What are you doing?” the pilot asked. “You can't cut that!”

“We need cable,” said Bingwen. “This wire is for the light in the restroom. I think we can live without it.”

He made another hole farther down in the conduit box, snipped the same wire, and pulled three meters of wire free. He gave one end to the pilot. “Strip the end and wire it to the calibrator. I'm going to remove the station box and check the transmitter first. You tell me if it's calibrated.”

There was a headlamp in the tool kit. It was sized for an adult, so Bingwen made a knot in the headband before putting it on. Then he tucked a few tools in his pocket, tied the other end of the wire around his finger, and climbed into the hole among the insulation.

It was a tight fit. And if not for zero gravity, he would have slid down in the space between the two walls. He wiggled slowly forward, maneuvering himself to the back of the station box. The metal all around him was freezing, and he couldn't really turn his head. The back of the station box had four screws, but the screwdriver was too tall to angle it in the tight space and get the tip of it into the screw head. Bingwen took out his laser and sliced the plastic handle of the screwdriver down to a short stump.

“I smell something burning,” said the pilot.

“It's me,” said Bingwen. “We're fine.”

He blew on the stump until it cooled and hardened, then he fit the screwdriver in and loosened the screws as far as he could before the screwdriver and screw were too tall again. Then he used his fingers.

The screws thankfully proved the hardest part. Once he pulled away the casing, it was relatively easy to reach the transmitter. He stripped the end of the cut wire he had brought using his fingernails and teeth, then connected the wire to the transmitter. “Test it now,” he said.

There was a moment of silence then the pilot said. “It's fine, calibrated.”

Which meant the problem was the dish. Which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because it was easier to repair, but bad because it was harder to access. Bingwen had to do a lot of delicate cutting with the laser, removing bits of wall here and there to make room for his arm and a thin pair of needle-nose pliers. He moved the wire to the dish, but it took him twenty minutes to secure it because he had to use the tools as an extension in the tight space. It was like trying to perform surgery with a marionette puppet.

But finally he secured it. “Try it now,” he shouted.

There was a pause then the pilot said, “Calibration is off. It needs to rotate fourteen degrees.”

“Tell me when to stop.” Bingwen jiggled the pliers up into the narrow shaft and rotated.

“Right there,” said the pilot. “That's it.”

“Pass me the calibrator,” said Bingwen. “We've got to maintain a constant link, and the dish can't track the reference point. I'll have to do it manually.”

“Manually?” said the pilot. “How?”

“I'll monitor the calibrator and rotate the dish as we go to keep it aligned.”

“We have over a day of flight time ahead of us,” said the pilot. “You can't stay in the wall. You'll freeze to death.”

“The heating vent runs in here between the walls,” said Bingwen. “I've already cut a hole in it to circulate some air. But I'll need food and a bottle to urinate in. Not pleasant, I know. But necessary.”

They gave him what he needed. Wila offered to sit by the hole he had climbed through and keep him company with conversation, for which he was grateful. He listened to her describe her upbringing in Thailand. He couldn't see her face, but the calm sweetness of her voice helped him forget the discomfort he was feeling. She was a good soul, he determined. She asked him a lot of questions, but he steered away from anything dealing with the military, as he knew Li would likely be listening. Instead he told her about his family in China before the war, and she hung on every word. When it was time to sleep, he insisted that she rest. When she refused, eager to alleviate his discomfort however she could, he told her he would be even more uncomfortable knowing he was keeping her up. After several protestations, she finally relented and got some sleep. The long hours of silence that followed were the most difficult of the trip. Every muscle in Bingwen's body ached. The stiffness in his neck was excruciating. And in the dark cold silence it was hard to think of anything else.

When they reached the dock and the shuttle was locked in, Bingwen finally crawled out. His neck was so stiff he couldn't turn it. The pilot had called ahead and a doctor was waiting to check him out. He gave Bingwen a muscle relaxer and sent him on his way. Bingwen found Wila waiting at the gate.

“Sore?” she asked.

Bingwen was slowly working the stiffness out. “Not at all. From now on I'll always insist on flying in the walls. First class doesn't come close.”

She pressed her palms together and bowed. “Farewell, Bingwen. I honor the divine within you. All peace and happiness to your path.”

“And to yours,” he said. “Maybe our paths will cross again someday.”

“I hope so,” she said.

Captain Li was waiting and looking impatient. Their shuttle to Luna was ready to depart. Wila would take a different flight to the Rings. Bingwen bowed and then nodded a final farewell to Wila before launching over to Li, who grabbed the tow cable that ran along the wall and carried people still unfamiliar with zero G to their correct gate.

The moon shuttle was huge. Bingwen and Li got their own cabin with individual sleep sacks. Bingwen climbed in one and got comfortable. He was exhausted, and the muscle relaxer was making him drowsy.

“One of the men on the earth shuttle was a lieutenant colonel,” said Li, smiling. “Special Warfare Command at CentCom. He and I had a lengthy conversation while you were in the wall. You impressed him. He very enthusiastically endorses our initiative now. Well done.”

It all made sense in an instant. Bingwen felt foolish for not seeing it before. “You damaged the dish before the flight. You set the whole thing up.”

Li smiled. “Get some sleep, Bingwen. You've earned it.”

 

CHAPTER 12

Statistics

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Armor

Old Soldier,

Attached is a 3D model of exoskeleton armor to go on top of my mining suit. I fear that the air beneath the canopy around the asteroid may be combustible, so I'm not going in without heavy fire protection. Lots of integrated components at the joints to allow flexibility and support. The surface of the rock is mostly ice, hence the retractable crampons in the boot soles and toes. Same with the gauntlet, which extends from the elbow to the hand. The crampons on the outside edge of the hand retract as well. I plan to print and cure the armor pieces individually here on the ship. Material is a nickel-chromium–based alloy well suited for extreme heat and pressure. When heated, it will form a thick, passivating oxide layer to protect it from further attack. Without that passivation process, and if I don't create an additional shielded coating, I'd be blown to bits and cooked alive if the air were to ignite.

As always, any notes are appreciated.

Vico

Victor was in the cargo bay, welding shielding plates to the quickship. Magoosa was perched on top of the quickship beside him, holding the next shielding plate in place with a pair of long-handled tongs. They wore their mining suits along with their welding visors, which protected them from the heat.

“Ready?” Victor asked.

“Ready,” said Magoosa.

Victor slowly dragged the welding wand across the edge of the plate, melting it and pressing it down onto the plate below it, forming a seal. The metal glowed orange for a moment and then cooled, releasing thin tendrils of smoke that were mostly sucked away into the air purifier Victor had set up close by. The purifier didn't catch everything, however, and the acrid smell of hot metal left a smoky, metallic taste in Victor's mouth that made him slightly nauseous.

He finished the pass with the wand and then released the heat trigger to let it cool.

“What do you think?” he asked, leaning back to examine the work, his head and back soaked with sweat.

“Decent work,” Magoosa said. “I won't fire you after all.”

Victor smiled. Magoosa had done well, gathering the spare iron for the shield plates and then designing the quickship's cockpit. Originally the design had called for a single passenger, but Imala and the Polemarch had scrapped that idea. This was a two-man job. Imala was going with Victor. Polemarch's orders.