on the inside of his helmet’s visor. Suit pressure was holding, temperature still in the safe range. Good . That bump to his helmet had left him none the worse.
“Frank! What the hell was that?” Jack called into his comm-set. But there was no response, not even the usual pops and clicks the system usually had in the background. “Frank? Do you copy?” Jack reached down to the comm-set control pack mounted on his belt, fumbling to feel the channel-select knob through his suit gloves. He changed channels. “Anyone copy me? Anyone? This is Jack! Hello!” He switched channels again and again, calling out to anyone who could hear him, but he got no response. He pulled the control pack off his belt to check it. It wasn’t an easy task in a pressure suit, but he managed to get it off his belt and hold it up to look at it. The case was cracked, and the little red power light was out. Shit! No communications! Jack tossed the broken comm-pack aside and continued on through the last few meters of the tube, opening the hatch and exiting at the end.
The bay was dark; even the emergency lighting was off. It wasn’t a place that was usually occupied by humans. It was only kept pressurized for occasional maintenance trips into the engineering spaces above the bay. Even then, the crew wore thermal suits to keep from freezing to death. The air in the bay was so cold that you had to wear a mask to warm it up before you inhaled to prevent your lungs from freezing.
Jack could feel the temperature in his suit dropping already, but he didn’t have time to deal with the discomfort. It would take at least ten minutes before his inner suit temperature would drop low enough to cause hypothermia. And he planned on being long gone by then.
Jack reached up and turned on his helmet light. The narrow beam pierced through the darkness of the bay, shining down the empty corridor. It was twenty-five meters long and about three meters wide across the floor, and slightly less along the ceiling as the walls angled in. Every seven meters, the walls bulged into the corridor, wrapping around the cargo drop pod capsules in their holding bays.
At the far end of the bay was the multi-purpose satellite. Once placed in orbit, the MPS would provide communication with the Daedalus and serve as a scanning platform and long-range surface communications adjunct. At the front of the bay on his left was the emergency escape pod. If the ship and the LRV were disabled, the escape pod could carry all of them to safety, hopefully to the surface of a habitable planet where they could await rescue. Jack hoped they wouldn’t need it.
Deciding that the cargo pods containing the equipment they would need on the planet’s surface were of a higher priority than the MPS, Jack decided to start dropping them first. He could drop the MPS last. Besides, the cargo pods had to be dropped in the entry window in order for them to land within a recoverable distance from the LRV’s landing site. The MPS had its own propulsion system and could be positioned anywhere in orbit through the command console on the LRV’s flight deck.
Jack opened a small utility locker on the forward bulkhead to the right of the hatch and pulled out a data pad. A small handheld device, the data pad could scan internal systems for inspection and link into the ship’s mainframe to provide remote access to systems status information. It could even be used to issue remote commands. But Jack was only interested in its ability to link into the ship’s navigation information displays. Without voice communications, it was the only way he would know when to start dropping the cargo pods.
Jack moved over to the first drop pod, activated the data pad, and called up the nav-display. He only had thirty seconds before they reached the leading edge of the entry zone. Then he would have about five minutes to drop the pods and return to the LRV before the crew would be forced to leave him behind. He activated the
“Frank! What the hell was that?” Jack called into his comm-set. But there was no response, not even the usual pops and clicks the system usually had in the background. “Frank? Do you copy?” Jack reached down to the comm-set control pack mounted on his belt, fumbling to feel the channel-select knob through his suit gloves. He changed channels. “Anyone copy me? Anyone? This is Jack! Hello!” He switched channels again and again, calling out to anyone who could hear him, but he got no response. He pulled the control pack off his belt to check it. It wasn’t an easy task in a pressure suit, but he managed to get it off his belt and hold it up to look at it. The case was cracked, and the little red power light was out. Shit! No communications! Jack tossed the broken comm-pack aside and continued on through the last few meters of the tube, opening the hatch and exiting at the end.
The bay was dark; even the emergency lighting was off. It wasn’t a place that was usually occupied by humans. It was only kept pressurized for occasional maintenance trips into the engineering spaces above the bay. Even then, the crew wore thermal suits to keep from freezing to death. The air in the bay was so cold that you had to wear a mask to warm it up before you inhaled to prevent your lungs from freezing.
Jack could feel the temperature in his suit dropping already, but he didn’t have time to deal with the discomfort. It would take at least ten minutes before his inner suit temperature would drop low enough to cause hypothermia. And he planned on being long gone by then.
Jack reached up and turned on his helmet light. The narrow beam pierced through the darkness of the bay, shining down the empty corridor. It was twenty-five meters long and about three meters wide across the floor, and slightly less along the ceiling as the walls angled in. Every seven meters, the walls bulged into the corridor, wrapping around the cargo drop pod capsules in their holding bays.
At the far end of the bay was the multi-purpose satellite. Once placed in orbit, the MPS would provide communication with the Daedalus and serve as a scanning platform and long-range surface communications adjunct. At the front of the bay on his left was the emergency escape pod. If the ship and the LRV were disabled, the escape pod could carry all of them to safety, hopefully to the surface of a habitable planet where they could await rescue. Jack hoped they wouldn’t need it.
Deciding that the cargo pods containing the equipment they would need on the planet’s surface were of a higher priority than the MPS, Jack decided to start dropping them first. He could drop the MPS last. Besides, the cargo pods had to be dropped in the entry window in order for them to land within a recoverable distance from the LRV’s landing site. The MPS had its own propulsion system and could be positioned anywhere in orbit through the command console on the LRV’s flight deck.
Jack opened a small utility locker on the forward bulkhead to the right of the hatch and pulled out a data pad. A small handheld device, the data pad could scan internal systems for inspection and link into the ship’s mainframe to provide remote access to systems status information. It could even be used to issue remote commands. But Jack was only interested in its ability to link into the ship’s navigation information displays. Without voice communications, it was the only way he would know when to start dropping the cargo pods.
Jack moved over to the first drop pod, activated the data pad, and called up the nav-display. He only had thirty seconds before they reached the leading edge of the entry zone. Then he would have about five minutes to drop the pods and return to the LRV before the crew would be forced to leave him behind. He activated the
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