Claws That Catch

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Away Station Anime, so named by universal acclaim, had been set up on the edge of the landing platform between two of the entrances to the interior of the station. It was as good a place as any, given that the entrances had no more protection against potential depressurization than the space dock. As far as anyone had detemined, there were no interior air-tight hatches. Of course, with the way that the thing was constructed they might be everywhere.

The station was fourteen sealed bubble tents, each with its own airlock and internal “safe pods,” essentially air-tight bags that could be used in an emergency. The bags partially inflated so that they were personal tents inside the bubble tents and were standard sleeping quarters.

The Wyverns, however, could not enter the tents, so the Marines were forced to don respirators for the short walk to their Wyverns. O₂ toxicity was variable and based on genetics and body chemistry. Some people could handle O₂ at very high partial pressures, the equivalent of sixty feet underwater or three times Earth’s atmosphere. Most people, however, reacted negatively at just double pressure or the equivalent of thirty feet. The station’s atmosphere was at the equivalent of forty feet, so in an emergency some of the station personnel might find it survivable.

So far, nobody had tested it out.

“Captain Zanella, we’re established,” Bill said. “What is your plan on surveying?”

“I’m going to start slow, sir,” the Marine replied. “I’m going to put the platoons on shift. One platoon exploring, one platoon on standby in case of emergency and one platoon down. The exploring platoon will break up into teams and be given quadrants of the station to explore. We have no real feel for how the interior is set up, so I’m going to have them start with short penetrations and then return to report. If we find that going is easy, we’ll expand.”

“Works for me,” Bill said. “Tell them to keep an eye out for anything odd… well, odder than normal for here, and if they find anything report back. I’ll be down the platform a ways.”

Bill opened up the camp-chair, then laid his guitar case across his knees. Given the immensity of the cavernous space dock, he was far enough away to mute the effects of his playing while still being close enough that he was available in an emergency.

With the CO gone there was nobody who could tell him to stop playing! Ah, the heady air of independent command…

Opening up the case he removed the guitar and the four speakers, then set everything down and laid the speakers out for maximum spread.

Last he sat down in the camp-chair, again, slung the guitar strap around his neck and turned on the instrument. There was a faint “thump” as the speakers came on-line.

He twanged the E string and then slid his finger down the string, listening to the effect. Damn, for all its immensity, the place had AWESOME acoustics. Even this muted, he could hear a perfect echo of the sound.

He ran through a short riff, noodling along and tuning, getting the feedback just right. He tested the mike system… “Mee, mee, mee, mee, meeeeee…” then removed a set of receiver plugs, put them in his ears, set the volume to “Ridiculous” and let ’er rip…

“Holy grapp!” Red shouted. “All that’s coming out of those little speakers? I’ve been in heavy metal concerts that weren’t this loud!”

“We gotta do something!” Gants shouted back.

“You’re darned right we do!” Miriam said, holding her own ears. “If I have to listen to this Seventies chither much longer I’m going to jump off the edge of the platform!”

“I wouldn’t mind it so much if he just wouldn’t sing!” Red screamed.

“ANNA GADDA DA VIDA,” Weaver screamed, his eyes closed and grooving to the music. “ANNA GADDA DA VIDA. ANNA GADDA DAVIDA! ANNA GADDA DAVIDA — ”

He started at a tap on his shoulder and clamped one hand over the guitar strings, pulling out an earplug.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Sir,” Gants said diffidently. “I’m not sure you’re aware of how loud that is at the base, sir. With all due respect…”

It was one of those command moments, a moment when an officer has to decide what sort of leader they are. Do they take into account the needs of their people? And if so, to what extent? Do they choose to be loved or hated and feared? An officer on independent command has God-like powers of life and death. Are they to be Patton or Bradley? Spruance or Nimitz? Nelson or…

“Message received,” Bill replied, putting the earplug back in. “Call me if there’s an emergency. There’s a lady who’s sure, all that glitters is gold…”