from makeshift parts that have broken off the scout?
Time is the limiting factor. I would need to trawl through the debris trying to find parts that would do the job, and then somehow cobble them together without welding gear. Then, after all of that, I’d need to sit here and wait for a rescue crew to assemble and make their way out to the crash site.
No, this is it. The little panel will have to do.
He lifted the panel clear, being as delicate as he possibly could so as not to damage the wiring beneath. He could see that everything looked intact. The wires ran into a conduit, and not far below that was the battery itself.
He checked his oxygen readout.
One percent. If that’s true, I have Four or five minutes left.
Not enough time. Not even close.
Screw it, why stop now?
He fumbled with the screwdriver and freed the battery housing, then lifted it clear. The battery was there, a rectangular slab about the size of box of cereal. It looked in good condition to him. No visible signs of damage.
That wasn’t a reason to celebrate. Not yet, anyway.
With the utmost care, Landry removed the connectors that were hooked into the backup power system and unscrewed the mounts. After untethering the battery, he was able to lift it clear and remove it from the scout.
Landry hustled around to the other side of the scout, his prize clutched in his arms.
He was panting, using more oxygen than he should.
Couldn’t help it.
He didn’t look at the reading on his HUD. He knew it would be at zero, or close enough. He was on fumes.
Climbing up onto the edge of the cockpit, then to the roof, he wormed along precariously until he had found his next target: the OXEE. Little more than a curved slot in the hull, the little gadget performed a vital task: sucking in the CO 2 rich atmosphere of Proc-One and splitting it into oxygen and carbon monoxide. The former was funneled into the cockpit so that pilots could breathe, and the latter was vented back outside the ship.
That little baby was Landry’s ticket to a fresh air supply, but there was a problem.
There was no power to run it.
But there was a chance he could change that.
Wasting no time, he began to work away at the panels around the OXEE, attempting to get a clear look at the innards of the device. He’d replaced several dodgy units that had failed in the past, and that knowledge became invaluable. He knew the design, and how it all fit together. Even though working in the suit was cumbersome, especially when it came to the finer work with his hands, he still had the unit at his mercy within a couple of minutes.
He reached in and lifted the assembly clear, then examined the power connectors. They terminated inside the device itself, and there was no way he would have enough time to take the whole thing apart and do it neatly.
Pulling out his snips, he cut the wires.
Over his shoulder, Procyon A was setting. The stars were coming out overhead.
That was his next problem—the encroaching dark. He had a flashlight mounted on his suit, but didn’t want to drain the power unnecessarily by using it during the repairs.
Don’t worry about it. Think happy thoughts, like how you’ll choke to death on CO 2 long before the light runs out.
He stripped the wires, then attached them to the backup battery and wrapped the joins in electrical tape from the toolkit. He gave them a gentle tug. The joins were firm. Then he used gaffer tape to secure both the battery and the OXEE to the hull.
He tensed up, watching the intake of the OXEE for any sign that it had begun to function. All he could hear was the sound of his heart hammering in his ears.
He figured there was no point sitting there like an idiot, so Landry grabbed the toolkit and slid back down toward the cockpit. Hooking his hand over the edge, he wormed his way back inside and located the vent through which O 2 entered from the OXEE.
He could see a few motes of dust stirring in the deep afternoon sunlight.
Yes. It’s
Time is the limiting factor. I would need to trawl through the debris trying to find parts that would do the job, and then somehow cobble them together without welding gear. Then, after all of that, I’d need to sit here and wait for a rescue crew to assemble and make their way out to the crash site.
No, this is it. The little panel will have to do.
He lifted the panel clear, being as delicate as he possibly could so as not to damage the wiring beneath. He could see that everything looked intact. The wires ran into a conduit, and not far below that was the battery itself.
He checked his oxygen readout.
One percent. If that’s true, I have Four or five minutes left.
Not enough time. Not even close.
Screw it, why stop now?
He fumbled with the screwdriver and freed the battery housing, then lifted it clear. The battery was there, a rectangular slab about the size of box of cereal. It looked in good condition to him. No visible signs of damage.
That wasn’t a reason to celebrate. Not yet, anyway.
With the utmost care, Landry removed the connectors that were hooked into the backup power system and unscrewed the mounts. After untethering the battery, he was able to lift it clear and remove it from the scout.
Landry hustled around to the other side of the scout, his prize clutched in his arms.
He was panting, using more oxygen than he should.
Couldn’t help it.
He didn’t look at the reading on his HUD. He knew it would be at zero, or close enough. He was on fumes.
Climbing up onto the edge of the cockpit, then to the roof, he wormed along precariously until he had found his next target: the OXEE. Little more than a curved slot in the hull, the little gadget performed a vital task: sucking in the CO 2 rich atmosphere of Proc-One and splitting it into oxygen and carbon monoxide. The former was funneled into the cockpit so that pilots could breathe, and the latter was vented back outside the ship.
That little baby was Landry’s ticket to a fresh air supply, but there was a problem.
There was no power to run it.
But there was a chance he could change that.
Wasting no time, he began to work away at the panels around the OXEE, attempting to get a clear look at the innards of the device. He’d replaced several dodgy units that had failed in the past, and that knowledge became invaluable. He knew the design, and how it all fit together. Even though working in the suit was cumbersome, especially when it came to the finer work with his hands, he still had the unit at his mercy within a couple of minutes.
He reached in and lifted the assembly clear, then examined the power connectors. They terminated inside the device itself, and there was no way he would have enough time to take the whole thing apart and do it neatly.
Pulling out his snips, he cut the wires.
Over his shoulder, Procyon A was setting. The stars were coming out overhead.
That was his next problem—the encroaching dark. He had a flashlight mounted on his suit, but didn’t want to drain the power unnecessarily by using it during the repairs.
Don’t worry about it. Think happy thoughts, like how you’ll choke to death on CO 2 long before the light runs out.
He stripped the wires, then attached them to the backup battery and wrapped the joins in electrical tape from the toolkit. He gave them a gentle tug. The joins were firm. Then he used gaffer tape to secure both the battery and the OXEE to the hull.
He tensed up, watching the intake of the OXEE for any sign that it had begun to function. All he could hear was the sound of his heart hammering in his ears.
He figured there was no point sitting there like an idiot, so Landry grabbed the toolkit and slid back down toward the cockpit. Hooking his hand over the edge, he wormed his way back inside and located the vent through which O 2 entered from the OXEE.
He could see a few motes of dust stirring in the deep afternoon sunlight.
Yes. It’s
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