working!
He fought back a wave of elation. He hadn’t solved his problems yet. He still had work to do, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.
His oxygen supply must have gone altogether, he realized. It was suddenly becoming hard to keep his thoughts coherent. Soon, he would become delirious, and then . . .
Think, Landry! Figure it out!
So, there was a pretty good chance that oxygen was being pumped into the cockpit. That in itself wasn’t helpful, he knew. With the canopy warped and possibly ruined, it was unlikely that he would be able to make it fit snugly again. He wouldn’t be able to pressurize the cabin.
He had to get the O 2 it into his EVA suit. Direct input.
So how am I going to do that?
If there was ducting lying outside, thrown clear during the crash, he could possibly use it to channel air from the vent and into his suit. However, he didn’t remember seeing any earlier, and now in the fading light it seemed unlikely he would be able to locate it quickly enough—assuming it was even out there.
What about pressing forward against the vent and somehow attaching the EVA suit to the vent? It would be mighty uncomfortable, for a start, and he would effectively be pinned in place. He knew that was not a workable solution.
Another idea came to him.
Jamming his screwdriver into the side of the vent, he began to furiously push it outward, abandoning all pretense of caution. There was no point being gentle. He needed the OXEE ducting, and he needed it fast .
With a loud snap , the vent came free, and Landry fumbled inside for the ducting, a flexible grey pipe that was connected at the other end to the OXEE, and yanked it forward. There was always a bit of give in the length the conduits, fortunately. Straining with the effort, he cleared enough slack to reach down to the SCU, the Servicing and Cooling Umbilical connector on his suit, and attempted to hook it up.
But of course, the conduit was not designed to link into the SCU connector. Why would it be? he thought drily.
Another roadblock.
“You idiot ,” he hissed at himself.
Was this the best plan you could come up with? Really? Might as well have—
No, wait. I’ve still got an ace in my sleeve.
He rummaged around in his toolkit and brought out his roll of gaffer tape and gave the edge a sharp pull. He positioned the OXEE conduit against the SCU as well as he could, then began to wrap the tape around it, using a liberal quantity to try to ensure it was airtight. In a few seconds he’d made an ugly wad of it, like a big black lump of garbage on his hip.
He was on the verge of blacking out and quickly opened the valve on the SCU.
He could feel cool air flooding the suit. Or maybe it was his oxygen-starved brain shutting down, making him feel numb all over.
No. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was getting easier to breathe already.
He allowed himself to smile, just a little.
Gaff to the rescue.
If the OXEE really was producing oxygen, he thought, and the pressure swing adsorption system that was built into the device continued to remove the CO 2 from the suit, he might live a while longer.
How much longer, he wasn’t sure.
But one way or another, he had bought himself a little more time.
Chapter 8
PSD 29-212: 1702 hours
“Yo, Underwood. Dodge wants you.”
Cait pulled her head out from under the T1-X transport and looked across the workshop, where Pasternak stood watching her expectantly. Another Optech like her, he was dressed in the stock uniform: grubby, navy blue coveralls and steel-capped boots. At the end of a long shift, his clothes were covered in grime, and a thin sheen of sweat dappled his brow.
Cait glanced back at the drive train she’d been working on. “I’m not done here yet.”
“Are you deaf? The boss man is looking for you. You gonna keep him waiting?” Cait hesitated, and Pasternak made a condescending shuffling motion with his hands. “Go on, little girl. Get moving.”
Twisting her mouth, Cait
He fought back a wave of elation. He hadn’t solved his problems yet. He still had work to do, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.
His oxygen supply must have gone altogether, he realized. It was suddenly becoming hard to keep his thoughts coherent. Soon, he would become delirious, and then . . .
Think, Landry! Figure it out!
So, there was a pretty good chance that oxygen was being pumped into the cockpit. That in itself wasn’t helpful, he knew. With the canopy warped and possibly ruined, it was unlikely that he would be able to make it fit snugly again. He wouldn’t be able to pressurize the cabin.
He had to get the O 2 it into his EVA suit. Direct input.
So how am I going to do that?
If there was ducting lying outside, thrown clear during the crash, he could possibly use it to channel air from the vent and into his suit. However, he didn’t remember seeing any earlier, and now in the fading light it seemed unlikely he would be able to locate it quickly enough—assuming it was even out there.
What about pressing forward against the vent and somehow attaching the EVA suit to the vent? It would be mighty uncomfortable, for a start, and he would effectively be pinned in place. He knew that was not a workable solution.
Another idea came to him.
Jamming his screwdriver into the side of the vent, he began to furiously push it outward, abandoning all pretense of caution. There was no point being gentle. He needed the OXEE ducting, and he needed it fast .
With a loud snap , the vent came free, and Landry fumbled inside for the ducting, a flexible grey pipe that was connected at the other end to the OXEE, and yanked it forward. There was always a bit of give in the length the conduits, fortunately. Straining with the effort, he cleared enough slack to reach down to the SCU, the Servicing and Cooling Umbilical connector on his suit, and attempted to hook it up.
But of course, the conduit was not designed to link into the SCU connector. Why would it be? he thought drily.
Another roadblock.
“You idiot ,” he hissed at himself.
Was this the best plan you could come up with? Really? Might as well have—
No, wait. I’ve still got an ace in my sleeve.
He rummaged around in his toolkit and brought out his roll of gaffer tape and gave the edge a sharp pull. He positioned the OXEE conduit against the SCU as well as he could, then began to wrap the tape around it, using a liberal quantity to try to ensure it was airtight. In a few seconds he’d made an ugly wad of it, like a big black lump of garbage on his hip.
He was on the verge of blacking out and quickly opened the valve on the SCU.
He could feel cool air flooding the suit. Or maybe it was his oxygen-starved brain shutting down, making him feel numb all over.
No. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was getting easier to breathe already.
He allowed himself to smile, just a little.
Gaff to the rescue.
If the OXEE really was producing oxygen, he thought, and the pressure swing adsorption system that was built into the device continued to remove the CO 2 from the suit, he might live a while longer.
How much longer, he wasn’t sure.
But one way or another, he had bought himself a little more time.
Chapter 8
PSD 29-212: 1702 hours
“Yo, Underwood. Dodge wants you.”
Cait pulled her head out from under the T1-X transport and looked across the workshop, where Pasternak stood watching her expectantly. Another Optech like her, he was dressed in the stock uniform: grubby, navy blue coveralls and steel-capped boots. At the end of a long shift, his clothes were covered in grime, and a thin sheen of sweat dappled his brow.
Cait glanced back at the drive train she’d been working on. “I’m not done here yet.”
“Are you deaf? The boss man is looking for you. You gonna keep him waiting?” Cait hesitated, and Pasternak made a condescending shuffling motion with his hands. “Go on, little girl. Get moving.”
Twisting her mouth, Cait
Similar Books
Two-Step Temptation
Emma Jay
Trilogy
George Lucas
Light the Lamp
Catherine Gayle
Wired
Francine Pascal
Mikalo's Flame
Syndra K. Shaw
Falling In
Frances O'Roark Dowell
Up From the Grave: A Night Huntress Novel
Jeaniene Frost
Savage
Nancy Holder
White Wolf
Susan Edwards
Shadowmagic - Sons of Macha
John Lenahan