Read Ship's Boy for Free Online

“practical”? Under actual spacing conditions it’d soon become evident that most survivors ended up trapped amidst the wreckage, not floating out in free space. After many potential survivors were killed by punctures as their rescuers attempted to extricate huge, delicate spheres from amidst twisted wreckage, the next generation of bubbles were made as tiny as possible. Over time a sort of compromise had developed, and Broad Arrow ’s bubbles were shaped like fat, elongated mummies. But they were still fairly close to form-fitting, and I didn’t really know if milord and his son were both going to fit inside or not. Again, if we’d had more time we might’ve managed it. As things were, however, milord was forced to remove his medbox even though two lights were flashing yellow again. “Seal us up, David,” he ordered calmly from inside the reeking mess. “No one else could’ve done any better.”
    No one else could’ve cut it any closer, either. I’d just tugged twice on the closed seal to help it set, like the manual said, when five taps sounded from the viewport. This was followed by five more rapid taps, which was spacer’s shorthand for “Something important’s about to happen—and right now!” I just had time to lower my visor and energize the Field before there was a low, dull boom…
    …and a terrible wind was blowing out into space!
    Fortunately I’d thought to anchor both the bubble and myself to the bed, which was bolted to the floor. For a moment we felt like fish shooting a set of rapids, then everything was silent and the air was gone. There wasn’t any time to waste. I slashed both of our tie-offs in one quick preplanned motion, then grabbed the bubble—which was already oriented longways—and pushed off towards the shattered viewport with it. Or at least I tried to push off with it; my zero-gee training was still badly deficient, and I’d never attempted to move anything so heavy before. But that was okay—already the cabin was swarming with space-suited figures, well-provided with ropes, slings and pulleys.
    At first I was a little miffed that they didn’t help me at all, then I understood that they were paying me a compliment—no one had realized that I was just an apprentice. So I did my best to tag along, making long, terrifying free-leaps alongside the experienced vacuum crew, leaps that even Dad would’ve cringed at. They seemed to take it for granted that I’d make it, despite the fact that only lubberly Engineers wore Field suits.
    Or else maybe they just weren’t interested in saving me?
    At any rate I made it, though once or twice it was very, very close. The marines had come from a revenue cutter, I saw once we got close enough—a tiny ship built for speed above all else, meant to catch blockade runners. HMS Hummingbird , the name emblazoned above her stern read. I’d never been aboard a king’s ship before.
    And I almost didn’t board this one. The main airlock was cramped as could be, as was natural given such a narrow hull, and I arrived last due to my relative clumsiness. When I finally planted my magnetic boots on Hummingbird ’s plating milord and James had already been cycled through, and the last two spacers were squeezing in. The hull was beginning to silver as well, which meant they didn’t intend to cycle it again. At the last moment, however, one of the marines climbed out of the hatch with me, so that they had to wait. As we squeezed into the lock together I slapped his shoulder in a spaceman’s thank you, and he smiled and nodded behind his visor.
    When the inner lock finally opened, it was on bedlam. The foul survival bubble lay shredded on the floor, while milord himself lay not far from it. His face was white as chalk, and a doctor was kneeling beside him.
    “…still no pulse!” a white-coated assistant declared. Or once-white-coated, at least. Now the garment was smeared with all sorts of unspeakable filth from the inside of the bubble. Just