With a brief squirt of the maneuvering thrusters she propelled us out of Hibernia’sberth. The launch’s powerful engines throbbed, its nozzles directing the liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen reaction mass that propelled us.
Lieutenant Dagalow didn’t bother to compute a course as I would have had to; instead, she eyed the huge derelict and sailed by dead reckoning. It wasn’t quite by the book, but I envied her skill, and some part of me was glad I hadn’t attempted to pilot a craft with so many watching.
We drifted closer to the inert ship. Ms. Dagalow’s voice crackled in our suit speakers. “U.N.S. Celestinaembarked from Mars Orbiting Station May 23, 2083, with a crew of seventy-five men and women, including twelve officers. She carried a hundred ninety-five passengers, all of them colonists for Hope Nation.” She paused. “Jethro Narzul, son of the Secretary-General, was among them.” She throttled down the engines. We were rapidly approaching the derelict ship; time for braking thrusters.
At reduced speed we drifted close to the abandoned colossus. With a practiced skill I envied, Lieutenant Dagalow fired the maneuvering thrusters and brought us to rest relative to Celestina’sgaping lock. Our alumalloy hatch slid open and a seaman jumped the few meters to the ship, a coiled cable slung over his shoulder. He moored us tight to the safety line stanchion in Celestina’slock. As the derelict had no power, we couldn’t connect to her capture latches, but since everyone aboard was suited, we didn’t need an airtight seal.
Lieutenant Dagalow and a seaman boarded Celestinato help our suited passengers alight; the other sailor and I stayed in the launch to help them disembark. When all were safely aboard the derelict I joined the somber tour.
Lights had been strung every twenty meters or so. We stumbled along Celestina’ssecond-level corridor. The ship, of an earlier design, had but two levels in her disk. Debris must have swirled around the wreckage during the explosive decompression; much of it hung about where its inertia had brought it.
Celestinawas like nothing I had ever seen. Much of her disk was surprisingly clean and orderly. Lieutenant Dagalow opened a cabin hatch; inside, a neatly made bunk waited for its long-gone occupant. A suit folded on the dresser was undisturbed.
“The ship was entering Fusion when the accident occurred.
The drive exploded without warning. The shaft and the disk sustained heavy damage. Decompression was almost instantaneous.” He paused. “Today, rapid-close hatches divide the disk into sections. We believe many of you would now survive a similar accident.”
Mrs. Donhauser spoke up. “What caused the explosion?”
Ms. Dagalow shook her head. “The truth is, we don’t know.” I felt a chill. “The fusion drive has been redesigned several times since Celestinawas launched. No other ship has ever had a similar failure.”
She opened the hatch to the adjoining cabin. A rocking horse and a closet full of little girls’ clothes framed the hatchway. Sickened, I turned away.
“What happened to the people?” a passenger asked.
“They were given decent burial in space when the ship was rediscovered by the Armstrong.“ The legendary U.N.S. Neil Armstrong,Captain Hugo Von Walther commanding.
The search vessel that had found the long-missing Celestina,and later opened two new colonies for settlement. Her commander had fought a duel with a colonial Governor, served as Admiral of the Fleet, and had ultimately been elected Secretary-General.
Our seamen had strung a rope barrier to keep us from the damaged areas where ragged sheets of torn metal hung dangerously. We trekked up the ladder to Level 1. My breath rasped in my helmet. My suit’s defogger labored.
We gathered at the top of the ladder and moved as a group along Celestina’scircumference corridor. Ahead a pale light gleamed, reflecting the gray corridor bulkheads. “The bridge is just ahead,” said Lieutenant Dagalow.
We came to the open hatchway revealing the ghostly, deserted bridge. My breath caught. On the bulkhead outside the bridge hung the hundreds of slips of paper pictured so often in the holozines. We clustered at the bulkhead to read them.
“Robert Vysteader, colonist en route to Hope Nation, in memory of this poor ship, this fifteenth day of August 2106, by the Grace of God.” “Mary Helene Braithwaite, colonist in God’s hands, in memory of our brethren who died here.
December 11,211’.” “Ahmed Esmail, remembering Celes-tina.December 11, 2151.”
So they went. Each spacefarer who had come this lonely way had left a respectful mark to honor his predecessors who’d suffered disaster. Many of the visitors had gone on to Hope Nation or Detour, lived long lives and since died of old age.”Over here! Look!” We crowded round. The slip of paper was clipped just beyond the hatchway. “Hugo Von Walther, Captain, U.N.S. Neil Armstrong,in commemoration of our sister ship Celestina.God rest her soul, and all who sailed in her. August 3, 2114.” We trod the actual footsteps of Captain Von Walther. He had stood in this very spot the day he discovered Celestina,eighty-one years past. I tried to summon his presence. What a man he had been.
“Those who wish may leave a message of commemoration for future generations.” Lieutenant Dagalow fished a box of tiny round magnets from her suitslot. We fumbled in our own slots for pencils and paper. Using the bulkheads, our knees, and the deck for tables, we wrote our blessings to the dead.
I thought a long time before writing mine. “Nicholas Ewing Seafort, aged seventeen years, four months, twelve days, by Grace of God officer in the service of the United Nations, saluting the memories of those who have gone before. January 16, 2195.” I took a magnet from Lieutenant Dagalow’s outstretched hand and stuck it to the bulkhead, four meters from the bridge hatchway.
Our return trip was subdued. I was glad no one felt the need to speak. We berthed in Hibernia;I went aft to desuit and change. Then I reported back to the bridge. Captain Haag waited stolidly while the next load of passengers was embarked. On watch, Lieutenant Cousins and I had little to do.It would take eleven trips to ferry all who wanted to go.
Vax went on the fourth trip, then Alexi Tamarov. When Alexi returned he said excitedly, “Mr. Cousins let me pilot!” I hoped my feelings didn’t show.
I went again on the seventh shuttle, but lagged behind when the group went to the bridge. Like the Captain, I had no need to experience it again.
After dinner the trips resumed. I was to stand watch with the Captain and Lieutenant Malstrom; Sandy and Lieutenant Cousins would sail the launch. Before reporting to the bridge I went with Alexi to help suit the passengers.
Lieutenant Dagalow was supervising the suiting room. Perhaps as a reaction to the grimness of the vessel lying alongside, Sandy and Alexi were in a playful mood. Sandy finished helping an older man into his unfamiliar suit and stuck out his tongue to Alexi as he reached for his own. Alexi tweaked him in the ribs. Sandy jumped, losing his balance, and tripped over the suiting bench. He crashed to the deck, tangled in a floppy suit. The back of his hand was bleeding slightly, but worse, he had split his pants wide open.
Mortified, Sandy glanced between the two outraged officers. Lieutenant Cousins bellowed. Ms. Dagalow shot me a glower that spoke volumes. I was senior; the fiasco was my responsibility.
“Mr. Tamarov!” Lieutenant Cousins’s voice was a whip.
“It’s your fault, you go in his place. Get suited! You’re both on report; I’ll deal with you later!”
“Aye aye, sir!” Alexi grabbed his suit.
Lieutenant Dagalow intervened. “Mr. Tamarov went last trip, Mr. Cousins. I can go instead of the middy. I don’t mind; I’d like to look at the hull damage again.” Cousins frowned; he was senior and could overrule Dagalow, but courtesy forbade that. He nodded, assenting. Ms. Dagalow called the bridge to get the necessary approval; Alexi and I helped finish the suiting, and the party left.