was in vacuum—the default state of all airlocks. Right now, the next tour group was getting prepped by their EVA master. I had a short window of opportunity.
I had Hibby crawl to the outer door. The screen highlighted areas that he could grab to climb. Fantastic AI assist. All I had to do was tell him where to go and he worked out the rest.
He grabbed pipes, valve handles, and other protuberances to climb up the door. I had him anchor himself against a reenforcement rib and grab the hatch handle.
He needed two claws to get enough force to turn the handle, but it worked. After three full handle revolutions, the door was ajar. I had him drop to the ground. He automatically spun as he fell and landed on his claws. Man, he was fun to play with! I made a mental note to buy one after I was rich.
Like a cat sneaking into a room, Hibby nudged the airlock door open and slipped through. Then he closed the door behind him.
I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Most tourists were up against the fence and Bob just scanned the scene. No one was breaking rules or in danger, so he was content.
I had Hibby push the door closed, climb up it, and reseal the hatch. From there, I told him to get to the apex of the Visitor Center dome. A perfect place to stay out of sight. He climbed merrily up the side, finding a convoluted but effective path of handles and grips he could reach. It took him two minutes to reach the top.
I put him in power-save mode and re-holstered the remote. I looked back to the dome of the Visitor Center and couldn’t even see the apex from the ground. Perfect.
Phase Two complete. I spent the rest of the tour checking out the
Eagle.
It’s amazing to think people actually landed here in that thing. You couldn’t get me to do that for a million slugs.
Well, okay. I’d do it for a
million
slugs. But I’d be nervous about it.
Dear Kelvin,
Sean fucked up.
I love the man and he makes me howl in bed. But my God he can be stupid sometimes.
He got ahold of some pot—bought it off a tourist. We needed a place to party. Problem is, around here, if you smoke you’ll set off fire alarms. So where would we go?
I had the perfect solution: Dad’s new shop!
Dad’s expanding the business right now. He leased a second location. He’s bringing in new equipment, interviewing welders to staff it, the whole nine yards.
It’s not up and running yet—half the equipment hasn’t even arrived. So it’s just this big, mostly empty room that I know the lock code to. And hey, smoking in a fire-rated workshop is the responsible thing to do! Protecting the city from fire and all that. So I offered it up.
We had a party. Nothing big. Just a few of Sean’s friends and me. We got good and stoned. Then Sean and the guys started playing with the equipment. I should have stopped them, but everyone was laughing and having a good time. I didn’t want to break the mood, you know?
Anyway, turns out Dad had filled the acetylene tanks that day. So while Sean and his idiot friends sword-fought with the torch handles, the gas-feed lines were actually live. Someone must have rolled a knob or something, because when they clashed the metal on metal it made a spark.
The whole room caught fire, the alarms went off, and it automatically sealed itself off. We were trapped in there and we barely got to the air shelter in time. We all crammed in and waited for the fire brigade.
Long story short: No one got hurt, but the room was trashed. Rudy (the nosy Mountie asshole) wanted to have me deported, but the fire destroyed all the pot, so he had no evidence of illegal flammables.
Dad was PISSED OFF. He yelled at me like never before—went on and on about how much money he’d sunk into that location and how it went up in flames because of me. And that just got me mad, because, you know, I could have died. The least he could do is ask if I’m okay, right?
We really got into it. He said I had to stop seeing Sean. As if he got
I had Hibby crawl to the outer door. The screen highlighted areas that he could grab to climb. Fantastic AI assist. All I had to do was tell him where to go and he worked out the rest.
He grabbed pipes, valve handles, and other protuberances to climb up the door. I had him anchor himself against a reenforcement rib and grab the hatch handle.
He needed two claws to get enough force to turn the handle, but it worked. After three full handle revolutions, the door was ajar. I had him drop to the ground. He automatically spun as he fell and landed on his claws. Man, he was fun to play with! I made a mental note to buy one after I was rich.
Like a cat sneaking into a room, Hibby nudged the airlock door open and slipped through. Then he closed the door behind him.
I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Most tourists were up against the fence and Bob just scanned the scene. No one was breaking rules or in danger, so he was content.
I had Hibby push the door closed, climb up it, and reseal the hatch. From there, I told him to get to the apex of the Visitor Center dome. A perfect place to stay out of sight. He climbed merrily up the side, finding a convoluted but effective path of handles and grips he could reach. It took him two minutes to reach the top.
I put him in power-save mode and re-holstered the remote. I looked back to the dome of the Visitor Center and couldn’t even see the apex from the ground. Perfect.
Phase Two complete. I spent the rest of the tour checking out the
Eagle.
It’s amazing to think people actually landed here in that thing. You couldn’t get me to do that for a million slugs.
Well, okay. I’d do it for a
million
slugs. But I’d be nervous about it.
Dear Kelvin,
Sean fucked up.
I love the man and he makes me howl in bed. But my God he can be stupid sometimes.
He got ahold of some pot—bought it off a tourist. We needed a place to party. Problem is, around here, if you smoke you’ll set off fire alarms. So where would we go?
I had the perfect solution: Dad’s new shop!
Dad’s expanding the business right now. He leased a second location. He’s bringing in new equipment, interviewing welders to staff it, the whole nine yards.
It’s not up and running yet—half the equipment hasn’t even arrived. So it’s just this big, mostly empty room that I know the lock code to. And hey, smoking in a fire-rated workshop is the responsible thing to do! Protecting the city from fire and all that. So I offered it up.
We had a party. Nothing big. Just a few of Sean’s friends and me. We got good and stoned. Then Sean and the guys started playing with the equipment. I should have stopped them, but everyone was laughing and having a good time. I didn’t want to break the mood, you know?
Anyway, turns out Dad had filled the acetylene tanks that day. So while Sean and his idiot friends sword-fought with the torch handles, the gas-feed lines were actually live. Someone must have rolled a knob or something, because when they clashed the metal on metal it made a spark.
The whole room caught fire, the alarms went off, and it automatically sealed itself off. We were trapped in there and we barely got to the air shelter in time. We all crammed in and waited for the fire brigade.
Long story short: No one got hurt, but the room was trashed. Rudy (the nosy Mountie asshole) wanted to have me deported, but the fire destroyed all the pot, so he had no evidence of illegal flammables.
Dad was PISSED OFF. He yelled at me like never before—went on and on about how much money he’d sunk into that location and how it went up in flames because of me. And that just got me mad, because, you know, I could have died. The least he could do is ask if I’m okay, right?
We really got into it. He said I had to stop seeing Sean. As if he got
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