Skyfall

Patrick floated close to the other man, until their faceplates almost touched, reaching out a hand to Ely's shoulder. Through the layers of fabric and plastic he could just feel the human being inside when he closed his fingers hard. They were alone there in space, in the vacuum of eternity that reached away on all sides, the sharp points of the stars just markers along the way. The steel shell of Prometheus was next to them, a capsule of life in the terrible emptiness, while filling half the sky was Earth.

“We've no choice, Ely,” Patrick said. “It took billions of dollars to get us up here and millions of hours of labor. And it's all a waste if we don't finish this job. There's really nothing else we can do.”

“Right,” Ely said. “Sorry about that. Let's get on with it. What's next, Mission Control?”

They had been waiting in Houston, listening in silence, powerless to help. All they could do was describe what had to be done and hope that the two exhausted men in space would do it correctly.

“The plate before you, it should have a stencilled number Peter Alfred seven six on it. There are four duz fasteners.”

“Roger. Can I have the screwdriver, Pat.”

Patrick undipped the safety line and passed the bulky form of the machine to Ely. “I have the big blade in it. Set for extract, minimum speed. Ready to trigger.”

“Right.”

Ely swung about, braced against the clip he had fastened to the hull and put the blade into the slot of the first fastener. When he pressed the trigger it whined rapidly, the flywheel inside spinning against the torque of the head, turning swiftly.

“What is the. .” Ely started to say just as the blade dug into the aluminum and was torn from his hand. “Too fast!”

The power screwdriver floated away from them, a mote of light in darkness.

“I'll get it — hold on,” Patrick shouted, kicking the AMU about and levering the gas for forward flight. He soared out after the power driver, grabbing it to him as he passed, then braked to a stop. His return flight was much slower.

“You had it on high,” Ely called out angrily. “It pulled right out of my hand when it dug in.”

“I'm sorry, a mistake, but you should have attached the safety line. If you did this wouldn't have happened…”

“Ely, Patrick, the time on the GET is 17:34,” Nadya said, her quiet words cutting through their angry ones. “How is the work proceeding?”

Patrick took a deep shuddering breath. “Proceeding as planned. Thanks Nadya.”

“Would you like me to relieve one of you?”

“A very good idea. As soon as we get this plate off I'm sending Ely in. If he transfers to the flight cabin umbilical you can take his place out here.”

“I'm all right, “Ely said.

“No, you're not. Neither am I. As soon as you feel better you can take my place. If we work in turns like this it should help us all. Now get on with the plate.”

“Right.”

The plate was finally free, disclosing a maze of pipes and cables below.

“Can you see a black cable with a green tracer?”

“It looks like a lot of spaghetti,” Ely said, moving his head closer. “This looks like it, yes, green markings.”

“You are going to have to cut it. You'll find if you pull up there is some give and you can work a loop of it up high enough.”

“It's… not easy…”

“Let me set if I can get a hand on it,” Patrick said, drawing himself close.

Each pulling, they managed to get a black arch of the cable up from the others below, two, three inches high.

“It'll be a bitch to cut,” Patrick said. “Too thick for any of the tack we have. We'll have to burn it through.”

“Isn't that dangerous, with the other wires just behind?”

“Our only choice. Fire up the torch and pass it down to me.”

Ely pulled himself back to the engine support to which they had clipped the tools. He detached the oxyacetylene torch and fastened it to a loop of his own umbilicals. Then he turned on the automatic gas regulator and thumbed the spark switch. The shining exhaust of frozen gas particles turned to a lance of flame.

“Here it is — “

“WATCH OUT!”

Patrick shouted the words — too late.

As he turned with the flaming torch Ely did not see the top of his own umbilicals floating up before him. The umbilicals seemed to have a life of their own as the slightest motion started them moving, the motion passed along their length like some half-sentient serpent.

The loop reared up and the flame burned into it.

Patrick grabbed the torch, turned it off — and they both looked in frozen horror at the blackened oxygen hose. It had been half burnt through, the wire-wound outer casing penetrated, the flexible inner rubber lining swelling out in a great blister. Only for an instant did it stay like that for even as they reached to contain it, it burst.

Ely screamed as his air bubbled out in a torrent of crystals, the sound of his voice getting weaker and weaker as the air that carried the sound ebbed away.