But Muncie was almost fully suited too. His gloved fists were flurrying madly, and even though most of his punches were wild, enough were landing on Dan’s torso to hurt.
There was no time for niceties. Dan grabbed the shoulders of Muncie’s EMU and butted his helmet into the youngster’s forehead. Muncie’s arms stopped flailing; his jaw fell slack, stunned.
“Sorry, kid,” Dan muttered as he braced his feet against the wall and landed a bone-breaking right squarely on Muncie’s jaw. Muncie’s eyes rolled up and he hung in midair like a balloon slowly leaking air. Slowly, slowly he sagged toward the floor under the slight but discernible gravity.
“That ought to keep you quiet for a while,” Dan mumbled, realizing his ribs felt sore.
He made his way back to the control panel. The emergency controller was a joystick with a pistol grip. Once in place, it automatically overrode all other commands to the ACS. Dan positioned himself so that his right hand gripped the controller and he could see clearly out the viewport. The horizon rolled past like a roller coaster and then the window showed black space with a sprinkling of stars.
Dan squeezed off a command to the forward nadir translation-thruster assembly. The stars slowed their spin past the viewport. He wrenched the joystick to his right and ordered a blast from the aft nadir thrusters. The stars stopped for an instant, then reversed field. He moved the joystick from side to side, squeezing the pistol with each turn. When the horizon crossed the port, it was moving appreciably slower.
For a crazy instant he remembered his son playing video games. I should have spent more time with him, Dan thought grimly.
With the Earth in full view, Dan switched the joystick from translation control to attitude control. He nudged pitch, yaw, and roll; took a gross reading through the port with his eye; then repeated the firing sequence with ever finer thrusts until the station had resumed something resembling gravity gradient attitude.
“That’s as good as I can get it,” he muttered.
He punched up the main computer. A light on the screen flickered.
“Come on, Freddy. Come on,” he said, coaxing the computer back to life. “Let’s see what you’ve done.”
Emergency options scrolled across the main screen. A smaller monitor reported structural damage: one solar panel disconnected, one radiator lost. He could see the RMS arm still hanging free of its cradle, but it was no longer waving; it stood stiffly at an odd angle, like a broken bone.
Dan keyed in the ACS program. The primary gyro system responded briefly, only to fail. The secondary system came to life. The numbers on the attitude readout edged toward stability.
He puffed out an enormous, heartfelt sigh. It’s out of my hands for now, he knew. He kicked out of the anchoring loops. The sick bay contained several oxygen units. Lorraine was sorely in need of some fresh air. He cradled her in his arms and gently patted her cheek. Her lips moved slightly, but locked within his EMU he couldn’t hear if she made a sound. He fit the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Her eyes opened, and when her gaze penetrated his visor she smiled in recognition. Dan gently patted her shoulder. They had much to discuss.
6 SEPTEMBER 1998
TRIKON STATION
Crewman Muncie confessed freely to the murders of Aaron Weiss and Carla Sue Gamble, claiming that God told him they were evil and should be killed. He further stated that God wanted him to destroy Trikon Station because it was an outpost of the devil set in God’s heavens.
He was heavily tranquilized and under physical restraints when he made the confession, but no sodium pentothal or other truth serum was used. Nor was coercive force. I don’t know if his confession will stand up in court, but as far as possible we did not violate his civil rights.
Personally, I believe that the psychologists who examined Muncie and passed him for duty on Trikon Station are as much responsible for the murders as he is.
—Report of Cmdr. D. Tighe, 4 September 1998
“No, I will not leave the station,” said Fabio Bianco.