Seveneves

by Neal Stephenson

The qualifications for being a Scout seemed to be a shocking level of physical endurance, a complete disregard for mortal danger, and some knowledge of how to exist in a space suit. All of them were Russian.

In the best traditions of Russian technology, Luk was straightforward. Take a cosmonaut. Enclose him in a large plastic bag full of air.

On its outer hatch, the rescue vehicle would need to have an adapter with a bolt pattern made to engage with the holes on the Luk’s flange. Once an airtight connection had been made between Luk and vehicle, the hatch could be opened, the diaphragm removed, and the cosmonaut brought in from the cold. Or, given the difficulties of getting rid of excess thermal energy in space, from the heat.

“Julia. Shut up. If you say another fucking word I’ll stave your fucking head in and put your corpse out the airlock. Nothing about this is acceptable. Starting with the fact that you are flapping your gums, posing a distraction to Dinah while she is carrying out a difficult mission-critical operation to protect the Cloud Ark. You just attempted to countermand a direct order from Markus, who is in charge of everything here under the PSAPS clause of the Cloud Ark Constitution. You are up here illegally. The Crater Lake Accord specifically barred the sending of national leaders to the Cloud Ark. You have violated that commitment and found a way to be launched up here anyhow, and judging from the looks of it there was no end of dirty dealing along the way. Your vehicle approached the Cloud Ark in a manner incompatible with our safety and security procedures, endangering the lives of everyone up here, and forcing arklets and Izzy itself to expend priceless and irreplaceable fuel to perform evasive maneuvers. We were sent here on an emergency basis, placing ourselves in harm’s way and expending more scarce resources to clean up the mess that you created by your cowardly and dishonorable act. For all of these reasons I am commanding you, by my authority as the commander of this vessel, to remain silent until we have docked safely at Izzy.”

“Well,” Dinah said, “here is a Grimmed Grabb whose name is ‘HELLO I AM RIGHT ON TOP OF THE DOCKING PORT,’ which seems promising.”

“What do you need to make it happen?” Ivy asked. “Permission,” Dinah said. “When did you ever ask for that before?” The joke elicited a high-pitched laugh from the corner of the conference room.

Forward the ice flowed. It was like watching video of a melting iceberg played in reverse. The Nats, blindly following a simple collection of rules, packed it into every vacant space they happened upon. In the few minutes out of each day when the crew could take some rest and eat some rations, they would try to top each other telling funny stories about where they had found a living infestation of ice, and what they had done to beat it back.

He made a sleepy flight to the toilet and back, looking at her in the classic style of the extrovert who wants you to drop whatever you’re doing so that you can have a conversation with him.

Apparently the part of the brain that identified things as funny kept running as a background process even when its contributions were useless.

“Fighting isn’t about knowing how,” Ty said. “It’s about deciding to.”