Odyssey

by Jack McDevitt

  If Abdul’s hypercomm was down, they had a serious problem. They could not precisely compute the ship’s position in hyperspace. Where transdimensional space was concerned, there was always a fudge factor. Academy pilots were trained, in the event they had to exit, to send a message immediately before they took the action. His failure to do so left them operating from guesswork.

  Vehicles moving through hyperspace traveled at an equivalent rate of approximately 1.1 billion kilometers per second. Not knowing precisely when Abdul made his jump meant they could be anywhere along a track billions of kilometers long. Abdul and his people might be pretty hungry by the time help arrived.

  She listened to the original message, in which Abdul said he was having engine trouble, and they were going to make their jump. And she decided she was worrying unnecessarily. The guy was a veteran, and he was telling them he was seconds away from pulling the trigger. The Wildside should have no trouble finding them.

  Nothing more she could do. Outside it was still dark. She let her head drift back and closed her eyes.

  “Hutch,” said Marla. “Sorry to interrupt. You’ve a call from Eric.”

  Eric Samuels was the Academy’s public relations director. He held the job primarily because he had an engaging smile and a reassuring manner. Everybody liked Eric. When he was in front of an audience, you knew things were going to be okay. He was about average size, black hair, blessed with the ability to sound utterly sincere no matter what he was saying. Curiously, his private manner was at contrast with the public persona. He was a worrier, his gaze tended to drift around the room, and you always got the feeling the situation was headed downhill. His subordinates didn’t dislike him, but they didn’t like working for him. Too nervous. Too excitable. “Do you really think it blew up?” he asked.

  “I hope not, Eric. We just don’t know yet.”

  “Have we started notifying the families?”

  That was the problem, wasn’t it? The families would assume the worst no matter what they were told. “No,” she said. “When do you plan to talk to the media?”

  “At ten. We can’t wait any longer than that. I understand the story’s already gotten out.”

  Moments later she had another call. “Cy Tursi,” Marla said. Tursi did the science beat for the Washington Post. “Wants you to get right back to him. And hold on, there’s another one coming in. Hendrick, looks like.”

  Hendrick was Newsletter East. “Refer them to Eric, Marla. And get me the commissioner.”

  “He’s not in his office yet.”

  “Get him anyway. And I need to see the passenger manifest for the Heffernan. And a next-of-kin list for them and for Abdul.”

  Asquith’s voice broke in on her: “What is it, Priscilla?” He always used her given name when he was annoyed with her.

  “The story’s getting out. We need to notify the families.”

  “I know. I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of it. Personally. Tell them all we know is we lost contact. No reason for alarm.”

  “I’d be alarmed.”

  “I’m not worried about you. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I assume you’ve talked to Eric.”

  “Not within the last hour.”

  “Okay. The press conference is scheduled for ten.”

  “Good. I’m going to want Eric to keep it short. Just read them a statement and maybe take no questions. What do you think?”

  “Michael, we can’t get away with that. Not in this kind of situation.” She pointed to the coffeemaker, and the AI turned it on.

  “Okay. Maybe you’re right. I hope he’s careful out there. I’m not sure you shouldn’t do it.”

  “If you change the routine, you just ratchet things up. Eric’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “Michael.”

  “Yes?” He was wishing the situation would go away.

  “After I talk with the families, I’ll want some time with you. Are you on your way in?”

  He sighed. “I’ll be there.”

  Hutch was in her sixth year as director of operations. She’d had to make these sorts of calls after the losses at Lookout, and when the Stockholm had bumped into the dock at the Origins Project and killed a technician. In past years, talking to families had been a duty assumed by the commissioner, but Michael had delegated it to her, and it was just as well. She squirmed at the prospect of wives and kids getting bad news from him. He was a decent enough guy, but he was always at his worst when he was trying to be sincere.

  SHE CALLED PETER first, but he still hadn’t heard anything. So she started making the calls. Get it done before the press conference begins.

  It was painful. In all five cases, as soon as she identified herself, they knew. Two were in the NAU, where it was still an ungodly hour, and that alone screamed bad news. The others were across the Atlantic. They took one look at her and eyes widened. Fearful glances were exchanged with whoever else was present. Voices changed timbre.

  In the case of one of the researchers, the wife had come out of a classroom, where she was conducting a seminar of some sort. She came close to cardiac arrest as Hutch explained, as gently as she could, then had to connect with the front office to get help for her.

  Among the four passengers, three had never before been in Academy ships. One near-adult child told her that he knew something like this would happen, that he’d pleaded with his father to stay home.

  When at last it was over, she sat exhausted.

  THE SUN WAS well over the horizon when she cornered Asquith in his office. “Do we have any news yet, Priscilla?” he asked.

  “Not a word.”

  He took a deep breath. “Not good.” Asquith was a middle-aged guy who was always battling his weight, and whose primary objective in running the Academy was to stay out of trouble. Keep the politicians happy and continue to collect his paycheck. His doctorate was in political science, although he never disabused people of the notion he was a physicist or a mathematician.

  The first thing Abdul should have done after the jump would have been to send a message. Let everybody know he was okay. And where he was. The silence, as the saying goes, was deafening.

  Asquith was behind his desk, keeping it between them. “The Colby-class ships,” she said, “are no longer safe. We need to scrap them.”

  He reacted as if she’d suggested they walk on the ceiling. “Priscilla,” he said, “we’ve had this conversation before. We can’t do that. You’re talking about half the operational fleet.”

  “Do it or cut the missions. One or the other.”

  “Look. We’re under a lot of pressure right now. Can we talk about this later?”

  “Later might get somebody killed. Look, Michael, we don’t really have a third alternative. We either have to scale things back or replace the ships.”

  “Neither of those is an option.”

  “Sure they are.” She stared at him across the wide expanse of his desk. “Michael, I’m not sending anybody else out on the Colbys.”

  “Priscilla, I’ll expect you to do what the missions require.”

  “You’ll have to find someone else to do it.”

  His face hardened. “Don’t force me to take action we’ll both regret.”

  “Look, Michael.” She was usually even-tempered, but she kept thinking about Abdul and his passengers when the alarms went off. “I knew before the Heffernan went out that it wasn’t safe.”

  He looked shocked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Sure I did. You just don’t listen unless I beat on the table. The whole Colby line is unsafe. We’re taking people’s lives in our hands. You and me. It’s time to go talk to your friends on Capitol Hill.”

  “All right,” he said. “Okay. Keep calm. Take a look at what you think we have to do. Give me a plan, and we’ll go from there. I’ll do what I can.”

  MOST OF THE reporters were scattered around the world in remote locations, but twenty or so showed up physically for the briefing
, which was being held on the first floor of the conference center. Hutch watched from her office.

  Eric, who pretended to believe Michael Asquith was a leader of uncommon ability, made a brief opening statement, reiterating what the journalists had by then already learned, that the Heffernan, while in hyperspace, had apparently developed a problem with her engines, and was currently unaccounted for. “The Wildside is on its way, and will be on-site within twenty-four hours. The al-Jahani is also close by. We’re optimistic everything will be okay.”

  The first question, the one they all knew was coming, was asked by the New York Times: “Eric, there’ve been reports of breakdowns throughout the Academy fleet recently. Just how safe are the starships? Would you put your family in one?”

  Eric managed to look surprised that anyone would ask. “Of course,” he said. “People are safer in Academy vessels than they are crossing the street in front of their homes.”

  The Roman Interface inquired whether the Academy fleet might be getting old.

  “The ships are tried and proven.” Eric smiled, as if the question was foolish. No reason for concern. “If we thought any of our ships had become untrustworthy, we’d pull them out of service. It’s as simple as that. Robert?”

  Robert Gall, of Independent News: “What actually happened out there? Why’d the engines fail?”

  “It’s too soon to say. We’ll conduct an investigation as soon as we’re able. And the results will be made public.” He signaled a young brunette in the front row.

  Her name was Janet and she worked for the Sidney Mirror: “Is there any truth to the story that funding cuts are responsible for the recent spate of accidents?”

  “Janet, a few cases of mechanical malfunction do not constitute a spate of accidents. No, we have everything we need to perform our mission.”

  “And how do you perceive your mission, Eric?” This came from Karl Menchik, who represented one of the Russian outlets and who, Hutch suspected, was a plant, accredited to ask softball questions and get Eric off the hook.

  “To take the human race to the stars,” he said. “To set out across the infinite sea, to land on distant shores, and to report what’s out there.”

  It could have come right off one of the monuments.

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  Interstellar flight has run its course. It has been a harmless diversion for the better part of a century, but it is time to move on. Sea levels are rising, famine is common in many parts of the globe, thousands of people die every day from a range of diseases for which cures exist but for various reasons are not available, and population continues to outrun resources. A quarter of the global population is illiterate.

  It is time to rearrange priorities. We should begin by recalling the superluminals, which contribute nothing toward creating a better life for the planet’s inhabitants. Let’s put the exploration effort aside for the present. Let’s concentrate on solving our problems at home before we go wandering off to other worlds whose existence have no impact on anyone other than a few academics.

  —Venice Times, lead editorial, Monday, February 16

  chapter 4

  We’re a population of dunces. Consider the level of entertainment available to the home. The single most valuable skill in showbiz seems to be the ability to fall, with panache, on one’s face.

  —Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times

  “I believe him.”

  MacAllister stared down out of the taxi at the network of bridges and islands that was modern Tampa. “No question in your mind, Wolfie?”

  “Well, you know how it is, Mac. I wouldn’t bet the house, but yeah, I’d have a hard time believing it didn’t happen exactly the way he said it did.”

  Below him, the city was a complex network of canals. Beautiful from the air. A prime example of the human capability to make art out of bad news. But the oceans were still rising, and they’d have to redesign the place yet again when the ice cap went into the water or the next big hurricane came along.

  Homo imbecilus.

  “So are we going to do the story?”

  “Hell, Wolfie, what’s the story? What do we have to say? That somebody’s out there riding around in black ships?”

  “That’s what it’s beginning to look like.”

  “Wolfie, you have any idea how that sounds?”

  “Yeah, I do. Doesn’t mean there isn’t something to it.”

  “It’s bogus. You have a combination of slick corporate types who want the government to put more money into space, and a general population that will believe anything. But go ahead. Run with it. See what you can come up with.”

  IT FIT WITH an idea for a new book, a history of human gullibility. In eighty-six volumes. How people make things up, and other people buy in. Organized religions. Notions of national or racial superiority. Political parties. Economic boobery. Whole armies, for example, who thought they could earn indulgences by killing Arabs. Or the seventeenth-century Brits who concluded they were intended by God to carry His truth to the benighted. Or the lunatic Jihadists of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. People still believed in astrology. And in cures that medical science didn’t want you to know about.

  He was on a book tour, promoting Guts, Glory, and Chicken Soup, a collection of his essays. It had been a profitable trip so far. Readers had lined up in fourteen cities across the North American Union to buy his book and tell him they shared his views on politicians, college professors, bishops, the media, school boards, corporate service centers, professional athletes, and the voters. Well, some of them did. Others came to yell at him, to call him a rabble-rouser and an atheist and a threat to the welfare of the nation. In Orlando the previous evening he’d been told his mother must be ashamed (which, curiously enough, was true), and that no decent person would read his books. One woman offered to pray for him.

  But they were buying Guts and Glory. It was jumping off the shelves. I wouldn’t read it myself, but I have a deranged brother. Sometimes they brought pies or whipped cream, hoping to get a clear shot at him, but the dealers knew feelings ran high when he was in town, so they disarmed everyone coming in the door.

  In Houston, the mayor, anticipating his arrival, had given an interview saying no person was so disreputable that he wasn’t welcome in that fine city. The Boston Herald advised readers planning to attend the signing at Pergamo’s to keep their children home. In Toronto, a church group paraded outside the bookstore with signs telling him he was welcome at service if he wanted to save his soul.

  He was used to it. Enjoyed it, in fact.

  The taxi started down. MacAllister realized he was hungry. It was getting on to midmorning, and he hadn’t had anything other than toast and orange juice. He was scheduled to appear as a guest on Marge Dowling’s Up Front before going over to Arrowsmith’s later that afternoon for the signing. The show was at ten.

  It was a bright, pleasant day. In February, Florida was always bright and pleasant. He hated pleasant weather. A little of it was all right, but he liked storms and snow, heavy winds, downpours. He didn’t understand why its residents didn’t move north.

  The taxi settled onto the roof of Cee Square Broadcasting. MacAllister paid up and climbed out. One of the staff appeared in a doorway and hurried over to greet him. Good to see you, Mr. MacAllister. How was your flight from Orlando? We’ve been looking forward to having you on the show.

  The guy couldn’t even pretend to be sincere. He was scared of MacAllister, and his voice was squeaking. MacAllister could have put him at ease, but he resisted the temptation.

  Marge waited downstairs. She delivered the standard embrace that was not quite an embrace. Nothing touched him but fingertips and one cheek. She was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, carried away by her self-importance. The sort of woman who’d have been okay had she stayed home and baked cookies. Everything with her was an act. Her enthusiasm at seeing him, her pretenses at modesty (“So good of you to spend some time with us, Mac”), even her accent. She’
d been born and reared in Minnesota, but she sounded like someone who’d be going home after work to the plantation. “Mac,” she said, “it’s been a long time.”

  Not long enough. But her show provided a perfect format for him. There’d be a second guest, someone who would be expected to provide contrasting views to his own. In past years, the guests had been local champions of social uplift, whom he’d dismembered at leisure. The primary topic for that day’s show was to be interstellar expansion, and his opponent would be an Academy pilot. A woman, no less. When he’d first heard, he’d thought it might be Hutch, but it wasn’t. And he was relieved. He wouldn’t feel right sticking barbs into an old friend in front of a large audience.

  She got him fresh coffee and turned him over to the makeup people. “See you in a few minutes, Mac.” In his case, makeup was a joke. He had a commanding presence, always looked good, and had no need of cosmetics. But the producers insisted.

  Right. MacAllister sat down, and a young woman who should have had better things to do with her life tried to take the shine off his nose. When she was done, a guide took him to the green room, where he sat down, exposed to The Morning Show, a network offering with two people going on about a kidnapping in Montana. Then the guide came back for him and led him through a side corridor into a studio. Three leather chairs were placed around a table. The walls were paneled. When the picture was transmitted, they would appear to be filled with leather volumes. One would have a fireplace. If the fireplace didn’t alert the viewer it was all a scam, MacAllister couldn’t imagine what would.

  A kid producer sat in one of the chairs, studying a script. He jumped up when he saw MacAllister and shook hands a bit too enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to have you back, Mr. MacAllister,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  The kid looked at his notes. “You’re going to try to explain why we shouldn’t be spending tax money to support the Academy? Am I right?”

  “I can do that,” said MacAllister. He didn’t like to think of it quite that way. And he considered informing the producer there might be a middle ground somewhere. But in the larger scale of things, his opinion didn’t count anyhow. The politicians made the decisions, and the voters paid no attention.