Odyssey

by Jack McDevitt

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “That’s sixteen more.”

  “They only hold six. Including the pilot.”

  “They’ll hold eight in an emergency.”

  Estevan didn’t believe her. “They’ll suffocate.”

  “The air’ll get a bit close. But it’s only until more ships arrive. And we’ve got a lander on the Salvator. That’ll take another four.” That left what? Eighteen. “How many breathers does the Tower have?”

  Estevan made a call to get the answer. Whoever was on the other end had to check. Valya lowered herself into a seat. Estevan exhaled. Looked around the room. Then spoke into her link again. She listened, nodded, frowned. “We have six,” she told Valya. “They’re telling me there are usually two more, but they went to the East Tower a week ago.”

  “And your shuttles each have two?”

  “Yes.”

  Each breather had a two-hour air supply. “Have them make sure the air tanks are filled and ready to go,” she said.

  “Why?” she asked. “What’s the point?”

  “You put as many people on the ships as the life support will maintain. Then you give the rest breathers and put them on board, too. It’ll be uncomfortable, but they’ll survive until the other ships get here.”

  Valya had the eight from Union, and the two that were routinely kept on board. That was twenty. If the Rehling and the Granville got there before the moonriders, they could get everyone off.

  ESTEVAN BROUGHT IN her senior staff, three men and two women, and introduced everybody. Larry Kleigmann, head of the science department, took the lead in thanking Valya and Eric for coming. “Glad somebody cares about us,” he said, exchanging glances with the deputy director. He was from Ohio State, a physicist, probably unmarried. “After all we went through trying to get the sons of bitches to fund the collider,” he said. “It took us twenty years to persuade them to say yes, and look what happens.”

  Angie Sudara was the acting construction chief. Her boss had been at the other tower. She was barely five feet tall, middle-aged, light brown hair, good-looking in an unkempt, windblown way. “Good to see you guys,” she said.

  Julie Halper headed the West Tower medical department. Julie was a Nigerian, obviously a woman who worked out, with a good smile, but, at the moment, an intense, scared expression.

  And Santos Kerr, tall and lean, in a white jumpsuit. A mathematician who had, Kleigmann explained, been with Origins from its inception.

  And finally, the deputy’s chief of staff, Ho Smith. It sounded like the name of an action hero, but he looked scared. Ho had Asian features, but spoke Oxford English.

  Without wasting time, Estevan got down to business. “Right now, it looks as if these savages will be here in about three and a half hours. The Salvator is here to evacuate some of us, and Valya tells us it’s ready to go.

  “As things now stand, we should be okay. I wish we could do something to stop these idiots from blowing up the rest of the facility. Ho has been trying to contact them, but they’re not talking to us.” She glanced over at Ho. He nodded. Yes, he had been trying, and no, there was still no response.

  Did any one have a suggestion?

  No one did.

  “Okay. Then let’s go talk to the troops.”

  ESTEVAN MARCHED THROUGH the somber crowds in the passageways, trying to be reassuring as she went, wearing a smile as if everything was under control.

  She strolled into the dining area flanked by her staff and followed by, Valya thought, everyone in the facility.

  She signaled for Valya and Eric to stand with her. Then she waited for silence. When it didn’t immediately come, Kleigmann bawled for everybody to “shut it down.”

  She climbed onto a chair. It was a bit wobbly, and Santos took her hand to steady her. She started by giving her assurance that everyone was going to get off the station before the aliens showed up. Then she introduced Valya and Eric, who had arrived “in the first of several evacuation vessels.” That brought cheers. “Ladies and gentlemen, you already have a pretty good idea what’s going on. But let me lay it out for you.”

  She was good. There’d been a transformation of sorts between the quivering wreck in the office and the woman who now dominated a frightened audience. In a tense but matter-of-fact tone, she explained what had happened and what was being done to rescue them. “I’ll be honest,” she said. “This whole thing is as scary for me as it is for you. But we have every reason to be optimistic. Help is on the way. And the good news is these creatures don’t seem intent on killing us. Apparently, they simply want to destroy the facility.”

  “Why?” asked a thick-waisted man standing against the wall.

  “We don’t really know, Harry. It may have something to do with Blueprint.” That brought sighs, protests, and a few I-told-you-so’s. “I know there’s been some discussion among us as to whether we should have been proceeding with it. That’s all moot now. All we care about at the moment is getting away from here.

  “The way things are proceeding, the aliens are still roughly three hours away. I can’t guarantee that, but so far they’ve been moving at a constant rate. Valya tells me she thinks they want to give us time to get clear. I hope she’s right. We have at our immediate disposal one ship, two shuttles, and a lander. We expect two more ships to be here before these creatures, whatever they are.

  “Fortunately, it’ll be enough to accommodate everybody. Some of us may have to wear a breathing apparatus for a couple of hours, but that’s a small enough price to pay.

  “We’re going to put twenty-nine people on the two shuttles, the Salvator, and the Salvator’s lander. In addition, we have twenty breathers. That means we can put an additional twenty people on the Salvator, or whatever other ship shows up.”

  “Is there room?” someone asked.

  Estevan looked down at Valya. “It’ll be a bit snug,” Valya said. “But we can live with it.”

  “We could wait for the Granville,” said Estevan, “but we think it’s smarter to get as many people off as early as we can. Just in case.”

  “You think the Granville won’t get here?” someone asked. A voice in back.

  “We’d rather be safe than sorry. The Rehling can take out nine. It also has two breathers, which we’ll collect. Whoever’s left will be picked up by the Granville. If you look around at the main door, you’ll notice Ho and Angie back there with a box. There are folded slips of paper in the box, numbered one to seventy-two. Take one as you go out. Show it to them, and they’ll record your number. Those numbers will be the sequence of departure. Number one will be out the door first. Seventy-two will leave when the senior staff does.

  “Any questions?”

  “Yes, Terri. When do we expect the Granville?”

  “We don’t know. Actually, there are several ships en route. We’re waiting for them to complete their jumps, which should come at any time.

  “We’re going to wait until the last minute to launch the Salvator. That way we conserve oxygen. The senior staff and I will be riding out on the Granville. Along with the highest numbers.”

  She answered a few more questions, mostly repetitious, and decided to close it out. “You’ve been a good team to work with,” she said. “I know some of you had friends on the East Tower. You’re aware only sixteen people survived over there. But they didn’t have the advance warning we do.” She got down off the table and moved confidently through the room. Everything was going to be fine.

  WITH TWO HOURS remaining, good news came in. “This is WhiteStar II,” said a woman’s voice. “Just made our jump, and we are on target. We’re about two and a half hours out. Maybe a bit more.”

  Wonderful. “Thank you, WhiteStar II,” said Valya. “We’ll put the beer on ice. Be advised it looks close whether you get here first, or the crazies do. Recommend you lose no time. How many breathers do you have on board?”

  There was a delay while the signal crossed. “Hotfoot,” said the pilot. “Will be
there soonest. Have two breathers.”

  She passed the news to Estevan, who nodded as if she’d known all along. “No sweat,” she said.

  They collected four breathers from the two shuttles, loaded eight people on each, and launched them.

  THE MOONRIDERS WERE still an hour and a half away when the Rehling arrived. It already, unfortunately, carried two passengers. Mark Stevens was first off the ship, striding into the reception area where about twenty people waited with a scattering of luggage. He was a good-looking guy, dark hair, quiet. You could see the concern in his eyes. There were comments from the crowd. Good to see you. Thank God you got here.

  Valya met him at the airlock. He reacted with a pained smile, and they embraced. “You okay?” he whispered.

  “It’s been scary.”

  “I know. Hang in there. Everything’ll be all right.”

  One of Stevens’s passengers emerged. His expression suggested he should be treated with deference. He had white hair, thin lips, narrow eyes under enormous brows, and what appeared to be a permanent frown. This was Charles Autry from Seaside University in Sydney. Valya had transported him to Nok some years earlier. He’d been obnoxious throughout the voyage. Immediately behind him came Marcus Cullen, tall and lean, an aristocrat by inclination, born into money and influence and never recovered. He was the president of Duke University. “It’s just been one thing after another,” grumbled Autry. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Stevens smiled at Valya. “We’re not happy at being delayed,” he said.

  “Typical screwup,” Autry said. “Bureaucracy at work.”

  Cullen looked directly through Valya as though she did not exist. His gaze swept around the room without reaction and came back to Stevens. He sighed and made a point of checking the time.

  Valya resisted the temptation to ask whether either of them would volunteer to stay for the Granville. “Mark,” she said, “do you have some breathers on board?”

  “We have two.”

  “How much oxygen?”

  “A two-hour supply for each. Why?”

  “We’re going to steal them.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You’re welcome to them.”

  “Could we please move this along?” said Cullen.

  Estevan appeared. “One through nine,” she said. Nine people picked up their bags and began to move forward. She stepped back to make room for them. “Enjoy your flight,” she said. “I’ll see you at Union.”

  There was some shuffling in the crowd. A few sighs. Some guilty looks. Somebody in back said she had a child at home. Someone else explained he hadn’t intended to come out here in the first place. He’d been pressured.

  There were handshakes and embraces.

  Autry wondered aloud whether they were ready to leave yet.

  Valya glared at him, but he never noticed. “Stazoun meli,” she said.

  Stevens put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re okay. They’re not used to this. They got detoured, and now they have to ride home in a crowded ship.”

  “I’m sympathetic.”

  “I can see that.” His jaw muscles worked. “You going to be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t wait too long to get clear yourself.” His new passengers filed through the airlock. Then Cullen and Autry, and finally Stevens. Minutes later, as the Rehling was pulling away from the dock, they heard that the WhiteStar had not gained any time. If nothing changed, it would be several minutes behind the the moonriders.

  Bill broke in. “Transmission from the Tanaka.”

  “Salvator, jump is complete. We estimate TOA three hours ten minutes.”

  Bare minutes later, the Carolyn Ray checked in. “Four-plus hours out.”

  “Ray,” she said, “we have two shuttles with sixteen survivors in the vicinity of the East Tower. Those will be your responsibility.”

  EVERYONE IN THE place was making it a point to approach Valya and Eric and shake their hands. Don’t know what we’d have done, they said.

  They were, on the whole, a young crowd. Most of those who identified themselves as physicists were in their twenties or thirties. Administrative staff tended to be older, as were the engineers.

  Darryl Murillo, a consultant to the construction crew, was able to rig a display that showed precisely where the moonriders were by tracking the destruction of the rings. Murillo was from Barcelona, a tall, well-built guy in his midthirties who spoke English with a Castilian accent. “When we get home,” he told Valya, “I would be honored if you would be my guest for dinner.”

  The long tradition in physics, of course, was that you did your breakthrough work, if there was going to be any, during your first ten years. Otherwise, you could forget it. And there was no place more on the cutting edge than the Origins Project. Kleigmann looked proud when they talked about it. “The top people on the planet are out here,” he said. Then his eyes grew distant. “I hate to think what we’ve already lost in the other tower. There were a lot of good kids over there.”

  Estevan made it a point to stay out of her office. She patrolled the corridors, took over a table in one of the larger conference rooms, stayed where she could be seen. She laughed and talked as if nothing unusual were happening. Meantime, crowds stayed close to Murillo’s displays.

  Eric was also showing a side Valya hadn’t seen before. “I’ve spent too many Saturday nights at home,” he said. “Did you know I’m almost forty?” It seemed an odd comment until she thought about it.

  Actually, she’d have guessed he was a few years older. “Is there a woman in your life, Eric?”

  “Not really,” he said. “Maybe one. Jeri Makaiya. But I’ve never been out with her. Never asked her out.”

  “Why not?”

  “She works for me. It’s not smart. Romantic entanglements in the office. In fact, they’ve got a rule against anything like that between supervisors and subordinates.”

  They were down under an hour, sitting at a table in the cafeteria, next door to the conference room where Estevan was holding court. “That can be a problem,” Valya said. “There are other women. I’d think you would make a pretty nice catch, Eric.”

  He smiled shyly. “Thanks.” Then: “She’s the one I really like.”

  “Then break the rule.”

  He shook his head. Can’t do that.

  “You have to decide what’s important. If she matters, you can’t just walk away. If you do, twenty years from now you’ll still regret it.” Being at leisure in a place you know is about to be blown apart has a curious effect. Valya found herself reviewing her own life, thinking about the good times, old friends who had gotten lost along the way, moments when she might have chosen another path. There wasn’t much she regretted, almost nothing she’d have done differently. Maybe Terranova. (Her feeling about that kept changing.) Maybe Jamie Clemens, whom she’d once loved. Still loved. But she’d walked out of his life and later changed her mind, but by then he was angry or taken. She was never sure which.

  And now there was Mac.

  What a rollicking, hard-nosed, unpredictable son of a bitch he was. She’d never known anyone remotely like him. Were all journalists like that? She knew he’d be resentful, would make her pay a price for her deceit. But she thought she could repair the damage, could hang on to him. When she got back she’d go see him. And she’d do what she had to.

  Meantime, it was getting late. “Time to load our passengers, Eric.”

  Her commlink vibrated. It was Bill.

  “We have a transmission from the Granville,” he said.

  “Let’s hear it, Bill.” Pray for good news.

  “Salvator.” The voice sounded French. “We have just made our jump. Did not get as close as we’d hoped. But we are on our way and will be there in three hours.”

  Her heart sank. Eric stared at her. “What?”

  “Two hours late.” Granville was their bus. She acknowledged, and did the numbers again: WhiteStar II could take five. S
even with the air tanks they should have on board.

  That would leave what?

  Eleven.

  ERIC SAMUELS’S OCCASIONAL JOURNAL

  Valya has been magnificent. She helped Estevan pull herself together, and has managed to convince everyone by her quiet, cool confidence that they’re all going to get home okay.

  But she informed me just minutes ago that the Granville won’t be here in time. She’s in now giving Estevan the bad news. I don’t envy her, going through all this. And the ironic part of it is that she knows she’s been terminated.

  —Sunday, May 10

  chapter 42

  We are at heart a cowardly species. But that’s good. Fear is a reflex installed to keep us alive. But sometimes the fittings come loose. When that happens, and the victims routinely defy their instincts to clear out, they often do not live to reproduce. Considering the probabilities, it’s hard to understand why courage has not been bred completely out of us.

  —Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times

  Terri Estevan was crushed by the news. “Is there no chance?” she asked in a trembling voice. “None at all? Maybe one of the ships will get lucky, and jump into a favorable position. Like the WhiteStar.”

  “It’s possible,” said Valya. “But it’s unlikely.”

  “All right.” They were alone. Valya had emptied the room before telling her.

  For a long minute neither spoke. Estevan collapsed into a chair and fought to stifle a sob.

  Valya did not know what to say. It was, after all, Estevan and ten of her associates who were going to be stuck there when the moonriders arrived. Valya would be well on her way out of town. There was no way she could offer consolation. “We’ll take everyone who has a breather,” she said. “Better not wait for the WhiteStar.”

  “Can you do that? Is there room?”

  “We’ll make room.”

  SHE RECALLED HER staff.

  Kleigmann. Angie. Julie Halper. Santos. And Ho Smith.

  They knew as soon as they came back into the room that something was terribly wrong. Estevan stared past them. “The Granville’s not going to make it,” she said.