Deepsix

by Jack McDevitt

  Casey looked dazzled, and MacAllister wondered whether it was a condition brought on by the chance to visit a world a few days before it was to end, or by his own presence. He waited until she was inside, then climbed in and sat down beside her.

  “Have you ever been down on another world before, Mr. MacAllister?” she asked.

  He hadn’t. Had never seen a point to it. He perceived himself as the end product of three billion years of evolution, specifically designed for the Earth, and that was where he was inclined to stay. “I expect,” he told her, “that this will be the only visit I ever make to alien soil.”

  She had, as it turned out. She’d been to Pinnacle and Quraqua, and to Quraqua’s airless moon, with its enigmatic city on the plain. Doing features, she explained.

  The pilot closed the hatches. Interior lights came on. He spent about a minute hunched over his control board, then reached up and threw a couple of switches on an overhead panel. “We are depressurizing the bay,” he said. “We’ll be ready to depart in just a couple of minutes.”

  The vehicle rose slightly.

  “I appreciate your doing this,” Casey told him.

  He smiled benevolently. MacAllister liked doing things for people. And there was nothing quite so gratifying as the appreciation of a young person to whom he was lending the luster of his name. “To be honest, Casey,” he said, “I’m glad you asked. Without your initiative, I’d have spent most of the next week in The Navigator.”

  The lander’s motors whined and began to pulse steadily.

  She smiled. MacAllister had made a career of attacking women in print, as he had attacked college professors, preachers, farmers, left-wing editorial writers, and assorted other do-gooders and champions of the downtrodden. Women, he’d argued, were possessed of an impossible anatomy, top-heavy and off-balance. They could not walk without jiggling and rolling, and consequently it was quite impossible for men of sense to take even the brightest of them seriously.

  Many women perceived him as that most dangerous kind of character: an articulate and persuasive demagogue. He knew that, but accepted it as the price he had to pay for saying the things that everyone else knew to be true, but which they denied, even to themselves. To a degree, his literary reputation protected him from the rage that surely would have fallen on the head of a lesser man. It demonstrated to him the intellectual bankruptcy of both sexes. Here, after all, was this sweet young thing, beaming and smiling at him, hoping to improve her career through his auspices, and quite willing to overlook a substantial series of ill-tempered remarks on his side, should he choose to make them, simply because they would provide excellent copy. “There is a perfectly good reason, my dear, why the downtrodden are trodden down. If they deserved better, they would have better.”

  The bay doors opened.

  “We’ll lose all sense of gravity after we launch,” said the pilot.

  Harnesses swung down and locked them in. The interior lights blinked and went out. Then they sank back into their seats and began to move through the night. MacAllister twisted around and looked back at the great bulk of the Evening Star. Lights blazed fore and aft. An antenna mounted just beyond the launch pod rotated slowly.

  The power and majesty of the great liner was somehow lost when it was in dock. He’d not been all that impressed when he’d boarded her back at the Wheel. But out here the Star was in her element, afloat among strange constellations beneath a sun that wasn’t quite the right color, above a world whose icy continents bore unfamiliar shapes. This view alone, he decided, was worth the side trip.

  “Did I tell you,” said Casey, “I’m checked out to pilot these things?” She looked pleased with herself.

  That fact caught MacAllister’s respect. Deep space seemed to be her journalistic specialty. Acquiring a pilot’s skills told him she was serious. “Excellent,” he said. He turned away from the view, glanced at her, then looked out again at the shimmering atmosphere below. “So how did you manage that?”

  “My father owns a yacht.”

  “Ah.” He recognized the family name. “Your father’s Desmond Hayes.”

  “Yes.” She clamped her teeth together as if she’d been caught in a faux pas. And he understood: rich man’s daughter trying to make it on her own.

  Desmond Hayes was the founder of Lifelong Enterprises, which had funded numerous biotech advances, and was one of the major forces behind recent life-extending breakthroughs. He was notoriously wealthy, had a taste for power, and talked often of running for political office. He was seldom seen without a beautiful young woman on his arm. A ridiculous figure, on the whole.

  “Well,” MacAllister said, “it’s always a good idea to have a backup pilot.”

  They were over clumps of cumulus now, bright in the starlight. MacAllister heard and felt the beginnings of atmospheric resistance. He brought up the autobar menu. They were well stocked. “How about a drink, Casey?”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” she said. “A mint driver would be nice, if they have one.”

  He punched it in, handed it over to her, and made a hot rum for himself. “Wetheral,” he said, “let’s take a look at the countryside before we set down.”

  It proved to be a singularly uninviting landscape, mostly just snow and ice. The narrow equatorial belt provided dense forest along its southern edge, open country to the northeast, and low rolling hills and occasional patches of trees near the tower.

  At dawn, they cruised over a shoreline dominated by enormous peaks. “This is the northern coast,” Wetheral explained. Several strips of beach presented themselves. In all, it was a magnificent seascape.

  They continued their exploration while the sun rose higher, until finally MacAllister informed Wetheral they’d seen enough. “Let’s go talk to the people at the tower,” he said.

  The pilot brought them back toward the south, and thirty minutes later they descended toward Burbage Point. A few trees rose out of the snow.

  “Dismal place,” she said.

  But MacAllister liked it. There was something majestic in the desolation.

  Despite the short night, they were up early and back in the tower immediately after sunrise. Hutch, Nightingale, and Kellie returned to the tunnel to recommence digging, while Chiang took over guard duty at the entrance and Toni went up to the roof.

  This second sunrise on the new world was bright and enticing. The snow glittered in the hard cold light. The trees from which the cat had appeared glowed green and purple, and a sprinkling of white clouds drifted through the sky.

  They’d been working only ten minutes when Kellie found a few half-legible symbols on one of the walls.

  She recorded them with the microscan, and they decided to try to salvage the images themselves. But when they used the lasers to remove the segment of wall, it crumbled. “There’s a technique for this,” Hutch grumbled, “but I don’t know what it is.”

  Marcel broke in on the private channel. “Hutch?”

  “I’m here. What’ve you got?”

  “We think it’s a skyhook.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You think I could make this up?”

  “Hold on. I’m going to put you on the allcom, and I want you to tell everybody.” She switched him over.

  He repeated the news, and Nightingale announced himself stunned.

  “What does Gunther think?” asked Kellie.

  “It’s Gunther’s conclusion. Hell, what do I know about this stuff? But I’ll give him this: I can’t imagine what else it could be.”

  “That means,” said Hutch, “this place isn’t representative at all. We’ve wandered into a remote site that didn’t keep up with the rest of the world.”

  “Looks like it. But there’s no evidence of technological civilization anywhere on the surface.”

  “They had an ice age,” said Hutch. “It got covered.”

  “We don’t think even an ice age would completely erase all signs of an advanced culture. There’d be towers.
Real towers, not that debacle you have. Maybe they’d get knocked over, but we’d still be able to see they’d been there. There’d be dams, harbor construction, all sorts of things. Concrete doesn’t go away.”

  “What’s going to happen to it?” asked Kellie. “The skyhook?”

  “In about a week it’ll go down with Deepsix.”

  “So where does that leave us?” asked Hutch. “Are we wasting our time here?”

  She heard Marcel sigh. “I don’t know anything about archeology,” he said. “We’ve forwarded everything we have to the Academy, and to the archeologists at Nok. They’re considerably closer, and maybe we’ll get some suggestions back from them.”

  “There’s something else here,” said Kellie. She’d uncovered a metal bar.

  “Hold on, Marcel.” Hutch moved into position to give Wendy a good look.

  Kellie tried to brush the dirt away. “Careful,” Hutch said. “It looks sharp.”

  Nightingale dug a dart out of the frozen clay. Feather stalks remained at its base.

  The bar was attached to a crosspiece. And the crosspiece became a rack. The rack was stocked with tubes.

  They were narrow and about two-thirds of a meter long. Hutch picked one up and examined it by torchlight. It was hollow, made of light wood. Brittle now, of course. One end was narrowed and had a fitting that might have been a mouthpiece.

  “You thinking what I am?” asked Kellie.

  “Yep. It’s a blowgun.”

  They found a second dart.

  And a couple of javelins.

  “Stone heads,” Hutch said.

  And small. A half meter long.

  They also found some shields. These were made of iron and had been covered with animal skins, which fell apart when they touched them.

  “Blowguns and skyhooks,” said Marcel. “An interesting world.”

  “About the skyhook—” said Nightingale.

  “Yes?”

  “If they actually had one at one time, part of it would still be here somewhere, right? I mean, that would have to be a big structure. And it has to be on the equator, so it’s not under the ice somewhere.”

  “We’re way ahead of you, Randy. We think the base might have been in a mountain chain along the coast a few hundred kilometers southwest of where you are. We’re waiting for satellites to get into position to do a scan.”

  “The west coast,” she said.

  “Right. Some of the peaks in that area seem to have permanent clouds over them. If we find something, you’ll want to take a run over there yourself. We might be looking at the ultimate dig site.”

  They carried the blowguns, the javelins, and several darts up to ground level. Outside, the wind had blown up again, and snow had begun to fall. They had no bags of sufficient size for the rack, so they cut the plastic in strips and wrapped it as best they could. But when they tried to move it to the lander, the wind caught the plastic and almost ripped it out of their hands. “Bendo and Klopp,” said Nightingale, referring to a currently popular comedy team that specialized in pratfalls.

  Hutch nodded. “I guess. Let’s leave it here until things calm down.”

  They took a break. Kellie and Nightingale went back to the lander for a few minutes, and Hutch hoisted herself onto the table to rest. Spending all day bent over in tunnels, endlessly scraping, sweeping, and digging, was not her game.

  Toni broke in on the allcom: “Hutch, we’ve got company.”

  “Company?” She signaled to Chiang, who was standing in the doorway, and drew her cutter. It was, she assumed, the cat.

  “Lander coming in,” said Toni.

  Hutch opened her channel to Marcel. “Who else is out here?”

  “A cruise ship,” he said. “Just arrived this morning.”

  “Well, it looks as if they’re sending down tourists.”

  “What?”

  “You got it. They must be crazy.”

  “Don’t know anything about it. I’ll contact their captain.”

  She was getting another signal. “I’ll get back to you, Marcel.” She punched in the new caller. “Go ahead.”

  “Ground party, this is the pilot of the Evening Star lander. We would like to set down in the area.”

  “Not a good idea,” said Hutch. “It’s dangerous here. There are wild animals.”

  There was no response for almost half a minute. Then: “We accept responsibility for everyone who is on board.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m carrying two journalists who would like to visit the tower.”

  “I don’t believe this,” she said. “The tower is dangerous, too. It could fall down at any time.”

  There was a new voice, a baritone with perfect diction: “We’ve been warned. It’s on record. So you need not concern yourself further.”

  “May I ask who’s speaking?”

  “Gregory MacAllister,” he said. “I’m a passenger on the Evening Star.” He implied a merely at the beginning of the sentence, which in turn suggested modesty by someone who was in fact a great deal more than merely a passenger.

  Hutch wondered if this would turn out to be the Gregory MacAllister. “I don’t think you understand,” she said. “We are formally designated an archeological site. You’re in violation of the law if you land.”

  “What section of the code would that be, ma’am?”

  Damned if she knew. There was such a law. But she had no idea where to find it.

  “Then I think we’ll have to continue as is.”

  She switched to another channel. “Bill, tie me in to the Evening Star. Get me a command channel if you have one.”

  Bill replied with an electronic murmur and then told her none was available. “There’s only one main link,” he said.

  “Put me through.”

  She listened to a series of clicks and a chime. Then: “The Evening Star welcomes you to first-class accommodations on voyages throughout the known universe.” The voice was female. “We feature luxurious cabins, a wide range of international cuisines, leading entertainers, three casinos, and special accommodations for parties. How may we serve you?”

  “My name’s Hutchins,” she said. “I’m with the landing party at the dig. I’d like to speak with someone in command, please.”

  “I’m fully authorized to respond to all requests and complaints. Ms. Hutchins. I’d be pleased to help you.”

  “I want to talk to the captain.”

  “Perhaps if you explained your purpose in making this request—”

  “Your captain has put some of his passengers in danger. Would you please put me through to him?”

  There was a pause, then barely audible voices. Finally: “This is the duty officer. Who are you again?” A human being this time. A male.

  “I’m Priscilla Hutchins. The archeological project director on Deepsix. We have a team on the ground. You people have sent down some tourists. And I wanted you to know that there are hazards.”

  “We have tourists on the surface?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I see.” A pause. “What kind of hazards?”

  “They could be eaten.”

  Still another delay. Then: “Do you have some sort of authority I should be aware of?”

  “Look. Your passengers are approaching a protected archeological site. Moreover, it’s an earthquake zone, and somebody could get killed. Please recall them. Or send them somewhere else.”

  “Just a minute, please.”

  He clicked off the circuit.

  The lander pilot came back: “Ms. Hutchins, we are going to set down near the tower. Since it seems to be snowing, and I assume visibility isn’t any better on the ground, please clear your people away for the moment.”

  “They’re directly overhead,” said Kellie.

  Hutch called everyone into the tower. “Stay inside until they’re on the ground,” she said. Then she switched back to the lander. “Are you still there, pilot?”
<
br />   “I’m still here.”

  “Our people are out of the way. You’re clear to come in. If you must.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marcel came back on: “Hutch.”

  “Yeah, what’d they tell you?”

  “You know who’s on board?”

  “Gregory MacAllister.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  Now she did. This was Gregory the Great. Self-appointed champion of common sense who’d made a fortune attacking the pompous and the arrogant, or, depending on whom you listened to, simply those less gifted than he. Years before she’d been in a graduate seminar with a historian whose chief claim to fame was that he’d once been publicly chastised by MacAllister. He’d even put an account of the assault up on the screen and stood beside it grinning as if he’d touched greatness. “Yes,” she said. “The only person on the planet who could bring church and science together. They both hope he dies.”

  “That’s him. And I hope he’s not listening.”

  “What am I supposed to do with him?”

  “Hutch, management would not want you to offend him. My guess is that it’ll be your job if you do.”

  “How about if I just feed him to the big cat?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Let it go.”

  “I think it would be a good idea to treat him well. Let him look at whatever he wants to. It won’t hurt anything. And don’t let him fall on his head.”

  The snow had grown heavier and become so thick MacAllister didn’t see anything until moments before they touched down. He got a glimpse of the other lander, and of the tower beyond, and then they were on the ground, so softly he barely felt the impact. Wetheral had the personality of a pinecone, but there was no question he was a competent pilot.