Deepsix

by Jack McDevitt

  “I know who owns it,” said Marcel. The Boardman was part of the Kosmik fleet, a vessel he had piloted himself on occasion when he worked for the government-subsidized terraformer during the early years of his career. “How far are they?”

  “They can be here in four days. And we have an incoming from the Star. Captain Nicholson wants to speak with you on the cobalt channel.”

  Encrypted. “Set it up, Bill.”

  “Who died?” asked Beekman. “Do we have any names?”

  “Two that we know of. The pilot of the Star’s lander. And a young woman passenger. Maybe more. I don’t know yet.” Marcel had been scribbling in his notebook. “Bill.”

  “Yes, Marcel.”

  “Send a four-bell message to the Boardman: ‘Wendy Jay is declaring an emergency. We have people stranded on Deepsix vulnerable to impending Morgan event. Require your lander and your assistance to perform rescue. Time presses. Request you proceed immediately. Clairveau.’ Standard closing. Give them our coordinates.”

  “Okay, Marcel. And I have Captain Nicholson on the circuit.”

  Marcel asked those who’d accompanied Beekman to withdraw, and closed the door. Then he told the AI to proceed. Nicholson’s image appeared on-screen. He looked scared. “Captain Clairveau,” he said. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s bad,” said Marcel.

  Nicholson spotted Beekman and hesitated,

  “Professor Beekman,” said Marcel, “is the director of the Morgan Project, and he is the soul of discretion. One of his people is down there, too. As are several others.”

  Nicholson nodded. Muscles worked in his cheeks. “What exactly happened?”

  Marcel told him.

  He lost all of his color, and his eyes slid shut. “God help us,” he said. For a long moment he was silent. Then: “Forgive me, but did you say both landers have been destroyed?”

  “Yes. That’s why I asked whether you might have an extra one available.”

  It was hard to believe he could have gone even whiter, but he did. “You mean you don’t have a backup vehicle?”

  “We didn’t have a lander at all, Captain. Hutchins used the one from Wildside.”

  “I see.” He nodded and seemed to be having trouble breathing. Marcel thought for a moment that a stroke might be imminent. “Okay,” he said finally. “We don’t have one either, so we’re going to have to get help.”

  “We’ve already done that. The Boardman’s only a few days away.”

  “Thank God.” He was trembling. “You will let me know when you hear more?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hutch, I found her.”

  He sounded grim and her heart sank. Hutch sat propped against a wall, tired, trying to catch her breath. Her air was beginning to get stale.

  “She’s dead,” he said softly. “Looks as if she was killed outright. I don’t think she suffered.”

  Hutch squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Hutch, you reading me?”

  She killed her transmitter until she could get control of her voice. “Yes.” Another long silence. “Can you get her free?”

  “I’ll need a couple of minutes. You doing okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Kellie tells me she’s been trying to reach you.”

  “Signal’s not getting through. What’s the situation?”

  “I’ll relay it. After Kellie’s done, Marcel wants to talk to you, too.”

  Kellie sounded frightened. “The woman passenger’s dead,” she said. “MacAllister’s okay.”

  “How about the lander?”

  “Wrecked.”

  “No chance at all?”

  “None.”

  Three dead. And the rest stranded. My God. “Okay,” she said. “We’re talking about the Wildside boat, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the other one? The one that fell in the chasm?”

  “Haven’t looked.”

  “We’ll want to look. Maybe we got lucky.”

  “Hutch,” Kellie said, “how are you doing?”

  “I’ll be fine as soon as I see daylight again. You know about Toni?”

  “Chiang told me. I’m sorry.”

  “We all are.”

  After a while, Chiang got on again: “I’ve got Toni out, and I’m cutting into your wall. Stay as far away from it as you can.”

  “Okay. I’m clear.”

  “Putting Marcel on.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marcel tried to sound encouraging. “Chiang tells me he’ll have you out in a few minutes. You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No.” She looked around at the rubble.

  “The Boardman’s nearby. Should be here in a few days.”

  “That the best we can do? A few days?”

  “Yes. Sorry. It’s all we have.” And lucky to have that, his voice told her. “Hang in there, Hutch. We’ll have you all off as soon as we can.”

  Bill came back: “I have some mail for you. Did you want to see it?”

  “Sure.” What better time? “Go ahead.”

  “Hello, Priscilla. This is Charlie Ito.”

  She projected his image into the center of the chamber. This was a man who looked as if he’d enjoy collecting taxes. He had an unctuous smile and was vaguely familiar. “You remember we met at your aunt Ellen’s birthday party last spring. You might recall that at the time you mentioned how you’d like one day to move to Cape Cod. As it happens, an incredible deal came up yesterday, and I thought of you right away. We have a luxury seaside home that just came on the market. And I know what you’re thinking, but bear with me a moment—”

  She went to the next message.

  “Hi, Priscilla.”

  It was her mother. Bright, beautiful. And as always, arriving with impeccable timing.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you again when you get home. It would be nice if we could take a few days and maybe go to the mountains. Just us girls. Let me know if that’s okay, and I’ll reserve a cabin.

  “I know you don’t like my bringing up men, but your uncle Karl recently introduced me to the most gorgeous young architect. I’d say he has a brilliant future—”

  She tried again:

  Hi, Hutch.

  This one was audio only. Audio transmissions were less expensive.

  “I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked, but I just heard you were on Wildside when it got diverted to Deepsix.” It was from Frank Carson, an archeologist with whom she’d been through a lot in what now seemed another lifetime. “Sounds as if you’re in on the action again. I envy you. I’d give anything to be with you. We’re still digging into Beta Pac, and beginning finally to translate some of the local languages. But you don’t care about that, right now. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. You’re a lucky woman.”

  She managed a smile.

  “Ms. Hutchinson.”

  Another audio only. With a deep baritone this time.

  “You might remember we met at the United Pilots Association Conference last year. My name’s Harvey Hutchins—that’s right, same as yours, which is how we got talking. Anyhow, I’m a program manager for Centauri Transport. We’re looking for experienced pilots. We haul supplies and personnel throughout the web. I can guarantee you challenging work, a generous signing bonus, and a wide range of fringe benefits. The openings won’t last long, but I can get you in if you like—”

  And a young woman with a cloying Boston accent:

  “Hello, Ms. Hutchins, I represent the Northeastern University Alumni Fund-Raising Committee, and we wanted to ask for your help again this year—”

  There were a few more, all more or less impersonal, all from people who knew her just well enough to evade the antijunk filters that never seemed to work anyhow.

  There was nothing from any of the occasional men in her life. Times like this, she wondered if her charm had failed altogether. But she understood that nobody was anxious to accept a relationship with a
woman who was never home. It was a lonely existence. And maybe pulling out after this was over wasn’t a bad idea. Go home and get herself a normal life.

  She could hear Chiang getting close. Then light broke into the tunnel.

  She helped him collect Toni’s body and get it up into the tower. The twenty minutes or so they spent doing that, moving her through the narrow passageways, trying not to drop her, struggling up those irritating dwarf staircases, were possibly the longest twenty minutes of her life. The e-suit was still on, so the body still felt warm and alive. She kept looking down at her, imagining Toni’s eyes, behind her lids, watching her accusingly. You brought me here…

  She was trembling when they finally got her up to ground level, took her outside, and laid her in the sunlight.

  MacAllister lifted Casey in his arms, and they started back. Kellie had rummaged through the burnt-out lander, collecting whatever was left that might be useful: some clothes, a few snacks, and an extra cutter. The reddimeals were fried, so they’d have to survive on donuts for the time being.

  They tried to divide the load, although only MacAllister was strong enough to handle Casey. The others attempted to spell him occasionally, but they stumbled along with the body until his patience gave way and he insisted on taking care of her himself. So he carried her and they simply took frequent breaks and moved at his pace. Chiang met them about halfway, after which he and MacAllister took turns.

  When they got back to the tower, they found Hutch sitting stone-faced by Toni. They laid Casey beside her.

  “What about the Star boat?” Kellie asked her. “Did you look for it?”

  She nodded. Kellie saw no hope in her expression. After a minute, she walked out to the chasm.

  The lander hadn’t fallen far. Only about fifteen meters. It was wedged between the rock walls, over a long drop to a snow-filled bottom. There was no trace of Wetheral.

  Eliot Penkavic was captain of the Athena Boardman, outbound for Quraqua, hauling solar mirrors, DNA samples of over eleven thousand species of fish, birds, plants, grasses, and trees; and of more than thirty thousand assorted insect types. He had a full manifest of equipment for the ongoing effort to terraform Quraqua, and sixty-four experts and technicians of various stripes. He was three days away from his destination when the distress call arrived from the Wendy Jay.

  It was not a side trip he wanted to make. But the code of conduct, and the law, was quite clear. When an emergency was formally declared, when lives were reported in jeopardy, vessels were compelled to assist. After several weeks on Boardman, no one was going to be happy about his extending the flight by another nine days or so. Especially Ian Helm, who was going out to the new world to take over as director of operations.

  He checked his database, looking for another ship that could go in and bail out the Academy group. There were a couple in the area that could get there, but nobody with a lander. Except the Boardman.

  Unfortunate.

  How could the nitwits possibly have gotten themselves into such a situation?

  He wrote out his reply, and then read it to the AI: Sit tight. Cavalry coming. Boardman will be there in four days, six hours. Penkavic.

  “I think that sums things up nicely, sir,” said the AI.

  “As do I, Eve, Send it.”

  “It is done, Captain.”

  “Good.” Penkavic pushed himself out of his chair. “Now for the hard part.”

  “Explaining it to Dr. Helm?”

  “Precisely.”

  XI

  Living well is a high-wire act without a net. It is a matter of locating one’s proper place and balancing it against the programming imposed by society. We’re surrounded by the wrecks of those who have crashed, the reformers, the upright, the various militants and the true believers who think the rest of us need their guidance.

  —GREGORY MACALLISTER, “The Best Revenge,” Lost at Moonbase

  Hours to breakup (est): 252

  “Marcel,” said the AI, “we have a response from the Boardman. They say they understand our problem and are on their way.”

  Marcel breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  “They anticipate arrival in four days and six hours.”

  He informed Hutch, who tried to conceal the fact that she’d been holding her breath. Then he called the Star. Nicholson, who’d been delighted to hear that MacAllister was still alive, raised a fist in an unlikely gesture of exultant thanksgiving at this second piece of good news. He notified Beekman, so he could announce it to his people. When that had been done, he passed the word to the two passengers waiting on Wildside. He spoke to a woman, who commented that she was delighted help was on the way, that they’d been very lucky, and that she’d been against the mission from the start She implied that Marcel was at least partly responsible for a situation that had clearly gotten out of hand.

  Captain Nicholson reached for another trank and watched his wallscreen convert itself into a hologram of a woodland scene. Thank God that at least there’d be no more deaths. Maleiva was remote from the travel lanes, and it could easily have turned out that nothing would have been close enough to come to their rescue.

  Of course the damage already done was enough to ruin him. A dead passenger and a dead crewman. A wrecked lander. On a flight that violated regulations. How would he ever explain it?

  It was the darkest moment in a life that had been relatively free of trouble and disappointment. But he knew that regardless of what happened now, he could not survive. He’d be hauled before a disciplinary panel, where it would be made quite plain to him and to the world what a scoundrel he was. He would be reprimanded, and he would be terminated. In the full glow of the worldwide media.

  Subsequently, he could expect to be sued, held liable for any damages accruing to the families of the two victims, and for the loss of the lander. He might even be prosecuted. Not that TransGalactic would hunger and thirst after justice, but they could be expected to take every opportunity to disassociate themselves from him in an atmosphere rife with legal action.

  How could he have been so dumb?

  Scarcely three minutes had passed after his conversation with Clairveau when word came from the duty officer that the surviving passenger, Mr. MacAllister, desired to speak with him.

  The transmission came in, audio only. “You know what’s happened here?” the great man asked.

  Here was the person responsible for the captain’s plight. You’ll be able to set up a small shrine to a lost world, he’d said. People will love it Management will admire your foresight. Your audacity. “Yes, I’ve heard.” He tried to keep his tone level. “Are you all right, Mr. MacAllister?”

  “Fine, thank you.” He seemed subdued. The charming arrogance that had informed his manner was gone. “I assume you’re in some difficulty as a result of this—incident.”

  “I don’t expect any explanation I can offer will satisfy my superiors.”

  “No, I thought not. I wanted to apologize, Captain.”

  “Yes. Of course. Thank you.”

  “It never occurred to me that anything like this could happen.”

  “Nor to me. Captain Clairveau informs me you are temporarily stranded.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so. Until the rescue vehicle gets here.”

  “It’s on its way. Now, I hesitate to ask, but there’s something you can do for me.”

  “I understand, Captain. There’s no need for any of us to go publicly into the details of this unfortunate business.”

  “Yes. Precisely.” Nicholson hesitated. There was always the possibility that someone somewhere was listening. Maybe even recording the conversation. He had no secure channel with MacAllister. “That’s probably best.”

  When he’d signed off, the captain retired to his quarters and contemplated the dress uniform jacket he traditionally wore to meals with the passengers.

  There might be a way.

  He could delete the pertinent log entry and declare the flight unauthorized. That would l
eave Wetheral responsible.

  That was not exactly to his taste, and it did not play well to his self-image. But Wetheral was dead and couldn’t be harmed by any conclusion a board of inquiry might draw. Moreover, the only other living party to the conspiracy had given his word not to reveal what he knew. And he would be motivated to keep that word, since he, too, could become legally liable should the truth get out. No one else was in a position to deny that Wetheral had taken the lander down on his own. All that would be necessary was to agree on a story explaining how MacAllister and Hayes came to be on board. And that was child’s play.

  Maybe, he thought, he could come out of this unscathed after all.

  MacAllister’s associates would never have accused him of possessing an overbearing conscience. Disagree with the great man on literary standards or on a matter of historical interpretation, and one was likely to find his or her judgment and taste questioned and possibly his or her native intelligence held up to ridicule in full view of the general public. He took particular delight in neutralizing those who desperately needed to be neutralized, those overblown, self-important, arrogant half-wits who were always running about dictating behavior, morals, and theology to everyone else. And he never looked back.

  Yet he stood a long time at the edge of the chasm, staring down at the Evening Star’s crippled lander, thinking about the dead pilot, who had struck him as not particularly bright; and about Casey, who’d been too young to develop whatever talent she might have had. That they were dead was not directly due to any fault of his. But he understood clearly that had he not given in to the dark impulse that had prompted him to want to visit this godforsaken place, they would be alive. It would be an exaggeration to suggest he contemplated, even for a moment, throwing himself in. But it was true that for the first time in his adult existence, he questioned whether the world was better for his being in it.

  The lander was wedged tight. Below it, the chasm fell away probably another hundred meters. It was a long way down. Heaps of snow lay at the bottom, if indeed it was the bottom. And somewhere down there, beyond reach, Wetheral had come to rest.

  He was still staring when he became aware that someone was speaking to him.