Deepsix

by Jack McDevitt

  “Time to go,” said Kellie.

  She nodded. “Let’s give them a little longer.”

  “I’m not sure we shouldn’t push a bit harder.”

  “It won’t help us,” Hutch said, “if they start breaking down.” MacAllister snored peacefully with his head pillowed against one of the packs; Nightingale lay near the fire, his shoes off to one side.

  Kellie sat down beside her. “We’ve a long way to go,” she said.

  “We’ll make it,” said Hutch. “As long as no one collapses.” She looked into the fire. “I don’t want to leave anybody behind.”

  “We could come back later for them.”

  “If they aren’t eaten first. You really think either of those guys could stay alive on his own?”

  “One of us could stay with them.”

  Hutch shook her head. “We’re safer keeping our firepower concentrated. If we split up, we are absolutely going to lose somebody else.” She took a deep breath and looked at Kellie. “We’ll stay together as long as we can. And if we get behind, we’ll do what we have to.”

  Kellie liked to think of herself as the last of the fighter pilots. She’d begun her career as a combat aviator for the Peacekeepers. When the Peacekeepers became effectively obsolete (as they did every half century or so), when the latest round of civil wars had been fought and the dictators put to bed, she’d learned to fly spacecraft and transferred to the Patrol. But the job had been surprisingly routine. The Patrol simply didn’t go anywhere. They patrolled. When people drank too much or neglected their maintenance or got careless, Kellie and her colleagues had shown up to rescue whoever was left.

  But she never really traveled. A zone was assigned and she just went round and round, visiting the same eight or nine stations over and over. And during those years, she’d watched the Academy’s superluminals coming in from places that no one had names for yet. Or from conducting surveys of the Omega clouds. Or from examining the space-twisting properties of neutron stars and black holes.

  She’d lasted less than a year before giving it up to interview for a pilot’s job with the Academy. The money was about half as much, the ships were more spartan, the fringe benefits barely existed. But the people with whom she traveled tended to have wider interests than the Patrol crews. And she loved the work.

  That morning, though, she was having second thoughts. As MacAllister would have put it, there was something to be said for boredom.

  Nightingale sat up, looked around, and sighed. “Love the accommodations,” he said. He struggled to his feet. “Back in a minute.”

  She woke Chiang. “Duty calls,” she said. “Go with him.”

  Chiang made a face, took a moment to figure out what he was being asked to do, got up, and trailed along behind the older man. Nobody went anywhere alone. The designated commode was halfway down the back side of the hill, in a gully. There was just enough ground in the way to provide a modicum of privacy.

  Kellie filled a pot with snow and put it on the fire.

  MacAllister rolled over and looked up at her. “What time’s the tour start?” he asked.

  “Sooner the better,” said Kellie.

  Hutch rubbed her eyes, closed them again, and looked at the gray sky. “Another glorious morning on Deepsix.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she fished for her cup and toothbrush.

  Off to the east, something was moving. Kellie raised her binoculars and looked out across a stretch of grassland downslope. A herd of fur-bearing animals were approaching. They were big, lumbering creatures, with trunks and tusks. Their heads were extraordinarily ugly, much in the manner of rhinos. She watched them veer off and disappear into a wall of forest, but she could hear them for a long time after.

  They disposed of another round of reddimeals. Kellie had bacon, eggs, and fried apples. She washed everything down with coffee.

  “While we’re on the trail,” said Hutch, “let’s see what we can hunt up for lunch.”

  “Right.” MacAllister raised his coffee. “I suspect we’re all anxious to taste the local fare.” Kellie wondered if he could ask for the correct time without sounding cynical.

  They trekked down the south slope, into and out of patches of trees, crossed a stream at the bottom, and started up the far side. Occasional furry creatures, the local equivalent of squirrels, showed themselves, as well as a few larger animals that looked as if they might serve for a meal. If anybody could get close enough to use a cutter. But the creatures kept their distance. “We need a weapon that’ll work at long range,” said Chiang.

  Hutch asked whether anybody had experience with a bow and arrow.

  Nobody did.

  They crossed the valley and started uphill, up the long increasingly steep slope Kellie had studied from the crest of her ridge the night before. The snow became soft, and the walking grew more difficult. Nightingale’s blisters got worse, and MacAllister struggled and grumbled. Hutch called a break.

  The sun was directly overhead and they were still about an hour below the summit. A few donuts remained, which they divided. Mac insisted he was feeling fine and thought they should get going. Nightingale agreed, although he was obviously in some discomfort, and they set off.

  They reached the crest and discovered that the land dipped sharply and then started uphill again, but at a more moderate angle. MacAllister observed that the entire planet seemed to run uphill.

  They pressed on for another hour before they stopped, built a fire, and made coffee. “We can feed anyone who’s hungry,” Hutch said. But a nineteen-hour day was short, and lunch followed hard on breakfast. Consequently no one was anxious for an undue delay. “We’ll eat an early dinner,” she promised.

  During the afternoon march Nightingale said that he was cold.

  Hutch checked his gear and saw that his powerpak was failing. She replaced it with one of the units she’d pried out of the lander.

  A freak thunderstorm broke over them, eliciting an observation by MacAllister that lightning wasn’t supposed to occur at low temperatures.

  That brought a response from Marcel: “Some of our people here say it’s a result of Morgan’s approach. It translates into unusually severe high- and low-pressure areas. Consequently, you get screwy weather.”

  They walked through a steady downpour while thunderbolts boomed overhead. The rain hissed into the snow, which turned to slush. The e-suits kept them dry, and they trudged on.

  Nightingale seemed distracted, self-absorbed, remote. While they walked, his eyes were rarely focused. His gaze was directed inward, and when Kellie spoke to him, he invariably asked her to repeat herself.

  He remained walled off from the others, resisting everybody’s efforts at small talk. He did not snap at anyone, showed no sign of anger. But it was as though he walked alone through those frozen forests.

  She began to notice that the lamp on his commlink was constantly glowing. She could see he wasn’t talking with any of the others. Someone on Wendy, perhaps?

  It gave rise to a suspicion. “Randy?” she said, using a private channel.

  He looked up at her and came back from someplace far away. “Yes, Kellie? Did you say something?”

  “Could I ask what you’re listening to?”

  “Right now? Bergdorf’s Agronomy on Quraqua.” He looked over at her and smiled. “Might as well make the time count.”

  As she’d guessed, he was tied in to one of the ships’ libraries. “Yes,” she said. “I know what you mean. But it might be a good idea if you shut it down. It’s dangerous to do what you’re doing.”

  “Why is that?” He became defensive.

  “Because there may be critters in the area who will mistake you for a hamburger. We’ve got five pairs of eyes, and we need them all. You don’t want to be thinking about other things while we’re moving through tiger country.”

  “Kellie,” he said, “it’s not a problem. I can listen and watch—”

  “Randy. Please do what I’m asking you to.” />
  “Or you’ll blow the whistle on me?”

  “Or I’ll make off with your staff.”

  He sighed visibly, a man of culture put upon by the barbarians of the world. She stayed with him until he showed her his thumb and pressed it to his commlink. The lamp went out. “Okay?” he asked. “Satisfied?”

  Kellie could see Hutch talking, too. She glanced around at the others. You always knew who was conversing with whom because people inevitably look at one another during a conversation. But Chiang and MacAllister were not using their links. That probably meant Hutch was talking to Marcel.

  She missed Marcel.

  Kellie had not realized how much she enjoyed the company of the tall Frenchman. She’d thought he had looked at her with a touch of envy when she’d asked to make the descent to the surface.

  At the moment they’d be having late night snacks on Wendy. She would have given a great deal to join him at his table, to listen to him talk about the elegance of Dupré and Proust.

  After a while, the rainstorms blew off, and the sun broke through. But it was only momentary. More clouds were building in the west.

  They were buffeted by rain and sleet for most of the rest of the day. Although the e-suits kept them warm and dry, a constant wind made progress difficult, and the rain tended to smear vision. In addition, Hutch knew from long experience there was a psychological factor: When the weather was cold and wet, and your eyes made it clear you were wearing no more than a jump suit, that you should be shivering and miserable, it was difficult to be entirely comfortable. It was called the McMurtrie Effect.

  They cleared a ridge and finally started downhill, but the descent was steep, and they had literally to lower MacAllister from one perch to level ground. They came at last to a river. It looked deep, but the current appeared placid.

  “How’re we doing for time?” Kellie asked.

  Progress reports came regularly from Marcel, but they were directed to Hutch. “Thirteen so far today,” she said.

  Kellie frowned. Not great. But it was enough.

  “Everybody here can swim?” asked Hutch.

  Surprisingly, only Chiang lacked the skill.

  The river was wide, and it looked deep in midstream. Thick twisted foliage hung down along both banks. They surveyed the area, looking for a local alligator-equivalent, but saw nothing.

  “We still don’t know what’s in the water,” said Nightingale. “I suggest we build a raft.”

  “Don’t have time,” said Hutch. If there was anything in the river, there was a good chance that the e-suits would prevent their being perceived as prey. There would, after all, be no scent.

  “I don’t think you should rely too heavily on that,” said Nightingale.

  Hutch waded in until she was hip deep. Then they waited. Her heart pounded, but she tried to look calm. She watched the river and the banks for any sudden movement. But nothing came for her, and she felt more confident with each passing minute. When they were at last convinced it was safe, they found a dead limb Chiang could cling to and pushed off. MacAllister turned out to be an accomplished swimmer. Chiang said nothing while they towed him across, but Hutch saw that he felt humiliated. It would have been less difficult for him, she realized, had Kellie not been there. She was pleased to see that Kellie was also aware of the situation and made a point of staying close to him. She caught an amused smile from MacAllister, who seemed to miss none of the undercurrents among his companions.

  They arrived on the far side in good order and resumed their march. Eventually the country turned uphill again. Chiang, who had been leading, fell toward the rear. Kellie moved up beside him and took him again to the front. She said something to him on a private channel.

  He was replying when a snowbank rose, roared, and charged. Hutch saw only talons and green eyes and long, curved teeth while she fumbled for her laser, got it into her hand, lost the grip, then dropped it.

  Kellie, directly in the thing’s path, went down and tried to scramble out of the way. MacAllister seemed to have forgotten about his cutter. Instead, he raised his staff and brought it down on the creature’s skull. The thing spat and growled and a cutter beam flashed close to Hutch’s face. The growling went high-pitched, then stopped. When Hutch stumbled to her feet, helped by Nightingale, it lay twitching. Its head was half severed, and a red-brown viscous liquid pumped out onto the snow. Its dead eyes continued to watch her.

  It was about the size of a bear. Chiang was standing off to one side, his cutter held straight out. He saw Hutch, nodded, shut it off, and lowered it.

  Hutch checked her parts. Everything seemed to be there. “I never saw it,” she said, patting MacAllister’s shoulder. “Hell of a job with the staff.”

  Kellie embraced Chiang and kissed his cheek.

  “What was it?” Chiang asked.

  “Dinner,” said Hutch. “If all goes well.”

  They sliced off gobs of meat and wrapped them in plastic bags.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, they topped the last rise, and the land began a long gentle decline. The storms had cleared off, and they had, for the first time since leaving the tower, a bright cheerful sky. They kept on until sundown, and Kellie urged that they continue. But the pace was too much for Mac and Nightingale, so Hutch called a halt near a stand of old trees that would provide firewood and privacy. They’d logged eighteen kilometers.

  Pretty good, actually.

  “Especially,” said Nightingale, lowering himself onto a downed tree trunk, “when you consider this is hard country. It’ll level out soon. And we should be almost out of the snow.”

  MacAllister also looked exhausted.

  “Chiang,” Kellie said, “let’s get some wood.” She picked up a dead branch and, as if that were a signal, the ground shook. Just once, for a few seconds.

  They built a fire and roasted the meat. It smelled good, not unlike venison.

  “Who’s going to sample it?” asked Mac.

  Hutch took a piece, thinking how being a leader wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She would follow Embry’s prescription and go very slowly.

  “Let me cut it for you,” said Nightingale. He sliced off a narrow strip, held it so she could see it in the firelight, and surprised her by turning off his suit and taking a bite.

  They watched him. “Thanks,” said Hutch.

  He shrugged, chewed it methodically, commented that it was good, and swallowed. Then he reactivated the field.

  Hutch wondered why he’d done it. Nightingale did not strike her as someone who was given to the gallant gesture. She suspected he was responding on some level to MacAllister’s presence. Showing him how wrong he had been.

  A half hour passed. The meat looked ready. Chiang put on the coffee.

  Nightingale showed no ill effect and announced that the rest of them could hang about if they liked, but that he was ready to eat. They looked at one another, killed the fields, and carved up dinner. It was quite good.

  Conversation during meals was limited because of the low temperatures. Eating was strictly business on Deepsix, and if she lived through this, Hutch knew she would always recall these quick impersonal meals, nobody talking while they huddled as close to the fire as they could get, bolting food and coffee in the sting of cold air.

  Happy days on the prairie.

  They had no salt, no condiments of any kind, but that seemed only a detail.

  Hutch made an announcement during the meal: “Marcel,” she said, “tells me that the media are only a couple of days away. They were coming to shoot the collision, but now it’s all about us.”

  “Of course,” said Chiang.

  “Anyhow, they’re asking whether they’ll be able to interview us when they get here.”

  MacAllister was clearly enjoying his supper. “That should be intriguing,” he said, between bites. “We can have an end-of-the-world party right there on Universal News, which reports only the facts. Without bias or principle.” It was a mild reference to Universal’s Wit
hout bias or distortion credo. He looked toward the eastern sky, bright with unfamiliar constellations. It was too early yet for Morgan. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “If they play it right, they should be able to get their best numbers of the year. Except maybe for the World Bowl.”

  “Hutch, we got a response from the Academy on your early reports at the tower. They congratulate you for your work and want you to keep digging. That’s the phrase they use. Look for more evidence of the state of their science, it says. They want you to let the other sites go because there isn’t time.”

  “Good,” she said. “Tell them we’ll comply.”

  “They also want you to be careful. They say to avoid any hazardous situations.”

  “Augie, wake up.”

  Emma didn’t always sleep well, and she sometimes prowled the ship at night. What she did out there he didn’t know. It was even possible she ran an occasional liaison with the captain. He didn’t really care all that much. As long as she was available when he needed her. But she had hold of his arm at the moment, and was dragging him out of a very sound sleep. His first thought was that the Edward J. Zwick had sprung a leak. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up at her.

  She was the image of delight. “Augie, we’ve gotten a huge break.”

  He tried to imagine what it could be, but utterly failed. In any case, he thought, surely it could wait until morning.

  “They’ve had an accident,” she said. “Some of them are stranded down there. They’re trying to find a rescue vessel and apparently not having much luck.”

  That woke him up. “What kind of accident? Was anybody killed?”

  “Yep. Two or three. And you know who’s among the strandees? MacAllister.”

  “My God. Is that right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How could that happen?”

  “Don’t know. They’re not putting out details yet. But we’ve got a great story falling into our laps.” She pressed her lips against his cheek. “I’ve already been in touch with them. With Clairveau. And there’s no competition within light-years.” She clapped her hands and literally trembled with joy.