Deepsix

by Jack McDevitt

  She couldn’t taxi across the field and take off like twenty-first-century aircraft because she had no wheels. But the spike would get her up a couple of meters, and she could take it from there.

  She drew her harness down and locked it in place. The spike activator was an illuminated gold panel. She pushed on it. Lamps changed color, and the word ENGAGED appeared on her screen. Hutch felt her weight diminish somewhat. She put the thrusters into the lift mode and fired them. The vehicle rose.

  It didn’t go high. She could have jumped out without fear. But it was sufficient unto the day.

  Kellie planted her lips on her cheek.

  She maneuvered the spacecraft toward the river and brought it down on the bank. Then she shut everything off and they hustled outside.

  Marcel chose that moment of absolute joy to break in. “Bad news. The water’s breaking through.”

  “What are prospects?”

  “It’s not major yet. But it’s going to get worse in a hurry.”

  They attached the hose to the reactor tank, dropped the other end into the river, and started the pump. Twenty minutes later, they had full tanks.

  They retrieved the pump and hose, waited patiently for another half hour while the reactor did its work. Then they lifted into the air and turned toward the northeast. Hutch raised her flaps and gunned it.

  XXIII

  Despite all these years, we have not yet found anyone smarter than homo sapiens. The Noks remain caught up in their endless wars. Everyone else is dead, missing, or gone back to the woods. We are winning by default.

  —GREGORY MACALLISTER, Is Anyone Listening?

  Hours to breakup (est): 75

  After Hutch and Kellie disappeared into the forest. Nightingale and MacAllister built a fire. Whatever adrenaline had been keeping MacAllister going now deserted him, and he sat almost motionless, eyes closed, propped against a tree. Nightingale had also reached the limits of his endurance, but he was frightened at the prospect of falling asleep, leaving nobody on watch.

  He made coffee, drank it down, and felt marginally better.

  Thank God the ordeal was almost over. This time tomorrow, if everything went well, he’d be out of it, back on Wildside, enjoying a hot shower, sleeping in a real bunk, ordering up whatever meals might cross his mind.

  MacAllister mumbled something. His breathing fell to a regular pattern, and Nightingale listened to the wind in the trees and the hum of insects.

  He looked out over the bay. Far below, large sea-colored birds flew in wide lazy circles, occasionally diving toward the water. He refilled his mug, sipped from it, put it down, dozed off, and snapped awake again when something touched his leg. It was a big bug with ten or twelve pairs of segmented legs and a vicious-looking set of claws. About the size of a lobster. He screamed, rolled away, and watched it scuttle back into the shrubbery.

  Big bug. Hell of a reaction from a professional.

  MacAllister never stirred.

  But the incident had the effect of bringing him thoroughly awake. He talked to Hutch and Kellie, left the circuit on so he could listen in on their conversation, and occasionally traded comments with the Wendy mathematician who was their current contact. Then he began to sink again. “Trouble staying awake,” he eventually told the mathematician.

  “Okay.” She had a burgundy voice. “Take off your link, set it for wide-angle visual, and let’s aim it back into the woods. I’ll try to keep watch for you.”

  They wouldn’t be able to see everything, she explained, but it would be better than nothing. He killed his field, removed the link, and set it on a rock. Then he buttoned up again.

  “If we see anything,” she told him, “I’ll give a yell.”

  Nightingale lay back, listening to the sullen roar of the tide. Then he closed his eyes.

  He was vaguely aware of rain. Later he heard thunder. Another quake woke him briefly. And eventually he noticed that it had grown dark. MacAllister had apparently wakened long enough to throw a couple more logs on the fire. But he was fast asleep at the moment.

  The tide was coming in. MacAllister sat gazing bleakly out over the bay.

  “How’re we doing?” Nightingale asked. “Did they find the lander?”

  “Ah.” MacAllister poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “You’re awake.” He reached out and patted him on the shoulder, the way one might a pet collie. “Yes,” he said, “I’m happy to report they got there okay.” He made a second cup for Nightingale. “Far as I can tell, they’re doing fine.”

  “Did they get it started?”

  “Yes they did. A couple of hours ago, in fact.” Broad smile. “They’re loading up on fuel now. Randy, I do believe we’re going to get away from this place with our skins after all.”

  “I hope so.”

  It was too cold to leave the suit off long, so Nightingale drank the coffee down and reactivated the field. That was something else he was looking forward to: being able to do basic physical maintenance without getting half-frozen.

  A scattering sound drifted up over the lip of the precipice. They looked at each other and drew their cutters from their vests. Nightingale walked to the edge and looked down. The entire face of the cliff was moving.

  Coming this way.

  “Heads up!” he told MacAllister.

  Two pairs of jointed limbs appeared over the edge, scrabbled for a hold, and then a hardshell black creature, with somewhat the appearance of an ant about the size of a guard dog, climbed up onto flat ground. It weaved momentarily, righted itself, and clacked off past them into the dark.

  But not before Nightingale had assessed it. The thing had claws like a garden shears, eight thin segmented legs, and several sets of stalks.

  A second one cleared the crest and lurched past them. Several more were scratching wildly for a grip on the bare rock.

  Chittering and clacking, they hoisted themselves up, crossed through the firelight, and kept going.

  “Mac?”

  MacAllister had backed against a tree. “Yes,” he said in a small voice. “I’m here.”

  “I think we’re going to get lots of these things.” More were scrambling onto the summit. Mac’s cutter flashed on.

  Nightingale was looking frantically for a refuge. “They’re trying to get away from the rising tide.”

  “What are they?”

  “Big and clumsy. And dangerous.”

  The numbers coming over the lip of the cliff seemed endless. “What do we do, Randy? Get behind the fire?”

  “No! That’s not safe. If there’s a stampede, they’ll run right over it. Over us. Find yourself a tree.”

  “I’m not sure…” He was gazing uncertainly at a tall hardwood. “They’re too big to climb.”

  “Get back of one.”

  Hordes of the creatures wobbled past them. They ran in a pseudo-mechanical fashion, legs synchronized, mandibles pointed front as if they were expecting resistance. Those that moved too slowly or got in the way of bigger animals had their legs or antennas sheared off. One crashed into Nightingale, went down, and before it could get to its feet, was trampled. Another blundered into the fire, whistled pitifully, and ran on, trailing smoke.

  When the panic was over, the dead and dying hardshells were heaped on all sides.

  A straggler appeared. It was having a hard time getting onto level ground. After an interminable struggle, it succeeded, and they saw why: Two of its legs and several antennas were gone.

  “What happens when they come back?” asked MacAllister.

  “It won’t be the same,” said Nightingale. “It won’t be a stampede.”

  “That doesn’t mean they won’t be dangerous.”

  “That’s true. Also, they could be looking for a snack by then. It might be prudent to clear out of the area.”

  Mac was looking both ways along the rim. “I agree. Which direction? Back the way we came?”

  “That doesn’t sound like Gregory MacAllister.”

  Mac laughed and shoulder
ed his pack. “All right then,” he said, “onward it is.”

  Both were refreshed by their long rest at the summit, and they set out at a steady pace. The arc of the gas giant was rising behind them, and the forest grew so bright they didn’t need their lamps. Not much longer.

  A fresh voice broke into his thoughts. Canyon.

  “I hear things are happening, Dr. Nightingale,” he said. “I wonder if you’d care to describe them for us?”

  “This is not a good time, August,” Nightingale said, and severed the connection.

  “Exactly the right way to deal with the media,” said MacAllister.

  “Hell, Mac, I thought you were the media.”

  “I am indeed,” he said.

  They stayed close to the rim of the escarpment. The bay spread out below them, a vast arm of the sea, smooth and hazy in Morgan’s light. Along the shore, large tracts of woodland were in the water.

  “Tide’s come pretty far in,” said Nightingale.

  It was rising visibly as they watched. “You figure we’re really high enough, Randy?”

  Nightingale laughed. They were a long way up. “I have to think that’s the celebrated MacAllister wit.”

  “Oh, yes. It is that.”

  The forest literally went over the edge of the summit in some areas, and they were often so close to the precipice that a misstep could have ended in disaster. But occasionally the foliage opened out as much as a half kilometer. The glare of the giant planet had become so bright they were able to switch off their lamps.

  MacAllister touched Nightingale’s shoulder and pointed out over the water. A light was burning.

  “It just came on,” he said.

  And while they watched, it went off.

  They peered into the semi-dark, but could make out nothing.

  The light came back on.

  “What do you think it is?” asked MacAllister.

  “Marine life.”

  It went off. Nightingale lifted his lamp, pointed it out to sea, and blinked it.

  The light in the water blinked back.

  Mac frowned. “I do believe somebody’s saying hello.”

  That hardly seemed possible. “It’s a luminous squid or something,” he said. “We’re looking at a mating call.”

  “It wants to mate with us?”

  “It wants to mate with the lamp.” Nightingale blinked again. A complicated series of longs, shorts, and mediums flashed back.

  Mac got dangerously close to the edge. “It looks like a code.”

  “Did you know,” asked Nightingale, “that some of the fireflies back home are really imitating other species of fireflies? Mimicking a desire to mate? When the recipient shows up for a big time, he gets eaten.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness. It appeared to be simply a light on the surface. He imagined a hand raising a lantern from the depths.

  “Can you make it out, Randy?”

  “Just water.”

  MacAllister blinked his light and looked expectantly seaward. There was, Nightingale thought, an element of play in his manner. He was enjoying this.

  A reply came back, another complicated series.

  “I can’t tell what’s doing it,” Nightingale said. “It looks as if the light’s in the water.” He stared at it. “We should record it.”

  MacAllister nodded. “It almost seems like a fishing boat out there trying to talk to us.”

  The ground shook. Somewhere below, a piece of rock broke off and fell down the face of the cliff into the bay.

  Nightingale caught his breath, moved well back from the precipice, and waited for more shocks. When none came, he directed his scanner to record. At his signal, MacAllister blinked a couple of times, and again the lights flashed. One. Followed by two. Followed by three.

  Nightingale felt a chill run down his back.

  “Your squid can count,” said Mac. “Do you think that intelligent life might have developed at sea?”

  Well, it had back home. But it had taken a long time to recognize because it was nontechnological. Dolphins and whales were clever. And squids. But they didn’t take to mathematics without prodding. “It’s had a long time to evolve,” Nightingale said.

  Mac flashed once.

  The answer came back: Two.

  Nightingale pushed Mac’s lantern down, and raised his own. He sent Three.

  It answered: Four.

  He looked through the glasses again. “My God,” he said. “We’re going to come back with this story and no answers and people are going to scream.”

  The ground trembled again, more intensely this time. “Randy,” said Mac, “this is not a good place to be right now.”

  “I know.”

  MacAllister took his shoulder. “Come on. Before we both go into the pond.”

  Nightingale nodded, pointed his lamp at the light source, and blinked again. Once. Good-bye.

  The offshore light blinked back. Twice.

  “They’re still counting,” said Nightingale.

  “How you guys doing?” Kellie’s voice, sounding cheerful and relieved.

  “Okay,” said Nightingale, who could not take his eyes off the bay. “Good. I thought you’d want to know. We’ll be in the air in a few minutes.”

  Thank God.

  “They’re good babes,” MacAllister told him on the private channel.

  XXIV

  Good fortune is less a product of talent or energy than it is a matter of timing. Being at the right place when the watermelon truck flips. This is how promotions happen, and how fortunes are made. Arrive at the intersection a minute behind, when the police are on the scene, and everything is undone.

  —GREGORY MACALLISTER, Lost in Babylon.

  Hours to breakup (est): 63

  Kellie looked down at Bad News Bay and sucked in her breath. The entire lower coastline had gone underwater, and the cliff top along which they’d walked was now not much more than a promontory.

  “What do you think?” asked Hutch. She was referring to the diagnostic, and not the state of the bay.

  “I don’t know why the Al is disabled. Probably general degradation.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “We’ve got problems with temp controls. Onboard communications are okay. Capacitors are at max, but we’ve only got twenty-one percent That’s all they’ll take, apparently. Sensors are out. Forward dampers are down. We’re getting a warning on the electrical system.”

  Hutch made a face. “Not imminent shutdown, I hope?”

  “Negative.”

  “Okay. When we get time I’ll take a look at it. We’ve got plenty of spare parts on board.”

  Normally, the pilot would run the diagnostic herself, but normally the AI would be operating the spacecraft. Hutch was busy.

  Kellie ticked off a series of other problems, mostly minor, others potential rather than actual. “We wouldn’t want to do a lot of flying in this buggy. But it should get us to the tower.”

  Hutch leveled off at two thousand meters, informed Marcel’s surrogate they had no sensors, and with her help set course. The surrogate asked whether there was any chance they could ride this lander back to Wendy? As it was at the moment?

  “Negative,” Hutch said. “We can lift off and set down. We can even hover for a bit. But take it to orbit? That’s not going to happen.”

  Kellie took a minute to call Nightingale. “How you guys doing?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Good. We’re overhead.” Then, to the surrogate: “Allie, do we have time to pick up the rest of our crew?”

  She nodded and throttled up. “Negative. The plain is flooding as we speak. Lots of water.”

  In the illumination cast by Jerry Morgan, the countryside was ghastly. Kellie saw the area where Chiang had died, and thought she could pick out the spot where the hovercraft was located. They soared over the dragonfly river.

  Marcel came on the circuit. “Hutch,” he said, “there’s a lot of water cascading into the valley.
A lot. The tide keeps getting higher, and a long section of ridge has simply collapsed.”

  It would continue to do so as Morgan moved across the sky. To the south, they saw roiling smoke.

  “Volcano,” Marcel said. “They’re erupting all over the globe tonight.”

  “What’s the situation at the tower?”

  “The water hasn’t gotten there yet in any quantity. But it won’t be long. Run your afterburners.”

  “Afterburners,” said Hutch. “Aye.” A joke, of course. She was already at maximum thrust.

  Marcel continued: “The tower’s in a wide plain. There’s a funnel of sorts that empties into it from the north. The water’s coming through the funnel. When it hits the plain, it spreads out a bit. That’s kept us out of the soup. But it won’t contain things forever.”

  “Any guesses on time?”

  “How long’s it going to take you to get there?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “It might be enough,” he said. “You’ll want to hit the ground running.”

  “Mac.”

  “Yes, Priscilla.”

  “Mac, be careful. We’ll be back as quickly as we can.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  “You and Randy’ll be okay?”

  “We won’t be if you don’t get those batteries.”

  “Capacitors, Mac.”

  “Bear with me. I was never much of a technician. But by all means go get them. We’ll leave a light on for you here.”

  Marcel came up again. “Hutch.” And she read everything in his voice, all the futility and despair and exasperation that had been building for days. “You might as well break it off. Go back and—”

  “What do you mean, break it off?”

  “Just what I said. You don’t have time to do this.”

  Kellie cut in. “Goddammit, Marcel, we can’t just break it off. We’ve got nowhere else to go here.”

  “We’re working on a backup plan. Forget the capacitors.”

  “What’s the backup plan?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Kellie. “Give it to me in a couple of words.”

  “We’re going to try to take you right out of the sky.”

  “You’re what?”