Deepsix

by Jack McDevitt

  The tubing constituted most of the life-support system taken from Wildside. The various pieces were marked to enable the assemblers to put them together with a minimum of confusion. Under Phil’s direction, they went back outside.

  Above the sack they had just made, the netting was open all the way to the plate. They cut sideways across the net just above the sack, opening a large space, and secured its edges to the tubing. When the tubing was in place, Zossimov connected a pump and a sensor.

  He pumped air in until it became a rigid ring-shaped collar, forming a mouth about twenty-five meters wide. This collar would hold the net open, providing entry for the lander. The sensor, made from a hatch closer on Wildside, would activate a valve as soon as Hutch’s lander passed through. The valve would open and release the air, the collar would collapse, and the danger of the spacecraft falling back out would be all but eliminated.

  The next task was to ensure that the rear of the net would not drift forward and close the sack or block the entrance.

  To accomplish that they brought out a load of bars that had been manufactured from the metal taken from Wildside’s cargo bay, and designed with links so they could be connected to each other, end to end. There was also a supply of braces and supports.

  Each bar was five meters long. (That had been the maximum length possible to get them in and out of the shuttles.) Altogether there were forty-six.

  The Outsiders used them to assemble two rails, braced with supports. They connected the rails in parallel above and on either side of the ring, front to rear in the sack. When that had been accomplished, they had a container into which the lander should be able to maneuver.

  All but Phil and Miles withdrew into the shuttles. Phil set the sensor.

  “You sure it’ll work?” asked Miles.

  “Absolutely.”

  “How long will it take to close after the lander’s inside?”

  “It activates as soon as they pass through. I’m no physicist, so I can’t tell you how fast the collar will deflate. But it shouldn’t be longer than a few seconds. Especially at that altitude.”

  Miles inspected the collar. “I think we have ourselves a decent scoop.”

  At about the time Miles’s people were climbing onto the net, the welding teams were spreading out across the hulls of the four superluminals. Tom Scolari, Cleo, Jack Kingsbury, and an elderly man whom Scolari knew only as Chop, had responsibility for Zwick. The task should now be easy, because Jack and Chop had performed much the same assignment working alone earlier when they’d attached the star-ship to the Alpha shaft.

  Scolari had been invited by Universal News to participate in an interview. Emma had found jumpsuits for him and Cleo, and the plan called for them to go on a live hookup when the job on the hull was finished. He was unnerved by the prospect, more frightened than he could ever have been about going outside.

  It should have been easier to interview Chop and Jack, who’d been on board longer, and Scolari had wondered at first why Emma hadn’t done that. But it became clear very quickly that neither of the two was very articulate. Jack responded to everything with one-word answers. And Chop scratched a lot. Scolari was concerned that they’d be resentful, but neither brought the subject up. When he told them about the pending interview, Chop had commented that he was glad they hadn’t asked him.

  Zwick was the leading vessel on the shaft, only thirty-eight kilometers from the net, which they could see shining in the sunlight. Sometimes it made Scolari think of a flag.

  The shaft was currently welded to the belly of the Zwick. They went out through the cargo hatch on the port quarter and walked around to the underside, and it seemed as if the universe rotated as they did so, so that the hull was always down. It was an effect caused by the magnetic boots.

  When they were ready, Cleo and Scolari retired to the rear, Jack and Chop went forward. They activated their lasers and began cutting the weld. Now that the shaft was safely on course, and no more corrections would be needed, they were to separate it from the ship and change its orientation. “Be careful,” Janet reminded them from her station in Drummond’s launch, which was up near the net. This was the most dangerous part of the operation for the Outsiders: cut too high, and they could slice or seriously weaken Alpha. Do that, they’d been told again and again, and repair would be impossible. The people below would die. Cut too low, and they could penetrate the ship. That indeed was not life and death. Everyone had been cleared out of areas vulnerable to puncture on all the vessels. But it would nevertheless, in Janet’s dulcet admonition, have been unprofessional. A mess that someone else would have to clean up later.

  The clear lesson: If they had to screw it up, cut low.

  Getting it right wasn’t all that hard, he discovered, so long as he kept his mind on what he was doing. The image of the gas giant, growing visibly larger by the hour, did tend to be a distraction.

  They began cutting. Jack and Chop had done a good job the first time out. Their instructions had been to connect as much of the shaft as possible to the hull. They’d done that, and it required a long effort to free it. Zwick was by far the smallest of the superluminals, but she had accepted a twenty-six-meter length of the shaft before her hull curved away.

  So they worked steadily, in the shadow of the giant. Scolari had heard that almost a full kilometer had been laid on the Star. Getting that off would be a monster job, but that was where they’d concentrated the volunteers.

  Janet, as usual, was watching. Occasionally she offered advice or encouragement. She let them know that Wendy’s crew had finished, that the people preparing the net to receive its payload were making progress. She always referred to the lander as the payload. Scolari decided she watched too many sims.

  They needed an hour and a quarter to break the shaft loose, and they did it without inflicting any damage. Jack, who was the team leader, informed Janet when they were done. She acknowledged, thanked them, and directed them to retire inside the ship. “But, don’t go far,” she said.

  “How long?”

  “About four hours.”

  “We won’t last that long.”

  It was hard to believe the sun had been in the sky an hour and a half. The wind roared across the lander. Rain hammered down, and the water coming off the mountain had become a torrent. They huddled inside the darkened cabin while the storm raged.

  “I think conditions are deteriorating,” said Mac.

  Hutch nodded. “That would be my guess. We’d better tie down if we don’t want to get blown into the ocean.”

  They went outside and struggled to lash the lander to the trees. The winds were approaching hurricane force. That meant flying objects, branches, rocks, and even birds that had gotten caught, became missiles.

  They were all short of breath when they got back inside. They fell into their seats, feeling safer but not by much.

  On the bridge of the Star, Nicholson and Marcel received Drummond’s report. Only the giant liner itself was now still attached to Alpha.

  Nicholson looked questioningly at Marcel. “Now?” he asked.

  Marcel nodded.

  Nicholson addressed the AI: “Lori, we are going to the next phase. You can turn Zwick around.”

  “Complying,” said Lori.

  “Lori?” said Marcel. “Have we had any luck yet reestablishing contact with the ground party?”

  “No, Marcel. I am still trying and will inform you when I am successful.”

  He nodded, and turned his attention to Zwick’s status board, which was posted on one of the navigation screens. The media vessel, under Lori’s direction, began to pull away from the shaft. Its thrusters would fire an orchestrated series of bursts, moving it out to one side, turning it around, and bringing it back, but facing in the opposite direction. Now, its main engines pointed toward Deepsix, it moved in once more to snuggle against Alpha.

  During the course of the maneuver, word came down that the Outsiders had released the Star.

  On board Z
wick, Scolari and the other volunteers returned to the hull and began the cumbersome process of reattaching the shaft. Now the vessel was pointed in the opposite direction, away from Deepsix. Almost immediately, one of the shuttle pilots warned them of an approaching cloud.

  “Cloud?” asked Scolari.

  “Meteors and dust. Get back inside.”

  Scolari and Cleo needed no prompting. They made for the airlock, and warned Chop and Jack not to dawdle.

  A few large rocks bounced off the metal. Minutes later, when they thought it was over, one penetrated the hull, knocked out the broadcasting studio and the library, and would have killed Canyon except that he’d left moments earlier to go to the washroom.

  The warning had come from Klaus Bomar, who had taken Pindar and Sharon to mark the Alpha shaft. He was, as Pindar had observed, Canadian. A Toronto native, he’d been a commercial hauler, carrying supplies to the terraformers on Quraqua; and later he’d served as a longtime instructor at the Conciliar Spaceflight Academy near Winnipeg. He’d resigned his position there two months earlier, anxious to join the superluminals that were moving out to the new frontiers.

  Klaus’s wife was dead, his kids were grown and gone, so he’d barely hesitated once he decided he’d had enough of classrooms. He’d signed on with TransGalactic because they paid well and the big luxury liners were visiting the places he wanted to see, black holes and star cradles and giant suns and cosmic lighthouses.

  This was his first flight with TransGalactic.

  He was dazzled by the ingenuity of Clairveau and Beekman, and amused at Nicholson’s ability to look as if he were commanding the operation.

  He’d transmitted the warning to Zwick and another shuttle in the path of the debris field, then turned away in an effort to get clear.

  Much of the debris orbiting Morgan consisted of nothing more that dust particles too small to be tracked by sensors. As Klaus completed his turn he veered directly into a high-velocity swarm that ripped the shuttle apart before he even knew he was in trouble.

  XXXIV

  There is a gene we all have that, when crisis comes, inevitably selects the wrong turn. It is why things run amiss, dreams remain unfulfilled, ambitions fail to materialize. Life, for most of us, is simply a series of blown opportunities.

  —GREGORY MACALLISTER, Deepsix Diary

  Hours to breakup (est): 12

  Hutch could have used a trank. The ones that Mac had in his pack weren’t supposed to affect the user after whatever period they were set for, so theoretically they should have been safe. But she’d always tended to react badly to the damned things. And she dared not risk impairing her judgment for the final flight.

  The final flight. Up or down.

  She tried to push her emotions away, out to some distant boundary. She thought about what lay ahead, tried to visualize this giant net that would be dropping out of the sky.

  Precision, Marcel had been saying. Everything had to be done precisely right. One chance. The net would come down and it would go up. She’d have, at best, a minute or so to find the collar and navigate into it.

  The mood in the cabin was subdued. MacAllister tried to lighten things a bit by proclaiming that if they came out of it alive he was going to seek out the bishop of New Jersey and submit to religious instruction.

  They all laughed, but it had a hollow ring.

  Periodically, without success, Hutch tried to regain contact with Marcel.

  “I’ll be glad,” Nightingale said, “to get it over with. One way or the other.”

  Hutch nodded as if she agreed, but she didn’t. Life was sweet, and she wanted to hang on to it as long as she could. But yes, she would be happy to end the suspense, to fly into Marcel’s celestial sack and get hauled up to safety. It was just hard to visualize something like that actually happening.

  Mac broke out some fruit and nuts, but she had no appetite.

  “Do you good,” MacAllister persisted.

  “I doubt it.” Nevertheless, it seemed like something she should do. She selected a dark red globule that resembled and tasted like a pomegranate. Nightingale picked a few nuts and settled back to enjoy them. Mac made coffee and filled all the cups.

  “We going to have any trouble getting aloft in this?” he asked, indicating the storm.

  “We’ll be okay.” She’d powered up to the extent possible. There was more than enough fuel in the tanks to take them out to the rendezvous. Even enough to get back, if need be. If it would matter. “We’ll do fine. As long as it doesn’t get too much worse.”

  They sat for a time, tasting the fruit, watching the rain.

  “You guys all right?” she asked.

  Nightingale nodded. “I’m sorry about the elevator,” he said. “I—”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  Mac took a long sip of coffee. “Confession time, I guess.”

  “What’ve you got to confess, Mac?” asked Kellie.

  “I…” He thought about it. “…haven’t always been reasonable.”

  “We know that,” said Nightingale. “The whole world knows it.”

  “I just thought I wanted to say something. I’ve done some damage.”

  “Forget it. I’m sure nobody holds it against you.”

  “That’s not quite so, but it isn’t the point.”

  “Mac, you once said something about people who waste energy feeling sorry for themselves.”

  He frowned. “Not that I can recall. What exactly did I say?”

  “‘Best way to deal with a conscience is to beat it into submission so it knows who’s in charge.’”

  “I said that?”

  Nightingale had been looking out at the rain during the whole of this exchange. Now he turned and fixed his eyes on MacAllister. “Not really. But it’s the best I can do on short notice. Let it go, Mac. It’s past.”

  The lander shook as another wave rippled through the ground. MacAllister snatched his plate before it could slide off onto the deck. “The whole world’s coming apart,” he said.

  Kellie adjusted her harness. “How much longer?”

  “Soon,” said Hutch.

  In fact, the winds seemed to be lessening. The rain slacked off, although it never really stopped. Hutch tried the radio again.

  Suddenly the sky was filled with birds. They were all of one species, black with white wing tips, big, graceful, wings spread to catch the wind. Their flight was erratic, disorganized. To a degree, they were being blown across the sky. But they fought to maintain formation. The wind died, they regrouped, and then, like a single animal, they turned north. They know, she thought. They all know.

  When the bombardment had stopped, Scolari and the other Outsiders went back onto the hull and finished the welding assignment. They laid the shaft directly down the length of the ship, as they had before. The same procedure was being followed by the Evening Star team. On the other two vessels, the crews were reattaching the shaft at twenty-seven- and thirty-one-degree angles. That would allow Wendy and Wildside, who’d be up front during extraction, to begin the process of inserting the shaft into orbit.

  Shortly after they’d begun they heard about the death of the shuttle pilot who had warned them.

  Scolari and his team finished in two and a half hours and came back into the airlock. All four vessels were again locked onto Alpha, except that they now faced the opposite direction.

  Although he was new to TransGalactic, Klaus Bomar had been the oldest member of the Star’s crew, save for the captain himself. Because he was a contemporary, Nicholson had occasionally invited him to his cabin for a drink, and had ended by becoming quite fond of him. Marcel had been wrong about Nicholson: He did have an onboard friend.

  The news hit Nicholson hard.

  One of Wendy’s three shuttles pulled alongside Drummond’s vehicle. The airlock opened, and Drummond took on a physician: Embry Desjardain.

  Drummond’s assignment was to stay near the sack, and pick up the ground team after they’d bee
n hauled clear of the atmosphere. Embry was a precaution, in case a doctor was needed.

  They introduced themselves and shook hands. Then Drummond turned to Janet. “I guess you’re relieved,” he said. “If you’d like to go back to the Star, your transportation’s waiting.”

  She declined. “If you’ve no objection, I’d like to stay around for the rescue. You might be able to use some help.”

  Drummond glanced at Frank, who thumbed a switch. “Okay, Karen,” he told the other pilot, “that’s it.”

  Karen blinked her lights and moved away.

  “Time to go,” said Hutch. “Let’s cut ourselves loose.”

  Marcel, Beekman, and Nicholson posted themselves on the Star bridge. They watched with satisfaction the various status reports coming in. Everything secure. Everyone on station.

  All that remained now was to wait while the momentum of the new assembly, the alpha shaft and the four superluminals attached to it, carried the net into the atmosphere above the Misty Sea.

  Nicholson had been uncustomarily quiet. Finally, he turned to Marcel and shook his hand. “Good luck,” he said. And, repeating the gesture, “Good luck, Gunther.”

  “Marcel.” Lori blinked onto his screen. “I had momentary contact with the lander, but I have lost it again.”

  “Okay. Were you able to talk to them at all?”

  “They’re in the air. On their way to the rendezvous.”

  The three men nodded encouragement to each other. “Thank God. Was Hutch with them? Who did you talk to?”

  “I talked with Captain Hutchins.”

  Marcel’s eyes closed, and he breathed a prayer of thanks.

  They flew through a sea of dark clouds, lightning strikes, roiling skies, and glowing red eruptions.

  When finally they rose above the worst of the turmoil, Kellie succeeded in opening a channel to the Star.

  “Let us trust we can maintain it this time,” said Lori. “It’s quite good to know everything is well. We’ve been worried. Are you on course?”