by Emily
After they'd finished the memorial, they trekked back to the Wild-side lander and tried to salvage what they could of the artifacts. The tables and chairs were scorched, reduced to rubbish; the scrolls had burned; the pottery had melted. They couldn't even find the pack and the garments it had contained. A couple of blowguns, some darts, and a javelin were all that had survived.
Listlessly they returned to the tower and cleaned and bagged the few remaining artifacts.
MacAllister glowered the whole time, and when Chiang asked him what was wrong, he looked over at Hutch with genuine anger. "The bottom line," he said, "is that this is all just trash. It's old trash, but that doesn't change what it is."
Hutch overheard, and in fact he'd obviously intended that she should. It was more than she could take. "You have too many opinions, MacAllister," she told him. "I've read some of your stuff. You've a talent with the language, but most of the time you don't know what you're talking about."
He'd looked at her with infinite patience. Poor woman.
They inventoried their new set of artifacts, weapons, pieces of cloth that had once been clothing, cabinets, chairs, and tables, and set them aside to wait for the rescue vehicle.
"What do we do about food?" MacAllister asked suddenly.
"We'll have to run it down," said Chiang. "Anybody here a hunter?"
MacAllister nodded. "I am. But not with this." He glanced down at his cutter. "Anyhow, I don't know whether anybody's noticed or not, but there seems to be a distinct lack of game in the neighborhood. Moreover, there might not even be anything here we can eat."
"I doubt," said Nightingale, "that the local wildlife would supply nutrition. We never ran any tests, but at least it would fill our bellies. Provided there are no toxins or other problems."
"Good," said MacAllister. "When we catch one of them, you can sample it."
"Maybe there's an easier way," said Hutch.
Kellie's dark eyes narrowed. "To do what?" she asked. "Find a better guinea pig?"
"The Star lander isn't too deep. It might be possible to go down there and retrieve the reddimeals. They'd help get us through until the Boardman arrives."
"Not worth it," said Kellie. "We're better off trying the local menu."
"I doubt it," growled MacAllister.
"Hutch," said Marcel, "it's not your fault. You have to pull yourself together." They were on the private channel.
"You know, Marcel, it just never..." Her voice was shaking and she had to stop to collect herself. ". . . It just never occurred to me that anything like this could happen." He could hear her breathing. "I didn't ask for this. I'm a pilot. They've got me making life-and-death decisions."
"Hutch." He made his voice as gentle as he could. "You were trying to do what you were directed to do. Everybody with you is an adult. They knew what you knew. It wasn't just your decision."
"I could have canceled it after the first tremor. Put everybody in the boat and gone back to Wildside. That's what I should have done."
"And if we all had hindsight up front, everybody'd be a millionaire."
She was quiet.
"Hutch, listen to me. They're going to need you until we get through this. You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself."
"Sorry for myself? You think that's what it is?"
"Yeah. That's exactly what it is. Your job right now is to keep your people safe until we can get them back here. You can't do anything about Toni. But you can see that nothing happens to anyone else."
She broke the connection, and he took a deep breath. He understood she'd been through a horrific experience, but he had expected more of her somehow. Had the conversation continued, he'd been prepared to suggest she retire in favor of Kellie. He wondered whether he shouldn't call her back and advise her to do just that.
But, no. Not yet. If everything went well, it was just a matter of biding their time until help came. He left the bridge and wandered down to project control, where a couple of technicians were trying to analyze the impossibilium.
Bill's image formed on a nearby screen. "Marcel? You have a text message."
Wendy was lingering in the area of the assembly, although Marcel would have preferred to return to orbit to be as close as possible to the stranded team. But he was helpless to do anything other than watch, so he'd indulged the researchers and granted their wish to stay near the giant artifact. They hovered within a few meters, while every instrument the ship possessed poked, scanned, and probed the shafts.
They lacked the laboratory facilities to do extensive evaluation of the onboard samples, but they were trying to determine melting and boiling points, specific heat and thermal conductivity, density, Young's modulus, bulk and shear modulus. They wanted to define yield and ultimate strength, electrical conductivity and magnetic permeability at varying temperatures, currents, and frequencies. They wanted to know how quickly sound moved through it, and compile an index of refraction over a range of frequencies. Beekman and his peo-
pie had begun to put together a stress and strain graph. It didn't mean much to Marcel, but the researchers took turns gaping at the results.
"On-screen."
TO: NCA WENDY JAY
FROM: NCK ATHENA BOARDMAN
SUBJECT: STATUS REPORT
FOR CAPT CLAIRVEAU. WE ARE ON SCHEDULE, MINUTES FROM MAKING OUR JUMP ONBOARD LANDER WILL BE PRIMED AND READY TO GO. MARCEL, YOU OWE ME.
"Is there a reply?"
"Tell him I'll buy him lunch."
XII
Nothing kills the appetite quite as effectively as a death sentence. —Gregory MacAllister, "In Defense of the Godly," The Incomplete MacAllister
Hours to breakup (est): 252
It was almost 1800 hours, forty-two minutes since they'd made the jump into transdimensional space, when Penkavic ordered an inspection of the lander and retired to his quarters. He had just arrived when Eve, Boardman's AI, reported all in order.
The ship had begun to quiet Many of his passengers had retired for the night The common room had pretty much emptied out, and only two or three remained in the various planning or leisure areas. A small group of technicians and climate specialists were engaged in a role-playing game in the Green Room, a contest which would probably continue well into the morning. Several biologists were still in project control arguing about stocking procedures, and a few individuals were gathered in the relatively intimate Apollo Porch, where they could look out at the stars.
Penkavic was more rattled by his confrontation with Helm than he cared to admit to himself. It wasn't just that he'd offended one of the most powerful people in the corporation. He had, after all, done the right thing, and kept both himself and Helm out of trouble. But there was a quality to Corporate's chief engineer that unsettled Penkavic, inducing a reaction that went far beyond concern over what he might or might not do to damage the captain's career. It was hard to pin down. Helm did not seem especially threatening or intimidating, but he invariably induced a sense that he and he alone understood the correct and reasonable course. In his presence, Penkavic inexplicably wanted very much to please him. Even when he disagreed strongly with the older man's conclusions.
He climbed out of his uniform, showered, and slipped into bed. But the lights had just died when Eve's voice filtered through the room. "Captain, we have a problem."
He sat up. "What's wrong, Eve?"
"The lander is preparing to launch."
"Stop it." He threw the sheet aside, put his feet on the deck, and waited for her response.
"I can't. I'm locked out."
He called for lights and threw on a robe. "Go to the red circuit," he told her. "Shut it down. Shut everything down in the launch bay if you have to."
He was out the door, headed for the lower deck.
"Negative," she said. "Lander is sealing."
She put a visual on a wallscreen. He watched the vehicle rotate, saw the bay doors open. "Who's doing it?" he demanded.
I can't tell if there is a deliberate ag
ency at work. There seems to be a partial breakdown in Delta comm." In Eve's ability to communicate with the various automated systems.
He watched the lights in the launch bay brighten and dim, as they routinely did at the start of an operation, and then the lander floated out into the gray mist.
Penkavic now made the history books. In the only known instance in which a commercial starship attempted to maneuver in hyperspace, he banked to port, tried to calculate the location of the lander, and made an effort at intercept.
He had to work manually because Eve's condition had not stabilized. Jack Castor, his copilot, was already on duty.
He put Castor on the sensors despite his protests that they would not work.
They tried them anyhow. Short-range, long-range, pinpoint, and shotgun. It didn't matter; all returns were negative. There seemed to be nothing out there but empty space. Optical visibility was limited to a couple of hundred meters, and attempts to activate the lander AI failed.
No one knew how to pinpoint a position in transdimensional space. Because the only other physical object in the field was the lander, and they did not know where it was, the notion of position became meaningless.
Eve came back up. "The disturbance seems to have abated," she said.
"Can you tell where the problem originated?" Castor asked.
Not that the answer mattered. Penkavic knew who had arranged it.
"Lambda."
The backup mission control.
Helm was dressed and waiting for him.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" demanded Penkavic.
"I'm aware," he said. His eyes were hooded. He seemed unusually pensive. "I know exactly what I've done."
"You've condemned those people. We were the only way they had of getting clear."
"Eliot." He nodded, agreeing with the accusation. "I wish there had been another way. But the Quraqua operation can't afford a nine-day delay. Some of the material we have on board is time-sensitive. Extremely so. As are two critical operations that depend on our making a prompt delivery. The company would have been hit very hard. Very hard. It would have cost millions, at the very least. God knows how many ongoing efforts would have to be restarted. If we had gone off to the rescue, nobody at Corporate would have thanked us, believe me."
"I don't really care—"
"I do, Eliot. And so would you, if you knew the people involved, how hard they've worked to turn Quraqua into a second Earth. What the stakes are. These idiots got themselves into their situation, and they're just going to have to get themselves out." He seemed to be studying the chessboard. Penkavic noticed the position had not changed. "God help me, I wish it could have been otherwise."
Penkavic stared at him.
"You'd have done the same thing," Helm persisted, "if you'd had my responsibilities. Known what I know."
"I don't think so," said Penkavic.
"Eliot." The kindly uncle showed up again. "Your investigation
will uncover a defective switch in the central system and a cross-connected R-box in Lambda. You'll want to find both promptly and replace them so that the problem with the AI does not recur. Unfortunately, the launch was triggered when a signal intended to shut down the mess for the night was misrouted through the bad switch to the launch system. Because the R-box activated almost simultaneously, Eve was effectively locked off for several minutes and was unable to stop the sequence. An unfortunate accident. One in a million. But quite comprehensible. Responsibility will be laid on the AIs that run the inspection programs back at the Wheel, or possibly on design glitches. In any case, no one here need be blamed."
For a long time, neither man spoke.
"Unless you insist."
Penkavic sat down and tried to resist his inclination to look the other way.
"You have a choice to make now," Helm continued. "You can accuse me, and log what you know. Or you can forget this conversation ever happened, and the incident will remain what it presently is, a piece of bad luck. I'd remind you there's always a price to be paid for progress. And that there's nothing to be gained by sending anyone to a hanging." His fingers touched the crown of the black queen. He lifted her, moved her diagonally across the board, and settled her behind a protecting knight. "I'm in your hands, Eliot."
"Incoming traffic, Marcel"
"On-screen, Bill."
"You're not going to like it," the AI added.
TO: NCA WENDY JAY
FROM: NCK ATHENA BOARDMAN
SUBJECT: LANDER DIFFICULTIES
MARCEL: REGRET TO REPORT THAT SYSTEMS BREAKDOWN RESULTED IN UNCONTROLLED LAUNCH OF LANDER DURING HYPERFLIGHT. ALL ATTEMPTS AT RECOVERY FAILED. NO CHOICE BUT CONTINUE TO QURAQUA. REGRET UNABLE ASSIST YOU. ELIOT.
Marcel was reading the message a second or third time when Beekman broke in: "How the hell do you accidentally launch a lander?"
"I don't know." A chill was expanding at the pit of Marcel's stomach.
"And they don't have a spare?"
"No."
He could hear Beekman's slight wheeze. "There must be somebody else."
"There isn't. We checked." The room had gone quiet.
"So what do we do now?"
Marcel couldn't see there was anything they could do.
"I don't think we should try it," said Kellie. "What if you get inside the damned thing and it decides to go the rest of the way into the chasm?"
They were looking down on the Star lander. It was wedged sideways, starboard side up. The hull was gouged, and the cabin roof was hammered in. One wing was bent, one of the jets looked misaligned. And both landing treads had been, broken off.
Hutch thought the descent looked more ,dangerous than it was. Her link tingled, and Marcel's voice whispered her name. "I'm here," she said. "How're we doing?"
"Not so well, I'm afraid."
She read it in his voice, knew what he would say before it went any farther. "What happened?"
"Boardman. They accidentally launched the lander in hyper-flight."
"They lost it."
"Yes."
Hutch saw the others watching her. "How the hell could that happen?"
"Don't know."
"What is it?" asked Kellie.
They all looked scared. Even MacAllister. She switched the conversation onto the allcom. "Nobody else in the area?"
"No. Nobody."
"What about the Patrol?"
"Not even remotely close."
"No private vessels? A corporate yacht, maybe?"
"No, Hutch. Nothing with a lander." She listened to him breathing. "I'm sorry."
"What happened?" asked Nightingale. -
"We haven't given up," Marcel said.
"I don't suppose that means you've thought of something else."
"Not yet."
"What happened?" Nightingale demanded, louder this time. The question hung there.
"What now?"
Hutch wasn't sure who'd spoken. They stood on the brink of the chasm, staring down, while the implications settled around their shoulders.
MacAllister looked into the sky, as if to locate Wendy. "Captain Clairveau. Are you listening?"
A brief delay. Then: "I'm here, Mr. MacAllister."
"What's our course of action now?" he asked. "What do we do?"
"I don't know yet. I haven't had a chance—"
"—to analyze the situation." MacAllister could summon the tones of an angry god. He did so. "As I understand our status, rescue would seem to be out of the question. Impossible. Am I correct?"
"It would appear so."
"Am I correct?"
"Yes." Hesitantly.
"Then do us a common courtesy, Captain: The situation here has deteriorated severely. You'll make it easier on all of us if you confine yourself to the facts and refrain from cheerleading."
Marcel was silent.
And MacAllister was right. Hutch was crushed by the finality of events. "Marcel," she said, "we're going to sign off for a bit."
"O
kay." But she didn't hear the distant click and knew he was still on the circuit. "I'll be here," he said at last. "If I can help."
He signed off.
Chiang kicked some snow into the chasm. "We could all just jump in," he said. "End it."
"Save the gallows humor," said Kellie.
"I wasn't trying to be funny." He folded his arms, and for an unsettling moment Hutch thought he really was considering it. She started cautiously in his direction, but Kellie got there first, took his arm, and pulled him away from the edge. He laughed. "Although," he said, "I can't see where it makes much difference."
Hutch changed her tone, implying they were now getting to serious business. "How much time do we have left?" she asked. "Anybody know?"
"Impact occurs December 9," said Kellie. "At 5:56 p.m. zulu." Ship time.
MacAllister glanced at his watch. "What kind of time are we talking?"
"Zulu," Nightingale sneered. "Orbital. Greenwich Mean. The time on your watch."
It was just after midnight on the twenty-eighth. At the tower, it was a couple of hours after sunrise.
"But the place will begin to break up," said Nightingale, "a day or so before the collision."
"Pity." MacAllister shook his head. "We have front-row seats for the most spectacular extravaganza in history, and we won't be here at showtime."
Chiang did not look amused. "Something to consider," he said. "Do we have a way to make a painless exit? When the time comes?"
MacAllister pushed his hands down into his vest pockets. "What about tranks?"
"It's a little premature to be talking like that," said Hutch.
"Is it really?" MacAllister looked down at her from a considerable height. "Well, let's all be sure to keep our spirits up. Wouldn't want anything less, would we?"
"That's enough, MacAllister," she said. "Try not to get hysterical."
"You know," Nightingale said, "if you hadn't panicked and tried to get clear with the lander, maybe none of this would have happened." He let them see he was enjoying himself.
"Look, the lander was about to go into the ditch. We tried to save it."
"You tried to save your fat ass—"
Hutch broke in and got between them. "Gentlemen, this isn't going to help."
"Sure it is," said Nightingale. "There's something to be said for truth. That's what you always say, isn't it, Mac? It doesn't matter who gets hurt; let's just get the truth out on the table. The truth is, you tried to run. The other lander was already gone, and you—"
