by Emily
She was not among those people who could entertain herself carrying on a conversation with an AI. Bill was, after all, only a simulation, not a real person. A lot of people tended to lose sight of that fact, and she'd had to refer several of them to the shrinks.
She was up front on the flight deck, seated in the pilot's chair. Deepsix lay below her, a mass of oceans and glaciers save for the narrow green-brown belt along the equator. A huge snowstorm blanketed the continent they called Northern Tempus.
None of the other three ships was in the sky. She felt utterly alone. They'd invited her to move over to Wendy, but she'd declined. Packing was inconvenient, and anyhow she'd have to come back here if the rescue was successful. After all, it would only be a matter of a few days.
If things went badly, on the other hand, God knew when she could expect to get home. She didn't want to seem indifferent, or cold-hearted, but she also didn't want to spend the winter out here. If Hutch and the others were lost, another long delay would be likely, lasting probably several more weeks, while a new pilot came to Maleiva to recover Wildside.
Her link vibrated. She was grateful for the interruption. "Yes?" she said.
"Embry." Marcel's image popped up on one of the auxiliary screens. "How are you making out?"
"Okay."
"I need a favor."
"What can I do for you?"
"If we have to go to the backup operation, we'll need all four ships. And we have to get set up so we'll be ready to launch if needed. What I'm trying to tell you is that Wildside is going to be doing some maneuvering."
"There's no pilot over here, Marcel."
"I know. We're going to have Lori operate her."
"Who's Lori?"
"The Star's AI."
"The Star's AI? What's wrong with Bill?"
"It's a long story. I'll be happy to tell you about it when we get time."
"Is it safe?"
"Sure. Now, can I get you to punch a code into the command console? It's right in front of the pilot's seat."
"The black panel with the blinking lamps?"
"That's it." He gave her a string of numbers, and she dutifully entered them. "That allows me to talk directly with the AI," he said. His eyes narrowed somewhat. "Now, you're sure you're doing okay?"
"I'm fine, Captain."
"Good. So you know: Tomorrow we're going to take Wildside out of orbit. You'll be going out to the skyhook assembly with the rest of us. There'll be a lot of activity when we get there, and we'll be putting some people aboard your ship. You don't have to do anything. Just sit tight. There's no danger."
"You mean to me. What about Hutch? What are her chances?"
"The truth?"
"Of course."
"I'd say the chances are decent."
He blinked off, and she sat staring at the blank screen. Then she opened a channel to the Evening Star, A young, female, redheaded simulation in the ship's uniform appeared. "Good morning," it said. "How may I help you?"
"When is the Star returning to Earth?"
"We are scheduled to depart Sunday the tenth, ma'am." The day after the collision.
"Would it be possible to book passage?"
The simulation appeared to glance at a monitor, although Embry knew that was not necessary. "Yes, it would," she said. "We have several excellent staterooms on our Festival Deck. Can I reserve one for you?"
With luck, she'd be able to bully the Academy into picking up the tab. "How much?" she asked.
"One-ten."
Steep. "I'll get back to you if I decide to do it," she said. No need to commit now. If everything went well, and the rescue worked, she wouldn't need it. And it would be a little embarrassing to be sitting over on the Star when Hutch and the others came back on board.
XIX
There's not much to differentiate one savage from another, whether you find him in a jungle or on the streets of a modem city. They are best left to themselves, and are worth serious study only by those interested in manufacturing a better blowgun. —Gregory MacAllister, The Modern World and Good Luck
Hours to breakup (est): 129
"Evening Star. How may we be of service?"
"This is John Drummond. On the Wendy Jay. I wonder if you could provide thrust information for the Star?"
"That would be no problem. Ship specifications are available. Please submit a transmission code."
The electronics wizard they were looking for turned out to be little more than an adolescent His name was Philip Zossimov. He was a product of the University of Moscow who served as a consultant to the British firm Technical Applications, Ltd. He had thick brown hair, a quiet demeanor, and an expression that implied he could do anything.
Beekman explained how they planned to manage the rescue. "But," he said, "we need to find a way to hold the mouth of the net open."
Zossimov asked to see pictures of the asteroid. "How are you arranging to get rid of it?" he asked. "The asteroid?"
"After we cut through the net," Beekman said, "it will drift off on its own. We can make adjustments if it would help you in your task."
"No," he said. "Go ahead as you intend. But you'll need a ring-shaped collar. I don't suppose you happen to have one?"
"No. That's why we needed you."
"Yes. Very good. All right, we'll have to make one." He looked around at the working staff, obviously unimpressed. "It's a two-part problem," he said. "We install the collar at the front of the net to hold it open, and then, once the lander is inside, we have to close it to make sure it stays inside."
"That's correct."
"All right. I'll want to see the specs."
"For...?"
"The ships. All of them."
"Okay," said Beekman. "I'll arrange it." He directed Bill to make them available. Then he turned back to Zossimov. "Philip," he said, "can you do it?"
"Oh, yes, I can do it. We'll need some parts, of course."
"Cannibalize anything. Katie here will work with you. She's a physicist with a specialty in quantum gravity. You don't care about that. What's important is that she knows Wendy. Do what you have to. But make it work."
"There's a possibility," he said, "we may have to shut down one of the ships."
"You can't do that. We need all four for the maneuvers."
"I see. What about life support?"
"We can evacuate one, if need be."
Hutch was still showing the aftereffects of her bout with the blossom. They'd given her an extra hour and a half to sleep.
"We don't have that kind of time," she complained when they finally woke her.
"Randy needed the time, too," Kellie said. "And this looked like a good way to provide it without laying more guilt on him for holding us up."
They fed her a quick breakfast and got on the road.
While they walked, Hutch talked to Marcel, who seemed unduly irritable. He denied that he was feeling out of sorts, but she recognized that he was worried because they were falling behind schedule. She did what she could to allay his concerns. We're close now, she told him. There don't seem to be any problems we can't handle. Try not to worry.
He asked about the orchid. Hutch looked accusingly at Kellie.
"I provided no details," Kellie said privately.
"Just a minor skirmish with a man-eating plant," Hutch told him.
"A plant? You mean an oversize Venus flytrap? Something like that?"
"Yeah," she said. "That's close enough."
When she'd signed off a few minutes later, Kellie grinned at her. "More like a woman-eating plant."
They'd gone only a few more steps when MacAllister got a call. Incoming visual.
"Somebody wants to talk," he told the others.
The image took shape, projected by MacAllister's link. They were looking at a young man. Brushed-back attractive. Lean, angular jaw. Good smile. Dark brown hair neatly cut. He wore a white pullover shirt and gray slacks, and his expression suggested he understood he was intruding but hoped no one would mind.
> "August Canyon," said MacAllister.
The visitor looked pleased. "Good morning, Mr. MacAllister. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." He was seated on a fabric chair, which floated a meter or so above the ground, as they walked. "I know this is a difficult time for you. But I'm sure you're aware that the entire world is following this. I wonder if you'd care to comment for the interglobal audience?"
"About Deepsix?"
"Yes."
"Sure. This place is a pit. And I'll admit to being scared half out of my mind."
"Well. I'm sure you are." He smiled pleasantly. "But help is on the way, of course?"
"No. As I understand it, no help is available." MacAllister was falling behind the others, so he picked up his pace a bit. Canyon, of course, stayed right with him. "Tell me, you don't happen to have a lander on board, I don't suppose?"
"I'm afraid not. Wish we did. We thought we were just coming out here to record an astronomical event. Never occurred to anybody there might be a story on the ground, too."
"Yes." MacAllister looked over at Hutch. Hutch had also felt for a moment that they might have gotten lucky. But Marcel would have had the media vessel in his database, and would have known. Still, there was always human oversight. Common enough, and one hoped.
"Are we on now?" MacAllister asked. "Is this being broadcast somewhere?"
"No," Canyon said. "We're recording, but we wouldn't broadcast. Not without your permission. But the public knows what's happening here. And they're concerned. Did you know that churches all over the world have been praying you'd come through this? There was a prayer meeting on the New White House lawn the other day."
"They're praying for me?" MacAllister looked shocked. "Most of them have damned me for an atheist."
Canyon squirmed. "Everyone wants you to come out of this, Mr. MacAllister. All of you, that is."
"Well, August, I have to tell you that I think that's all goosefeath-ers. If you follow my meaning."
Canyon smiled. "I don't think you realize how much interest there is. Did you know that Parabola's already started making a sim?"
"Really. How does it come out?"
Canyon put an aw shucks expression on his well-scrubbed features. "I guess they're waiting to see."
Kellie made a noise deep in her throat.
"August," MacAllister said, "if you want to find out how we're doing, you're talking to the wrong person. Priscilla Hutchins over there is in charge. She knows more about the situation than I do."
The image turned her way, and Hutch stepped into range of the scan so he could see her. Canyon kept her in view, but suddenly began speaking to his audience in a hushed, urgent tone. "This is Priscilla Hutchins, who was attacked last night by a killer plant. Priscilla, I wonder if you'd care to tell us precisely what happened."
"It grabbed me from behind," she said.
"What kind of plant was it?"
"Big." Hutch glanced over at Kellie. "August, I don't want to seem uncooperative, but time's pressing."
"I understand, Priscilla. And if you like, I'll get out of your way until we can find a more auspicious moment. We'd like very much to set up a live interview, though. At your convenience. If we could just sit and talk for a while. About your feelings. What it's like being on the ground under these circumstances." He put on an expression that was intended to be sympathetic. "Whether you're confident you'll be able to get clear before, you know—" He showed a lot of teeth, suggesting
he understood that he was being insensitive to their situation, but that his job required it.
"He's a jerk," Kellie said on a private channel. "Don't give him anything."
"Do what he asks," said Nightingale, also privately. "There's a lot in this for all of us. If we play our cards right. Why not cooperate with him?"
That had been Hutch's thought. She could end up talking to management groups for eight thousand a throw. Maybe hire a ghostwriter to do her memoirs. That wasn't bad. Her old friend Janet Allegri had recently published her account of the Omega mission, The Engines of God, and had made very good money.
And what the hell: Canyon had to make a living. Why should she make problems for him? Moreover, it would give them all something else to think about for a while. "Okay, August," she said. "We'll do it. Tonight. After dinner."
XX
That anyone could believe the human animal was designed by a divine being defies all logic. The average human is little more than an ambitious monkey. He is moronic, self-centred, cowardly, bullied by his fellows, terrified that others will see him for what he is. One can only assume his creator was in something of a hurry, or was perhaps a member of an Olympian bureaucracy. The more pious among us should pray that next time he does the job right. But we might in justice concede that there is one virtue to be found in the beast: he is persistent.
—Gregory MacAllister, Bridge with the Polynesians
Hours to breakup (est): 123
"Can we really do it?"
John Drummond nodded. He was actually on Wendy, virtually in the Star planning room. "Marcel, it depends on the altitude they can reach with the lander."
"How high does it have to go?"
"At least ten thousand meters. Below that, we can't hope to control events."
Beekman indicated his agreement. "The higher they can take the lander, the better our chances," he said.
"We have to know in advance," continued Drummond, "how high they can go so we can plan the insertion."
"We have no way to determine—"
"Marcel, it would be a considerable help."
"I don't really care how much help it would be. There's no way to find out. Assume they can make ten thousand. And proceed accordingly."
Drummond looked pained. "You're sure? We can't have them do a test run when they get to the lander? If we knew what we were dealing with—"
"We can't do a test run because to make the test valid, she'd have to exhaust the spike. That would mean a very hard bounce going down."
"How about a computer simulation?"
"The data stream from the lander is very likely going to be unreliable. Let's just make the assumption at ten thousand and get it done. Okay?" He was trying to keep the irritation out of his voice but not having much luck.
Drummond sighed. "This is becoming a speculative exercise, Marcel."
"Of course it is, John. We can do only what we can do. What about getting the shaft away from the assembly and aimed in the right direction? Can we do that?"
"Yes," he said. "We have to turn it around. I can't see that it'll be a problem. But it will be a delicate maneuver.
"You have only four vessels. One of them can pour it on—"
"The Evening Star."
"The Evening Star" said Beekman. "But it's still only four ships trying to wrestle a four-hundred-kilometer-long shaft onto a vector. Without breaking anything. That's the real risk. Put any strain at all on the shaft and it's going to snap and that'll be the end of the project. But we can do it."
"All right, then." Marcel felt better than he had since the quake. "Let's make it happen. John, I want you to help set up the timetable. We've got a couple of systems designers coming over with the people from the Star. Use them as you need them. Get Bill to coordinate with the AIs in the other ships." He looked over at Beekman. "How about our welder?"
"We've got one. Name's Janet Hazelhurst. She spent a few years doing orbital construction until she got married. Says she knows what it's about, but it's been a while and she'll step aside if we have anybody better. She claims, though, that she can do whatever has to be done."
"Do we have anybody better?"
"No, Captain, we do not."
"All right. Let's hope she's a good teacher. Assign forty volunteers to her and have her show them the fine points of welding. Get them started right away."
"Who's going to do the instruction on the e-suits?"
"Miles Chastain is on Zwick. He's a good man, and I'm sure he'll help. We'll get him over here right awa
y." Marcel checked his notes. "Gunther, we're going to need some clips to hold the net together. Do we have a metal worker?"
They had two. One was a retiree from Hamburg, the other a Chinese entrepreneur. Marcel brought them in and explained what was needed. Could it be done?
How much time did they have?
Three days. Tops.
Yes. It should be sufficient. But they would need help. Marcel assigned them a couple of world-class physicists as gofers.
And they would need metal. Lots of metal.
That could be a problem. Starships did not carry much expendable metal.
Bill broke in: "Captain, the people from the Evening Star have been assembled in the Bryant Auditorium and await your pleasure."
Marcel acknowledged. "Let's go say hello to our volunteers."
Within the hour, teams were going through Wendy, compartment by compartment, dismantling side panels from beds, wall sections, and anything else that was metallic. In the meantime, the retiree and the entrepreneur began to jury-rig their equipment. It was a challenge, but they would, by God, make it happen.
At about the time Beekman's bed was being taken apart, all four superluminals left orbit.
Canyon's commlink vibrated. It was Chastain. He brought the image up. The captain was seated in the cockpit. "August," he said, "in case you're wondering, we're headed out to the assembly. You might be able to get some good visuals."
"Yes," said Canyon. "I've done a few interviews on it. I'll tell you, Miles, I wish it had turned out to be an alien ship. It's a long piece of metal, but it's still just a piece of metal."
"I know. I've also received a request from Captain Clairveau on Wendy. They're still working on ways to bail out their people, and they want our help. So I'm putting Zwick at their disposal."
"Good," said Canyon, thinking how well that would play. UNN to the rescue. "But why do they need us? What do they want us to do?"
"I don't have the details." He glanced at the time. "There's a briefing in four minutes. I'll pipe it in. You might want to inform Emma."
Canyon nodded. However the scenario went, it couldn't help but translate into a huge boost in the ratings. Who out there would be so jaded as not to watch?
