Chindi к-3

by Джек Макдевитт

  THE MEMPHIS’S CARGO bay remained open, maintaining the standard quarter-gee. Bill would take that to zero gee when things started to happen. All the lights were on. The docking mechanism had been withdrawn into deck and overhead, so the space immediately inside the cargo door was clear of obstruction.

  George tied the restraining harnesses together to make a single large meshwork. Then he used cable to secure the four ends to the most convenient beams and frames he could find, creating a net in the center of the bay. It wasn’t pretty, but he thought it would do the job.

  When he was finished, he measured its length and width, its height off the deck, its position in relation to the cargo door. Satisfied, he told Hutch it was ready, then he laid out oxygen and blankets.

  “After he’s in,” he asked Hutch, “how do I close the door?”

  Her voice was crisp on the commlink: “Just tell Bill to do it.”

  IT HAD BEGUN to get cold, and Tor stood in his shorts and undershirt in the washroom. It was obvious that this was going to be a rescue utterly without dignity.

  “How are you managing?” asked Hutch.

  He looked down into the toilet. It was of course dry at the moment. “Okay,” he said. He’d unrolled the toilet paper, used the entire supply, scrunched it together, and put the whole gob down there.

  He stuffed his slacks into the shower drain, and used a gorgeous Ascot and Meer hand-sewn shirt, filled with what was left of the paper towels, to block the air vent.

  “I’ll never be able to wear them again,” he told Hutch, who laughed but didn’t ask for details.

  “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  Socks clogged the twin faucets on the sink. And he had a problem. The shower nozzle and the drains in the sink and shower. Three sites, but he was down to shorts and undershirt.

  Tear the undershirt in half, that’s the ticket. He removed it and tried, but it resisted. He pulled, twisted, summoned his adrenaline and tried again. He braced part of it underfoot and put all his weight into it, but it held. Strong stuff.

  He gave up and pushed it whole into the sink drain. His shorts proved just as tough, and he ended by using them to block the shower drain.

  All that remained was the nozzle. But he was out of clothes.

  “Tor? Time’s getting tight.”

  He remembered an old story in which a bunch of guys used their rear ends to block off an air leak in a spaceship, but he suspected the nozzle would get pretty cold pretty fast, and he didn’t want to need surgery to get unstuck from the fixture.

  He had a handkerchief!

  It was in a shirt pocket, so he dug the Ascot and Meer out of the vent, retrieved the handkerchief, and returned the shirt. He removed the shower nozzle and jammed in the handkerchief. “Okay, Hutch,” he said.

  THE FORWARD SECTIONS of the ship throbbed and writhed. In the mist that obscured the hull, Alyx could make out the beginnings of an arc, rather like a large malformed ear, forcing its way up out of the turmoil. Amidships a webwork had begun to form. It looked familiar, something she’d seen before, but she couldn’t pin it down.

  The spectacle was obscene. Her stomach churned much as the ship did, and she looked away, back toward Nick, still trying to punch a hole through the hull. Lights from the lander, reflected off the mist, played across him. He seemed to be caught in a spectral rhythm, gaining substance and losing it, all in sync with the lights and the clouds.

  “How’s it coming, Nick?” she asked. If he didn’t hurry, the metal would turn to mist in the glare of his lamp.

  “I’m almost through.”

  She thought about the onboard AI. It was not alive. She knew that. But nonetheless she would have liked to shut it down, turn it off, so she wouldn’t feel as if they were abandoning someone. She had considered mentioning it to Hutch, but Hutch had her hands full, and it was silly anyhow. Still—

  “Do we have him out yet?” George’s voice startled her. For a moment she’d thought it was the Wendy’s AI. The Wendy’s Bill.

  “Not yet,” Alyx said. “A couple more minutes.” She hoped.

  Hutch and Tor were talking back and forth. “Drains are secure.”

  “Cutting through the shelves.”

  “What’s up top, any idea?”

  The last was directed at Bill, who responded immediately: “Just wiring.”

  HUTCH CUT THE shelving with little resistance, freeing the flanks of the washroom from the bulkhead. Then she sliced through the deck, in front and on both sides.

  She had brought the spare e-suit and air tanks along in case something went wrong. If she misjudged and cut through somewhere and the compartment began to lose air, she would rip the door off and try to get Tor into the suit. That would be a frantic business at best, but it would give them a chance.

  All three drains were connected beneath the compartment. Hutch cut them and blobs of water drifted out. A single water pipe fed the facility, but she left that until last.

  She cut through the rear bulkhead on both sides, pushed her way into the storage bin behind the washroom, and sliced through the overhead and deck.

  “How we doing, Nick?”

  “I’m about two-thirds of the way done. Just give me a few more minutes,” he said.

  But the forward bulkhead was looking worse. Its gray sheen was moving as she watched. It looked cancerous.

  She cut the washroom free from its upper moorings and from the wiring. Only the water line held it in place. She looped the cable around the compartment’s four walls, then brought it over top and bottom, and secured it like a Christmas package. “Ready to go,” she told Tor. “Soon as we finish making the hole.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “It’s getting a little brisk in here, Hutch.”

  “Just hang on, Champ.” She retreated to the bulkhead, outside which Nick was working, paying out cable as she went. “Nick, beat on the hull for me, will you?”

  There was of course no sound in the airless room, but she placed her palms against the metal and tracked it easily to the section he was working on. “Okay, that’s good,” she said. “Stand clear.”

  “Hutch.” He sounded annoyed. “I’m almost through—”

  “Argue about it later. Go. I’ll take it from here.” She turned on the laser and waited. When he said he was out of the way, she sliced methodically into the metal. It blackened and sizzled and came away until she saw starlight. She worked with a will, enlarging the hole.

  Behind her, the forward bulkhead, like thick heavy syrup, began to spill into the room.

  The hole wasn’t big enough, but she was out of time. The sluggish gray-black mass that had been a solid wall floated toward the washroom.

  “Nick,” she said, “Back to you. Make it bigger.”

  “Hey! What’s going on?”

  She’d forgotten Tor was listening.

  “It’s okay,” she said. His teeth were chattering. “We’ll have you out of there in a few minutes.”

  “I’m ready,” said Tor, “any time you are.”

  She stole a glance at the creeping tide, at the dark mist drifting into the chamber through the space the bulkhead had occupied, and cut the water line. A torrent poured into the room. Unbound by gravity, it ricocheted everywhere. “Okay, Tor, we’re going.”

  She pulled the compartment free of whatever restraints remained, dragged it by sheer force toward the exit hole.

  She could see occasional flashes of light as Nick worked. “It’ll be a tight fit,” he said. And then, with a string of profanity, he saw and reacted to the tide. “What’s that?”

  “Keep cutting,” she cried.

  The washroom had heeled over, and she was pulling it out topside first. It crashed into bulkheads and cabinets and the deck and even the overhead, but there was nothing she could do about it. No time to slow down. Tor demanded to know what was happening, and she told him they were getting out, they were in a hurry, hang on as best you can.

 
The hole was maybe just big enough. Maybe. Nick finished and got out of the way as Hutch came through, dragging the thing in her wake, trying to keep it aimed straight. Directly in front of her were Alyx and the lander, nose in. Nick moved quickly to her side in an attempt to help, but he only got in the way. She lost her concentration and it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyhow, but the washroom was tumbling and it hit the bulkhead half-sideways. Tor delivered some profanity of his own. Hutch kept the line tight to keep the compartment from bouncing back into the sludge. Then Nick grabbed hold, rotating it, straightening it until she could pull it into the hole.

  It jammed about halfway. “It might come apart,” he said.

  No time to worry about that now. She didn’t even have the spare suit if it did. But the thing wouldn’t move. They tried together, planting their feet on the hull, but it was too tight.

  Hutch was about to use the torch again when Alyx waved to her to throw the cable. She whirled it over her head, Wild West style, and lobbed it in her direction. Alyx caught it on the first try and quickly secured it to the forward antenna mount, as planned. When she’d done that she got back inside.

  “Okay, everybody,” she said, “get clear. Bill, back out.”

  Forward thrusters fired and the lander backed away. The cable straightened. Tightened. And the vehicle stopped. “We’re stuck,” said Bill.

  “Give it more juice,” said Hutch.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, Bill.” She tried to keep her voice level. “Do it.”

  The thrusters fired again. Continued firing. Hutch crouched on Wendy’s hull, saying Come on come on, softly under her breath. The washroom squeezed down and started to break apart, but finally it came free.

  Hutch seized Nick and used the go-pack to get clear of the stricken ship. Moments later black gloop spilled out of the hole.

  TOR WAS COLD. He was floating in the box (he no longer thought of the compartment as a washroom), trying to hang on to the sink so he didn’t bang around too much. He’d caught enough of the conversation outside to scare him out of his pants, had he been wearing any. He’d drawn his legs up and rolled into a ball, trying to conserve his body heat. To make things worse, it was getting hard to breathe.

  Hutch reassured him. They were outside now, she said, and everything was going to be fine. All he had to do was be patient. Hang on. Her favorite phrase. Hang on.

  He said something back to her, Hanging, or Right, babe, or some other piece of stupid bravado. He didn’t want to say much because he didn’t want her to hear how scared he was.

  He knew what was happening, had visualized the box being dragged out into the vacuum, felt everything icing over, wondered whether the interior air pressure might not cause it to explode, dumping him outside, where he’d freeze like an icicle before anyone could do anything.

  The washroom was being pulled from the top, so he was still settled more or less on the deck, which was hard plastic disguised to look like wood. His lamp was still on, casting ferocious cones of light around the interior, picking out the showerhead, or his feet, or the door which had once led out into a room full of artifacts and breathing space.

  “Okay, we’re in good shape now. On our way to the Memphis.”

  On the way to Memphis. He tried to convert it into a tune. A song. In fact, there was such a song. But he couldn’t remember the lyrics. On the way, la-de-da, to old Memphis. Right, old was in there somewhere.

  If he got through this, he decided, he’d find a way to put it on canvas. Capture the washroom coming through the hole in the ship’s hull. Yes. He could see it clearly. Hutch leading the way, looking positively supernatural with those elfin features, and her e-suit providing an aura in the starlight.

  The air was thick and heavy, and he couldn’t get it into his lungs. The darkness weighed on him and began to creep in at the edges of his vision.

  “There’ll be a bump.” Hutch sounded desperately far away. “We’re using the lander to pull.”

  The fake wooden floor rose up and hit him. Gave him a good push. That was okay. Let’s hustle.

  HUTCH AND NICK watched as the lander grew smaller, headed toward the Memphis’s open cargo hatch. Bill was in charge now and he had to take it slowly because they needed a soft landing at the other end.

  “What do you think?” asked Nick.

  “He’s still breathing,” she said. “I think we’ll be okay.” Ahead of them the Memphis was lit up. The lander moved steadily toward it, trailing the washroom on its long tether.

  Behind her, another piece of the Wendy folded up and drifted off.

  TOR FLOATED IN the dark, barely conscious, shut into a remote corner of his brain. His lamp must have gone out. He had trouble remembering where he was. His breathing was loud and labored, and his heart pounded. Stay conscious. Keep calm. Think about Hutch. Out there in the starlight. He tried to imagine her naked, but the picture wouldn’t come.

  He clung to the sink. It was cold and metallic and cylindrical, and he didn’t know why it was important that he not let go. But he didn’t. It was his anchor to the world.

  The darkness was somehow darker and thicker than ordinary darkness. It was something behind his eyes, shutting him down, walling him off in a separate cave somewhere, as if he were no more than a witness, an observer, already a disembodied spirit vaguely aware of distant voices calling his name. The voices were familiar, belonged to old friends he hadn’t seen in decades, his father long gone, dead a quarter century ago in a skiing accident of all things, his mom who’d taken him for walks down to Piedmont Square to feed the pigeons. He’d had a small blue wagon, Sammy Doober it had said on the side, named for the comic strip character. Sammy with his fox’s nose and his balloon.

  Hutch.

  Her shining eyes floated in front of him. The way she’d looked four years ago at Cassidy’s. He remembered the way she had kissed him, her lips soft and urgent against his. And her breasts pressed against him.

  He loved her. Had loved her from the first time he’d seen her….

  An ineffable sorrow settled around him. He was going to die in here and she would never really know how he felt.

  ALYX SAT ALONE in the lander watching as the Memphis got bigger. She had tried to speak to Tor, to encourage him, let him know that they were close, and she’d heard something, but she couldn’t make out any words. She was terrified for him, and she wanted to tell Hutch that she thought Tor was in bad shape, but she didn’t dare use the circuit because she didn’t know how to switch to a private channel and she was afraid Tor would overhear her. So she called George instead, telling him—unnecessarily—to be ready.

  “Just get him here,” said George.

  That was Bill’s task, of course. The AI guided the lander, moving so slowly that Alyx wanted to scream at him, demand that he hustle it up.

  “Alyx.” Bill’s voice was calm, as though nothing unusual were happening. “Get ready to release him.”

  She grabbed her shears and went through the airlock, carefully following Hutch’s instructions not to lose contact with the hull at any time.

  It had surprised her that she found it so easy to go outside. When Hutch had first described the plan, she’d become frightened, and Hutch had looked at her until Nick assured her it was okay, she could do it. She’d realized it had come down either to her or George doing it, and Hutch wanted George on the receiving end because somebody was going to have to break open the box.

  When she’d originally gone outside, to wait for Hutch to throw her the cable so she could secure it to the antenna mount, she’d surprised herself with her own fearlessness. Things had been getting a little scary at the time, and Hutch threw her the cable, and she’d picked it off and tied it down like a champ.

  Now she was repeating the action, climbing up onto the cabin roof while the Memphis came closer. She dropped to one knee and glanced back at the washroom. It was pale green in the starlight.

  Washroom to the stars.

  “Alyx,” sai
d Bill. “When I tell you—”

  “I’m ready.”

  There was some play in the cable. She opened the shears, caught the cable between the blades, and waited.

  “Now,” said Bill.

  She pushed down on the handle. Tried again.

  The cable resisted.

  “Is it done, Alyx?”

  She briefly debated trying to untie the knot. But it would take too long. She summoned everything she had and squeezed again. The line parted. “Done,” she said.

  “Good.”

  Next she untied the remaining cable and threw it clear of the lander. “That’s strong stuff.”

  “Go back inside,” said Bill. “Quickly.”

  Alyx resented being ordered around by an AI, but she understood the need for haste. She turned, hurried back to the hatch, and climbed into her seat. The restraint harness slid down, the airlock closed, and she heard the hiss of incoming air. Then the seat pushed against her as thrusters fired and the vehicle changed direction.

  She tried to remember a moment anywhere in her life in which she’d felt so good about herself.

  GEORGE WATCHED THE box as it drifted toward him. It was an unseemly object, trailing pipes and cables and pieces of shelving. A last few ice crystals floated away. It had gone into a slow tumble, and he began to doubt that it would make it through the cargo door.

  Bill kept lights focused on it, from the lander and from the Memphis itself. George got out of the way.

  It was coming faster than he would have expected.

  He glanced back at the web he’d erected, reassuring himself it was secure.

  He’d been listening to the commlink and knew it had been several minutes since any intelligible sound had been heard from inside the box.

  Abruptly Hutch’s voice crackled through the silence: “George, are you ready?”

  “Standing by,” he said. “It’s coming in now. About thirty seconds away.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there as quickly as we can.”

  He watched it approach, watched it rotate slowly around its central axis. The lander was circling and coming back, and Hutch and Nick were off in the distance, near the Wendy, but they were coming, riding one of those rocket belts. They were big enough now that he could see them. See their lights anyhow.