Chindi к-3

by Джек Макдевитт

  All the assurances he’d tossed off earlier didn’t seem so bright now. “When do you think that’s likely to happen?”

  “No way to know.”

  “Well, at least it’s downhill to the dome.”

  “Tor,” said Hutch. “Are you okay?”

  “I guess. Are you sure he’s dead? It’s hard to see out there.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “But you got Alyx?”

  “She’s on board.”

  He shut off his lamp and stood in the dark, clutching the ladder. The tilt seemed to have stabilized, and he thought the angle was shallow enough that he could navigate back to the dome. Which he was going to have to do shortly to replenish his air supply.

  After a while, the snow stopped coming down through the hatch, and the stars reappeared. There were three bright ones, a triangle, dazzling white, fixed in the center of the hole he had cut. Despite the gee forces, their stationary position created the illusion that he was not moving, not going anywhere, and Hutch could easily come pick him up at her leisure.

  “Tor, how’s your air?” Her voice was right next to him. It was whispery and somehow filled with passion, as he had imagined it should be, for him. Images of her soft skin, her lips, her crystal blue eyes, floated into his mind. Incredibly, in the vast dark interior of the chindi, going God-knew-where, he imagined her beside him, soft, pliable, reassuring.

  In a way he had never known her.

  His air was in fact getting low. He carried a six-hour supply in his tanks, and he’d been out a long time. But he didn’t want to leave the area of the exit hatch. Didn’t want to return to the depths of the chindi.

  “No way to pick me up after we get out of the Slurpy, huh?”

  “Not likely. Not as long as it’s accelerating.”

  “You can’t match velocity?”

  “You can’t get out of the hatch alive.”

  Beyond the exit, the dark sky looked placid. Hard to believe he couldn’t go outside. He took the wrench from his vest, climbed the ladder to within a half meter of the open hatch and threw it up. It slammed against the back side of the hatch, and literally vanished outside.

  “I think you have a point,” he said.

  “So you’re going back to the dome?”

  He looked into the darkness, down the corridor. “Yes.”

  “You do have enough to make it, right? Air?”

  “I have enough.” He switched his lamp back on. The dome was a long way. Toward the rear, all sort of downhill now. He eased off the ladder and took a couple of tentative steps, resisting an urge to charge forward, to take advantage of the down angle. In the light gravity it might have been possible. He was far more agile there than he would ever have been at home. But therein lay the danger.

  Anyhow, he had time.

  “I’ll be back for you, Tor. As soon as it goes to cruise.”

  If it goes to cruise. He imagined he could hear echoes down the wide passageways, and wondered whether his best bet after he refilled his tanks was to go looking for the pilot, to get to whatever passed for a bridge on this monster, and present himself. “Hello. My name’s Vinderwahl, and I seem to have gotten stranded on your ship. Terribly sorry. Do you think you could take me back? Or maybe drop me off somewhere convenient?”

  He listened to the fading conversation between Hutch and Nick, worried while Hutch fought the storm, listened to damage reports, sensors down, engine malfunction caused by overheating. He understood the futility of the search for George, of Hutch’s inability to see more than a few meters, of the swirling fury of the Slurpy. Innocent name for a blizzard of that magnitude. He heard and felt the clang when she collided with a piece of ice.

  He started down Main Street, moving from one door to the next. He was grateful for the rings, which provided something he could hang on to.

  Almost an hour and a quarter later he stumbled into the chamber that held the dome. It had slid to the left side of the room and lay braced against the wall.

  He hurried inside, through the airlock, and was relieved to see that it still had power. Everything not bolted down had piled up against the wall, chairs, table, food supplies, recording equipment. He turned off the suit and took a deep breath. Then he switched on the lights, dimmed them, and sat down on the deck.

  IT WAS HOPELESS. The winds had died and the storm collapsed, but the slurry and the snow continued to spread along the orbit the chindi had occupied. There was no sign of George. And there was really no easy way to stage a search. The sky was filled with slush. The Memphis used her sensors and scopes, but she was overwhelmed as the number of contacts went into the millions.

  Nevertheless, she kept looking. Despite what she’d told Tor about her certainty that he could not have survived, she stayed with it until well past the time when his air supply would have been exhausted.

  Throughout all this, Alyx sat quietly beside her, her usual ebullience subdued by events and painkillers.

  “Breaking off the search,” she told Bill and Nick at last. “I’m coming home.”

  Nick’s image disintegrated and re-formed and disintegrated again. Decent reception on the lander was going to have to await repairs. “I’m sorry, Hutch,” he said, after a long hesitation.

  “I know. We’re all sorry.” Where had she said that before? There was, she thought, no end to stupidity. She knew that the experts back home would say the data extracted from the chindi was invaluable, that it was worth a few lives if that was what it took. She could almost hear Sylvia Virgil’s brave words, “Lost in the pursuit of science,” or some such platitude. Virgil was always brave and eloquent in the face of other people’s tragedies.

  Was it worth it?

  The toll kept getting higher.

  No more, she promised herself. No more.

  “Bill,” she said, “activate the beeper.” She was referring to the tracking signal on the chindi.

  “We’ve already done that,” said Bill. “It’s loud and clear.”

  Alyx touched her arm. “Are you all right, Hutch?” she asked.

  She was fine.

  “Are we going to get him off?”

  “Yes. One way or another.”

  Bill popped back on-screen. “Mogambo’s on the circuit. He wants to talk to Tor.”

  “Tell him reception’s poor.”

  “Hutch? Are you sure?”

  “What’s the circuit time?” Round-trip time for transmission.

  “About ten minutes.”

  “Okay. Put him through to me.”

  “Before I do—”

  “Yes?”

  “The chindi has lifted out of orbit. We should know shortly where it’s going.”

  MOGAMBO’S ARISTOCRATIC FEATURES fought through the turbulence on her display, and it actually seemed to her that the picture improved considerably. Nothing gets in the way of this guy. “Hutchins. What is the status of the chindi group? What is happening?”

  “The thing is moving out. We tried to evacuate the landing party, but we lost George. At the moment, I have one with me and one stranded.”

  She settled back to wait for the return signal. Alyx gazed at the on-screen image. “He’s pretty intense,” she said.

  During a break in the storm she saw stars. And, briefly, Cobalt. Then Mogambo was back: “I’m sorry to hear about George. But we have to keep our eye on the objective. It’s absolutely critical that we not lose contact with the Ship.” His pronunciation capitalized the word. “If it gets away from us, it will be a disaster of major proportions.” Not to mention, she thought, that Tor is stranded on the damned thing.

  “My captain informs me that, if it jumps, it should be possible to follow it.” His picture broke up and re-formed, but the audio remained steady. “Are you in fact able to do that?”

  The lander broke out of the Slurpy. She searched the skies for the chindi. It was by then only a rapidly dimming star.

  “Probably,” she said. “We should be able to determine where it’s jumping to
. And we’ve attached a transmitter to the hull so we can track it.”

  She turned off the TRANSMIT and looked at Alyx. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Of him?” She studied the frozen image on the display. “He’s very serious.”

  “Yes, he is that.”

  “I wouldn’t want to spend a long trip cooped up with him. Give me George anytime.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Hutch said.

  “I know. I saw what happened. You did what you could.” Her eyes were glazed, and Hutch had to listen closely to hear. “How long’s it going to take to get Tor off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The air supply in the dome is dependent on power cells. Or one power cell, I don’t know which.” She looked worried. “He has a spare. I don’t know what kind of time limit…”

  “About six days to a cell,” said Hutch, gently.

  She nodded. “I’m going to sleep now. If that’s okay.”

  And she was out.

  Mogambo came back: “You sound uncertain about tracking the chindi. What’s the level of probability that we’ll be able to find it again?”

  How could she know? “We don’t have enough information at present, Professor. Once it jumps, we should be able to spot the destination.”

  When he came back, he looked grim. “Hutch, I hope you understand what’s at stake here. We can’t afford to let this thing get away from us. I’m assuming we’re still in touch with, uh, what’s-his-name? Camby? the artist? Anyhow, I want to be patched through to him.”

  “His name’s Kirby,” she said. “And may I ask why?”

  While she waited for the reply, she opened a channel to Tor. “How you doing?”

  “Okay. I’m back in the dome.”

  She could barely hear him. “Everything all right? Other than the obvious problem?”

  “Everything’s all right. I’ve got food, water, and air.”

  “And power’s okay?”

  “I’ve got exactly one day before I have to switch cells.” He went away for a moment. “Twenty-two hours, actually.” Which meant about a week total time left before power ran out.

  Hutch set a clock to keep track. “Okay. We’re watching the chindi. As soon as we figure out what it’s doing, I’ll get back to you. Meantime, Professor Mogambo wants to talk to you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Don’t know. Be careful what you agree to.”

  A CONVERSATION THAT breaks for ten minutes between responses takes a while. Hutch suspected that Mogambo wanted Tor to spend his remaining time doing as much exploring and reporting as possible. Before he got rescued. Or his air ran out.

  She was close to the Memphis now. Nick came back on the circuit to try to revive her flagging spirits, and then Bill appeared in a corner of her navigation screen.

  “It’s still accelerating,” he said.

  Hutch wondered how long the chindi would need to achieve jump status. The Memphis required about forty minutes for her fusion engines to power up the Hazeltines. But the chindi? With all that mass? Who knew? It might take a couple of days. “Do we know yet where it’s going, Bill?”

  “I think you’re going to get lucky. It looks like a local star. RK335197.”

  “Thank God. We can use a break.”

  “It’s going to wind up in the boondocks, though. Ninety-seven A.U.’s from the central luminary.”

  That was odd. “Are you sure they aren’t going somewhere else? Another star farther out?”

  “There’s nothing else along that vector, Hutch. Unless it’s leaving the galaxy.”

  “How far’s 97?”

  “Close. Forty-two light years.” Three days’ travel time.

  “All right,” she said. “As soon as I get back we’ll take off after it. Maybe we’ll get even luckier and it’s only going somewhere in this system. Have you looked into that possibility?”

  “Of course.” Bill sounded miffed. “If it’s got a local target, I can’t imagine what it is.”

  The launch doors opened for her, and she slipped in to dock. Then, taking advantage of the light gravity, she carried Alyx up to her quarters and put her to bed.

  As soon as she got back to the bridge, they set sail after the chindi.

  “HE WANTS ME to look for a way to disable it,” said Tor.

  Nick snickered.

  “How did he want you to do that?” Hutch asked.

  “Find the engine room. And carve it up with the cutter.” Signal clarity was getting weak. The chindi was pulling away from them.

  “Do you know where the engine room is?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t think he understands how big this thing is. I’d probably need a bus to get to the engines.”

  “Does he realize that you could wind up blowing up the ship?”

  “He doesn’t think cutting a few wires, or whatever, would constitute a serious danger.”

  “Shows what he knows.”

  “I tried to tell him the ship’s just too big to find anything like that. Even if I knew where to look.”

  “—And he said…?”

  “That I have an obligation to try. He says engines are big and they’re at the rear and how could I miss? Hutch—”

  “—It’s okay. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Whatever. I have no plans to cut wires on this thing.”

  “That’s prudent, Tor.”

  “Any idea yet where I’m headed?”

  “Yes, actually. If it goes where we think it will, it’ll be about a three-day flight. When it arrives, we’ll be right behind it and scoop you off.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”

  Still, why was the chindi so far off course? Ninety-seven A.U.’s out from the sun. That was twice as far out as Pluto was. And then some.

  “HUTCH, I HAVE calculated its jump point, assuming common Hazeltine architecture and adjusting for mass.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “Eight hours, seventeen minutes from now.”

  “Okay, Bill. Thanks.”

  “Do you wish to coordinate our own transition with theirs?”

  She thought about it, and decided there was nothing to lose. “Yes. Sure. We want to get this over as quickly as we can.”

  “Very good.”

  “Keep us in cruise for now.” It would be accelerating away from them at a substantial rate but there was no help for that. They’d be okay as long as they could keep it within sensor range. She signaled Nick. “You have the conn.”

  “Me? What do I do if something happens?”

  “Tell Bill to run.”

  She went down to her quarters and began composing a message to the Academy reporting George’s death.

  TOR SAT IN the dome and resisted calling the Memphis. He wanted very much to hear a human voice, but if he called over there, Hutch would answer up, and he wanted her to believe he was doing fine, didn’t need any help to get through this, wasn’t at all affected by the vast emptiness around him.

  He left one lamp on. He’d tried sitting in the dark, anything to conserve energy, and decided he’d lose his mind if he couldn’t see. He was still trying to come to terms with the loss of George when the commlink sounded.

  “How you doing?” Hutch’s voice, bright and optimistic. Almost. She wasn’t quite actress enough to carry it off.

  “I’m good. Can’t beat the accommodations here.” Outside his windows the chamber was of course pitch black. Darker than he remembered. “I keep thinking about George.”

  “Me too.” Her voice caught. She took a moment. “I hope he thought it was worth it.”

  He couldn’t miss the bitterness. She was blaming him. But he let it go. “If he hadn’t come aboard, hadn’t made the effort, Hutch, he’d have spent the rest of his life regretting it.” He thought about what he wanted to say next, hesitated, and continued: “He died doing what he wanted to do. It’s probably as much as anybody can ask.”

  “I hope,” she said. “But I�
��m getting to a point where too many people are dying doing what they want.”

  “Hutch, I’m sorry. For him. For you. For all of us.”

  “I know.” Her voice was softer.

  “The only thing I’m not sorry about is that I came. I’m glad to have been here for all this.”

  “Experience of a lifetime.”

  “Yes. And it’s been good to see you again.”

  “Thanks, Tor.”

  She was having trouble keeping her voice steady. Priscilla Hutchins wasn’t such a tough babe after all. “I wish things could have turned out differently, though.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I have to go. Got a few things to take care of.”

  “Okay.”

  “Once you make the jump, you should be in hyperspace a little less than three days. Assuming the same technology. You know all that.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “It’ll be easier to get around, because you won’t have to deal with the acceleration. But once you get where you’re going, expect some maneuvering.”

  “Okay.”

  “I won’t be able to talk to you while you’re in the sack.”

  “The sack?”

  “In hyperspace.” She never missed a beat. “After you come out on the other side, it’ll probably take us a while to find you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe a couple of days. Maybe even a little longer. Solar systems tend to be big.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anyplace.”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Tor.” And she signed off.

  You’re a sweetheart. It was the best he seemed able to get.

  HE REFILLED HIS air tanks and went for a walk, leaning against the acceleration. He knew the routine on superluminals. They accelerated for forty minutes or so, then the second set of engines would come on. You could always tell them because they had a whiny sound that you could hear throughout the ship. This thing had been running for almost three hours. Why hadn’t it jumped?

  He went down a passageway he hadn’t seen before, and he didn’t bother to give it a designation. He opened several empty chambers before finding himself in another hologram. He was on a strip of beach, with sunlight bright on the surf. But everything was frozen. Unlike the images he’d seen elsewhere on the ship, this was a still.

  The usual observers’ chairs were there, six to a side. He lowered himself into one.