Jack Mcdevitt - Engines of god

by David Geary

  "Frank, how deep is Seapoint?"

  "At high tide, which we are approaching, it's thirteen meters. Should be enough."

  Carson reported to Andi. She sounded frightened.

  The shuttle was running before the wave, close down on the water to facilitate measurement. "I just thought of some­thing," said Hutch.

  "What's that?"

  "The monkeys. Are they on the beach at night?"

  "They're going to have to worry about themselves, Hutch. But no, they aren't. Usually. Some come down, occasionally, after dark, just to watch the sea. When a study was done of them several years ago, it was one of the characteristics the researchers found most interesting."

  The Towers came up on the monitor.

  Behind them, the wave was a whisper barely audible over the roar of the sea.

  They wheeled through the Towers. The tide was out. Hutch remembered that big waves were supposed to do that, suck coastlines dry and then deliver the water back in.

  The wave rose, and mounted, and entered the shallows. It was not breaking; rather, the sea seemed to be hurling itself, dark and glittering and marble-smooth, against the ancient Towers and the rocky coastline beyond.

  Seapoint. Wednesday; 0320 hours.

  Radio and laserburst transmissions were relayed to Seapoint through a communications package mounted on a buoy which floated serenely on the surface directly above the cluster of sea domes. It was now forwarding the shuttle's images of the oncoming wave. Those images were displayed below on

  eleven monitors, in five different locations. But the one that had everybody's attention was located at the main diving port, a room of substantial size, with a large pool in its center. This was the chamber through which heavy equipment could be moved into the sea. It was advantageous under the present circumstances because there was no loose gear nearby, no cabinets, nothing that could injure anyone. Moreover, the pool was bordered by a handrail, to which they could attach themselves when the time came. There had been considerable discussion as to whether they wouldn't be safer seated in chairs with their backs to walls that faced the oncoming wave. But the sense that there might be a need to get out quickly overcame all other considerations.

  They had sealed off the pool by closing the sea doors, after testing once to determine that the weakest among them (thought to be Maggie Tufu, who thereby became irate) could open them manually.

  The atmosphere then became almost that of a picnic. The images of the oncoming wave revealed a disturbance so essentially moderate and quiescent that none could take it seriously. The men, for the most part, made it their business to look bored throughout the exercise, while the soft laughter of the women echoed across the pool.

  Nevertheless, Richard saw that neither the boredom, nor the laughter, was real. Stiff, somewhat unnerved himself, he strolled among them, trading uneasy banter. And, when it seemed appropriate, giving assurance he did not feel. "I've seen worse at Amity Island," he told Linda Thomas. It was a lie, but it made them both feel better.

  With several minutes remaining, the sub checked in. "No problem here," Tommy reported. He could not resist admit­ting that he had ridden over the top of the surge. If the sub had survived that, the wave couldn't be too serious.

  As it approached, all eyes followed it on the screen. The images were the standard shaded blues of nightlight, and there was no audio, which combined to dampen the effect that Hutch and Carson were experiencing from the shuttle. Maybe it was just as well.

  One by one, they took their places along the guardrail, used belts and lines to secure themselves to it, activated their energy shields, and began breathing from their airpacks. Richard watched the wave shut off the sky. Someone, Andi, noticed that the water level at the Towers had dropped.

  The wave charged across the last kilometer. White water showed along its crest.

  They could feel its approach in the bulkheads. They braced themselves, knelt on the deck, gripped the rail. Then the chamber shook, the lights dipped and went out, and the voice of the beast filled the night. The pool erupted and the screen went blank.

  Someone whimpered, and there was awed profanity. A second blow fell, heavy, immense, delivered by an enormous mallet.

  Richard was thrown against his belt and banged his ribs. Beside him, Linda cried out. Tri was somehow torn loose and flung into the water.

  But nobody was seriously hurt. The shocks continued, with generally decreasing fury, for several minutes. The lights came back. They were startled that it had been so severe after all, but relieved that they were all alive, and they started to laugh. It was nervous, tentative laughter. And Henry released his death grip on the guardrail, and gave them all a thumbs-up. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Congratulations."

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  They came in the spring of the year to tell me you

  were dead. They spoke of war and pride, and how you'd laughed

  at fear,

  And called my name. All the while the sea grew black and still. Now you lie in a distant land, far from the summer day When we left our tracks on the foamy sand— Yet in the deeps of the night You call my name, your voice in the roar of the tide.

  —Fragment from Knothic Hours

  Translated by Margaret Tufu Cambridge University Press, 2202

  10.

  On board Alpha. Wednesday; 0610 hours.

  During the course of an hour, three sea waves struck the Temple site. The first carried away the rear wall of the Tem­ple, blew off the roof, and destroyed the colonnade; the sec­ond, which was the largest of the three, demolished two of the Knothic Towers, and buried the Lower Temple; and the third ripped one of Seapoint's domes from its moorings and depos­ited it two kilometers inland. Several sets of living quarters and a holographic display center went with it. Perhaps worst of all (since the Temple and the Towers were down to their last few days anyhow), an avalanche of sand and loose rock blocked shafts and passageways throughout the excavation site. The military chapel disappeared in the debris.

  But they hadn't lost anyone. There were contusions and bruises to go around, and more discouragement. But they were alive. And Karl Pickens summed up one point of view when he suggested they would do well to take the hint and abandon the operation.

  Hutch, listening in the shuttle, agreed. She and Carson were coming in from another sweep of the area. They'd been all the way out to the impact site. The sea was covered with ice, but there were no more tsunamis coming. Carson sat wrapped in alternating moods of gloom and outrage. Henry sounded tired and washed out on the circuit, as if it didn't matter anymore.

  The floatpier was gone, of course. And Priscilla Hutchins flew above the last of the Towers.

  Melanie Truscott's message had been delivered.

  Art Gibbs and George Hackett met them with the sub, and they spent the next hour transferring cargo. Without the pier, the task was considerably more difficult. Midway through the operation they dropped a case, and watched it sink slowly out of sight. It was, of course, not beyond recovery, but there was no time to go after it. All in all, it was an awkward, slow business.

  George was surreptitiously watching Hutch, and she enjoyed his mild confusion when she talked to him. Amid the gloom generated by Henry's people, he alone managed to retain his good humor. "You do what you can do," he told her, "and forget the rest. No point getting ulcers over things you can't control."

  But there were moments when he seemed distracted, and he eventually confessed that he would have liked to see things end under better circumstances. "We're always going to wonder what's down there," he said. "These people lived here for thousands of years. It's a pity to just bury them."

  Hutch was silent.

  "We'll protest," said Art. "And that's all. And that's the problem with this outfit. Nobody here has any guts."

  "What would you suggest?" asked George.

  Art stared back at the young giant. "I don't know," he said wistfully. "I don't know. But if I were Henry I'd find something."
r />   "Don't get personally involved," said Carson. "It's a man­agement problem."

  "I think we should find a good lawyer and sue the bas­tards," Art continued. "They were negligent. At least. I don't know about anybody else, but I think I hurt my back." He grimaced in mock pain.

  "It wouldn't do any good," Carson said. He and George were doing the bulk of the work. They'd tied the two vehicles together, but there was still a lot of bumping and rolling. George was in the sub, passing containers to Carson. It was a hit-and-miss proposition at best, and Hutch was surprised they lost only the one.

  "Why not?" he asked. "It would show the world how Caseway and Truscott operate."

  "Nothing would come of it," said Carson. "They'd just blame some pilot way down the chain of command, and throw him to the wolves. Nobody at the top would get hurt."

  "But we've been mugged," said Hutch.

  "That's true," said George, who was tying down a contain­er. "And we know who did the mugging."

  "There should be a way to get at them," said Art. He looked out of place in the role of avenger. He was tentative, self-effacing, cautious—completely unlike the energetic egos one usually found in these remote comers of known space. It was almost as if he'd got on a bus one day in downtown Chicago, and had ended at the Temple.

  Hutch was thinking about the gang member Truscott had disarmed and killed in Newark. She wouldn't sit idly by and accept this kind of treatment.

  Other than the missing dome, the complex had suffered no major damage. Hutch knew that some leaks had sprung, that one of the smaller modules, housing the compartments used by Andi and Linda, had burst and filled with water. And she could see a couple of people dredging near the sub bay.

  She'd begun to wonder whether the drop had been a direct result of her conversation with Truscott. It was hard to draw any other conclusion.

  Damn.

  Henry's voice broke in on the common channel. "George? We need you at the site."

  George acknowledged. "Guess you guys will have to finish without me."

  Hutch felt a chill. "They aren't going to start mining again?"

  "Probably."

  "It's getting a little late," she said.

  Art looked at his watch. "Forty-three hours, and change."

  They reloaded the sub and returned to the surface. This time, they went a little farther from shore, seeking smoother water. Hutch recalled Alpha from its mountaintop, and guided it in alongside.

  Watching Eddie pass cargo across to Art was a funny scene. Neither was strong or adept, and there was a lot of whooping and finger-pointing and suggestions on how the other could improve his performance. Hutch had installed a Teflon deckplate from Wink in the shuttle hold, to ease the operation. Just put the container down inside the hatch, and slide it wherever you want. It worked well, and she was delighted.

  They finished up and were on their way back to Seapoint for more when Henry broke in again. "As you're aware," he said, "we've been cutting the evacuation pretty close. Good sense suggests we clear out now.

  "But most of you know we've found an object in the Lower Temple that appears to be a rotary printing press. It uses movable metal type, and the typeface are in place. Maggie was able to identify several Casumel C characters before the wave hit. Unfortunately, it is still in the Lower Temple. It won't be easy to get back to it in the time we have. But, (/ we can recover it, we might have an entire page of C text. I need not tell you what that means.

  "We are currently doing everything we can to reach the artifact. At the same time, I want to start moving people up."

  "Just a moment, Henry." It was a woman's voice. And she sounded unhappy. Hutch looked questioningly at Art.

  "Sandy Gonzalez," said Art. "She did most of the work for us on Oz."

  "What is it, Sandy?" Henry asked.

  "Mining under these conditions is too dangerous. Let's give it up and get out."

  "You won't be involved in it, Sandy."

  Wrong response, Hutch thought. Henry was supposed to be smart. Maybe he wasn't getting enough sleep. "I'm not just trying to save my own skin, Henry," Sandy snapped. "What I'm saying is, enough is enough. Call it off before somebody gets killed."

  "Okay." Henry showed no emotion. "Anybody else want to say something?"

  Another woman spoke up. The voice was familiar, but Hutch couldn't place it. "I wouldn't want to spend the rest of my life wondering what the hell that city on the moon is about, and knowing I might have been close enough to find out, and didn't try."

  "Linda Thomas," said Art. "She's very good. And very young. I wish I had her future."

  One by one, the others spoke. Even, finally, Frank Carson, from the shuttle. Hutch was surprised to hear him vote to cut their losses and leave. But the team was hopelessly divided, with some individuals arguing both sides of the question. Karl Pickens wanted to stay because he refused to be forced

  off, run out of town, but thought the Temple had been too severely weakened to go back in. "/ wouldn't want to go down there. And I don't think we should allow anyone to. Even if anybody's crazy enough to volunteer."

  That brought an irritated stir.

  Janet, who had already voted to stay, said, "I hope our watchword isn't safety first."

  "Richard?" said Henry. "What do you think?" Hutch won­dered whether they could see each other.

  "Not my call," Richard said in his most objective mono­tone. "Whatever you and your people decide, I'll support."

  No, goddammit, Hutch thought. Tell him to clear out. This down-to-the-wire approach leaves no room for error.

  They did not ask her.

  "Okay," said Henry, "for now, we'll play it by ear. George, take no chances." Hutch didn't like that very much. It was a non-decision, and they needed a little forceful leadership. "Meantime, we'll start moving the others out. If we don't make good progress in the chapel, we'll break it off in plenty of time." He was breathing heavily. "Eddie, how are we doing with the artifacts?"

  Eddie's voice was cold. "We're going to lose most of them. Maybe we should concentrate on saving what we have, instead of running around—"

  Since what they could save depended solely on the number of flights the two shuttles could make, and they were already operating at full capacity, Hutch failed to see how "concen­trating" would help. If Henry understood that, he chose to say nothing. "We will save what we can," he said smoothly. "Hutch, we're going to start hauling people as well. How many can you carry? Other than yourself?"

  "Four in Alpha. And you can put three passengers in the Temple shuttle."

  There were sixteen people, counting Richard and Hutch. "When's your next flight?"

  "In about two hours. As soon as we get loaded."

  "Okay. Take Maggie with you. And Phil." Those were the philologists. They could work as easily on Winckelmann as in the dome. "And Karl and Janet. I'll figure out the rest—"

  "I object," said Pickens. "I didn't say I wouldn't help. I just said it was crazy. That doesn't mean I want to duck out."

  Janet also demurred, and the "meeting" dissolved in con­fusion.

  Richard was waiting when they returned to the sub bay. He looked troubled, and drew Hutch aside. "We may have a problem," he said.

  "Tell me something I don't know. These people are going to kill themselves. I thought you were a fanatic."

  "Hutch, it's more than just the rush for this one last artifact. Henry and his people have built their careers around this place. And now, as they approach the payoff, someone wants to yank it away. You want the truth?"

  "Of course."

  "Henry's right. They should stay and get the printing press. Anything less is a betrayal."

  She was silent.

  He smiled gently. "I need you to do something for me. Do you know David Emory?"

  She knew of him. Had even met him once at a wedding. A rather prissy African with an Oxford accent. Emory's spe­cialty had something to do with extraterrestrial religions. He wrote books on the subject. "Yes," she
said. "I know him."

  "He's on Nok. I'd like you to get a message to him."

  "Sure."

  "About the discontinuities. I'd like to know whether these are random events, or whether there's a pattern of some sort. Maybe there's a planetary or social mechanism. Something biological, possibly. Something that activates periodically." He bit his lip, savoring his inability to get hold of the puzzle. "I'd like to know whether he's seen any evidence of a similar type of event on Nok."

  "Why don't you ask him yourself? Seapoint has an inter­stellar link."

  "No privacy. I'd rather keep it to ourselves for now."

  "Okay. I'll get it out from Wink."

  "Thanks. And ask for a prompt response."

  Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now I need to ask you something."

  "Sure."

  "Melanie Truscott."

  "What about her?"

  "What happens to her when this is over?"

  He got uncomfortable. "She gets promoted." His eyes drifted away from her. "I know how you feel, Hutch. But we'll lodge a protest. Kosmik will produce a report, send us a copy, apologize, and that'll be the end of it." He shrugged. "Maybe if someone had been killed—"

  Janet Allegri was pleased that Henry'hadn't given up on tunneling back into the Lower Temple, but annoyed at being among the first to be evacuated.

  Nevertheless, she did not complain. She returned to her quarters to pack. She had brought few personal possessions with her three years ago, but she'd managed to accumulate several artifacts. That wasn't legal, of course. Everything was supposed to be turned over to the Academy. But the Academy already had enough to fill a warehouse, and everybody else had taken a souvenir or two. It was more or less traditional.

  One, her favorite, was a sun medallion, so-called because of the rising solar disk and the inscription, Live for the light. She liked it because it sounded so human. She also had an inscribed urn, from the Late Mesatic Period, whose symbols no one could read; and a coin with a Quraquat image on one side, and a Colin bush on the other. Years from now, these mementoes would be among her most prized possessions. Something to remind her of two lost worlds: the Quraquat, and her own youth.