The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  “On my way,” said Hutch. And to Carson: “That’s it for the pumps. We’ll have to switch to internal air.”

  “It’s too soon,” said Carson.

  “I know.”

  “Okay,” said Maggie. “As things stand now, we will use up the last of the shuttle’s air April eighth. Give or take a few hours. The breathers will carry us over to the ninth. The cavalry gets here two days later.”

  At best.

  Ship’s communications had switched over to a backup power cell. Beyond that, the vessel was dead.

  “Wink’s tanks are full,” said George.

  Hutch nodded. “That doesn’t help us without a working pump.”

  George, perhaps for the first time, saw things going terribly wrong. He looked pale. “Can we go manual?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” said Janet. “If we’re not going to survive this, I don’t want to die in here. Why don’t we launch, and get away from this mausoleum?”

  “We could,” said Hutch. “But if help comes, Wink will be a lot easier to find than the shuttle.”

  She too looked rattled.

  George’s eyes locked on Hutch. “There’s got to be a way.”

  “How about Kosmik?” said Maggie. “Quraqua’s closer than Nok.”

  Hutch pulled her knees up under her chin. “I requested help from them ten minutes after we got the response from Nok. They should have seen the original distress calls. And they’ve probably also seen Nok’s reply. Assuming best outcome, that they realized we were in trouble, that a ship was available, and that they dispatched it immediately after Nok backed off, they will probably arrive a little earlier than the Ashley Tee. But not by much. Travel time on the jump is eight days. They’ll need another day to find us after they get here. At least.”

  “We’d still be dead,” said George.

  Maggie had been drawing arcane symbols on her lightpad. “I’m not anxious to suggest anything radical.” She pronounced each syllable precisely, as if she were reading lines. “But we have a total of forty days of air to divide any way we please.”

  Carson’s eyes came into sudden, sharp focus.

  “I’m not recommending anything,” she said again. “But it’s something to think about.”

  Four people could last ten days. There would be a chance.

  She must have read Hutch’s expression. “I’m sorry. We don’t seem to be having any luck this time out,” she said.

  “There’s a possibility we haven’t tried yet,” said Carson. “The Monument-Makers. We know their address. Maybe we haven’t been asking the right people for help.”

  The antenna clusters did not respond. Hutch and Carson went out onto the hull and found what they had expected: the units had been scraped off in the collision. They jury-rigged repairs and installed a guidance system stripped from the bridge. They had brought out a portable transmitter and a booster, and tied everything together. The signal was prerecorded. It would be a simple SOS on the multichannel, centering on frequencies used by the Football. If there were aliens abroad in the system, they might not be able to read the signal, but it would clearly be artificial, and it would have to arouse their curiosity. And, maybe, bring them running. These were desperate measures, and no one had any real hope they would succeed. But it was all they had left.

  They looked out across the same schizoid sky that one found all along the edge of the Orion Arm: a tapestry of stars to port, and a black river to starboard. Across the river, they could see the glow of the far shore.

  “Ready?”

  Carson’s voice shook her out of her reverie. She activated the transmitter.

  Carson nodded. “Okay. I hear it.” Above them, light from the open shuttle bay hatch illuminated the underside of the A ring.

  She tucked her equipment into a pouch. Carson had straightened, and stood watching the constellations rise and set around the curve of the ship. Silhouetted against the moving stars, he should have been a heroic figure. But he wore a white pullover with a little sail on the breast pocket, and a pair of fatigues. Despite his surroundings, he looked like a man out for a stroll.

  Through the entire operation, her mind was on Maggie’s arithmetic. Four people might make it.

  That evening, Hutch sat up front watching the communication lamps on the main console. Distracted, discouraged, frightened, she felt overwhelmed, and was unaware she wasn’t alone until she smelled coffee beside her.

  Maggie.

  “You okay?” Maggie’s voice was controlled. Deliberately calm.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Me, too.” She had something to say, but Hutch knew she’d get around to it in her own good time.

  They stared out into the dark bay. “The Monument-Makers know about us by now. If they exist.” Maggie held her cup to her lips.

  “That’s true.”

  “You know this is the first functional artifact we’ve found. Anywhere.”

  “I know.”

  “This is a historic trip.” Another pull from the coffee. Maggie was nervous. “People will be reading about us for a long time to come.”

  Hutch didn’t think she would look so good. She would rank right in there with the captains of the Titanic and the Regal.

  “You ever been in serious trouble before?” asked Maggie. “Like this?”

  “Not like this.”

  “Me, neither.” Pause. “I don’t think we’re going to come out of it.”

  Hutch said nothing.

  Maggie’s eyes shaded away from her. “I can understand this has been harder on you than on the rest of us.”

  “It hasn’t been very easy on anybody.”

  “Yeah.” Her face was masked in the shadows. “Listen. I know you’re blaming yourself.”

  “I’m okay.” Hutch’s voice shook. Tears were coming. She wanted to tell Maggie to go away.

  “It isn’t anybody’s fault.”

  Maggie’s hand brushed her cheek, and it was more than Hutch could stand. “I feel so helpless,” she said.

  “I know,” said Maggie.

  Janet Allegri, Diary

  April 2, 2203

  This is an odd time to start a diary. I’ve never done it before, never even considered it, and I may be down to my last few days. Still, I watch Maggie writing into her lightpad every evening, and she always looks calmer when she’s finished, and God knows I’m scared silly and I need to tell somebody.

  I feel as if I should be doing something. Writing a will, maybe. I’ve neglected that, but I can’t bring myself to begin it. Not now. Maybe it’s too much of an admission.

  I should probably make some recordings. There are people I need to say goodbye to. In case. But I’m not ready for that yet either.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about my life the last few days, and I have to say that it doesn’t seem to have had much point. I’ve done well professionally, and I’ve had a pretty good time. Maybe that’s all you can reasonably ask. But tonight I keep thinking about things not done. Things not attempted because I was afraid of failing. Things not got around to. Thank God I had the chance to help Hutch throw her foamball. I hope it gets out. It’s something I’d like to be remembered for.

  (No second entry to the “Diary” is known to exist.)

  We will have to pitch somebody over the side.

  Hutch had one of the divans that night, but she remained awake. If it had to be done, then ’twere well it were done quickly. And, though she shrunk from the necessity, though tears rolled down her cheeks, and cold fear paralyzed her, she understood well enough the ancient tradition: save her passengers, at whatever cost to herself.

  Without her, they had a chance.

  Every moment she continued to breathe, she lengthened the odds against them.

  Midway through the night, she found herself back in the pilot’s seat, unsure how she had got there. Outside, the bay was black. Silent. Dimmed lights from the cockpit threw a glow across one of the cradle
bars. Snowflakes drifted through the illumination.

  The ship’s air supply was freezing.

  Do it now. Get it over with. End it with dignity.

  Alpha had two air tanks. One was full, the other had already dropped off by an eighth.

  Maybe she should wait until morning. Until her head was clear. Maybe then, somebody would find a way to talk her out of it. Maybe someone else would volunteer.

  She shook the idea away.

  Do it.

  A pulser bolt would end it quickly.

  She got up, opened the storage compartment behind the rear seats. Two pulsers gleamed in the half-light. They had orange barrels and white stocks, and they were not too heavy even for a woman of Hutch’s size. They were used primarily as tools, but had been designed so they could double as weapons.

  She picked one up, almost casually. She charged it, and when it was done, and the little amber light pinged to green, she set it on her lap. Bright metal and black handgrips. She raised it, not intending to do it now, just to see how it felt, and pressed the muzzle beneath her left breast. Her index finger curled round the trigger. And again the tears came.

  Do it.

  The drifting snow blurred. Be careful. If you make a mess of it, you could slice a hole through the shuttle. Kill everyone else too.

  She realized suddenly that would happen anyway. The weapon had no setting low enough to ensure the vessel’s safety. She would have to go outside into the bay to do it right.

  George, where are you?

  She put the weapon down.

  They had talked about their options before the lights went out. By now everyone understood that four people had a good chance at survival. And five had none. Hutch had said little. Carson took the moral high ground: I don’t want to be rescued at the expense of seeing someone else die. No one disagreed, but she knew what they were really thinking. Really hoping.

  Maybe they would get lucky: maybe the SOS would bring the Monument-Makers; maybe they could sleep a lot and use less oxygen. If anyone harbored resentment against Hutch, there was no hint. But she felt the weight of their eyes, of the occasional unguarded inflection.

  Janet suggested a lottery. Write everybody’s name on a piece of paper, put the pieces in a box, and draw one.

  They looked guiltily at each other. And George’s eyes had found Hutch, and she’d read what was in his mind: Don’t worry. It won’t come to this.

  And Maggie: If we’re going to do it, we need to get to it. This is a window that’s going to close fast. And then two of us will have to go.

  In the end, they postponed the discussion until morning.

  But there was no way Hutch could face that tribunal. She pushed herself from her chair, picked up one of the Flickinger harnesses, sealed off the inner cabin, cycled the air out, and opened up.

  Snow flakes floated before her eyes. Not snow flakes, really. Frozen atmosphere. The temperature had dived further, faster, than they had expected.

  Holding the pulser, clasping it close, she stepped out of the shuttle. The deck crunched beneath her magnetic boots; some of the flakes clung to metal surfaces. It would have been easy to imagine she was back home, beneath a heavy sky, the white ground cover extending off into the dark.

  She used her remote to seal the cockpit. Lights blinked on and off, signaling the return of heat and air.

  Goodbye.

  She crossed the bay. Behind one of the storage containers would be best. Somewhere out of the way. Good form. Don’t want to be lying out in plain view. She managed a grin.

  Equipment lockers and overhead struts and consoles retreated into the dark swirl. She turned on her wrist lamp, and kept its beam low. Her imagination carried her into the Pennsylvania woods where she had played twenty years before.

  There were no stars, and the storm pressed down on the trees, heavy, and wet, and quiet.

  She moved slowly across the deck, and stopped behind a row of storage cabinets. Here.

  Just pull the trigger.

  Don’t damage the Flickinger harness. Or the air tank. Stay away from the chest. Head is best. Maybe she should kill the energy field. It wouldn’t stop the pulser beam, but it might deflect it.

  The snow drifted through the lamplight.

  She looked at her wrist controls and raised the weapon.

  Push the button, pull the trigger.

  Snow.

  Snow!

  The idea washed over her. Yes. She held both hands out to the flakes. They swirled and danced. Some landed on her palm. They did not melt, of course, but remained white and soft against pink flesh.

  Yes!

  A few hours later, Hutch and George came outside and opened the shuttle bay doors. (Whenever they touched, their fields flashed.) Since all other partitions and hatches and doors throughout Wink were already open, whatever remained of the starship’s heat escaped quickly into space.

  It was a glorious day, and Hutch loved everybody. She did a pirouette as they walked back toward Alpha, bringing Carson’s admonition that she be careful, zero gravity, magnetic boots, and all that.

  George noticed her tracks of the morning, prints that seemed to go nowhere. He frowned and looked at her darkly, but asked no questions.

  And while Hutch, in later years, often described herself as having been monumentally obtuse on the Beta Pac flight, she never told anyone she had been outside the shuttle. In her own mind, she was never sure whether she would actually have pulled the trigger.

  Three days later, when the shuttle’s starboard air tank had been exhausted, Hutch brought the port tank on line. Everyone except Maggie (they had by now established a policy that someone stay with the shuttle at all times) picked up whatever empty containers were available, and advanced on Wink’s maintenance section. They used buckets and bowls and plastene housings. They took frames off consoles and uprooted lockers and hauled everything back and set it down before the three main starship air tanks.

  Hutch chose the middle one, and dwarfed by the installation, took up a position at its forward end, where the connection valve to the recyclers was located. “Everybody stand back,” she said. “There’ll be some pressure here.” She took a pulser out of her tool belt and aimed at the base of the connection, in close to the tank. With a sense of considerable satisfaction, she pulled the trigger. A yellow beam ignited, and sliced through the metal. White mist spouted and formed a pale cloud.

  “That it?” asked Carson.

  “Let’s hope so.” Hutch walked around to the side of the tank and pressed the firing stud again.

  George eased in beside her. “Hold it a second,” he said. “If we didn’t get rid of all the pressure, this thing could explode in your face.”

  She nodded. “We should be all right.”

  He reached for the device, but she held it away from him. “Let me do it,” he said. “You stand over by the door.”

  “Forget it. Back off, George.” She pulled the trigger.

  The beam touched the plastene, which bubbled and began to peel away. Hutch watched with equanimity. It was going to work.

  She refocused the pulser, and fired again. The tank hissed, and a long split appeared. She cut it wider, and someone put a light to it, into it.

  It was filled with heaps of snow. Frozen atmosphere. The snow was blue-white, and it sparkled and glowed.

  They filled their containers and returned to the shuttle bay and passed them into the Alpha through the cockpit. They dumped the snow into their empty starboard tank. When they had measured out enough, they closed the tank. Several containers remained on the outside deck.

  Then they had a party.

  And when it was over, and they thought everyone else was asleep, George and Hutch went up to the cockpit and took one another for the second time.

  Of course, everybody knew.

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  I sailed up a river with a pleasant wind,

  New lands, new people, and new thoughts to find;

  Many fair lands and headla
nds appeared,

  And many dangers were there to be feared;

  But when I remember where I have been,

  And the fair landscapes that I have seen,

  Thou seemest the only permanent shore,

  The cape never rounded, nor wandered o’er.

  —Henry Thoreau

  from A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

  (Copied into his notes by George Hackett, April 5, 2203.)

  20.

  In the vicinity of Beta Pacifica. Friday, April 8; 2110 hours.

  Melanie Truscott came to the rescue on the fifteenth day after the collision. She arrived in the Catherine Perth, a sleek new transport, and dispatched a shuttle to pick them up.

  The transfer craft was one of the new Trimmer types, designed primarily for hauling heavy equipment. Because it was too big to enter Wink’s bay, the pilot brought it alongside the main door, where they rigged up a cable. No one was sorry to leave. Maggie, on her way out, commented that it was a good thing they hadn’t had to depend on the locals.

  The shuttle pilot was a weathered, middle-aged man, jaunty in Kosmik green. He waited in the cargo hatch, grinning and shaking hands with each of them as they came aboard. “Good to see you. You folks okay?” His voice had a vaguely Midwestern accent. “Jake Dickenson. Let me know if I can do anything to help. Coffee up front.”

  When they were all in and belted down, he asked their names, and recorded them on a lightpad. “Only a short flight,” he said, tucking the pad under one arm, and retreating to the cockpit. Hutch was trying to pick the Perth out of the starfield, and having no luck, when they pulled away from Winckelmann.

  They disembarked a half-hour later, and found Harvey Sill waiting. Sill wore an open-necked white shirt two sizes too small. He looked not quite as tall as he had on Hutch’s overhead monitor. But in every other way, he was bigger. There was something of the rhino, both body and soul, about him. His voice was big, and he oozed authority. He made no effort to hide his disgust at being called out to rescue incompetents.

  He delivered a perfunctory greeting to Carson and Janet, whom he knew, frowned at Hutch as if he recalled having seen her but couldn’t remember where, and ignored the others. “Please come with me,” he growled, and strode off.