Engines Of God к-1

by Джек Макдевитт

  "But you can't do this alone."

  "No. I can't."

  "I wouldn't miss it. The only real problem I can see is that we won't be able to brag about it afterward."

  Hutch was feeling pretty good. "It's a small price to send Melanie Truscott a message from the downtrodden."

  "Can we really do it?"

  "Let's find out."

  She cut gravity, and they went to the shuttle and retrieved the two barrels of poly-6. They hauled them back to No. 2 hold and put them in the middle of the deck, which is to say,

  centered over the cargo doors. Next Hutch went back for the connector hose and gun.

  Now that she was committed, Janet showed no hesitation, had no second thoughts. Good woman to have at your back, Hutch thought.

  "We have to have something to start with," Janet said.

  Hutch had the ideal answer. "Sit tight," she said. She went up to A ring, to the rec locker, and got one of the medicine balls.

  Janet broke into a wide smile when she saw it. "The very thing," she said. She had connected the hose to each of the barrels and to the gun.

  Hutch put the ball down and stepped back. She eyed the dispenser. "Would you like to do the honors?"

  "Delighted." Janet pointed the instrument at the medicine ball. "Just what the doctor ordered," she said wickedly, and pulled the trigger.

  White foam spurted out, coating the deck and the ball. The ball rolled away. "This might take a while," she said.

  "Not once we get started."

  The ball lost its roundness quickly, and became an uneven, white chunk of hissing foam.

  The object expanded as a natural result of mixing the polymer content in one barrel with a water-activated isocyanate in the other. It was designed, once it had set, to resist extreme temperature changes.

  They took turns, and learned to back off occasionally to let the chemical dry.

  It got bigger. Even when they weren't drenching it with fresh spray, it grew.

  It grew to the size of a small car. And then to the size of a garage. And they kept pouring it on.

  It got so big they could not reach the top, and they brought over a container to stand on. The thing had gone lopsided, long and wide rather than high. Bloated at one end. "It looks like a dead whale," said Janet.

  Hutch fired again. "Born to the poly gun," she said, laughing.

  "The thing's a monster!"

  When the stream finally sputtered and faltered, pride illuminated their features. "It's magnificent," said Janet, ceremonially flinging the gun away.

  "I wouldn't want to have to deal with it."

  "Exactly what I was thinking."

  Hutch spoke softly: "Never monkey with the Pimpernel." They shook hands. "Okay. Phase two. You stay here. I'm going up to the bridge."

  Quraqua floated overhead, hazy in the sunlight. There was no moon.

  Melanie Truscott and her space station were on the far side of their orbit. Hutch scanned for Kosmik's two tugs. She found one. The other was probably down among the snowballs, where it would be hard to distinguish. It wouldn't matter: even if it was in the neighborhood of the space station, things were going to happen too fast.

  Truscott had no means of independent propulsion. No starship was docked.

  Hutch fed the station's orbital data into the navigation console, scanned the "torpedo" — how that word tripped across the tongue—computed its mass, and requested an intercept vector. The numbers came back. With a minor correction, the torpedo could be targeted to complete seven orbits and hit the station on its eighth. In twenty-one hours.

  She sat back to consider potential consequences. Last chance for a no-go. Once the thing was launched, she would not be able to change her mind without giving away the show. How might things go wrong? Lawsuit? Heart failure on someone's part?

  She saw again the wave surging in, black and cold. And the last Tower. And Karl and Janet, trailing bags like refugees.

  She opened the ship's intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be making a minor course correction in three minutes. You'll want to strap down. Please acknowledge."

  "Karl here. Okay."

  She locked in the new course.

  "I need a little time." That was Marcotti.

  "Phil, we're going in three minutes, ready or not." She checked her power levels.

  "This is Maggie. Ready when you are."

  She opened a private channel to Janet. "All set?"

  "Yes." The word had a slight echo; Janet was inside her Flickinger field. "How fast will it be going when it hits them?"

  "Seven thousand, relative to the station. Impact will occur at seventeen minutes past eight, Temple time, tomorrow evening."

  "Seven thousand klicks is pretty fast. Maybe even a chunk of foam will do some serious damage."

  "It'll bend a few things," she said, "and pop some rivets. But they'll see it coming, and they'll either get off the station or button up. They'll be fine."

  "Okay. What next?"

  "Course change." She switched channels. "Phil?"

  "Almost ready," he said.

  "Good. Please strap down."

  Moments later he was back. "Okay," he said. "I'm all set."

  She activated the intercom. "Movement in one minute." She engaged the «Execute» function, and watched the seconds drain away.

  "Where are we going?" asked Maggie.

  "Nowhere," said Hutch uncomfortably. "It's just a routine maneuver." She was a poor liar.

  Thrusters kicked in, and the Winckelmann rose to a higher orbit, and changed its heading by a few degrees. When it was over, Hutch issued the stand-down. Then she switched back to Janet's channel. "Everything all right?"

  "So far. It rolled a little, but it's still over the doors."

  "Going to zero-gee on your deck."

  "Okay. I've begun to depressurize."

  The B ring slowed. And stopped.

  Hutch watched the monitor. The torpedo rose.

  "Good show," she said. She already knew that she'd break their agreement to say nothing. She would tell Richard. This was just too good to keep to herself. He'd be angry, but eventually it would become a joke between them. And years from now it would be the bright shining moment in this period of general despair. If the Academy was being forced out, it would go down with all flags flying.

  "It's still over the doors. I'm going to open up now."

  "At your leisure."

  "Doors are opening."

  "Hutch?" A new voice. Karl's.

  "Yes, Karl?"

  "Can I get access to a twelve-by?"

  A wall-length monitor. "Yes. In Three A." That was the auxiliary bridge. "But stay put for a couple of minutes. Okay? We're doing routine maintenance."

  "Doors are open," said Janet. She was inaudible to the others.

  "Okay," said Karl.

  "I'll tell you when." Hutch broke away to Janet: "Clearance?"

  "Looks good."

  "All right. Here we go."

  Because ring rotation simulated gravity, the decks were at right angles to the ship's axis. The cargo doors, therefore, opened off the side of the ship. The torpedo's exit would be to starboard. Inside Main Cargo, it was already on course. All they needed to do was remove the ship.

  Hutch aimed the thrusters to take the Wink to port, and fired a light burst. And again. "Maneuver complete," she told Janet.

  "Doing fine. The torpedo has begun to descend." From her point of view, it was leaving through the deck.

  "Still have clearance?"

  "Enough. It'll be outside in about thirty seconds."

  "Make sure you don't go out with it."

  "Hutch," she said, "I believe we've just had a baby."

  Priscilla Hutchins, Journal

  Tonight, for the first time in my career, I have omitted a significant item from a ship's log. It is an offense that, if detected, would result in the loss of my license.

  This whole business was probably a bit off the deep end. But I couldn't resi
st lobbing something back at them. If in the end I am disgraced and run off, it will have been for a good cause.

  Wednesday, June 9, 2202

  Thursday. 0854 hours.

  The descent into the Lower Temple was filled with silt and rock. George Hackett, whose specialty was submarine excavation, had examined scans of the area, and vetoed proposals to dig a parallel shaft. "Safer," he'd admitted, "but too time-consuming."

  So they'd braced everything they could, sucked out the loose sand, and cut through the stone. They got down to the side tunnel in good order, but it too had collapsed. Richard Wald, doing his tour as operations officer, was watching when he got a call from Janet on board Wink.

  "I have something for Henry," she said.

  "He's in the Temple. You want me to patch you through?"

  "Please. You should listen in."

  The mission director was a murky image wielding a particle beam projector. That was another aspect of this effort that scared the hell out of Richard: the experience level of the volunteer help. Sending Karl up to Wink with the first group had been a mistake. Karl, Richard had heard, was a master at tunneling.

  Henry's homely features appeared. "What is it, Janet?"

  "The Field Report is in. Have you by any chance seen it?"

  "No. Truth is, I've been a little busy." He sounded annoyed.

  "Okay. You're going to want to take a look at the extraplanetary survey from Nok. Section four delta."

  The Field Report was issued monthly by the Academy. It was an update on current missions and future projects. Richard had found it and was bringing it up on his screen.

  "Janet, please get to the point."

  "They've discovered four rock cubes. In orbit."

  Richard saw it. My God. "It's all connected," he blurted out. This was wonderful. Inakademeri—Nok—was itself a moon, circling the ringed gas giant Shola. The cubes were in the same orbital plain as Shola's rings and the rest of the bodies orbiting the central world. Early analysis suggests they once occupied equidistant positions. They are of identical dimensions, each roughly 2.147 kilometers on a side. And the Noks, like the Quraquat, had never been in space. What in hell was going on?

  "What do you think, Richard?" Henry asked. The sound of his name startled him.

  What did he think? Right angles again. That's what he thought.

  Later, Maggie told him about the horgon. "Maybe," he said, "we can get by without reading the inscription."

  "In what way?" Maggie was speaking from one of the terminals on Wink's bridge.

  "AH those squares and rectangles. And two round towers."

  "With slanted roofs."

  "Yes. My point, exactly. Oz has to be a direction finder."

  "We've thought of that too."

  "How sure are you that horgon is actually in the inscription?"

  "Reasonably sure, Richard. I wish I could give you more. But I just have no way to check it."

  "The round towers are unique. Their roofs are not flat, like every other roof in Oz. They incline, directly away from the center of the city. They're aimed at the stars. What could their purpose be other than to serve as markers, to designate lines of sight? Draw a line across each of those rooftops, from the lowest point to the highest—which is to say, from the precise mathematical center of Oz—and extend them into space. At the angle of the roof's inclination."

  "You're thinking that there might have been a star associated with the horgon—"

  "Like the Dog Star."

  "Yes. But if it's true, / don't know about it. And I don't know who would."

  "Dave Emory might."

  "Maybe." She still looked puzzled. "If it's that simple, why build all the rest of it? Why not just make the towers?"

  "I suppose," said Richard, "you could argue they wanted to be sure the towers weren't overlooked."

  "But you think there's more—"

  "Oh, yes. There's more." No doubt about that. Unfortunately.

  Thursday, June 10, 2202 Dear Dick,

  .. The discovery of the cube moons has had an unsettling effect. Yesterday, we were of two minds about recovering George's printing press. Today, with the link between Quraqua and Nok established beyond doubt, everybody wants to take whatever risk is necessary to get the damned thing. That kind of unanimity makes me uneasy. Even though I agree.

  The refusal of the bureaucrats at Kosmik to budge on the matter of time is nothing less than criminal. I've been in touch with the commissioner, but he tells me nothing can be done. He points out, quite rightly, that no one, including me, has been able to get Caseway to listen to reason.

  History will damn us all….

  Richard

  — Richard Wald to his cousin Dick Received in Portland, Oregon June 30

  12

  Quraqua. Thursday; 1950 hours

  Hutch took Andi, Tri, and Art and another load of artifacts to the ship; and Carson carried Linda Thomas and Tommy Loughery. It was Carson's last delivery. On his return to the Temple, Henry preempted him for the tunneling effort. Eddie dissolved in apoplexy, but nothing mattered anymore except the printing press.

  There was now a lot of help on Wink. Hutch could unload quickly, but the time saved was negated when she had to replace a fused pumpboard. A good engineer might have handled the problem in twenty minutes, but for Hutch it was a struggle. In-transit maintenance and repair was a skill pilots seldom needed, and it had never been her strength.

  She started back down in Alpha as soon as she finished. But she'd lost her window by then, and faced a long flight. By the time she glided in over the Temple site, the torpedo was homing in for the last stage of its run against Kosmik Station.

  The difficulty and danger of loading without the floatpier had by now forced them to find a harbor. Eddie had located a rock shelf, sheltered from the tide, but at a considerable distance from Seapoint. The water was deep enough for the sub, and the currents were relatively tranquil.

  Hutch was watching a telescopic view of the space station relayed from Wink, and she was monitoring their communications. Traffic patterns showed nothing unusual. No sudden bursts to the tugs, no change in routine, no upgraded precedence. They had not seen it.

  Below, Eddie and the sub were waiting. Eddie had no help because everyone else was either on the tunnel operation or on Wink. Several dozen containers were stacked on the shelf, and Hutch suspected Eddie had done it all. She blinked her lights at him. Poor bastard. In the crunch, they had left him alone.

  How could Truscott's people not yet have picked up the torpedo? Answer: they're not looking. She detected no short-range sensor activity. They were ignoring the regulations. Damn. If the thing came in unnoticed, the whole point would be lost.

  Janet, speaking from Wink, asked if everything was okay.

  "Yes. Descending on Eddie's harbor." They carefully avoided discussing, on an open circuit, what was really on their minds. They'd debated making up a code, but discarded the idea as too dangerous.

  Their eyes met, and Janet's excitement threatened to bubble to the surface. "Everything quiet here," she said. Translation: she saw no activity either.

  Three minutes later, Alpha set down precisely as Janet, on their agreed-upon schedule, opened a channel to the orbiter, and patched Hutch through.

  Harvey Sill's beefy frown formed on the screen. "What is it, WinckelmannT'

  "This is Hutchins. Sorry to bother you, but you might have a problem."

  He angled his head so he could look at her through half-open lids. "What sort of problem?"

  "Are you scanning short range?"

  "Of course we are." He looked up, away from her. Did something to his console. Spoke to someone.

  "One of your snowballs may have got loose. Check to the northeast, out at about twenty-five hundred kilometers."

  "Hang on, Winckelmann." He sighed. There was a fair amount of pleasure in listening to his contempt change, through not so subtle variations, to concern, and then to dismay.

  "I'm surprised yo
u don't maintain a search," she said innocently. "It's a violation."

  "Son of a bitch." His voice went up an octave. "Where the hell'd that come from?"

  She shrugged. But he wasn't watching her any longer. He reached forward, past the screen. "Goddammit, Louise." He punched keys, and jabbed an index finger at someone. «There» he said. "Over there." He glanced at Hutch. "Thanks, lady—" The screen blanked.

  "Let me know," said Hutch, in the silence of her cockpit, "if I can help."

  Truscott made it to the operations center from her quarters in less than a minute. The alarms were still sounding, and voices filled the circuits. "No mistake?" She stared at the object, repeated across the bank of twelve situation screens.

  Harvey Sill wiped his lips with the back of his fat hand. "No, it's closing straight and true. A goddam bomb."

  "Where did it come from?"

  Helplessly, Sill turned up his hands. "Somebody screwed up."

  "How much time do we have?"

  "Seventeen minutes."

  "Where's it going to hit?"

  "It's coming in from above. Eight-degree angle. It looks as if it'll go right into Engineering." That was the hub. "There's a chance it might hit the rim. But it won't make much difference. That thing will go through us like a hot knife."

  "Which part of the rim is exposed?"

  "Blue."

  Someone shut the alarms off. "Get everyone out of there. Harvey, prepare to evacuate. Jeff, get off an SOS to the Winckelmann. Ask them to come running." She opened a channel to Engineering. "Will?"

  Pause. "I'm here, Melanie. What's going on?"

  "Collision coming. Big one. Button up and get out of there."

  "Collision? With what?"

  "Runaway snowball. Don't leave anybody behind."

  She heard him swear. "On our way. It'll take a while to shut down."

  "Be here in five minutes. You need help?"

  "Negative." More profanity. "Listen, how big is this thing? We could lose life support and power all over the station."

  "No kidding," growled Sill.

  Three crewmen moved smartly into the operations center, took seats at the auxiliary boards, and plugged in. The CRT group: Command Response Team. They would coordinate communications and evacuation efforts throughout the emergency.