Finally they were more or less under the cable, although as the station slewed around with the swells and as the stalk continued swinging, the position could be maintained only approximately.
They stood on the observation deck. The plan was to move the evacuees through the airlock, one by one and starting with the most injured, outside into the well where the stalk had originally entered the station. An elevator cab still blocked the lower airlock, but they could enter from the observation deck to stand on its roof. The well, being inset, was partly protected against the acid spray, but it had the disadvantage that the line holding the buoy had to be dropped accurately into it from above. It had to be dropped with no computer aiming or real-time control, too
After a few unsuccessful tries, the breeches buoy finally plopped into the well. The team above quickly let out slack before the combined motions of the station and the swaying elevator pulled it out again. Matt, standing in the well atop the still-docked elevator below, was able to reach up and grab the buoy by one pant leg and haul it in, despite the pitching surface he was standing on. Then Amy helped carry someone with a broken leg out to load into the buoy. With a start she saw it was Martha, once she got close enough to peer through the facemask, but the other woman was sedated to the point she was completely unaware of her surroundings.
Matt said something into his face-mike, and the cable slowly went taut. Martha, strapped into the buoy, her head lolling to one side, was clearly oblivious to her situation—perhapsthat'sjustaswell, Amy realized suddenly. As the buoy rose, Matt tugged on a couple of light lines that trailed off it to pull it clear of the elevator well. Once it was clear of the well, the buoy swung dizzily as the crew above winched it up. Matt let go of the light guiding ropes at that point.
After a space they saw the buoy descending again.
"She's aboard safely,” Matt's voice crackled out on the common frequency.
It almost got routine. Five or six people had been hauled safely into the waiting elevator, and then the buoy line snagged on something right at the edge of the elevator as it was being raised with the next person to be rescued. Matt tugged on his guidelines, but no luck. He then called for the buoy to be lowered again, but the cable just started to go slack while the buoy remained motionless. Matt hastily called a halt.
"I have to go unstick it,” again Matt made an announcement over the common channel. “Someone bring a crowbar and two Jumars. It's probably hung up on some shard from the stalk breaking off.” He eased his way up one of the light lines, stepping in the improvised loops hanging off the Jumars as he slid them up the rope, one after the other. He dragged another line behind him; he would tie himself off before disengaging the Jumars.
Finally he arrived at the stuck buoy. Its passenger, another severely injured crewmember, was sedated but at least seemed in no immediate danger of falling out. Matt worked himself around to where the buoy contacted the edge of the well. He inserted the crowbar and pushed down, as hard as he could. Nothing happened. Then he levered the other way and was rewarded with a slight shift. Working back and forth, back and forth, he finally freed the buoy. Peering down, he saw that indeed a jagged snag, no doubt left by the stalk's ripping away, had snagged the buoy like a barb on a hook. Looking around quickly, he saw another snag and swiftly tied his safety line to it. Then he unhooked the Jumars and stuck them on his equipment belt. Finally, cautiously moving away from the well on the roof of the observation deck to ensure he'd be clear of the buoy once it swung free, he radioed the signal to begin hoisting again. The buoy rose smoothly into the air with its helpless passenger. Matt watched it for a bit, making sure it had cleared.
It happened quickly. Surprised by a huge wave that tilted the station to more than 45 degrees, Matt was swept off his feet. His improvised lifeline, tied to another broken ceramic strut, went taut, and then its anchor snapped. Evidently, it had been weakened by the stalk's loss more than anybody had suspected.
Matt vanished into the seething mass of carnivores that were still bloodying themselves against the ship's edge. There may have been one strangled cry—but it was impossible to tell over the background noise of waves splashing and wind whistling.
* * * *
Amy stared out the viewport at that cruelly deceptive view. She was back up in the JS, sitting at one of the tables in the common area. The remnants of the hurricane were still visible as a tattered spiral in the northern hemisphere. Only a skeleton team still struggled to save the station, trying to get the nanofabs to repair the hull, while simultaneously bailing the seawater that had already entered and also reattaching the stalk. They thought it would work—but no one knew for certain yet.
Becca came over and sat down with her. She was silent for a while, and then said softly, “I'm so sorry, Amy."
She smiled briefly. “Thanks . . . thanks for coming over."
They sat in silence for a while
At length Amy said quietly, “I just feel numb. I only met him two days ago, and now he's gone. I can't even cry. I wish I could. It just all seems so . . . so unreal. Like a bad dream."
Becca said nothing, but squeezed her hand. “Take your time."
Amy paused. “He never gave up. It was a job to him, but that's what it involved. Standing on a pitching deck in a sea of acid to help save people who couldn't save themselves. Makes . . . it makes worrying about a thesis seem pretty petty. Why is someone like that wasting time on someone like me, who doesn't even know why she's here?"
Becca ventured to say something. “Amy, none of us knows how things are going to work out. We just have to do what we can. Maybe you'll make a life-saving discovery or something.” She paused, “I don't want to talk about higher purposes or anything like that. I just don't know. I do know, though, that it's not your fault. And I'm sure there's a reason for you to be here, as much as there is for any of us."
Justdowhatyoucan. It wasn't much comfort, but that's all she had to hang onto now. Butthen, Amy thought, Iguessthat'sallthatanybodyhastohangonto.
Well,I'lltry,Matt.Thanks.
Copyright © 2010 Lee Goodloe
* * * *
Author's note: This story is set in the same system as “Waterworld,” March 1994.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelette: A TALENT FOR VANESSA by David W. Goldman
If talent is the raw material from which competence can be made, can talent itself be made? And should it?
From behind the beat-up desk in his cramped office, Marv Pennybacker—impresario, humanitarian, and sole proprietor of the Pennybacker Special Talent Agency—was trying to talk the young woman before him out of her dreams when one of his Talents shambled in from the day room.
"Name a date,” said the Talent, a big, slow-talking young man named Oliver. “A date in the future."
"March 16,” said Marv. “How about 2089?"
For an instant, Oliver's eyes shifted from side to side, scanning some private landscape. Then he announced, “March 16, 2089 will be a Wednesday. Marv doesn't work on Wednesdays.” Oliver nodded to himself in satisfaction and shambled back out of the office.
The young woman twisted her neck to watch him leave. “That's amazing,” she whispered.
"What?” asked Marv. “One day off per week astounds you?"
The young woman, a Ms. Vanessa Kortright Kingston, untwisted. “No, I mean that he just knows the date like that! As if he could look into the future."
Marv snorted. “Calendar calculating. They all do that. Not worth a paper dollar, not even in a carnival sideshow."
"I've heard of it, but—” Her blue eyes were wide as a con man's smile. “They can all do it?"
"Sure.” Marv tilted back, his big wooden chair squeaking. “All the Counters, anyway. It's like the Artists—they all draw horses. Or dogs. Which is funny, because back when they got their talents, you'd never see a horse here in the city. Dogs, okay, no big deal. But you ask any Artist to sketch you a horse, and blam—if the damn thing galloped off the paper you wou
ldn't be surprised."
Her gaze went a bit distant. “That's what I'd like,” she said. “To become an Artist. Or a Musician."
Marv sighed, recalling why Vanessa was here. Not that he didn't understand her desire—he himself had never been able to draw so much as a convincing square. But these rich kids depressed him.
"Look,” he said. “You understand why Dr. Hornblatt sent you to me? Why she's paying for this hour of my terribly valuable time?"
Vanessa glanced at the papers, magazines, and glossy photos piled in haphazard mounds about the room, no doubt drawing her own conclusions as to just how valuable Marv's time might be. But she straightened her cardigan and looked him in the eye.
She said, “You're supposed to tell me what I can expect from the operation. What talents I might develop."
Marv shook his head. “No, Ms. Kortright-Kingston. I'm supposed to tell you that your odds are slimmer than a soup-kitchen sandwich. That even if you do find yourself with some slight new skill, for the rest of your life you'll regret the price you paid. I'm supposed to scare you out of having your surgery."
She frowned, creating unattractive wrinkles in a pale, narrow face that was, Marv had to admit, at best debatably attractive to start with. Though there was something familiar about it.
"Bonnie came to see you,” Vanessa objected. “And Ryan, too. And they both had the operation, and it worked! They get invited to everybody's parties now. You didn't scare them!"
No, thought Marv as he rubbed a palm against his cheek bristles. And I won't scare you either, Ms. Kortright Kingston, will I?
Hornblatt didn't actually send her patients to Marv to be talked out of their operations. She just wanted legal cover. Any parents trying to sue Hornblatt for misleading their child with false claims and assurances would find themselves bankers without a bailout when Marv took the stand—because he really was trying his hardest here.
His phone—a clunky black desk unit half a century out of date—jangled loudly. “Excuse me,” said Marv to a startled Vanessa. He lifted the handset. “Pennybacker Special Talent Agency.” As he listened he picked up a fat pen and started doodling on his notepad. “Inventory? Sure. How big's the warehouse? . . . So it would take how long to stroll through the whole place—two hours, three? . . . Okay, hang on.” Marv covered the mouthpiece with his hand and shouted out to the day room. “Doris, you there?"
After a moment a plump, gray-haired woman appeared in the doorway, a magazine dangling from her hand. She gazed at the floor.
"Doris, when's Roger free?"
"Tuesday."
"Got an inventory job. About three hours."
Her head bobbed. “Four thousand two hundred and fifty."
"Thanks. Hold on.” He uncovered the mouthpiece. “How's next Tuesday, around one thirty? . . . No, my guy's no good in the mornings. . . . Uh-huh . . . Forty-two fifty. . . . No, forty-two fifty. . . . Yeah, well, the Depression's over. . . . Right, just the one afternoon and then you're open again for business. . . . Okay, what's the address?” He scribbled it below his doodle. “Fine. We'll see you Tuesday. Thanks for your business."
He tore the orange, octagonal page from his pad—Marv liked a little personality in his desk accessories—and held it out. Her gaze never lifting, Doris shuffled past Vanessa to the desk, took the paper, then turned and left the room.
It wasn't a magazine in her other hand, Marv realized. A census report.
"Did she have the operation?” Vanessa seemed disturbed.
"Doris? No, she's a natural.” Which should have been obvious from Doris's gray hair. The Greater Depression hadn't begun until fifteen years ago, and most of the artificial Talents had been kids when their desperate, homeless parents were persuaded by back-alley neurosurgeons to allow the operation.
"So I won't be like that?"
"Well, it's possible. But usually it's boys who become Counters. Or Tinkerers. You're more likely to get music or art. If,” he hastened to add, “you pick up any talent at all."
"No, I mean, she's so—” Vanessa leaned forward and whispered, “She's so fat!"
"Oh,” said Marv. He stopped himself from glancing down to the bulge of his own gut.
"Because if I get like that, then nobody's going to want me around! Even if the operation does make me interesting."
Opportunity tugged at Marv's conscience. With one simple lie he could send Vanessa home, armored against the current neurosurgery fad. But he'd based his career on honesty—and Vanessa's yearning expression demanded no less.
"No,” he sighed. “Brain surgery won't make you fat."
"Thank God.” She sat back in her chair.
Marv rubbed his cheek. All of the rich kids who'd come through his office—all of the wealthy people he'd ever met, for that matter—struck him as caricatures. But this Vanessa Kortright-Kingston seemed like a caricature's caricature. He couldn't figure her.
She interrupted his musing. “I'm supposed to sign something, right?"
Marv held up his hand. “Look, we're talking permanent brain damage here. Why don't you try the magnets instead?"
"TMS?” Vanessa pronounced it “timms.” She gave the notion a dismissive wave. “That never works. One day you're an amazing painter, the next day the magnet shifts and you're reciting daily stock market closings from the past five years."
She was right, of course. Despite three decades of research, TMS—transcranial magnetic stimulation—remained a party trick. The current recreational-savant fad among the trustfundistas demanded neurosurgery.
Marv asked Vanessa, “What do you know about the downsides of the operation?"
She shrugged. “It doesn't always work. But everybody says that Dr. Hornblatt is really good."
"What else?"
She frowned. “Well, it hurts, right? After you wake up? And I guess you need to take some medicine for a while?"
Marv sighed. “Okay, stick out both ears and listen hard now, Ms. Kortright-Kingston. The operation destroys a small part of your brain's left anterior temporal lobe. About here.” He tapped the side of his head, just above the cheekbone. “That's the spot where all natural savants have damage. But there's a lot of stuff going on in there, and nobody understands it all. So Dr. Hornblatt is going to do her best to knock out enough brain to allow a talent to emerge, but not so much that she leaves you a cripple. You're following me?"
Vanessa's hands clutched each other in her lap. Marv thought that she looked a bit pale. “A cripple?"
He held up a hand and ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “Language problems—especially proper nouns. Difficulty interpreting other people's facial expressions. Trouble generalizing from specifics, understanding metaphors. Snags when trying to reason sequentially."
"Oh!” said Vanessa. “How often do those things happen?"
"Every time,” said Marv. “A little bit, anyhow. But one out of a hundred patients will lose all of their nouns and adjectives. Or find other people's thoughts and feelings impossible to comprehend. They'll get lost on their own street because a house has been repainted."
Vanessa looked concerned, but Marv didn't think he'd reached her yet. He tried to come up with a side effect that would truly bother her.
"After the operation,” he said, “it's pretty common to have difficulties in social situations."
Now she sat up straight. “What do you mean?"
He waved a hand, as if downplaying his words. “Not getting people's jokes. Being the only one in the room who's not following the conversation. Always feeling left out."
Vanessa's cheeks reddened as she looked away, and Marv belatedly realized that some people had less to lose than others.
Her gaze returned to him—a new, grim determination in her expression. “Thank you, Mr. Pennybacker. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me before I sign?"
Dismayed, he rubbed his cheek. “There's no guarantee—you know that, right? Except for the side effects, and those you'll never get rid of. But a talent only emerges in hal
f of patients. Maybe two-thirds, if your surgeon is very good. Still, even if—"
Oliver wandered back into the office. Ignoring Vanessa, he bellied up to Marv's desk and asked, “You got a number, Marv?"
Marv gave Vanessa an apologetic shrug. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a little notebook. Opening it at random, he read aloud, “One hundred and two million, seven hundred and three thousand, three hundred and thirty-nine."
While Vanessa watched in fascinated bafflement, Oliver's face went blank for a moment. And then he let out a small sigh and smiled, like a gourmet at the conclusion of a successful meal. He nodded and headed back to the day room.
Holding up the notebook, Marv explained to Vanessa. “Had a guy make this for me. Prime numbers, yes? The Counters, they all love prime numbers. When you show ‘em a new one, it's like..."
Marv paused. He hated how people always thought of Talents as performing seals, as walking, talking bags of amusing tricks. After living with a houseful of Talents all these years, Marv knew better. And he supposed Vanessa deserved to know better, too.
"It's like you're standing on this big, big beach,” he said, “where all these people are sunbathing—you know, like in the old movies, when you could still do that? And then some guy way over there stands up, and you realize it's one of your best old pals, somebody you haven't thought of in, well, longer than you can recall. And your old pal grins at you, and you grin back, and you both wave at each other, and then he lies back down. And you're happy, because now you know he's over there, and you can say hi to him again anytime."
Vanessa was eyeing Marv strangely. “This beach—it sounds like you've been there."
The idea sat Marv back in his big, squeaky chair. “Me?” He waggled the notebook. “This is as close as I'll ever get. No number's been my pal since I flunked long division in Ms. Milinowski's third-grade class. Nope, I've simply spent a lot of time with Talents. After a while you get some ideas about what goes on in their heads."
Vanessa looked worried. “But you can't do what they do? Play music you've only heard once? Draw a detailed scene after just a glance?"
Analog SFF, May 2010 Page 9
