He climbed the ladder to the hatch, activated the cutter and touched it to the metal. (Would the maintenance crew on chindi at some point get annoyed with the people who kept slicing through their hatch?)
The metal blackened and began to flake away. And while he cut he thought about Hutch, coming to bail him out again. And he promised himself when they were off the Memphis, when this whole goofy business was done and they weren’t caught anymore in a space of a few hundred square meters, when she was free to walk away from him if she chose, he would tell her. Tell her everything. How he still felt like an adolescent in her presence. How his voice tended to fail. How he woke up sometimes at night from having dreamed about her, and how his spirits sagged to discover none of the dream had been true.
Stupid. To get so caught up over one woman.
He completed the cut, shut off the laser, reached up, and pushed. The piece gave way and was torn from his grip and his hand slammed hard against the side of the hatch. He cried out and fell off the ladder.
He crashed into George and Alyx, who were trying to catch him, to break his fall, and they all went down.
George swore. “What happened?”
Tor’s hand was bruised, but, he thought, not broken. “Must have got above the damping field,” he said, trying to flex it. “Whacked it pretty good.”
Then he noticed Alyx biting her lip and holding on to her ankle.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Twisted it.”
The hatch was, at least, wide-open. Stars blazed through the opening he had made. But within a few minutes they went dark. A wind blew through the passageway, and a few snowflakes drifted down on them.
THE CHINDI INSERTED itself smoothly into the snowstorm. No tossing around there, Hutch thought. The vessel was too massive.
But she had a carrier wave again from George. “Hutch, are you there? Can you hear me?”
“I’m here. What kind of shape are we in?”
“Hatch is open. It’s snowing like a son of a bitch.”
“I know. Stay inside. Wait one, I’ve got another call. Bill?”
“Hutch, the chindi has just shut down its thrusters. Present velocity will result in rendezvous with funnel head. That is, with the device that created the funnel.”
“No more tweaks?”
“One more firing will be necessary. But it will be slight.”
“Okay. George, you still on the circuit?”
“We’re here.”
“All three of you?”
“Yes.”
“Does it look possible to do the pickup?”
“It’s a blizzard. How good a pilot are you?”
“Bill, can you get a reading on the wind near the chindi?”
“Forty to sixty, gusting to a hundred. Winds in a circle. Tornado style.”
“Okay. Time to see what we can do. George, I’ll be there in a few minutes. You guys be ready to go. But stay inside until I tell you.” She was fortunate to have a lander, and not a shuttle. The shuttles were boxier, not designed for atmospheric flight. The lander would provide more control.
She’d dropped farther behind when the chindi went into the storm, and trailed the big ship by twenty kilometers when the blizzard closed over her. The sky went dark, and large fat flakes splatted onto the viewports. But the wind was moderate, not as bad as she’d expected, and she wondered if she was going to get lucky.
“Be careful,” said Bill. “Winds will intensify as you proceed. They are weakening somewhat overall but are still close to hurricane force near the mouth of the funnel.”
Her screens indicated the funnel had collapsed into a narrow ring as the chindi closed with it. The big ship’s forward thrusters fired again, a quick burst.
“That’s it,” said Bill. “Chindi will now be taking funnel head aboard.”
The lander rose on a sudden stiff gust. Another flurry spattered across the windscreen.
“Big doors opening below the chindi,” Bill said. He tried to give her an image. It was hard to make out precisely what was happening, but the two objects, the chindi and the funnel head, seemed to be merging.
Bill began announcing ranges to the chindi. Twelve klicks. Eight.
The wind was picking up.
THE STORM HOWLED around her. Pieces of ice pounded the lander, rattled the hull, and cracked the passenger-side view-screen. Hutch activated her e-suit and reduced air pressure in the cabin to prevent a possible blowout. She retracted antennas and scopes and everything else that she could get under cover, leaving only the sensors exposed. Those she could not do without. Fortunately, she was still close enough to the Memphis that she was able to retain communications, though the quality was poor. One of her four sensors went down, and her screens lost some of their sharpness.
“Maybe you ought to back off until it comes out the other side,” said Nick. “If you try to take them off in this, you might kill everybody.”
She’d been hoping that the winds would be less violent above the chindi. The big ship would be between her and the mouth of the funnel, and she thought she’d get some protection. Maybe that was so, but it was still pretty windy out there.
“Hutch,” said Bill, “the operation appears to be in its last stages. The ring has been attached.” He was referring to the funnel, which had collapsed into a collar. “Engines are revving up. Departure is probably imminent.”
“Acknowledged,” she said.
“It may not wait until it is clear of the storm to accelerate.”
“I hear you.” She kept her voice level and was pleased with herself when Nick commented that she was too gutsy by half.
She wasn’t. Hutch was adrift in a sea of apprehension, but George had left her no options. She was coming to resent people who played hero and took chances that in the end put her on the chopping block.
All her instincts warned her that Bill was right, that the chindi would come out of the storm accelerating, and it would keep going. She’d been a pilot too many years. She knew how ships operated, and even if this thing was a total unknown, it still functioned within the laws of physics and common sense. There were no more bottles or packages coming in or going out, so that part of the mission, whatever it was, had been completed.
It was a massive vehicle. To accelerate out of the storm and then settle back into orbit when they had apparently completed their business here would waste fuel. She was going to get them off now, or she’d have to wait until they got to wherever the next destination was.
Damn you, Tor. George would not have persisted had Tor not thrown his weight into the argument.
Something hammered the hull. The lights blinked and went out.
“Portside transactor down,” whispered Onboard Bill. “Switching to auxiliary.”
Power came back.
“Negative other damage,” he said. “Rerouting data flow. Replacement will be necessary.”
Something else hit them, and the lander shuddered.
Nick’s voice: “I guess we didn’t plan this very well.”
“I’d say that’s about right.”
She had reacquired the chindi. It was still several kilometers in front of her.
The wind died off, then hit her with renewed fury. It rolled her over, and she tumbled through the storm. Fans cut off and came back. Her status screens flickered. She could hear Nick saying something but was too busy wrestling the controls to worry about it.
“Hull integrity still secure,” said the onboard AI.
Hutch got the vehicle under control.
“Hutch, let it go.” Nick was trying to order her back, using a stern male voice.
The clatter against the hull was getting louder. Another of her sensors gave way. The chindi’s image faded to a spectral outline.
Starboard engine was beginning to overheat.
She turned on her running lights. The storm battered her. The lander dipped and rose, and the slush chummed against her. Nick had finally gone silent.
Then the wind
slacked off, and she discovered she could control the spacecraft. And below, her lights reflected off the great dim bulk of the chindi.
THEY’D BACKED AWAY a few paces from the exit hatch. Outside, the storm howled and snow poured down into the interior. “Not as bad as we thought,” Tor said.
Alyx managed a laugh. She was leaning against the bulkhead, her left leg lifted gingerly off the ground.
“Hutch,” Tor asked, “can you do this?”
“Got you in sight. I’m about three minutes away.”
“Okay. We’re ready to go.”
“We’re going to want to make this quick. How’s the weather where you are?”
“Snowing a trifle.”
“No time, Tor. How’s the weather?”
Chastened, he said, “Blizzard conditions.”
“Wind?”
He went up the ladder and stuck his hand out. “About forty. Maybe a bit more.”
“All right. I’m coming up from the rear.” Pause. “But I’m not going to try to set down.”
“Okay.”
“Come out one at a time. I’ll get as close as I can.”
“We’ll be here.”
“Airlock’ll be open. You’ll have to climb in as opportunity allows. Be careful. Keep in mind you’ll be moving into zero gee. Don’t walk off the hull, or let yourself get blown off. If that happens, I may not be able to find you.”
“Okay.”
“At forty I’m going to be having a problem with control.”
“We know. Hutch, you have any idea when this thing’s going to move out?”
“Probably imminent. Just keep it still for a few more minutes.”
“We’ll do what we can.” He looked down at George and Alyx.
“You go first,” said George. “You can help Alyx.”
“I’m not going to need any help,” said Alyx.
Tor nodded. “Neither one of you guys is in very good shape. George, you’re out first.”
They’d begun to detect vibrations in the hull a few minutes before, and they were becoming more pronounced. He climbed down the ladder and got out of the way. “Okay,” he told George. “If anybody does get blown off, just get on the circuit and keep talking until we find you.”
George nodded and started up. When he reached the top, Alyx put a foot on the bottom rung and squeezed Tor’s hand. “Good luck,” she said.
Tor kissed her. The fields flashed.
George put his head outside and quickly pulled it back in. “It’s a bit brisk out there.”
“Any sign of her?”
“No.” He looked again. “Negative. Nothing. Zero.” His voice was loud. “But I can’t see more than a few meters.”
“Okay. Keep down until you see her.”
THE WIND WAS strong but it was a long way from hurricane force. Either the sheer bulk of the chindi was providing some protection, or the storm was weakening.
Hutch reactivated her scopes and put her map of the chindi’s surface on the display, marked the location of the hatch, brought up the sensor readings on the terrain immediately below, and overlaid it on the map.
The lander was here, and the exit was there, about a kilometer away on a thirty-degree heading.
She began braking.
The wind caught her and drove her down. Toward the hull. She fought the controls and heard Nick or someone in the chindi party, it was impossible to know who, mutter a prayer. The long bleak surface of the chindi rose inexorably to meet her. Alarms sounded, and the AI began to babble.
She fired thrusters, trying to break the grip of the wind, but she banged into the surface, heard the undercarriage, something, break. The jolt rattled her teeth, and she was drifting away again, turning over, spinning while one of the thrusters fired out of control.
It was portside three. She shut it down, told Onboard Bill to keep it off-line for the duration, righted the vehicle, and staggered back on course.
“I’m okay,” she told George. “Be there in two minutes.”
The snowswept surface rolled past. She stayed close to it. Wind and snow were less intense along the hull. The cabin had grown tranquil. Occasional gusts rocked the vehicle, and her earphones were full of static.
She opened the airlock’s inner hatch and debated whether she should release the harness that held her in her seat. No. Best not do that. If she got thrown around at the wrong moment it could turn into a general disaster. The truth was she wouldn’t be able to help anyway. Old Hutch would have her hands full just keeping the rescue vehicle from getting blown away.
One minute. She opened the outer hatch. Snow and ice blew into the spacecraft.
“I see you,” said George.
She would have liked to waggle her wings, show some encouraging demonstration. But not in this weather.
A light appeared ahead. She looked down at the little circle of light, and at the long pair of ridges that ran beyond it, toward the bow.
“Okay,” she said. “I see you, too.” She braked. The vehicle slowed, and wind action became more severe. “You’ll need to be quick, guys. Doors are open, but I’m going to be busy. You’ll have to help yourselves.”
She tried to hold the lander just to the rear of the exit hatch, within a couple of meters of the ground. She didn’t have enough control to go closer.
The hatch was dead in front of her. A figure came out of it, stepped awkwardly onto the surface. George. Easily the biggest of the three. He got out and bent down and helped someone else out.
Alyx.
The wind died off. Perfect. Alyx was favoring a leg. She held onto George and used one foot to clear off some snow before trusting her weight to the grip shoe.
Come on, Alyx.
She limped out toward the lander while George moved just behind her, ready to help.
Tor appeared in the hatch. “Twisted her ankle,” he said.
But she was beside the lander now, ready to jump for it. Easy in zero gee.
Hutch saw that something was wrong with the landscape. It had begun to move.
Tor’s voice ripped through her earphones. “Where are you going, Hutch?”
“Not me. The chindi’s accelerating.”
She didn’t dare try to match acceleration, not with Alyx and George trying to get aboard. She heard George deliver a piece of invective and then he was tumbling past. Must have lost his footing. He hit the ground awkwardly and bounced off the surface. Tried frantically to get hold of something. Started to drift away. The snow-covered rockscape was speeding up, moving forward, taking Tor with it. Leaving George behind. Tor jumped out of the hatch and scrambled after him, made a desperate grab but there was no chance.
“I’m on,” said Alyx.
Tor, having missed George, was clinging to the exit hatch as the ship continued to accelerate.
Hutch watched the ground rippling past her, saw the rims of a low sweep of hills coming fast and coming faster. George and the lander were both in the way.
IT HAD ALL happened too quickly. One moment George was helping Alyx out of the hatch, and everything was going exactly as planned, they were starting across the ground toward the lander, which looked so good, so inviting, floating just off the ground, the snow blowing around it, blurring its lights. He could see Hutch in the cabin, her face pale in the green glow of the instruments.
George had been only a few paces away when the ground had jerked under his feet, and he fell forward, toward the spacecraft. But the ground kept moving, dragging him away. He didn’t understand what was happening except that he was getting farther from the lander, as if Hutch was drawing off. But he knew she wasn’t.
He tried running, but the rock beneath his feet was moving too quickly. Alyx jumped for the ladder, went higher than she expected and crashed into its side, but managed to get hold of one of the rungs. She was hanging on to it while Tor tried to come to the rescue, but he couldn’t do anything for George or even for himself. George was off the ground, floating, and the rock beneath him was moving fast
er, picking up speed, getting almost blurry. A line of hills appeared on his horizon, toward the rear of the chindi, where the big engines were, where they had to be lighting up at last. During those last moments, he wondered how he would be remembered, regretted things not done, regretted most of all that the Retreat had been empty and the chindi had remained mute.
Nobody home.
He wasn’t high enough and the hills were rushing toward him.
THERE WAS NOTHING Hutch could do. She warned Alyx to hang on and climbed. She’d lost track of Tor, but she told him for God’s sake to get back down through the hatch.
The winds were back, stirred up by the passage of the chindi. She steadied the lander and saw a hand catch one of the grips in the airlock. The cords in the wrist stood out.
“Hutch?” Nick’s voice. “What’s happening?”
She wanted to release her harness, let go of the controls, go over to the airlock and pull Alyx in, but the winds rocked and hammered the lander, and she dared not leave her seat.
“Hutch!” Tor this time. “I’m okay. Back down inside.”
Alyx pulled herself into the lock. The wind howled around her, and snow blew through the cabin. Hutch watched, and as soon as she was inside, shut the hatch. “I’ve got Alyx,” she said.
chapter 27
Those who extol the joys and benefits of solitude have never tried it. No man is fit company for himself.
—GREGORY MACALLISTER,
“VIRGIN SNOW,” REMINISCENCES, 2221
TOR STOOD AT the foot of the ladder, safe now from the gee-forces, his head pressed against one of the rungs. Holding on, nonetheless.
He’d watched George float away, had seen the desperate fear darkening his face, the eyes pinpoints, the lips drawn back because he knew it had all gone wrong.
Out of reach. He’d been out of Tor’s reach and receding swiftly like a runaway moon.
“He’s dead.” Hutch’s voice was angry and accusing.
“Keep looking. Don’t worry about me. Just keep looking.”
“I saw him die, Tor.”
Not possible. Not George, who’d been a living presence since the first day. He squeezed the rung and thought about just letting go. The hell with it. Gradually, he became aware that the pressure on his arm was increasing. The impression that the world had gone awry, had tilted away from him, was not a mental aberration, as he’d supposed. Main Street was in fact angling down, toward First Street. Toward the Ditch.
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