Chindi

by Jack McDevitt

  “THIRTY-NINE MINUTES TO system jump,” said the McCarver’s AI, which responded to the name Jennifer and, unlike Bill, exhibited a no-nonsense attitude. “Two minutes to ignition.”

  Brownstein nodded and informed the passengers. “Not that it really matters,” he added. “I don’t think you’ll notice any difference.”

  The captain had turned the entire operation over to Jennifer—pointedly not Jenny, Hutch learned when she tried to use the diminutive—who counted down the final minute in ten-second increments, and then the last few seconds. It was all very dramatic, and the yacht’s engines fired precisely on schedule. The McCarver lifted against the lines securing it to the asteroid. It didn’t have much push, but it did have some, and that reduced the stress on the other vessels. The rise in their engine temperatures, which had reached alarming levels, declined somewhat. When it began to climb again it did so more slowly.

  “We are gulping fuel like bandits,” Yurkiewicz informed them from the Longworth.

  “Long as it holds out another half hour,” said Hutch.

  They were by then approaching .018c, and had broken every record for attained velocity. “And we’ve done it,” said Brownstein, “hauling that son of a bitch along with us.” He jerked his thumb out at Dogbone.

  Claymoor came on-line again. Audio only. “Hutch? Are you busy? May I have a moment?”

  “Yes, Mr. Claymoor? What can I do for you?”

  “Hutch, is it true you’re going outside when the big ships unhitch?”

  “No,” she said, knowing immediately where the conversation was headed. “I’m staying right where I am.”

  “I heard something different,” he said, disappointed. He turned his attention to Brownstein. “Yuri.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Can you arrange for me to go outside during the operation? I’ll want to get some close-ups.”

  “Not a good idea, Mr. Claymoor.”

  “Why not?” His voice rose slightly.

  “We have to get that over and done with in the shortest possible time.”

  “I can get in and out in a couple of minutes.”

  “Sir, we’ll still be accelerating. You’d get ripped off the hull. Not at all good for your digestion.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s not like the last time.”

  Brownstein didn’t explain what the last time referred to, but she could guess that he’d been allowed to walk around somewhere in an e-suit.

  “Damn,” he said. “We’ve got a hell of a story developing here, and we’re missing the pictures.”

  “We’ll be getting pictures from the scopes.”

  “I’ve been watching them. They’re not good enough.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s not physically possible.”

  “Brownie, people are going outside to cut the cables. It must be possible.”

  He was right. There would be a couple of minutes during which the drives would be shut down. But they were going to be moving quickly. No time for picture-taking. If they missed their window, it would be over.

  “I will not get in the way,” Claymoor said. He seemed to be addressing Hutch again.

  Brownstein glanced over at her, his eyes suggesting it was her call.

  “He’s your boss?” she asked.

  Yes, he is.

  She turned back to the journalist. “Mr. Claymoor,” she said. “The captain’s right. You go out there, we could lose you. But if you insist, and you’re willing to come back in as soon as I tell you—”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “No problem there.”

  “You know how to wear an e-suit?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yuri thinks I should take you when I go out, so we’ll do it.”

  “Thanks. You too, Yuri.”

  The Longworth’s temperatures were starting up again, but Yurkiewicz reassured them they’d be all right, that he would hold it together as long as he had to, but she should know that he would need new engines when it was over.

  Bill reported continued mild overheating, but under control. “We’re running short of fuel though. We’re using it at a substantial rate.”

  There were fail-safes built into the engines on both the Longworth and the Memphis that would cut in to shut them down if conditions became intolerable. In fact, the failsafe on the Longworth would have acted already except that Yurkiewicz had obviously overridden it. The unit on the Memphis didn’t allow tinkering. But conditions were less severe there.

  Brownstein passed her a sandwich. “Relax,” he said. She wasn’t sure where the food had come from.

  “Approaching jump mode,” said Jennifer. “Eight minutes to shutdown.”

  Neither the Longworth nor the Memphis would have enough fuel left to halt its forward motion. When the attempt was over, Hutch thought, they were all going to need rescuing.

  The sandwich was roast beef. She chewed it slowly, tried to concentrate on it. Enjoy it.

  ALYX’S MOMENT OF glory had arrived. She released her restraints and climbed out of her chair. On the Longworth, Yurkiewicz’s people would be doing the same thing.

  She strode down to the cargo bay, slipped smoothly into an e-suit, picked up her air tanks, and collected the laser cutter. Then she pulled on a go-pack.

  “Three minutes,” said Bill. “I remind you that cutting the outside lines should be done with expedition.” The AI was transmitting outside, speaking to everyone in all three ships.

  Alyx opened the airlock. She was going over the route she would follow once she got on the hull.

  She stepped inside, leaning against the bulkhead to keep her balance against the constant acceleration. She closed the inner door and depressurized.

  Hutch ran a quick check from the McCarver. Was everybody ready on the Longworth? Aye, they were all set. In their case, the three volunteers had to cut eight lines, two of which were less accessible, meaning farther away from the airlocks, than anything Alyx had to worry about.

  The Mac’s engines were hot. The little yacht, even with the help, was simply hauling too much mass for too long. Brownstein saw her glance at the numbers and shook his head. We’re a little warm, he seemed to be signaling, but we’re okay.

  Was Alyx ready?

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Thirty seconds,” said Bill.

  Alyx opened the outer hatch, but stayed away from it. They were still accelerating, she was off-balance, pressed against the rear bulkhead, and it wouldn’t do to fall out.

  Bill counted down the last ten seconds. When time expired, the engines shut off on all three ships. The tendency to fall backward against the bulkhead was gone. She stood away from the wall, checked her sense of balance, which needed a few seconds to return to normal, and stepped out of the hatch. At the same time, three people moved out of the Longworth. She saw their lamps glitter as they scattered across the hull.

  The Memphis was secured to the asteroid by cables attached to the docking gear aft, a cargo hoist amidships, and an auxiliary multipurpose linking mount forward. The docking gear was her first target. She moved quickly, resisting the temptation to use the go-pack, even though she wanted to. But she and Hutch had worked everything out, and there was time. If she started flying around and screwed the operation, the price would get high.

  She arrived within moments at the docking gear, ignited her cutter, and set to work.

  The entire scene was etched in starlight, the giant cargo ship and the modest Memphis, the miniature yacht, the bleak surface of the asteroid, the red blades of the lasers. The stars, which had moved dizzily across the sky when she and Hutch had first gone out onto Dogbone several hours before, were now anchored.

  The cable snapped apart, one whip end of it almost taking her arm.

  A woman’s voice, apparently one of the Longworth people, warned her that the cables were under pressure and could behave unpredictably. “Look out when they start to give way.”

  She had almost learned that the hard way.

  Alyx
felt a surge of adrenaline and charged forward to the cargo hoist, where she started on the second phase. She was ahead of schedule by about a minute. The Longworth people were chattering to each other, issuing instructions, delivering profanity.

  At the hoist, the cable was looped around the base of the mount, and she didn’t see how she could cut it without punching a hole in the ship. That’s what comes of hurrying. She climbed out along the line until she was clear of the hull, using one hand to keep herself from drifting away, and wielding the laser with the other. Somebody asked what she thought she was doing but she didn’t take time to answer.

  On the circuit, Yurkiewicz was admonishing his troops to hurry.

  The cable blackened. Alyx kept the beam on it, and watched it separate.

  The severed ends of the cable drifted apart. Alyx had hold of one of them, but she floated helplessly and didn’t have time to go back hand over hand. What the hell. It was the moment she’d been waiting for: She lit the go-pack and turned it off almost immediately, as she’d seen Hutch do. She sailed smoothly back toward the hull, caught hold of the cargo hoist, dropped neatly to the metal surface, and scrambled forward. By God she was good.

  “Alyx,” said Bill. “Two minutes.”

  “Almost ready.”

  She hurried forward to the linking mount, which was located just over the bridge. She arrived, appraised her best angle, ignited the cutter and finished the job.

  WHEN ALYX MOVED forward on the Memphis, she’d gotten out of imager angle, and Hutch had lost her. She’d watched with a mixture of pride and disquiet while she used the go-pack and drifted off her display. But there’d been no scream, no frantic Oh-my-God-I’m-adrift-what-do-I-do-now. So she had to be okay.

  Hutch hesitated to speak to her, didn’t want to distract her, didn’t want to admit that she didn’t quite trust her.

  Then Alyx’s voice, level, calm, in charge: “Memphis clear.”

  “Alyx,” she said, “you’re going to be a legend.”

  “I already am, Captain,” she said.

  Brownstein pressed his earphones down. “What’s holding up the Longworth?” he asked.

  “Ready in a minute.” Yurkiewicz sounded unperturbed.

  “Jennifer,” said Brownstein, “prepare to reignite.”

  Hutch opened her channel to Bill. “I want you to disengage thirty seconds after the Longworth frees up. Jennifer will take over.” She switched to Alyx. “Well done,” she said. “When we get back we’ll give you an award.”

  “Be still, my heart.”

  “Get inside now.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  The woman had a flippant side.

  “Longworth clear,” said Yurkiewicz.

  Bill’s image appeared on the overhead. “Congratulations, all,” he said. “Current velocity is .02633 light-speed.”

  Hutch felt a surge of elation. That was within parameters of where they’d hoped to be at this point.

  “Passing conn to the McCarver,” said Bill.

  Jennifer acknowledged.

  Brownstein looked pleased. “Restart engines,” he said. The Longworth and the Memphis, released from the asteroid, were drifting away.

  Now it was up to the Mac. The little ship that could, thought Hutch. The engines ignited and it struggled to accelerate, to drag the Dogbone with it.

  The Memphis turned on its axis and directed its tubes away from the Longworth, the yacht, and the rock. It fired its engines and moved cautiously away. When it had retreated to a safe distance, the Longworth executed a similar maneuver. Both ships were so low on fuel that they would continue on approximately the same course, at the same velocity, until somebody rescued them.

  “Good luck,” said Alyx, now safely back inside.

  “Two minutes to jump,” said Jennifer. “On schedule.”

  The Mac’s engine temperatures were rising again.

  Hutch opened a channel to Claymoor’s quarters. “You ready, Mr. Claymoor?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. Indeed I am.”

  “We’re only going to have a couple of minutes. Meet me at the cargo airlock.”

  “On my way.”

  “Be careful. We’re still accelerating.” That was probably wishful thinking. The asteroid was massive, and the instruments, not designed for the current situation, were producing confused readings. Red lamps were blinking everywhere.

  Brownstein’s lips were drawn back, revealing lots of even white teeth, through which he was sucking air the way people do when they’re watching someone suffer. He had the engine status display on his overhead. “Be good to shut them down,” he said. “Even if it’s only for a couple of minutes.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Yuri,” she said.

  He nodded. Damn right.

  She climbed out of her seat, felt her way back down the luxuriously appointed corridor—Universal News treated its correspondents pretty well—and descended to the lower deck, where Claymoor was struggling into an e-suit. He had an imager clipped to his vest.

  He seemed to know what he was doing, so she busied herself with her own gear.

  “Hutch,” he said, “I appreciate this.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Claymoor.”

  “My friends call me Henry.”

  “Henry,” she said, “be careful when you’re out there. This is going to be very quick. Point, click, and run.”

  “I understand.”

  She pulled on her go-pack and clipped a cutter onto her harness.

  Brownstein’s voice: “One minute.”

  Hutch heard the captain shut the fusion engines down. Their steady roar was replaced by the somewhat erratic rumble of the Hazeltines. She sat down on the deck, signaled Claymoor to follow her example, and waited for her stomach to tell her they were making the jump.

  chapter 35

  You gotta move sudden and quick—

  Give no warnin’,

  Waste no time.

  It’s velocity all the way,

  That’s what counts,

  The only thing that counts.

  —THE WANDERERS,

  VELOCITY, FIRST PERFORMED 2221

  HUTCH’S VOICE WAS electric: “Under way.”

  Tor was sitting outside under the sky. Yes, he thought, come get me. I’m here.

  Hutch stayed with him. “Everything’s on schedule. We should be able to make this work.”

  And later:

  “Tor, we’re passing .01c. That’s nowhere close to the chindi rate, but I think we’ve just set a record for the McCarver.”

  His eyes drifted shut. The only sound, other than her voice, was his breathing.

  “Still running true. Getting some overheating in the big ship, the Longworth, but it’s nothing we hadn’t expected. In fact, it’s less than we’d thought it would be by this point. We don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  He got momentarily careless. He’d been standing near the rise where he’d been when the chindi had passed the Memphis—when there’s no gravity it doesn’t much matter whether you stand or sit—and he was picturing the shuttle coming in to pick him up, how it would be, Hutch climbing out to embrace him. And he gave way to habit and hunkered down on the side of the rise, breaking the contact between his grip shoes and the hull. He was horrified to realize he’d begun to drift.

  “Alyx says not to worry.”

  He was able to touch the ground, but there was nothing to hold on to. He succeeded only in pushing himself higher.

  Keep calm.

  The incline saved him. Just before he floated out of reach, he remembered it was there, behind him now, and he got a foot out and mashed it against the rock.

  It stopped him.

  The episode had probably lasted less than three seconds, but it left him trembling. If I ever get home, I’m going to spend the rest of my life on the front porch. Hiding under a deck chair. The thought brought a smile.

  “When we get close,” Hutch continued, “I’ll let you know. Best will be to wait for us outside
. Where we can get to you without any waste of time… Well, you know that, Tor. I don’t have to tell you… I guess I’m just making conversation.”

  He’d never tried to conduct a monologue. It had to be hard on her. Hell, she didn’t even know for certain that he could hear her. And he wondered if she was becoming resentful of the burden he’d imposed, if when it was over, whether he lived or died, she’d remember these hours, how she’d stayed on the link, talking away, trying to distract the idiot who’d refused to take her advice. How could she not be annoyed?

  “Getting ready to start the McCarver’s engines.”

  He felt a psychological need to lie down. Take it easy for a bit. It occurred to him he hadn’t slept for a while. But he didn’t want to spend what might be his last hours unconscious.

  He looked over at the exit hatch.

  Maybe just a few minutes.

  “Okay, Tor. We’re up and running. So far, we’re doing fine.”

  He climbed back onto the ladder, grateful for the gentle tug of the chindi’s gravity field. He descended back into the passageway, stretched out behind the dome, and closed his eyes.

  THE MCCARVER AND Dogbone passed smoothly into transdimensional space. Hutch checked her go-pack, opened the airlock, and did a quick inspection. A few meters below, the rock looked enormous. It was a boulder tied to a large pigeon. Drifting through fog.

  “Henry—” she said.

  He nodded. “All set.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t lose contact with the hull. We aren’t going to have time for retrievals.”

  “Don’t worry, Hutch.” He did in fact look as if he knew what he was doing.

  The go-pack was strictly a safety feature, a backup. She left her feet and glided toward the prow. Dogbone had been connected forward to the docking assembly, and in the after section the securing cable had literally been looped around the hull.

  The rock had constituted a severe drag during the few minutes after the Longworth and the Memphis had cut loose. Now however, the Mac and the rock were drifting together, at the same casual speed.