Odyssey

by Jack McDevitt

  The head of personnel called. Doug Eberling. An excitable guy who’d found a home with the Academy and had no ambition other than to stay out of trouble. “Is that really happening, Hutch? My God, I can’t believe it.”

  “—To notify the West Tower. I’ve been talking to the shuttles. They’re okay. A little bit shocked.”

  “Hutch,” said Eberling, “what can we do?”

  “The shuttles are telling me power’s off in the tube. They aren’t getting their boost from the rings.”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Eberling.

  “It means,” said Hutch, “they don’t have much in the way of propulsion. Just a few missiles they can fire off and that’s it.”

  Peter showed up on the circuit. “Looks like you were right, Hutch.”

  “They’re moving,” said Valya. “The moonriders are moving again.” Her voice rose several decibels. “They’re following the tube. Hutch, they’re headed for the other tower.”

  The Salvator’s scopes stayed with them. They’d lined up on either side of the collider and were beginning to pick up speed. Chasing the shuttles?

  They moved frantically aside, trying to evade. But the globes cruised serenely past, making no effort to pursue. Thank God for that at least.

  SHE INFORMED THEIR government liaison, so he could pass it up the chain of command. The World Council probably didn’t have the news yet. But it sounded as if a war had started.

  Valya had sent information copies of the transmission to the ten ships of the rescue squadron. Hutch added a warning of her own: “They are hostile. Do not put yourself at unnecessary risk. We’ll send updates as soon as we get them.”

  Another message went to Valya: “Do what you can, but don’t lose the Salvator. As the situation changes, please keep us informed. Continue information copies to the incoming vessels. Good luck.”

  Then a call came in from Allard. “Goddam you,” he said. The man was literally sputtering. “We have at least fifty dead.” He stared at her across a vast gulf, struggling to contain his rage. “Where is Asquith?”

  “He’s not available at the moment, Professor. I have a call in to him, and I’ll relay your concern when I’m able.”

  “You may relay more than my concern. What did you people know that you neglected to tell me? How could you possibly let this happen?”

  His voice trembled, and she thought he was close to cardiac arrest. “We gave you everything we had, Professor.”

  “Nonsense! You told me something about a dream. An apparition.”

  “We gave you what we had. It was your decision to sit on it.” Although she understood why he had chosen to ignore their warning. They had not, after all, been convinced themselves.

  Abruptly, tears welled up in Allard’s eyes. “God help us,” he said.

  THE NEWS WAS getting out. Hutch had several calls in succession from the media. She admitted that yes, an attack had occurred, but at the moment that was all she had. “I don’t know any more than you do.”

  Then there was Charlie Dryden. She’d been too busy to tell him what she thought of him. When he called, though, it was obvious he knew Mac had spoken to her. He was tentative rather than his usual charge-the-battlements self. “Hutch,” he said, “I hate to bother you. But is it true?”

  “Yes. We have a lot of people dead.”

  “I don’t believe it.” He looked genuinely shocked.

  “Is that by any chance because you thought the moonriders were your own invention?”

  “Well, that’s not exactly true. Look, Hutch, we meant no harm.”

  Interesting how the first-person pronoun he normally used had gone plural. “Cut the act, Charlie. Anyway, the details, at the moment, don’t matter. I’m busy. What do you need?”

  “I was hoping I could do something to help.”

  “You could have helped three days ago when we needed two carriers.”

  “Look, Hutch,” he said, “what we did, I know that doesn’t sit well with you—”

  “It’s okay, Charlie. I enjoy being lied to.”

  “You wouldn’t have come in willingly. We knew that. But we were trying to save the program—”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “We had a ship standing by near the Galactic. In case there was a problem. Nobody was ever in danger.”

  “If you don’t have anything else, I have to go.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t have anything else. I just wanted you to know this was something we felt we had to do. We wanted to protect the Academy.”

  “Give me a break, Charlie. You and your pals don’t really care about the Academy, except as a wedge to get government contracts for your own outfit. Was the commissioner part of it?”

  “No,” he said. “He didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Well, at least you’re not a snitch, Charlie.”

  “Hutch, I’d really be grateful if you could bring yourself to overlook this. I meant well.”

  She smiled at him. “I take it you’re headed for court.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll try to arrange it. Good-bye, Charlie.”

  GEORGE WAS USUALLY pretty unflappable. He was, after all, an AI. But when he whispered Hutch’s name a minute or two after she’d disconnected Dryden, he sounded impressed. “Call from the president,” he said.

  Hutch thought she’d better sit down for this one. “Put him through, George.”

  A young woman blinked on. Black hair, well dressed, artificial smile. “Please hold for President Crandall,” she said.

  Hutch tried to arrange herself. Try to look cool. As if presidents call every day.

  The woman was replaced by the man himself. Patrick O’Keefe Crandall, the first Canadian president, now in his third year. He was seated in an armchair, looking at a document—somehow it was a document and not simply a piece of paper—but when he saw her, he stood. “Ms. Hutchins. I’ve been meaning to have you over to the White House.” The New White House, actually. The old one, now an island, was a museum. He glowed with the charm that had helped him carry fifty-two states in the last election.

  She stood, too. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.”

  “May I call you Hutch?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. Whatever you like.” Dumb.

  He laughed. It was okay. “Hutch, I understand the facility at Origins is under attack.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. That is so. They’ve destroyed the East Tower.”

  “I’m also informed you have direct contact with a ship on the scene.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. President.”

  “Good. I want you to stay on top of this. Anything that comes in should be forwarded directly to me. Your AI has the code.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve been informed you have a small squadron of ships on the way.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. President.”

  “That they left a couple days ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew in advance an attack was coming.” He studied her carefully, trying to make up his mind about her. “I wonder if you’d explain how that happened.”

  Her reluctance must have shown.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re on a secure circuit.”

  So she told him everything. He listened, his expression composed, nodding occasionally, explaining he understood when she described her reaction to the story. She added they’d made an effort to keep Amy’s name out of it. If that story made the rounds, the kids at her school would never let her rest. And the media would be all over her.

  “And you say the thing looked like you?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes widened perceptibly. It was a reaction everybody in the country was familiar with. “Well,” he said, “they certainly have exquisite taste.”

  She smiled at the compliment. “I don’t know where it came from.”

  “We’ll give it some thought. Hutch, thank you for y
our efforts. And we’re grateful you didn’t wait to send out those ships.”

  SHE SENT A warning to Valya to let her know her messages were being relayed directly to the White House. It would be two hours before she received it, probably too late to be of any practical value, but it was all she could do.

  She’d just finished when another transmission came in from the Salvator. “We’ve checked with both shuttles. They’re okay for now. I’m going to leave them to get over to the West Tower on their own. There are sixteen souls on board. No sign anybody else made it.”

  Hutch forwarded the message to the New White House and her other consumers. Then she called Amy.

  “I’ve been watching it on the news,” Amy said, looking stricken. “How many dead?”

  “Looks like upward of fifty.”

  “I told you. Nobody would listen.”

  “I’m sorry, Amy. You were right, and the rest of us were wrong. We should have trusted you from the first moment. But in the end we did listen. Because of you there’s a rescue fleet moving in. At the other terminal. A lot of lives will be saved.”

  She shook her head. “Fifty dead. How could you let it happen?”

  NEWS DESK

  ORIGINS ATTACKED

  Fifty-Six Feared Dead at Science Outpost

  WORLD COUNCIL IN EMERGENCY SESSION

  Pasturi to Issue Statement

  DID ALIENS DO IT?

  Random Attacks Baffle Experts

  HAND OF GOD SERVES WARNING, SAYS TRAPLEY

  “Some Things We Are Not Meant to Know”

  Project Was Examining Creation

  CRANDALL WILL ASSURE NATION

  President to Speak Tonight

  DEFENSE COMMITTEE CALLS FOR MORE SPENDING

  HURRICANE HARRY TO MAKE LANDFALL TOMORROW

  Evacuation in Carolinas, Georgia

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  During the late twenty-first century, when the Lysistrata movement was at the height of its power, and the world’s major powers were being forced to disband their militaries, there were those who warned that we would eventually regret the action. The assumption was that a rogue state would surreptitiously arm itself and create havoc in its region and possibly around the world. Eldrige Westin led the assault on Lysistrata. “Those who seek peace, but who are not willing to fight for it, will have no peace, and will quickly lose the ability to seek anything.” American women thanked him by voting him out of office.

  It looks now as if the hour of retribution may be upon us. We have been attacked, not by our own kind but by something outside our experience. The politicians will not admit it but, whatever this force may be, we stand naked before it. If it comes here, we will have no defense other than to throw ripe fruit in its direction.

  God help us.

  —Marianthy Golazko, Parthenon, Sunday, May 10

  chapter 41

  The creative act requires both will and intelligence. Breaking things is easy. You only need a hammer.

  —Gregory MacAllister, “On the Road”

  Where the East Tower had been, there were only a few scorched struts and beams, somehow still connected to the collider tube. Black smoke and debris drifted away in all directions.

  “Incoming transmission,” said Bill. “From one of the shuttles.”

  It was audio only, three or four panicked voices. “Who the hell are they?”

  “Salvator, is anybody coming?”

  “They killed them all…”

  And Bill again: “The other shuttle wants to talk to you, too. As does West.”

  Ahead, something lit up the sky. And subsided.

  “What was that?” asked Eric.

  “I’ve no idea.” She told both shuttles she’d be with them in a minute and directed Bill to link with West. It was Estevan. If she’d been tense before, she looked on the verge of a breakdown now. “What’s happening out there?” she demanded. “We’ve been cut off from the Tower.”

  “It’s been destroyed, Doctor. By alien hostiles. It looks as if they’re on their way over to see you.”

  “My God. What do they want?”

  “I think they disapprove of something you’re doing.”

  “What are you talking about, Valya?”

  “Let’s discuss it later. Stein managed to evacuate a few of his people. They weren’t attacked. So whatever’s driving these things, they want the structure gone. Not you. I suggest you get as many people off the platform as you can.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? We have two shuttles and that’s it.” She paused, trying to collect herself. “When will they get here?”

  “They’re just past the second ring.” She did the math. The rings were 150 kilometers apart. The globes had needed about ten minutes to get from the first ring to the second one. “If they maintain current velocity, you’ve got about five and a half hours.”

  Why were they moving so slowly?

  “Maybe that’s their top speed,” said Eric.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “Bill, let’s go back to the shuttles.”

  “Very good,” said Bill. “They’re panicked.”

  He switched over. Screams and yells erupted from the speaker. “You’re safe,” said Valya. “They’re gone.”

  A woman’s voice spilled out. Margo Somebody. “I’m the pilot. Salvator, do you see the bastards?”

  “They’re well up the line. Headed away from you.”

  “Toward West?”

  “Looks like. Listen, stay put. Help’s coming. I’ll make sure somebody gets over here to pick you up. They’re still probably six or seven hours away. But just sit tight.”

  She did a final search of the area, on the off chance she might have missed something. But there was no one on the commlink, and the scanners revealed no intact bodies anywhere. “Okay,” she told Eric, finally. “Let’s get out of here.” She swung back alongside the tube and began to accelerate.

  Minutes later, they passed the first of the rings that supported the collider. It was charred. Now they knew what had flared up. A second ring was in the same condition.

  Dead ahead, she made out the globes. They were dark, proceeding at a leisurely pace. On impulse, she slowed and blinked her navigation lights. The globes blinked back.

  She tried a second time, but the phenomenon did not repeat.

  “They’re taking the entire thing down,” said Eric.

  “Apparently.” She brought Bill back up. “What’s the latest on the rescue fleet?”

  “Valya, everything is currently on the way, but they’re all still in hyper. The Rehling is supposed to make its jump into local space in about an hour.” After which they’d need some time to get to the Tower. “The Rehling can carry nine passengers. The Granville should be running a couple hours behind that. But if they get a good jump, they’ll still beat the moonriders to the Tower. The Granville can carry twenty-two. The others have next to no chance to get here before that happens.”

  She reconnected with Estevan and gave her an update.

  Estevan listened, rage and frustration barely controlled. “All these years of work,” she said. Her voice trembled.

  AN HOUR LATER, as they approached the West Tower, Bill announced a message from the Rehling.

  “Valya.” The voice belonged to Mark Stevens, a veteran pilot with whom she’d worked on several occasions. “We’ve just completed our jump. Got a good one. We’ll be at the West Tower in about three hours.”

  “Make it as quick as you can, Mark.”

  A frightened crowd awaited them as they debarked. “What are these things?” they demanded. “What’s happening? Is it as bad as we’re hearing?”

  “Help’s coming,” Valya said.

  “And these things are coming here, is that right?” demanded a tall, gangly young man with red-blond hair and a Denver Hawks jacket. “Why are they doing this?”

  “Nobody knows,” she said. When they get here, you can ask them.

  “We’re all going to die.” A frightened voice, somewhe
re. Somebody else whimpered.

  “We can take some of you off on the Salvator,” Valya said. “More ships are on their way.”

  It didn’t help much.

  The interior was a mirror image of East Tower. The dining room that had been on the right was on the left. Conference rooms were reversed, as were the library and a gym. They pushed through, picked up an escort, and hurried down passageways and climbed into the upper levels until they reached Estevan’s office.

  The deputy director looked as if the world had ended. She sat in a chair with a notebook open on her lap, staring at the opposite wall. She glanced up, said hello, thanked the person who’d accompanied them, and signaled for her to close the door on her way out.

  Design charts of Origins at various stages of construction covered the walls. There was also a picture of two toddlers. Probably the director’s grandchildren. Estevan was smaller than she’d appeared on the commlink. Her face was ashen, and a vein throbbed in her neck. “For God’s sake,” she said, “what are we supposed to do? You tell me to evacuate. Where? How? I have no ships—”

  “They’re coming,” said Valya.

  “When?”

  “The Rehling’s three hours out. The others haven’t jumped yet, so it’s impossible to be sure. But the Granville should also be here before the moonriders. And if we get lucky, maybe one or two others.”

  “How many can they carry?”

  “Thirty-one between them.”

  Estevan closed her eyes and fought back tears. “It’s maddening,” she said. “The potential for this facility…” She tried to shake off the mood.

  “How many are on the station?”

  “Seventy-eight, counting me.” She almost sounded resentful. “You look surprised.” It was more than Valya had expected. “So what do we do, Valya?”

  Na pari o diaolos. How did Valya wind up in charge? This was a bit above her pay grade.

  The Salvator could squeeze nine on board, not counting herself and Eric. That was well over capacity. But she could manage it for a limited time. Assuming the Granville and the Rehling got here before the moonriders, that would leave thirty-eight still on the station. “You said you had shuttles?”

  “Two.”

  “Are they the same as the ones at the other end? The TG12s?”