Starhawk

by Jack McDevitt

  A middle-aged couple were loitering at the entrance. The woman appeared to be wiping her eyes. They went inside as Jake climbed out of the automobile.

  Just inside the door, a register had been placed on a table. A young woman sat behind it. Jake signed in, and the woman thanked him for coming. A lectern had been set up on the far wall, which was dominated by a flag, with its sixty-three stars. Two sections of folding chairs faced the lectern. Approximately twenty people were present, most already seated. He was surprised to see Clyde Truscott, the Union chaplain, standing off to one side talking with a few people.

  Then it was time to start. Quiet, soulful string music seeped into the room. Those who were still standing took their seats. And a man who resembled Carlson got up and advanced to the lectern.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Shockley Carlson, Leon’s father. I’d like to thank you for coming. This is a difficult time for all of us, made especially painful because of the nature of what happened. Anyone who knew Leon knew he would never have deliberately injured anyone. He constantly went out of his way to help other people. During his college years, he was a volunteer at the Vineland animal shelter. He used to joke that if you took care of animals in trouble, you got extra credit at salvation.” He paused and looked up at the flag. “Ironically, it was his sense of humanity and decency that got him into so much trouble.

  “I’m not saying that what he did wasn’t wrong. There’s no way I can defend his action. What I am saying is that the Leon I knew, that I suspect we all knew, wasn’t malevolent. What he did was commit a serious error in judgment, a result of desperation brought on by what’s been happening on Selika. He was heartbroken that his actions resulted in the death of Captain Miller, who’d been both a colleague and a friend. He admitted that he’d made a terrible mistake, and he’s paid for it.

  “Another friend of his, the Rev. Clyde Truscott, who is the chaplain at the space station, has asked for an opportunity to speak with us. Reverend?”

  Truscott was a small man with a big voice. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve lost a good friend, a member of our family, under the worst of circumstances. The one fortunate thing we can be sure of is that, whatever we might believe about an afterlife, we know that Leon is in a better place now than he was a few days ago.”

  * * *

  WHEN IT WAS over, they filled a table with sandwiches and strawberries and snacks. Jake looked for a chance to express condolences to Leon’s parents. They seemed surprised when he gave them his name, but they thanked him for coming and apologized for what he’d been through. “He was devastated,” his mother said, “by the damage he’d done.”

  Jake wandered over to the table, not actually planning to eat so much as doing something other than leaving the building, which was what he wanted to do. He picked up a pretzel, gnawed on it, and began to edge his way toward the door. Then the young lady who’d been overseeing the register was at his side. “Captain Loomis?” she said.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  She smiled. “My name’s Olivia Patterson. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Leon’s sister.”

  He did vaguely remember a sister. “Of course,” he said. “I knew I’d seen you before.”

  She had dark brown hair, blue eyes, and good features made doubly attractive by their vulnerability. “I was happy when you came in, that you were able to find time for us. I wish Leon could have known that, if something like this happened, you would still come.”

  Jake looked into her eyes. She seemed nervous. “What do you mean, Olivia? I’m an old friend. Why—?”

  “He thought, because of all this, that you—” She stopped, managed to look even more uncomfortable, and continued: “He thought you would hold it against him. The other captain’s death. He didn’t think you’d forgive him. Didn’t think anybody from the Wheel would ever forgive him. Wouldn’t hate him for what happened.”

  “It wouldn’t really have been up to me to forgive him, Olivia.”

  “I probably used the wrong word, Captain Loomis.”

  “Jake will work fine.”

  “Jake. I guess I should have said that he didn’t believe you could overlook it. That you could recognize he’d screwed up but let it go.”

  “I’m sorry he felt that way.”

  “I’m glad you came. He would have been relieved to know you would be here. He knew his reputation was ruined with the pilots, but he said you were the one who was always actually there. And he wanted you to tell him it was okay. If that makes any sense.”

  “Sure it does. And I’m here. He was a good man. I know that. We all do.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say it, Jake. I tried to talk him into going to see you. To tell you how he felt. But he thought it would be useless. I wish with all my heart that he’d done it, that he’d talked with you. If he’d done that, he might be alive today.”

  * * *

  ON THE NET

  You read all these idiot science-fiction novels about invading aliens, and it turns out we’re the ones showing up and killing everything. I can’t believe we’re doing this.

  —Mickey R.

  I’m not particularly religious, but I don’t think God would approve of what’s happening out there. And I know there are a lot of people who would say there is no God. But even if that were true, the decent thing to do is to live as if there were one. I can’t see how we’d go wrong if we did that.

  —Louie-in-back

  Maybe Carlson had it right. Maybe using a bomb was the only way to get their attention.

  —JennOnTheLine

  So, Jenn, what you’re saying is that it’s okay to blow up a bunch of schoolkids who have nothing whatever to do with what you’re unhappy about.

  —OregonAnnie

  I’m not saying that, and you can’t be that dumb as not to know it. What I was trying to say was that it’s a pity we’re so blind and deaf that we don’t pay any attention to what’s going on until a bomb goes off.

  —JennOnTheLine

  If you’re really worried about this stuff, stop talking about it and go to pdy776 and sign the petition. It’s the only way to get the attention of the pols.

  —Joaquin12

  So they get a few million names on a petition. It doesn’t do any good. The only thing the pols are scared of is that one of the corporations that keeps them in the Congress will pull its support. It’s all about money. Bombs may be the only alternative. I’m not saying we should go that route, but I think we either do something that focuses attention on this issue or forget it.

  —HannahMoonlight

  Mickey’s right: We’re the aliens.

  —Mostafa22

  Petitions work, damn it. It just means we have to get enough people behind them. If you idiots would stop complaining and sign the damned things maybe we’d get some action.

  —YokaiTao

  This is the silliest argument I’ve seen in a long time. Why do we care what happens 25 light-years away? Let’s concentrate on some of our more immediate problems. Like maybe the population problem? Or global warming? Or religious extremism?

  —Big George

  Chapter 19

  ON THE EIGHTH day, the Venture surfaced, and thirty hours later Priscilla was approaching Selika. It was a gorgeous green-and-blue world, floating serenely in bright sunlight, accompanied by its three moons. Priscilla looked down at broad oceans, a continent stretching nearly from pole to pole, and a host of island chains. Ice caps were considerably larger than they were on Earth. The average temperatures, she knew, were three degrees lower than those at home. That, of course, would not be a problem for settlers.

  Several groups were already vying to colonize the world when it became available. An organization calling itself the Nativists wanted to come out and live in the wild. To get back to nature and escape the dreary routines of modern, civilized life. Two religious congregations wanted also to free themselves from the temptations of
the modern world. And there was a band of people who claimed the title Freedom Fighters who thought the NAU had been taken over by socialists, and a group of Chinese who wanted out of a country that they said had become a dictatorship.

  All five claimed to have enough money to cover their transportation and get their colony launched. Priscilla suspected some of that might have been contributions from people who wanted to see them leave.

  “Priscilla,” said Lily, “we have contact with Amity.”

  * * *

  “GOOD TO SEE you,” said a female voice from the space station. “Welcome to the cultural center of the universe.”

  “We’re glad to be here, Amity.”

  “You should be in time for the party tonight. Just ride the wave in.” She was referring to the directional signal Lily had already locked onto.

  “Is there really a party?” Priscilla asked.

  “It’s in your honor. We always party when somebody new shows up. Or when we have any other kind of excuse.”

  “I’m for that,” Priscilla said. When she got closer, she turned control over to Amity Operations, and they brought the Venture in alongside the lone vehicle docked at the station. That was the Kandari, a ship with several external tanks. An access tube reached out from Amity and connected with Priscilla’s air lock. She opened up, and a pair of technicians—a tall, broad-shouldered man and a young Asian woman—waved hello and asked permission to come aboard.

  “Absolutely,” Priscilla said. “Come on in.”

  Both were probably in their midtwenties. “Captain,” said the male, “this is Tonya. And I’m Rick. We’re here to relieve you of your cargo.”

  “My name’s Priscilla,” she said. “You guys can have it. You need any help?”

  “No, we’re good. You should probably go inside. They’re waiting for you.”

  She took her bag, went into the access tube, and was met at the other end by a young woman and a short, stocky man with thick gray hair. “Hello,” he said, offering a hand. “I’m Joe Chappell. And this is Wilma Barrister. We’re happy to see you, umm—”

  “Priscilla Hutchins,” she said.

  Wilma’s eyes sparkled. “Welcome aboard, Priscilla.” She was the comm operator.

  They were in a lounge with a door in every bulkhead. A dozen chairs were scattered about, and a couple of small tables. A pennant reading PROJECT RAINBOW was fixed over the entrance. “How was the flight, Priscilla?” Chappell asked.

  “Long,” she said.

  “Yeah, we know about that. If there’s anything we can do to make you comfortable while you’re here, don’t hesitate to ask. Wilma will show you to your quarters and provide anything you need.”

  “Thank you,” said Priscilla.

  “It’s no trouble. We’re always glad to have a visitor. Especially one so charming.” The comment sounded automatic. Chappell started for one of the doors, but stopped. “Oh, you’re aware that you’ll be taking Monika Wolf back with you?”

  “Yes, Joe. I know about that.”

  “Very good. She’ll be ready to go in the morning. I expect about nine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of something.” He tried another smile, gave up, turned, and left.

  “Problem?” asked Priscilla.

  “No. Joe always has something important to do. He’s a good guy at heart.” She led the way out. “He’s our director, but I guess you know that.” It had been hard to miss.

  “I thought that,” she said. “Wilma, what’s Project Rainbow?”

  “That’s the terraforming operation.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “All right, I guess.” She led the way through a door and down a corridor. “Be careful,” she said. “We have some spin but not much.” It was effectively zero gee. But they couldn’t have produced anything stronger without getting everyone dizzy. Wilma took a side corridor, stopped at a door, and opened it. “This one’s yours.”

  The cabin was a bit compact, smaller even than the quarters on the Venture. But it wasn’t going to matter. She expected to be out of there within ten hours.

  “Thanks, Wilma.”

  “You’re welcome. And I wasn’t kidding about the party. Take whatever time you need. When you’re ready, come back to the lounge and meet everybody.”

  * * *

  IT WASN’T EXACTLY a party. The two cargo handlers, Rick and Tonya, were there. They were obviously lovers. A guy who seemed to be Wilma’s boyfriend showed up, and three or four others. “What are you drinking?” asked the boyfriend, whose name was Ben. “Here’s the wine list.” It was all nonalcoholic.

  “Joe,” said Wilma, “doesn’t believe in alcohol on space stations.”

  “I can understand that,” said Priscilla. “Drunks in orbit. Probably not a good idea.”

  “You were alone in the ship?” asked Rick.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He made a face. “I don’t know why they do that.” Rick wore a shirt with a rainbow and the project name. “I don’t know how you guys manage it. I’d go nuts if they sealed me alone in one of those things for a week.”

  “You get used to it,” she said, speaking like a veteran pilot and immediately regretting it. Somebody here might know this was her first mission. So she grinned. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”

  “You new?” asked Wilma.

  “Just a couple of weeks.”

  Wilma introduced her to two physicists, Hal and Agnes. Hal was middle-aged, balding, and looked generally bored. He made it immediately clear that he’d been out there a long time. “We don’t get many visitors like you.”

  Priscilla’s alarms went off. “I guess not, Hal. So you guys change the weather patterns, right?”

  “We do more than that. Basically, what we do is climate adjustment.”

  “In what way?”

  He passed it over to Agnes, whose age and reactions signaled she could easily have been Hal’s mother. “We’ve had to modify the mix of gases in the atmosphere,” she said. “This place has good potential for human habitation. It’s one of maybe three worlds we’ve seen where people could actually live comfortably. But it needs some modification. Usually, if we get a decent climate, the gravity level’s too much. Or too little. Cilia II, for example, would be a great place to live. Standard gravity and an ideal atmosphere. But it’s unstable.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There’s a ton of junk floating around in the system.” She laughed. “It gets whacked regularly by asteroids. In a billion years or so, the problem will go away on its own.”

  Priscilla poured herself an apple juice. “What kind of adjustment do you need here?”

  “A higher level of oxygen.”

  “And you do it with superalgae?”

  “Very good,” said Hal, trying to look impressed. “You’ve done your homework.”

  She nodded. Looked back at Agnes. “How long have you been at it?”

  “I don’t think anybody, except Hal, has been here longer than a year,” she said. “Project Rainbow, though, is about six years old.”

  “How’s it been going?”

  “Okay,” said Hal. “Oxygen content has gone from 15 to almost 16 percent. For better or worse. Or were you talking about the social life?”

  Wilma’s eyes moved from Hal to Priscilla. She pursed her lips, as if Hal had told an inappropriate story. He shrugged. Smiled. Drank whatever was in his cup.

  “Something wrong?” asked Priscilla.

  “Well,” said Wilma. “Nothing critical. The nitrogen-oxygen balance seems to be having an adverse effect on some of the lower-level life-forms. No big deal.”

  * * *

  WILMA CONTINUED INTRODUCING her around, and one of the women made a play for her. As did one of the young males. Social reality in a place like Amity, she realized, was going to be a completely different ball game from anything she’d experienced before. Maybe that was why Monika Wolf was heading home. Priscilla actually felt guilty declining the offers. She a
lmost felt as if she had an obligation to provide a break from the vapid existence. Amity. It brought a sad smile to her lips.

  Toward the end of the evening, she heard raised voices somewhere in the station. One belonged to Chappell, the other to a woman. Priscilla couldn’t make out what it was about. The disruption lasted only a minute or so. But the lounge grew quiet. And when it was over, everyone behaved as if it had not happened.

  * * *

  SHORTLY AFTER SHE’D retired, Hal showed up at her cabin and asked whether she needed anything. She thanked him and assured him she was fine. He let her see his disappointment.

  Priscilla was up early, packed her bag, and stowed it on the Venture. Then she joined a couple of the techs for breakfast in a conference room that also served as the dining area. She was finishing a plate of pork roll and eggs when she heard the same two raised voices that had interrupted the party the previous evening. “—No choice,” Chappell was saying. “I really wish you’d rethink things, Monika.” The director walked in, accompanied by a tall, intense woman with black hair and angry eyes. She wore a white blouse and green slacks, in contrast to the gray work uniforms everyone else had.

  “Maybe,” said the woman, “you should think about the potential consequences of all this.”

  “Try to be rational,” he said. “The chances of its happening are remote.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Look, I wish you could just give it some time. If you leave—”

  “Good-bye, Joe. I hope you’re right. But I doubt it.” She looked around, spotted Priscilla, and approached the table. “Hutchins?” she asked.

  “Yes. You’re Dr. Wolf?”

  “I am. I’m ready to leave whenever it’s convenient.” She turned on her heel and walked out the door in the direction of the launch platform. Chappell watched with mounting frustration as she left.

  Then he turned to Priscilla, who had just said good-bye to her companions and was getting up. “Have a good flight,” he said in an accusing tone as though she were somehow responsible for Wolf’s decision.