Starhawk

by Jack McDevitt

  “The reason I called you, Priscilla: There’s a load of parts in the Bomb that they’ll be using to refit the scanners.” He pointed at the overhead. “The big ones. On the roof. Rob was supposed to take care of it, but he woke up with his head spinning this morning, and the medics want us to get someone else to make the delivery.”

  * * *

  SHE WOULD HAVE enjoyed wearing one of her two uniforms for the assignment. But they’d have laughed at her.

  The Baumbachner had a pathetic appearance. Even considering the age that had spawned it, the thing looked clumsy. It could have been an oversized barrel with thrusters. A laser was attached to the hull, which made it, as far as she knew, the only armed vehicle in the fleet. Its name was inscribed across the hull in pretentious Celtic script.

  Myra Baumbachner had been a billionaire who’d donated enormous sums and her life to getting the space program up and running after the national efforts had all, to one degree or another, failed. She was the prime force that came to the rescue when the Iapetus monument was discovered. It was a pity they couldn’t have named a better-looking ship for her.

  You and me, Myra, thought Priscilla as she went into the air lock, crossed the passenger cabin, and settled onto the bridge. Actually, the interior looked much better than the outside. Of course that simply meant the cabins weren’t awful.

  “We have an AI here?” she asked as she took her seat.

  “Right here,” a female voice replied. “Who are you, please?”

  “Priscilla Hutchins. Rob had a dizzy spell, so I’ll be taking his place.”

  “No one has informed me, Priscilla. You won’t object if I seek confirmation?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Good. My name is Myra.”

  No surprise there. “Hello, Myra. Can you connect me with Ops?”

  Two clicks. Then: “Done, Priscilla.”

  “Ops,” she said, “this is the Baumbachner. We’re ready to go.”

  “Very good, Baumbachner. There’s nothing in the neighborhood. You’re free to depart when you’re ready.”

  “Roger that.” She flipped a couple of switches, activating a scope and a monitor. “Myra, start engines.”

  “Just a moment, if you please, Priscilla. I’m—Ah, yes, here it comes now. Very good. You are approved.” The engines came online with a rumble.

  So here she was ready for her second solo. All the way to the roof of the space station. “Release the lines.”

  Control-panel lights blinked. “Release confirmed.” The magnetics binding the Baumbachner to the dock shut down.

  “Move us out. Gently.” She activated her harness and pulled it over her shoulders.

  Scopes mounted across the hull provided views in all directions. The port thrusters switched off. The bow began to swing toward the launch doors, and the navigation thrusters came on. The ship moved toward open sky.

  When they’d cleared the launch doors she looked out across the top of the station. “Myra,” she said, “do you know where the equipment is to be delivered?”

  “No, ma’am. I have no idea.”

  “All right.” Dumb. She’d assumed the AI would have the information. “I have control, Myra.”

  “Okay.”

  She took the vehicle slowly higher until she could get a good look at the rooftop. It supported two facilities used for storage and maintenance, and multiple clusters of scanners and scopes. At one of them, a group of technicians was at work.

  She switched back to Ops. “Have you any idea where I’m supposed to make delivery?”

  “Negative, Baumbachner. Let me give you to Tao.”

  “Tao is the person in charge?”

  “He is. Hang on a second.”

  Then a baritone: “Priscilla?”

  “Yes, Tao.”

  “All right. We can see you.” One of the technicians waved. “Bring them here, okay?”

  “On my way.”

  “You stay at the con. Don’t turn it over to the AI. Come in as close as you can. Then just open up. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Will do, Tao. Keep everybody back.”

  “We’ll stay out of your way.”

  They needed her to go in under the scanners. I hope I can do this without hitting one of the damned things. She swung slowly to starboard and moved forward with as much deliberation as she could manage.

  * * *

  THE SCOPES DIDN’T provide sufficient perspective. But Tao apparently realized that. “Back off a little more, Priscilla. That’s good. A little more.” Her screens were filled with support beams and dishes and cables. “Okay. Keep coming.”

  It didn’t seem as if there could be any room left.

  “You’re doing fine. Stay with it. Just a little closer.” Something bumped under the deck. “All right. That’s good. Lock in.”

  She used the magnetics to attach the Baumbachner to the roof. “Perfect, Priscilla. You relax. We’ve got it now.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Negative. Take it easy. We’ll need about an hour.”

  * * *

  SHE WAS HUNGRY. “All we have,” said Myra, “is tuna casserole. And there’s some cherry pie.”

  She went back into the passenger cabin, collected the casserole and a tomato juice, and sat down. Unfortunately, since she was sitting on top of the spinning space station, the centripetal force, which acted as a slightly-off-center gravity if you were walking around Union, tended now to drag her toward the starboard bulkhead. But she belted in. The Moon was visible through one of the ports.

  The only sounds in the Baumbachner were the blips and bloops of the electronics. It wasn’t exactly paradise, but it felt good to be back on the bridge.

  * * *

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  . . . When Governor McGruder poses his trademark question to the voters—What is the point of running around out there?—someone should show him the Great Monuments. He doesn’t really have to go out personally to look. Just pick up the Haversak collection and run the images. Let him examine the golden pyramid orbiting Sirius, or the Procyon Monument, a circular pavilion with columns and steps that would have accommodated something a bit larger perhaps than a human. Show him the crystal cones and spheres apparently arranged arbitrarily in a field of snow at the south pole of Armis V, but which reward the careful observer with an elegant pattern. Let him see the magnificent obelisk rising out of battered ridges on the Moldavian moon, otherwise a completely pedestrian satellite circling a featureless world. There’s no need even to mention the compelling self-portrait on Iapetus.

  If the governor can look at these stunning images and still ask why we have gone to the stars, then it should be clear to all there is no hope for him. And if the voters send him to the New White House, there may be no hope for us.

  —The Washington Post, January 12, 2196

  Chapter 27

  PRISCILLA WAS IN her office, going through financial documents, when Frank called. “Just so you’re aware,” he said, “Governor McGruder will be stopping by tomorrow. I doubt he’ll show up here, but you never know. Anyhow, in case he does, we want to look sharp.”

  Sure. I’ll look sharp checking over last month’s expenditures. “Okay, Frank,” she said. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Something else, Priscilla. We’re throwing a party this evening for some visiting VIPs. You’re invited.”

  She wasn’t excited by the prospect. But if she hoped ever to get away from her desk, she’d have to play the game. “Sure, Frank. Where and what time?”

  “The Gagarin Room,” he said. “Can you be there at eight?”

  * * *

  PATRICIA MCCOY COULD look good when she wanted to. On that evening, she wore sparkling cobalt slacks and a silver blouse. Her hair, usually tied back, hung to her shoulders. She was talking with a handful of visitors in a room filled mostly with strangers.

  Frank saw Priscilla come in and signaled the director, who turned and motioned her over. The
conversation in the room diminished. All eyes were suddenly on her. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Patricia, “I’d like to introduce Priscilla Hutchins. She’s the young lady who brought the students home safely from the Lalande Monument a few weeks ago.”

  The guests applauded, nodded in approval and smiled warmly. Several came forward, shook her hand, congratulated her on her performance, and said things like how they hoped she’d be around if they ever got into serious trouble. It was a glorious moment, and she was able to conclude that maybe she’d been a contributor to the outcome after all.

  Patricia indicated she should join her group. “Priscilla,” she said, “this is Alexander Oshenko.” She knew the name. Oshenko was a Russian physicist who’d won the Americus a few years earlier.

  “I’m honored,” said Oshenko.

  “And Maria Capitana. From Pamplona. Maria is a human rights activist. And Niklas Leitner. Niklas is from the University of Heidelberg. If you have any serious hopes of living for three centuries, he’s the guy you want to get to know.”

  She also met a prizewinning novelist, the president of Oxford, and, most significantly, Samantha Campbell, the director of the Academy Project.

  Campbell was in her sixties, with black hair and an amiable smile that contrasted sharply with intense blue eyes. “Beautiful effort, Priscilla,” she said. “I envy you. You’ve certainly gotten your career off to a rousing start.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Campbell—”

  “I hope,” said Patricia, “you won’t be trying to steal her from us.”

  “Oh, no.” She flashed that smile, implying she’d do no such thing. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t come close to matching what you must be paying her.”

  “Actually,” said Priscilla, “I did apply.”

  “Really? And we missed the opportunity? Well—” She shrugged. “Our loss.”

  Patricia passed her to Frank, but not before suggesting that she needed a name that sounded a bit more heroic. “Priscilla doesn’t really work, does it, Frank?”

  “No,” he said, “not really. If you’re going to move seriously ahead, we need a guns-up version of your name. Priscilla’s a touch too fashionable.”

  “My mom used to call me Prissy.”

  Patricia laughed. “Oh, that would be good.”

  “Something like Sundown would fit the bill,” said Frank.

  “That’s taken.”

  “I know. But Backwater might work.”

  “Magnificent,” said Priscilla with a straight face. “When I was a kid, I tried to get everybody to call me Hutch.”

  “Pity it didn’t take,” said Patricia.

  “These are all people,” Frank said, “who support the Academy Project. If they get their way, it could result in some serious exploration being done. We brought them here to reinforce their attitude and give them a chance to meet one another. Some of them made their reputations as organizers. So who knows what might come out of this?”

  “Did you invite Governor McGruder?” she asked. “He could use a little influencing.”

  “No way we could do that. If he found out about this, he’d use it against us. The party would become another example of wasteful spending. In fact, when we heard he was coming, we wondered whether he had found out. But I think it’s a coincidence. I hope so.” He glanced around the room. “I have to mingle,” he said. “Enjoy yourself. And, Priscilla?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t leave early, okay?”

  * * *

  SHE HADN’T EXPECTED the VIP treatment. That Frank entertained even for a moment the notion that she’d take off prematurely when people were under the impression she was a hero demonstrated how little he knew about her. She had felt somewhat intimidated when Patricia started the introductions, but as they’d worked their way around the room, and the assorted guests had all seemed to assume she was a celebrity, the disquiet had faded. Now she felt like a queen.

  In the lopsided gravity, dancing can be something of a challenge for those not accustomed to it. Consequently, Priscilla found the guests somewhat reluctant about stepping out on the floor with her. But ultimately, they were willing to try their luck. The Amazon biologist Leandro Santana told her, “Once you’ve seen a crocodile smile, nothing else will ever scare you.” Nonetheless he followed her tepidly into a lucinda. And then caught fire.

  She danced with almost every male in the place, traded jokes with the women, and even got some laughs from Patricia. The music, of course, was provided by a sound system. “If we’d brought in a band for something like this,” Frank told her, “it would have been all over the media.”

  She thought about making her case with Dr. Campbell, but it was possible she might be perceived as rushing things if she did. Campbell now knew who she was, and that was maybe enough for the moment. In any case, she wouldn’t have felt comfortable about walking away from her job after Patricia and Frank had gone out of their way for her.

  She was usually a cautious drinker. But everybody wanted to toast her, and then they toasted each other. By the end of the evening, she was pretty thoroughly toasted herself. The reason some of the guests stayed extraordinarily late was that the station operated on Greenwich Mean Time. And 2:00 A.M. in Greenwich was only 9:00 P.M. on the east coast of the NAU.

  * * *

  SHE OVERSLEPT, WOKE with a headache, and finally staggered into the office. Frank stopped by and suggested she might want to take the rest of the morning off. “You look a little wiped out,” he said.

  He had left the party only shortly before she did, and Priscilla had no interest in letting him think he was tougher than she was. The guy was, after all, only a bureaucrat. “I’m fine, Frank,” she said. “No sweat.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “Okay. You know best. But let me know if you decide to head out, all right?”

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  She got some coffee, put the operating-area-maintenance files on her display, and propped her chin in her right palm. “Nikki,” she said, her eyes closed.

  “Yes, Priscilla.”

  “Let me know if you see Frank heading back this way.”

  “Of course, Priscilla.”

  * * *

  SHE DOZED OFF for a few minutes. But it was no way to sleep. She got up, went to the washroom, and wiped her face with cold water.

  More coffee helped. She got through the morning okay, skipped lunch, and sat for an hour in the lounge. The afternoon went on forever. No more parties, she decided. Not like that. Not on a weekday.

  She was about to quit for the day when Nikki called. “Priscilla, Mr. Irasco asked if you were still here. I told him you were. I hope that was all right. Anyhow, he wants to see you in his office.”

  * * *

  “HOW’RE YOU FEELING?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she said. “What do you need, Frank?”

  He looked doubtful. “Governor McGruder wants to meet you.”

  “The governor wants to meet me, Frank?” Her throat tightened. “The Gremlin again?”

  “Enjoy your time in the spotlight, Priscilla. I’ve seen this before. It can go on for weeks. But once it fades out, it’s gone.”

  Lord. “When?”

  “Usually a couple of weeks. This is going on a bit longer.”

  “No, I mean when does he want to see me?”

  “Oh.” He glanced at the time. “As soon as we can get there.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid, Priscilla.”

  Her eyes slid shut. She wanted to scream. “How do I look?” she asked.

  “You look fine.” He hesitated. “I could tell him you’re sick.”

  It was obvious he didn’t want to do that. “No. Let’s go.” He led her through the door but didn’t turn, as she expected, toward Patricia’s office. “Where are we headed?”

  “He’s on his way to the dock.” The elevator was open when they got there. “Look,” he said, “you know how this guy feels about us, right
?”

  “Sure. He wants to close us down.”

  “Don’t give him anything he can use.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Just tell him the truth, whatever he asks, but don’t embellish. Okay?”

  * * *

  ANDREW Y. MCGRUDER—Big Andy to his constituents—was appropriately named. He was about six-five, and, on Union, had probably shed 260 pounds. His black hair was turning gray around the temples and thinning on top. He wore khaki slacks and a white pullover sweater. Priscilla had seen him often enough on HV to know he was not the usual sort of politician, who would tell voters anything to keep them happy. He was capable of learning and had shown it by reversing himself on some issues, like the general-purpose tax. And he seemed perfectly willing to admit he’d made mistakes. Not qualities she expected to see in a politician. He’d paid a price for it. His opponents routinely accused him of being a flip-flopper. Nevertheless, she didn’t like the guy. And it wasn’t just his stand on space exploration. There was something in his eyes that told her he couldn’t be trusted.

  He was standing by one of the portals, surrounded by about forty people, half of them techs. The Sydney Thompson was docked outside, its prow visible to the reporters, who were taking his picture and asking questions. “It’s good to be here,” he said. “Don’t misunderstand me. These people have performed some incredible feats. I mean, you look out there and think about what we’ve accomplished and—” He shook his head. “It makes me proud.”

  “Then why,” asked one of the reporters, “are you trying to close them down?”

  “I’m not.” He shook his head adamantly. “I’m trying to save the program. But you know as well as I do that the country can’t sustain the current costs. Nor can the other members of the WSA. As it’s now constituted, the space effort is a drag on everybody.

  “I know the argument: Kosmik and Celestial and the Stellar Express and the other private corporations are doing pretty well. But it’s happening on the backs of the taxpayers. If the corporations want space travel, that’s fine. But they should be paying for it.

  “Look, we haven’t really learned how to do this yet. We lose people, and we lose resources. We had that pilot killed a few weeks ago. We don’t like to admit it, but we have to face reality. We can stagger ahead a few more steps. But if we do, it’s all coming down. And I assure you, if the WSA collapses, if we have to close down the Wheel, it will be the end. We will not be coming back. At least not in the lifetime of anybody here. So I say let’s use some sense. Let’s draw down now. We can wait, give it some time, and eventually”—he raised both arms to encompass the docks, the Thompson, the operations area, the Wheel itself—“eventually, maybe we can restore and reinvigorate all of this.”