Deepsix

by Jack McDevitt

  The lander rocked gently, and the tower, cold and dark, reached up toward them.

  Hutch might have used the AI to make the landing, but she preferred to fly on her own in this type of circumstance. If something unexpected happened, she didn’t want to be at risk while the AI thought about an appropriate course of action.

  She lowered the treads. The snow cover looked undisturbed.

  It was hard to believe an entire city lay below that smooth white surface.

  She took a moment to visualize its dimensions. The wall to which the tower might or might not be attached went off that way under the snow for a kilometer and a half, then turned north, angled back and forth a bit, and eventually returned to the tower, which was at the southwest corner of the fortification.

  The city had apparently lain at the top of a low hill.

  The lander sank through the night.

  “Easy,” said Kellie, her voice so low that Hutch suspected she wasn’t supposed to hear it.

  Hutch kept the nose up, cut back on the spike, and reached for the ground the way a person might descend into a dark room.

  Wind blew up around them, and she could almost feel a draft come through the hull. She phased back the power, allowing the lander’s weight to ease down. The cabin was silent.

  They touched the snow.

  She let the vehicle settle and cut power. A few flakes fell on the windscreen.

  “Good show,” said Nightingale.

  “Hutch, you down?” It was Marcel’s voice.

  “On target,” she said.

  During her career, Hutch had walked on probably twenty worlds and moons. This was the fifth time she’d landed on a world about which little was known, the first during which she’d been in charge.

  They were twenty meters from the tower.

  Hutch turned the lander’s lights on it. Pocked and beaten by long winters, it was circular, not more than three stories high. Although she was thinking in human terms. It wasn’t wide: She could walk around it in a minute.

  There were eight windows, all at different levels, each looking in a different direction. The lowest would permit easy access. The top of the tower was circled by twin ring cornices projecting just above the uppermost window. A convex roof capped the structure.

  She activated her e-suit and felt the familiar push away from the seat and the back of the chair as if a cushion of air had formed around her. Kellie ran a radio check with her and nodded. Okay. She pulled on a utility vest and asked Toni to pass up the microscan from the backseat. She clipped it on and put a cutter into a pocket.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Nightingale. He looked worried.

  “Historic moment. It’s worth preserving.” She popped the inner airlock hatch, set the cabin air pressure to match the outside level, and got out of her seat. “Everybody please get into your e-suit. Set the breather for conversion mode.” That would allow the system to work off the environment so they didn’t have to wear air tanks.

  Kellie passed out the Flickinger generators. They attached them to their belts and activated the suits. The converters kicked in and commenced moving air.

  “Mine won’t work,” said Toni.

  Kellie looked at it, made an adjustment, and reset it. “Try it now.”

  The field whispered on and Toni held up a thumb. “Okay.”

  “I thought,” said Chiang, “we were going to wait until morning.”

  “We are. Chiang, I’d like you to come stand in the airlock.”

  “Okay,” he said, joining her. And after a moment: “Why?”

  “In case of screwups, surprises, whatever.” She checked the time. “We’re about two hours from sunup. Soon as we have light, we’ll go into the building.”

  “Nothing’s going to sneak up on us out there,” Chiang said. “Why don’t we just take a look now?”

  “When we have daylight.” She trained the sensors to do a sweep along a patch of forest. It was the only place she could see where a predator might hide. Other than the tower itself.

  Green lights flashed, and the outer hatch opened. “Anything moves out there,” she said, “I want to know about it.” She climbed out onto the ladder.

  Chiang produced a lantern and played its beam across the snow. “Looks like Christmas.”

  Hutch climbed down, tested the ground, and sank in about halfway up her shins. The field kept her feet warm and dry. “Snow’s a bit soft,” she said.

  “So I see.”

  The tower loomed over her. Morgan was a bright green star in the western sky, where its brilliance washed out even Deneb. It was 84 million kilometers away, and the two worlds were rushing toward each other at a combined velocity of just under seventy kilometers per second.

  The tower itself was singularly dull. A pile of stone blocks and not much more. She took its picture. Took it again.

  She kept an eye on the line of trees. Somebody, Nightingale, she thought, undiplomatically asked whether Kellie knew how to fly the lander.

  Hutch heard no response. Kellie, she suspected, had answered with a glance.

  She faced the spacecraft, providing the scan with a good look, gave it a moment to adjust to the lighting, and took the lander’s picture also.

  “That’s good,” said Kellie. “Come on back now.”

  There was still a picture she wanted, one she would hang in whatever future quarters she might occupy. She moved to the far side of the vehicle, got far enough back until she had both the nose of the spacecraft, its Wildside designator, and the tower, all in the frame. “Perfect,” she said.

  Dawn broke gray and listless.

  The sun was larger than Sol. But it seemed dusty and not quite tangible, almost as if it were one of those solar illusions called sun dogs one sees from North America’s Great Plains.

  Deepsix had a rotational period of nineteen hours, six minutes, eleven seconds. It was a few million kilometers closer to its sun than Earth was to Sol, but Maleiva was older and cooler.

  There was snow on the tower roof. Hutch wondered who had lived in the building, how long ago, where they had gone.

  It was possible that the tower marked the site of a climactic battle, or a place where opposing forces had come together to establish an alliance. A Plato might have conducted discussions on this hillside, in warmer times. Or a Solon laid out a system of laws.

  Who knew? And no one ever would, except for what little she could salvage.

  They descended from the lander, checked their gear, and began trudging through the snow toward the ground-floor window. The merest whisper of wind was audible around the tower. The snow was crusted, and it crunched loudly underfoot, breaking the general stillness.

  Two birds appeared in the distance, well out to the northwest. Nightingale turned to look at Hutch, and a chill passed down her spine. But he said nothing.

  The birds were flying in great slow circles, wings out, riding the air currents.

  The ground-level window had a frame, in which remained a few shards of what might once have been glass. Inside the building they saw a room, utterly bare save for some wooden sticks and debris.

  Through an open doorway, a narrow wooden staircase ascended between beams into the ceiling. The steps were close together, far too close to accommodate human feet.

  Hutch set her scan to record everything, hung it around her neck, and climbed through the frame. There was just enough clearance for her head. The floor seemed solid. Beneath a layer of snow and earth, it was constructed of planks. She examined a plaster wall, stained and crumbling, punched full of holes. Several sets of shelves had been built into it.

  The ceiling was low, not quite two meters. Not enough to allow even Hutch to stand up straight.

  She looked into the other room, the one with the stairway, and saw a third chamber.

  The stairway apparently rose to the top of the tower. And down several levels to the bottom. It was made of wood.

  Hutch signaled the others to come in.

  Chiang
pushed on the ceiling. Dust drifted down.

  The chambers above and below also had one window each. They appeared identical to the one at ground level, save that the windows were in different locations.

  They climbed to the room above, and then to the level above that. They were all scrunching down to avoid hitting their heads. “Marcel was right about these folks,” grumbled Kellie. “They were a little on the short side.”

  After the initial inspection they went back to the lander and Hutch distributed gear luminous cable and chalk to mark off areas where finds were made; bars and lamps, compressed air dusters, whatever else she’d been able to think of. Find anything unusual, she told them, call me. And almost anything you find will be unusual.

  As the day brightened, they spread out through the tower. There were eight levels above ground. They counted six more going down. The topmost space consisted of a single chamber with a surprisingly high ceiling, enough to allow everyone except Chiang to stand upright. There was a hook up there, and they found two objects on the floor: one that might once have been a piece of chain, and a smashed wooden tripod.

  “What do you think?” asked Toni.

  “Maybe,” said Kellie, “it was used to sharpen axes. See, you could put a stone in here.”

  They found at each level a charred niche that must have been a fireplace. In addition, at the bottom of the structure, a door opened out to the north. Into the interior of the city. It was closed, warped, and it wouldn’t budge. They decided to finish examining the building before taking it down.

  The rooms were empty, save for a chair arm that one would have described as a child’s furnishing, a flat piece of wood that might once have been a tabletop, a few rags, a shoe, and some other debris so far corrupted that it was impossible to know what it might once have been.

  The shoe was quite small, designed for the foot of an elf.

  But the tabletop became a discovery.

  “It’s engraved,” said Chiang.

  The engravings were worn, so much so that little could be made out. Hutch couldn’t even be sure whether the symbols were intended to be representative of actual objects, whether they were geometrical figures, pictographs, or letters.

  The tripod had also been carved. Decorated. But these, too, had faded beyond any hope of recovery. They were examining it when Marcel’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We just got a report back from the Academy. I thought you’d be interested in knowing they’ve named your city.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Burbage Point.”

  “They named it for Burbage?” He was the senator who was eternally holding up the Academy as an example of mismanaged funds.

  “I guess.”

  “My God. Maybe they’re trying to send him a message.”

  “Not that bunch. They think they’re ingratiating themselves.”

  “Anything else, Marcel?”

  “Yes. The analysts have been looking at the scans for the cities. We’ve located nine now, most under heavy ice, all under something. And they all have defensive ramparts, by the way. Walls.”

  “That locks it.”

  “Yep. Primitive civilization. There is one exception, one without a palisade, but that’s on an island. Incidentally, they’re naming all these places for people they think can give them money, or get money for them. We now have Blitzberg, Korman City, Campbellville…”

  “You’re not serious.”

  He laughed. “You ever know me to kid around?”

  Nightingale’s eyes caught hers, and she knew exactly what he was thinking: And these nitwits have us down here risking our necks.

  “Marcel,” she said, “any more information about Burbage Point?”

  “A little. It looks as if there were some wars. Somebody took the city at one point and pulled the walls down. Apparently left only the tower standing.”

  “What’s our position vis-à-vis the city? We’ve got a door at the bottom of the building, leading out toward the north. Any idea what we’ll see when we go through it?”

  “Probably just ice.”

  “Okay. We’ll let you know how it turns out.”

  “I’m listening to every word, Hutch. We’ve redirected a couple of the satellites, so we won’t lose you when we’re over the horizon.”

  “All right.” Not that it would do the landing party any good if it got into serious trouble.

  They’d brought the pieces of chain and the ax sharpener down to the lower levels to bag and tag. Kellie was writing the description of where the pieces had been found and was about to seal the wrapper on the tripod when Chiang asked to see it.

  He studied it for a moment, held the bottom of the one complete leg against the floor, looked up the staircase to the top of the tower. “You know,” he said, “we might be in an observatory.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Toni.

  “I’d bet my foot the roof used to open.”

  Kellie looked from the tripod to Chiang, puzzled. “You mean you think this thing supported a telescope?”

  “It’s possible,” he said.

  Toni grinned at Kellie. “And you said it was an axe sharpener.”

  Kellie laughed and her eyes sparkled. “I could still be right. They might have opened the roof to man the battlements.”

  Hutch looked at it. “It seems too small,” she said. “The eyepiece would be down at your hips.”

  Chiang aimed a thumb at the ceiling. “Don’t forget who lived here.”

  They trooped back up to the top level. There was a break down the middle of the ceiling. A separation. They dug around in the dirt and vegetable debris that covered the floor and found a small metal plate and an object that might have been a sidebar.

  “You might be right,” said Hutch, trying to imagine a tiny astronomer with a tiny telescope peering through an open roof. “It would mean,” she said, “they had some knowledge of optics.”

  VI

  Show me a man of unflinching rectitude and I’ll show you a man who hasn’t been offered his price. And it’s a good thing for the progress of the species. Throughout our long and sorry history it has been men who supposed themselves to be exemplars of integrity who have done all the damage. Every crusade, whether for decent literary standards or to cover women’s bodies or to free the holy land, has been launched, endorsed, and enthusiastically perpetrated by men of character.

  —GREGORY MACALLISTER, “Advice for Politicians,” Down from the Mountain

  “Mr. MacAllister.” Captain Nicholson rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and pressed his fingertips together. “I’d like very much to oblige you. You know that”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “But I simply cannot do it. There are safety considerations. And in any case it would be a violation of company policy.”. He showed MacAllister his palms, signifying his helplessness in the matter.

  “I understand,” said MacAllister. “But it is a pity. After all, how often does an event like this occur?”

  The captain’s gold-flecked brown eyes reflected a degree of uncertainty. He obviously did not want to offend the influential editor. But if MacAllister pressed his request, Nicholson would be pushed into a no-win situation.

  MacAllister didn’t want that.

  They were in the captain’s reception room, sipping Bordeaux munching finger sandwiches. A private brunch. The bulkheads were appointed with brass and leather, a few leather-bound books occupied shelves on either side of the room, and electric candles supplemented a pair of lamps. A schematic of the Evening Star occupied an entire bulkhead, and the Starswirl logo of TransGalactic Lines looked down from above a virtual fireplace.

  They sat in padded chairs, angled toward each other. “I completely understand your reluctance,” MacAllister said in a matter-of-fact I’d-feel-exactly-the-same-way manner. “And I can see you’re not one to be easily intimidated.”

  Nicholson modestly signaled his agreement with the proposition. There was much about the captain that
was cautious. Conservative. MacAllister guessed that he had a reliable exec and a good AI tucked away somewhere to take over and run things in the event a non-routine decision had to be made. It seemed likely that Nicholson had gained his position by influence, had possibly married into it, or was the son of someone important.

  “No,” the captain said, “it’s quite so, Mr. MacAllister. We do have an obligation to abide by the rules. I know you of all people would understand that.”

  MacAllister kept a straight face. Me of all people? “Of course, Captain. I couldn’t agree with you more.” He used a tone designed to ease the sudden tension. “It is unfortunate, though, to let an opportunity of this nature slide.”

  “What opportunity is that?” asked Nicholson.

  “Well…” He shook his head, sipped his wine, and waved the subject off. “It’s of no consequence. Although my guess is that it would be quite a coup.”

  “What would be quite a coup, Mr. MacAllister?”

  “Deepsix is about to pass into legend, Erik. May I call you Erik?” MacAllister’s tone warmed.

  “Yes. Of course.” Nicholson softened, pleased to go on first name terms with his celebrated guest. “Of course, Gregory.”

  “After next week, Maleiva III will be gone forever. People will be talking about this cruise, and wondering about that world’s ruins, for decades, and possibly centuries, to come. And”—he looked wistfully at a spot over Nicholson’s left shoulder—“pieces of those ruins are lying around down on the ground, waiting to be picked up.” He drained the glass and set it on a side table. “A few of those pieces, on display here on the Star, would be an invaluable asset.”

  “In what way?”

  “They would generate a great deal of publicity. Relics from a lost civilization. Exhibited on the ship that recovered them. What a testament to the Evening Star and its captain. And to TransGalactic. I’d expect you could anticipate a great deal of gratitude from your employers.”

  Nicholson made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “Not likely,” he said. “Baxter and the rest of those people are too wrapped up in themselves to appreciate that kind of acquisition.”