Jack Mcdeviit - Deepsix (v1)

by Emily

  "Put her through," he said.

  She was just barely tall enough to have met the minimum standards for a license. She had dark eyes, black hair cut short, animated features that were capable of lighting up a room when she chose. She greeted him with a broad smile. "Marcel," she said, "good to see you again. I understand you've hit the jackpot."

  "More or less. Do you think they'll give me a bonus?"

  "The usual, I suspect."

  "How much do you know?"

  "Only that there's evidence of habitation. A tower. Are any of them still alive down there?"

  "We haven't seen anybody." He brought her up to date. The cities we know about are here and over here; there've been indications of inhabitants in these half dozen places. He used graphics to specify. "Biggest of the cities is in Southern Tempus." He showed her. It was deep under a glacier. He didn't think she'd be able to cut through to it in the time available.

  How much time was available?

  "The actual collision will occur around dinnertime, December 9. We expect the planet itself will begin breaking apart about forty hours earlier." It was late Saturday evening, November 25. "But we can't really be certain. You won't want to push your luck."

  "What do we know about the natives?"

  "Not much. They were small. About the size of five-year-olds, looks like. And we have evidence they were on four of the continents."

  "Where do you suggest we set down?"

  "The tower's as good as anyplace. It looks as if you can get right in with a minimum of digging. But there is a downside: The area's directly on a fault line."

  She hesitated. "You think it'll be all right for a few days?"

  "Don't know. Nobody here wants to take responsibility for that kind of guess."

  "Show me where it is."

  "It's in northern Transitoria—"

  "Where?"

  Marcel directed Bill to post a chart.

  She looked at it, nodded, and asked about the Event. "What precisely is going to happen? And when?"

  "All right. Gunther—that's Gunther Beekman, the head of mission—tells me conditions should remain relatively stable until the breakup begins. Once that starts, though, the end will come quickly. So you'll want to get out early. I'd suggest a week early. Don't monkey around with this. Get in, get your artifacts, get out.

  "You'll probably experience quakes, major storms, stuff like that, early on. When Deepsix gets inside something called the Turner Horizon, the atmosphere will be ripped off, the oceans torn out, and the crust will turn to oatmeal. All pretty much within a few hours. The core will be all that's left by the time it plunks into the soup. Just a chunk of iron."

  Her eyes came back to him. "Okay. I guess we won't want to dawdle."

  "Do you expect to stay and watch it? The collision?"

  "Now that I'm here? Sure. If my passengers don't scream too loudly."

  For a long moment neither spoke. "It's good to see you again, Hutch," he said. It had been almost two years. She'd been coming in from Pinnacle, about to dock, and he was on his way out with a survey team. They'd talked a few minutes over the system, as they were doing now.

  But they hadn't been physically in the same room for twice as long. They'd attended a navigation seminar at home on the Wheel. He'd been drawn to her, had spent part of an evening at a dinner party with her. But conditions had never been right. They'd always been going in opposite directions.

  She was looking at pictures. "It's not much of a tower, is it?" It was circular, made of stone, with eight windows, each at a different level, facing a different direction. It stood twelve meters high. But the sensors had indicated another fifteen meters down to its base below ground, where it appeared to be connected to the interior of the city wall. There was a possibility they could use it to get directly into the city.

  Marcel had propped two pictures of it on his console. One was a close-up. The other depicted the tower in all its isolation.

  "When are you planning to start?" he asked.

  She canted her head. "Soon as we can pack the sandwiches."

  "Hutch, my number one would like to go down with you."

  She looked pleased. "Sure. If he wants, we'll be glad to have him."

  "He's a she. Name's Kellie Collier. She's good. Be a big help if you run into trouble."

  "I can use her. You don't have any archeologists on board, I don't guess?"

  "No. I've got a boatload of mathematicians, physicists, climatolo-gists."

  Hutch nodded. "How about an industrial-sized laser?"

  He laughed. "Wish I did." "Okay. It was worth a try." "Hutch, one other thing." "Yes?"

  "As I'm sure you know, we don't have a lander. If you get in trouble, I can't come after you."

  "I know. Have no fear, I plan to be very careful."

  "Good. And do me a favor while you're down there?"

  "Sure."

  "Keep a channel open. So I can listen to what's going on."

  Hutch had put off informing Nightingale that Gomez thought it would be a good idea if he accompanied the landing party. She doubted he'd want to go, and was even less persuaded he'd be of use if he did. But at the moment she, Toni, and Kellie Collier were the entire team. She was going to need a couple of volunteers to stand guard and help carry out the artifacts. If they were able to find any artifacts.

  She thoroughly disliked this part of her job. They were calling on her to do something she knew little about, and she'd been around Academy politics long enough to know that Gomez would get credit for anything that came off successfully, and Hutch's name would be forever blackened by any failure.

  Like the loss of Richard Wald twenty years ago.

  Wald had been a preeminent archeologist whom Hutch had piloted to Quraqua. During a long test of wills with a group of terraformers, Wald had been lost to a tidal wave. That episode had become legendary. Wald had stayed too long at an underwater site on that world, had stayed even while the wave approached, and in the end Hutch had been unable to lift him safely away. Some people had blamed her for the misfortune, claiming that she was the only one who had a clear view of events, and that she'd waited too long to warn him.

  She wondered whether Nightingale was another instance of the Academy's tendency to find scapegoats.

  It was time to get it over with. She finished talking with Marcel, stopped by the common room for a sandwich, and then strolled down to Nightingale's quarters and knocked on the door.

  He opened up and looked surprised. "Hello, Hutch," he said. "Come in." He'd been working at his computer. An image of Deepsix floated on the wallscreen. She glanced at it, at its blue seas, its cloud masses, its vast ice-covered continents. "Beautiful world," she said.

  He nodded. "Cold world. They all look good from orbit."

  "Randy, I'm sorry about the delay getting home."

  "Hutch." His eyes fixed hers. "You didn't come here to go on about flight schedules. What can I do for you?"

  She handed him a copy of the transmission. He read it, looked at her, dropped his eyes again to the paper, looked up. "This is what Gomez wants," he said. "What do you want?"

  She'd expected him to decline without hesitation. "I'd be pleased if you came. I can use some help."

  "Who else is going?"

  "First officer from Wendy."

  "That's it?"

  "And Toni."

  "You understand, despite what Gomez thinks, I have no special knowledge. I know the place is dangerous, but any living world is dangerous. You don't need me to tell you that. And I'm not an archeologist."

  "I know."

  "If anyone were to ask my advice, Hutch, I'd say forget it. Stay away from the place."

  "I don't have that option."

  "I know. You still want me?"

  "Yes. If you'll come, I'd like very much to have you."

  Marcel was surprised to discover how little interest in going down to the surface existed among his passengers. The general consensus seemed to be that if it were tru
e there were natives of one sort or another on Deepsix, it was hard to see the significance of the fact. Nobody really cared. The culture was clearly primitive, and therefore there would be nothing to learn.

  He understood that exocology, that branch of the sciences which concerned itself with the social structures of alien societies, wasn't part of their specialty, but he thought nonetheless they'd want to be on the ground for a major scientific find. A few came forward, commented that they wished they could go down, but then, when he offered to ask Hutch, backed off. Just too much to do. Experiments to set up. Otherwise, I'd go in a minute. You understand.

  Only Chiang Harmon volunteered. And Marcel suspected he wanted to go because Kellie was going.

  Theoretically, the ground mission should be simple. Just land, get pictures and samples, and come back. If natives show up, get pictures of them, too. Hutch hadn't brought up the thorny issue of attempting to rescue any inhabitants, so he was going to let it lie. He decided that if locals appeared, and they indicated they wanted help, then he would try to provide it. Otherwise, he would simply let it go. It was a decision that kept him awake at night, but it seemed the only practical approach.

  There was another aspect to the mission that worried him. He knew how the scientific mind worked. Hutch's team would get down there, they'd be looking at a new marvel, and they'd inevitably discover things that would be hard to explain. And they'd want to get the last possible artifact, the last possible answer, and he had no trouble imagining Deepsix gliding toward its unhappy conclusion while he pleaded with Hutch to get off the surface, and she continually reassured him that she would. That she needed only another hour.

  Of course Hutch didn't officially possess a scientific mind. And she'd stated she planned to be away with time to spare. So why not take her at her word?

  On the Evening Star, Gregory MacAllister had just excused himself for the evening and left The Navigator, headed for his quarters, when a young woman approached and asked if she might speak with him briefly. He recognized her as having been present in the bistro during the evening's discussion on the postmodernist movement in Russian theater. She'd been seated toward the rear, and had contributed nothing, but had remained attentive throughout.

  That the woman was extraordinarily attractive cut no ice with him. MacAllister never had trouble collecting beautiful women. But he could be impressed by a person's ability to concentrate, which always implied talent.

  He was no respecter of money or position, nor could he be won over by charm or by that series of affectations known as charisma. During his sixty-odd years, he had found there were as many louts in the patrician classes as there were ignoramuses farther down the social spectrum. He liked to believe that only intellect engaged him, al-

  though he was inclined to assess intellect as a direct corollary of an individual's regard for MacAllister's opinions.

  "My name is Casey Hayes," she said. She fumbled in a jacket pocket and produced a press card. "I'm with Interweb."

  MacAllister allowed his eyes to drift momentarily shut. A journalist.

  She was tall, with fashion-model features, and lush brown hair brushed back in the current style. She wore gray slacks and a dark jacket with a diamond stud. No ordinary journalist, this one, he decided.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked, noncommittally.

  "Mr. MacAllister, have you been listening to the reports out of the Maleiva system?"

  "Regarding the ruins? Yes, I've been keeping up with them. Of course."

  He had slowed his pace but not stopped. She fell into step beside him. "It occurred to me," she said, "that this is precisely the sort of event that would interest you. A solitary tower in a faraway place."

  "Really?" Journalists always saw in him a potential story, and they were perfectly willing to fabricate whatever circumstance might dictate to get him to talk. There was just no knowing when MacAllister might say something outrageous and shock the public sensibility, or perhaps offend a whole bloc of people. Like last year's remark at Notre Dame, where he was receiving an award, that anyone who truly wished to develop tolerance toward other human beings should start by casting aside any and all religious affiliation. When challenged by one of the other guests, he had asked innocently whether anyone could name a single person put to death or driven from his home by an atheist over theological matters. Had the individual been fully functional, MacAllister had thought, he would have questioned the editor's own celebrated intolerance.

  But thank God these people were never quick on their feet.

  "Yes," she continued. "I've been a reader of yours ever since college." She launched into a short dissertation on the wonderfulness of his work, and he was inclined to let her go on. But it was late and he was tired. So he encouraged her to come to the point.

  "On Maleiva HI," she said, "we're looking at a lost civilization. Maybe some of them are even still alive." She beamed a smile intended to sweep his resistance into the night. "What were they like, do you think? How long had they been there? Does this kind of climax suggest that their entire history, everything they've ever accomplished, is really of no consequence?"

  "Young lady," he began.

  "Casey."

  "Young lady, how on earth would I know? For that matter, why would I care?"

  "Mr. MacAllister, I've read Reflections of a Barefoot Journalist."

  He was surprised. Barefoot was a collection of essays from his early days, jabbing every social stupidity from breast worship to the timorousness of husbands. But it also contained a long essay defending the bizarre notion, originally promulgated by Rousseau, that there was much to be learned from those untouched by the decadent influence of civilization. That of course was before he'd grasped the truth, that decadence was rather an appealing state. "None of it applies," he said. "The fact that somebody lived on Deepsix who knew how to pile stones on top of one another scarcely seems to be of any significance. Especially since they and the stones are about to go to a happier world."

  She looked at him and he saw determination in her eyes. "Mr. MacAllister, you must be wondering why I stopped you."

  "Not really."

  "I'd like very much—"

  "To do an interview with me."

  "Yes. As a matter of fact, I would. If you could spare the time."

  He'd been a young journalist himself once. Long ago. And it was hard to refuse this particular woman. Why was that? Was he being compromised by his wiring? "About what?" he asked.

  "I'd just like to do a general conversation. You can talk about whatever pleases you. Although since we're both here for the Event, that would undoubtedly come up."

  He thought about demanding the questions in advance. But he wouldn't want to have it get about that one of the world's most spontaneous thinkers had to have everything up front. "Tell me, uh ..." He hesitated, his mind blank. "What did you say your name was, again?"

  "Casey Hayes."

  "Tell me, Casey, how do you happen to be on this flight? Did you have some sort of foreknowledge about this?"

  She tilted her head and gazed steadily back at him. He decided he liked her. She seemed intelligent for a woman journalist.

  "Why, no," she said. "In fact, I'm not supposed to be working at all. The ticket was a birthday gift from my parents."

  "Congratulations," he said. "You're very lucky to have such parents."

  "Thank you. I'll confess I thought that the prospect of watching worlds crash into one another had considerable possibility for a story. If I could get the right angle."

  "Let us see if you've done so, Casey. How did you plan to approach the matter?"

  "By finding one of the world's most brilliant editors and presenting his reactions to the public."

  The woman had no shame.

  She gazed steadily at him. He thought he saw the glitter of a promise, of a suggestion for a reward down the road, but ascribed it to the same male software that rooted him in place, that prevented his precipitate retreat to his quarters. "Ma
ybe," she continued, "we could talk over lunch tomorrow, if you're free? The Topdeck is quite nice."

  The Topdeck was the most posh eating spot on the vessel. Leather and silver. Candles. Bach on the piano. Very baroque. "Doesn't seem quite right," he said.

  "All right" She was all compliance. "Where would you suggest?"

  "I put it to you, as an alert journalist. If you were going to interview someone on the significance of the Titanic, or the Rancocas, where would you propose to hold the conversation?"

  She looked blank. "I'm not sure," she said.

  "Since both have been recovered and, to a degree, reconstructed, surely nothing would serve as effectively as one of the forward staterooms."

  "Oh," she said. And again: "Oh! You mean go down to the surface."

  Did he mean that? But yes, why not? History of a sort was about to be made. It wouldn't hurt his reputation to be present at the nexus. He might be able to put the appropriate interpretation to events. The world's uplifters, sentimentalists, and moralists would be in rare form during these next few days, drawing what lessons they could from the death of a sentient species. (How sentient, of course, would never become an issue.) There would be the usual references to the event as a warning from the Almighty. It occurred to him that if any of these unfortunate creatures were actually found, there would be a heart-• wrenching outcry for some sort of desperate rescue effort, presumably from the decks of the Evening Star.

  Why not indeed?

  "Yes," he said. "If we want to talk about Deepsix, then Deepsix is the place we should go."

  She was hesitant. "I don't see how we can arrange it," she said. "Are they sending any tours down?"

  He laughed. "No. But I'm sure it can be managed. We have a couple of days yet. I'll see what I can do."

  When he got back to his stateroom, MacAllister locked the door and sank into a chair.

  The journalist reminded him of Sara.

  Not physically. The angles of Sara's face were softer, Sara's hair was several shades darker, Sara's bearing not quite so imperial. They were both about the same size and weight, but once you got beyond that, it was hard to see a physical similarity.