Jack Mcdeviit - Deepsix (v1)

by Emily

  He'd been eating a listless breakfast, trying to maintain a conversation with the frivolous guests at his table, receiving periodk updates from Clairveau. The landing party had been attacked by giant flying bugs, and they'd discovered a chapel of some sort in the forest. The important thing was that they were still on schedule to reach less. At this point, that was all that mattered.

  The experience had driven a lesson home: He would never again allow himself to be talked into violating procedure. Not ever. Not for any reason. Periodically one or another of his guests jerked him back to the table With a question about the gift shop on the Starlight Deck or the collision parties planned for Saturday night. He moved his eggs around on his plate and answered as best he could.

  One bad decision, allowing MacAllister to have his way, threatened to negate the solid performance of a lifetime. And it had not been his idea at all. He had in fact been pressured. Placed in a no-win situation by a pushy passenger with power and a management that wouldn't have backed him had MacAllister become offended.

  It was an outrage.

  His link vibrated against his wrist. He raised it casually to his ear. "Captain," said his officer of the deck. "Eyes only for you. From Corporate."

  This would be management's first response to the debacle.

  "Be there in a minute," he whispered. Please, Lord, let me survive this one time. He drew the cloth napkin to his lips and rose, apologizing for the interruption but explaining he had to make a command decision. He smiled charmingly at the ladies, shook hands firmly with their escorts, and heard himself referred to as a good man as he hurried away.

  He went directly to the bridge, heart pounding. The OOD, who could not have missed the gravity of the situation, greeted him with a polite nod. Nicholson returned the gesture, sat down in his chair, and directed the AI to put the message through.

  FROM: DIRECTOR, OPERATIONS TO: CAPTAIN, EVENING STAR DTG 11/281625 CONFIDENTIAL // EYES ONLY

  ERIK,

  YOU UNDERSTAND MAJOR LIABILITY POTENTIAL HERE.

  DO WHATEVER YOU CAN TO EFFECT MACALLISTER'S RESCUE. KEEP ADVISED.

  YOU MIGHT WANT TO CONTACT PRESCOTT.

  BAKER

  Contact Prescott.

  Prescott was a law firm that specialized in defending off-world nonjurisdictional cases. They were telling him he could expect to be held accountable. That signaled the end of his career, at the very feast. If they elected to prosecute, God knew what might happen to him.

  He sat miserably staring at the message. And he envied MacAllister.

  XVII

  Watching Harcourt die taught me a theological lesson: Life is short; never fail to do something you really want to do simply because you're afraid of being caught.

  —Gregory MacAllister, "The Last Hours of Abbey Harcourt," Show Me the Money

  Hours to breakup (est): 153

  The news that the mission had found the skyhook base didn't cheer anybody on the ground. They were far too engaged worrying about their skins.

  "Pity it's not up and working," said Chiang. "We could use a skyhook."

  "Actually," said Hutch, "it is nearby."

  "Really? Where?"

  "On the western side of the continent. It's on a mountaintop on the coast."

  "I wouldn't mind seeing it before we go," said Nightingale.

  MacAllister shook his head. Do these people never learn? "I think," he said, "we should not tempt fate. Let's concentrate on getting our rear ends out of here."

  "There might be a way." The grayness that had settled about Beek-man had lifted slightly. Only slightly, but Marcel caught a glimpse of hope.

  Marcel had been convinced by the intensity of Beekman's consistent position that no alternate method of rescue was possible. The captain had been standing on the bridge for two hours staring out at the spectacle of the approaching giant, thinking how it had all been bravado, challenge the best minds they had, come up with something, when it was quite dear there was nothing anybody could come up with.

  Now he was confronted by this same man, gone partly mad, perhaps. Marcel did not believe him. "How?" he asked.

  "Actually, it was your idea."

  "My idea."

  "Yes. I repeated our conversation to several of them. John thinks you might be on to something."

  "John Drummond?"

  "Yes."

  "What am I on to?"

  "Lowering a rope. Cutting off a piece of the assembly. We've been looking at the possibility of constructing a scoop."

  "Could we actually do something like that? You said it was impossible."

  "Well, we can't get it down to the ground. They're going to have to make some altitude. But if they can do that, if they can get Tess into the air, get up a bit, then yes, it might be possible." He sat down and pushed his palms together. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. I'm not even saying it'll be anything but a long shot. But yes, if we set things up, and we get lucky, it might be made to work."

  "How? What do we have to do?"

  Beekman explained the idea they'd worked out. He drew diagrams and answered questions. He brought up computer images and ran schematics across the displays. "The critical thing," he concluded, "is time. We may not have enough time for all this."

  "Then let's get started. What do you want me to do?"

  "First, we need a lot of help. We need people who can go outside and work."

  "I can do that. So can Mira."

  "I'm not talking two people. I'm talking whole squadrons."

  "Okay. So we ask for volunteers. Do a little basic training."

  "This is stuff that's going to take people with some coordination. Our folks are all theorists. They'd kill themselves out there."

  "So what kind of coordinated types do we need?"

  "To start with, welders."

  "Welders."

  "Right. And I have to tell you, I have no idea where we'd be able to get them."

  "Welding? How hard can it be?"

  "I don't know. I've never done it."

  "It seems to me we only need one person who knows how to do it. I mean, he can teach the others."

  "So where do we find the one person?"

  "Nobody here?"

  "I've already looked."

  "All right. Then we go to the Star. There are fifteen hundred people over there. Somebody ought to know something about it." He was already scratching notes. Suddenly he looked up and frowned. "It won't work," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "You're talking about a lot of e-suits. We have four on board. Maybe a few more on the other ships."

  "We already checked it out. Hutch was hauling a shipment of them. They're on board Wildside, generators, boots, everything we need."

  "Okay." Marcel felt a fresh surge of hope. "What about the welds? Will they actually hold? We're putting a lot of weight on them."

  Beekman nodded. "We're confident. That's the best I can tell you. We have four ships to work with, and that's a lot of lock-down space. The material is superlight. So yes, if you ask me will it hold, I'm sure it will, if we do a good job."

  "All right. What else do we need?"

  "We're still working on it."

  "Okay," he said. "Put together a complete list. Get it to me as soon as you have it. And, Gunther—"

  "Yes?"

  "Assume we're going to have to use it."

  Nicholson was loitering in the dining room with several of his passengers when his commlink vibrated. "Command call, sir,"said the AI's voice.

  He excused himself and retreated to a private inner lounge. "Put it through, Lori."

  Marcel Clairveau materialized. "Erik," he said, "I need your help." -

  "Of course. What can I do for you?"

  "You're aware that we have no assurances the people on the ground will ever be able to reach orbit."

  "I understand the situation completely." To Nicholson, facing ruin and disgrace whatever he did, it was hard to get emotionally worked up. So he had to make an effort to show that he was
dismayed.

  "There might be another way to go. If we have to. It would be on the desperate side, but it would be prudent for us to be prepared." He paused, looking steadily into Nicholson's eyes. "We'll require your assistance."

  "You know I'll do what I can."

  "Good. We need some volunteers, especially anyone with experience working in space, any engineers, anybody who has helped with large-scale construction. And a welder. Or several welders. But we have to have at least one."

  Nicholson shook his head, puzzled. "May I ask why, Captain?"

  "Some of them, the ones who are willing, will be given a couple of days' training. Then, if we need to go ahead with the alternative plan, most of them will go outside."

  "My God, Marcel." Nicholson's pulse began to pound. "Have you lost your mind?"

  "We'll be very careful, Erik. We'll do it only as a last resort."

  "I don't care how careful you plan to be. I'm not going to permit my passengers to be sent outside. You have any idea how Corporate would react if I allowed something like that?"

  "Corporate might not be too upset if you succeeded in rescuing MacAllister."

  "No, "he said. "It's out of the question."

  Marcel's image gazed at him. "You understand there'll be an investigation when it's over. I'd have no choice but to file a complaint against you."

  "File and be damned!" he said. "I won't let you risk my passengers."

  When darkness fell Wendy reported that they'd covered another twenty-four kilometers. By far their best day yet. That was attributable largely to the fact that the ground had become easier, and both MacAllister and Nightingale seemed to be growing accustomed to the routine.

  They stopped by a stream, caught some fish, and cooked them. MacAllister acted as taster this time. He swallowed a small piece and became almost immediately violently ill. They threw the rest back and used the last of the reddimeals.

  MacAllister was still retching at midnight, when Jerry rose. (They'd all picked up his habit of referring to it by Morgan's first name. It seemed less threatening that way.) The disk was quite clear. It was in a half-moon phase.

  The gas giant was well above the trees before his stomach settled down enough to let him sleep. By dawn he was back to his normal abrasive self. He refused Hutch's offer to give him a couple more hours to rest.

  "No time," he said, directing their attention toward Morgan. "Clock's running."

  They set off at a good pace. The assorted wounds from the battle on the river were healing. Nightingale had soaked his blisters in warm water and medications, so even he was feeling better.

  The land was flat and the walking easy. During the late afternoon, they broke by the side of a stream, and Marcel told them they were within seventy-five kilometers of the lander.

  Plenty of time. "What's the northern coast look like?" Hutch asked.

  "It's holding."

  "Is that good or bad?"

  "It's touch-and-go," he said. "We think you'll be all right."

  Despite the good news, they pushed hard. Hutch shortened their breaks, and they literally ate on the march. Twice they were attacked, once by a group of things that looked like tumbleweeds, but which tried to sting and take down Hutch; and later, toward the end of the afternoon, by a flock of redbirds.

  Nightingale recognized the redbirds as the same creatures that had overwhelmed the original expedition. This time there were fewer of them, and they were beaten off with relative ease. Kellie and Chiang were gouged during the incidents, but neither injury was severe.

  Late that afternoon, they came across a field of magnificent purple blossoms. The flowers resembled giant orchids, supported by thick green stalks. They were within sixty-three kilometers of the lander, with four days remaining.

  They hoped.

  Nightingale looked exhausted, so Hutch decided to quit for an hour. They were, she thought in good shape.

  They'd sampled several different types of fruit by then and had found a couple they enjoyed. Mostly they were berries of a fairly

  tough nature, inured to the climate, but edible (and almost tasty) all the same. They located some, passed them around, and were glad to get off their feet.

  Hutch wasn't hungry, and ate only enough to satisfy her conscience. Then she got up.

  "Where you going?" asked Chiang.

  "Washroom," she said. "I'll be back in a minute."

  "Wait." Kellie jumped up. "I'll ride shotgun."

  Hutch waved her away. The orchid patch was isolated, and beyond it they could see for a long distance. Nothing could approach unnoticed. "It's okay. I'll yell if I need help." She walked into the shrubbery.

  After she'd finished, lured by the exquisite beauty of the giant blossoms, she took a few minutes in seclusion to enjoy the sense of well-being attendant on the forest. The day had grown uncharacteristically warm, and she liked the scent of the woods, mint and musk and pine and maybe orange. Consequently she left the e-suit off.

  She approached one of the blossoms and stood before it. She stroked the petal, which was erotically soft.

  Hutch regretted that these magnificent flowers were about to go extinct, and wondered whether it might be possible to rescue some pollen, take it back, and reproduce them at home. She walked from one to the next, gazing at each. At the fragile gold stamen and the long green shaft of the pistil, surging up from the receptacle. She stopped in front of one. The woods grew utterly still. She glanced around to be sure no one was watching, wondered why she cared, and stroked the pistil with her fingertips. Caressed it and felt it throb gently under her touch.

  "You okay, Hutch?"

  She jumped, thinking that Kellie had come up behind her, but the voice was on the link.

  "I'm fine," she said. "Be back in a minute."

  A tide of inexpressible well-being rose through her. She took the pistil in her hands, drew it against her cheek, and luxuriated in its warmth.

  The flower moved.

  The soft sheaths of the petals brushed her face. She inhaled the sweet green scent, and the burden of the last few days dropped away.

  She rubbed her shoulders and cheek against the blossom. Closed her eyes. Wished that she could stop time. Felt a tide of ecstasy sweep through her. She came thoroughly alive, rode some sort of wave, understood she was living through a moment she would remember forever.

  She rocked slowly in the flower's embrace. Fondled the pistil. Felt the last of her inhibitions melt.

  The blossom moved with her. Entwined her. Caressed her.

  She got out of her blouse.

  The outside world faded.

  And she gave herself to it.

  She was drowning when the voices pulled her back. But they were on the link and far away. Of no concern. She let them go.

  Everything seemed far away. She drank the sensations of the moment, and laughed because there was something perverted about all this, but she couldn't quite pin it down and didn't really care. She just hoped nobody walked out of the woods and saw what she was doing.

  And then she didn't care about that either.

  She wasn't sure precisely when the light grew harsh, when the erotics switched off and the sheer joy vanished and she was simply looking out of a cave, as if she were buried somewhere back in her brain, unable to feel, unable to control her body. She thought she was in danger, but she couldn't rouse herself to care. Then something was tugging at her, and the voices became urgent. There was a great deal of pulling and shoving. The petals gave way to the hard earth, and she was on the ground. They were all kneeling around her and Kellie was applying ointment, telling her to keep still, assuring her she'd be okay. "Trying to punch out a tree?" asked MacAllister, using the coital expression of the moment. "I don't think I've ever seen that before."

  The blossom lay blackened and torn. Its fragile petals were scattered, and the pistil was broken. She was sorry for that.

  "Come on, Hutch, talk to me."

  The other flowers swayed in sync. Or was it a breeze cau
sing the effect?

  Her neck, arms, and face burned. "That's quite a ride," she said. And giggled.

  Kellie looked at her disapprovingly. "At your age, you should know better."

  "It must put out an allergen," said Nightingale. "Apparently pretty strong stuff."

  "I guess." Hutch still felt detached. As if she were curled up inside her brain. And she was resentful.

  "I think you're a little too big for it," Nightingale explained. "But it was doing its damnedest when we got here."

  "Why do I hurt?" she asked.

  "It tried to digest you, Hutch."

  Kellie was finished with the medication, so they activated her suit. That had the effect of getting her a supply of air with the peculiarities added by the environment filtered out. The sense that everything was funny and that they should have let her alone began to fade. She held out her arms and looked at dark patches of skin.

  "Enzymes were already working when we took you out," said Kellie.

  "Psychotic flower," she said.

  Chiang laughed. "And oversexed Earth babes."

  Her clothing was in tatters, and Nightingale produced one of the Star jumpsuits they'd recovered from the lander. "It looks big, but it's the smallest we have."

  She was shivering now. And embarrassed. My God, what had she been doing when they found her? "I can't believe that happened," she said.

  "Do you remember your first rule?" asked Nightingale.

  "Yeah." Nobody goes off alone.

  She couldn't walk. "Some pretty good burns there," said Kellie. "We'd better stop here for the night. See how you are tomorrow."

  She didn't object when they carried her back. They laid her down and built a fire. She closed her eyes and recalled an incident when she'd been about thirteen, the first time she'd allowed a boy to get inside her blouse. It had been in a utility shed out back of the house, and her mother had walked in on them. The boy had tried to brazen it out, to pretend nothing had happened, but Hutch had been humiliated, had gone to her room and thought the world was about to end, even though she'd extracted a promise that her father would not be told. This in return for a guarantee that it would not happen again. It hadn't. At least not during that summer.