Jack Mcdeviit - Deepsix (v1)

by Emily

  Janet, as usual, was watching. Occasionally she offered advice or encouragement. She let them know that Wendy's crew had finished, that the people preparing the net to receive its payload were making progress. She always referred to the lander as the payload. Scolari decided she watched too many sims.

  They needed an hour and a quarter to break the shaft loose, and they did it without inflicting any damage. Jack, who was the team leader, informed Janet when they were done. She acknowledged, thanked them, and directed them to retire inside the ship. "But, don't go far," she said.

  "How long?"

  "About four hours."

  "We won't last that long."

  It was hard to believe the sun had been in the sky an hour and a half. The wind roared across the lander. Rain hammered down, and the water coming off the mountain had become a torrent. They huddled inside the darkened cabin while the storm raged.

  "I think conditions are deteriorating," said Mac.

  Hutch nodded. "That would be my guess. We'd better tie down if we don't want to get blown into the ocean."

  They went outside and struggled to lash the lander to the trees. The winds were approaching hurricane force. That meant flying objects, branches, rocks, and even birds that had gotten caught, became missiles.

  They were all short of breath when they got back inside. They fell into their seats, feeling safer but not by much.

  On the bridge of the Star, Nicholson and Marcel received Drummond's report. Only the giant liner itself was now still attached to Alpha.

  Nicholson looked questioningly at Marcel. "Now?" he asked.

  Marcel nodded.

  Nicholson addressed the AI: "Lori, we are going to the next phase. You can turn Zwick around."

  "Complying,"said Lori.

  "Lori?" said Marcel. "Have we had any luck yet reestablishing contact with the ground party?"

  "No, Marcel. I am still trying and will inform you when I am successful."

  He nodded, and turned his attention to Zwick's status board, which was posted on one of the navigation screens. The media vessel, under Lori's direction, began to pull away from the shaft. Its thrusters would fire an orchestrated series of bursts, moving it out to one side, turning it around, and bringing it back, but facing in the opposite direction. Now, its main engines pointed toward Deepsix, it moved in once more to snuggle against Alpha.

  During the course of the maneuver, word came down that the Outsiders had released the Star.

  On board Zwick, Scolari and the other volunteers returned to the hull and began the cumbersome process of reattaching the shaft. Now the vessel was pointed in the opposite direction, away from Deepsix. Almost immediately, one of the shuttle pilots warned them of an approaching cloud.

  "Cloud?" asked Scolari.

  "Meteors and dust. Get back inside."

  Scolari and Cleo needed no prompting. They made for the airlock, and warned Chop and Jack not to dawdle.

  A few large rocks bounced off the metal. Minutes later, when they thought it was over, one penetrated the hull, knocked out the broadcasting studio and the library, and would have killed Canyon except that he'd left moments earlier to go to the washroom.

  The warning had come from Klaus Bomar, who had taken Pindar and Sharon to mark the Alpha shaft. He was, as Pindar had observed, Canadian. A Toronto native, he'd been a commercial hauler, carrying supplies to the terraformers on Quraqua; and later he'd served as a longtime instructor at the Conciliar Spaceflight Academy near Winnipeg. He'd resigned his position there two months earlier, anxious to join the superluminals that were moving out to the new frontiers.

  Klaus's wife was dead, his kids were grown and gone, so he'd barely hesitated once he decided he'd had enough of classrooms. He'd signed on with TransGalactic because they paid well and the big luxury liners were visiting the places he wanted to see, black holes and star cradles and giant suns and cosmic lighthouses.

  This was his first flight with TransGalactic.

  He was dazzled by the ingenuity of Clairveau and Beekman, and amused at Nicholson's ability to look as if he were commanding the operation.

  He'd transmitted the warning to Zwik and another shuttle in the path of the debris field, then turned away in an effort to get clear.

  Much of the debris orbiting Morgan consisted of nothing more that dust particles too small to be tracked by sensors. As Klaus completed his turn he veered directly into a high-velocity swarm that ripped the shuttle apart before he even knew he was in trouble.

  XXXIV

  There is a gem we all have that, when crisis comes, inevitably selects the wrong turn. It is why things run amiss, dreams remain unfulfilled, ambitions fail to materialize. Life, for most of us, is simply a series of blown opportunities. —Gregory MacAllister, Deepsix Diary

  Hours to breakup (est): 12

  Hutch could have used a trank. The ones that Mac had in his pack weren't supposed to affect the user after whatever period they were set for, so theoretically they should have been safe. But she'd always tended to react badly to the damned things. And she dared not risk impairing her judgment for the final flight.

  The final flight. Up or down.

  She tried to push her emotions away, out to some distant boundary. She thought about what lay ahead, tried to visualize this giant net that would be dropping out of the sky.

  Precision, Marcel had been saying. Everything had to be done precisely right. One chance. The net would come down and it would go up. She'd have, at best, a minute or so to find the collar and navigate into it.

  The mood in the cabin was subdued. MacAllister tried to lighten things a bit by proclaiming that if they came out of it alive he was going to seek out the bishop of New Jersey and submit to religious instruction.

  They all laughed, but it had a hollow ring.

  Periodically, without success, Hutch tried to regain contact with Marcel.

  "I'll be glad," Nightingale said, "to get it over with. One way or the other."

  Hutch nodded as if she agreed, but she didn't. Life was sweet, and she wanted to hang on to it as long as she could. But yes, she would be happy to end the suspense, to fly into Marcel's celestial sack and get hauled up to safety. It was just hard to visualize something like that actually happening.

  Mac broke out some fruit and nuts, but she had no appetite.

  "Do you good," MacAllister persisted.

  "I doubt it." Nevertheless, it seemed like something she should do. She selected a dark red globule that resembled and tasted like a pomegranate. Nightingale picked a few nuts and settled back to enjoy them..Mac made coffee and filled all the cups.

  "We going to have any trouble getting aloft in this?" he asked, indicating the storm.

  "We'll be okay." She'd powered up to the extent possible. There was more than enough fuel in the tanks to take them out to the rendezvous. Even enough to get back, if need be. If it would matter. "We'll do fine. As long as it doesn't get too much worse."

  They sat for a time, tasting the fruit, watching the rain.

  "You guys all right?" she asked.

  Nightingale nodded. "I'm sorry about the elevator," he said. "I—"

  "It's okay. Don't worry about it."

  Mac took a long sip of coffee. "Confession time, I guess."

  "What've you got to confess, Mac?" asked Kellie.

  "I..." He thought about it."... haven't always been reasonable."

  "We know that," said Nightingale. "The whole world knows it."

  "I just thought I wanted to say something. I've done some damage."

  "Forget it. I'm sure nobody holds it against you."

  "That's not quite so, but it isn't the point."

  "Mac, you once said something about people who waste energy feeling sorry for themselves."

  He frowned. "Not that I can recall. What exactly did I say?"

  "'Best way to deal with a conscience is to beat it into submission so it knows who's in charge.'"

  "I said that?"

  Nightingale had been
looking out at the rain during the whole of this exchange. Now he turned and fixed his eyes on MacAllister. "Not really. But it's the best I can do on short notice. Let it go, Mac. It's-past."

  The lander shook as another wave rippled through the ground. MacAllister snatched his plate before it could slide off onto the deck. "The whole world's coming apart," he said.

  Kellie adjusted her harness. "How much longer?"

  "Soon," said Hutch.

  In fact, the winds seemed to be lessening. The rain slacked off, although it never really stopped. Hutch tried the radio again.

  Suddenly the sky was filled with birds. They were all of one species, black with white wing tips, big, graceful, wings spread to catch the wind. Their flight was erratic, disorganized. To a degree, they were being blown across the sky. But they fought to maintain formation. The wind died, they regrouped, and then, like a single animal, they turned north. They know, she thought. They all know.

  When the bombardment had stopped, Scolari and the other Outsiders went back onto the hull and finished the welding assignment. They laid the shaft directly down the length of the ship, as they had before. The same procedure was being followed by the Evening Star team. On the other two vessels, the crews were reattaching the shaft at twenty-seven- and thirty-one-degree angles. That would allow Wendy and Wildside, who'd be up front during extraction, to begin the process of inserting the shaft into orbit.

  Shortly after they'd begun they heard about the death of the shuttle pilot who had warned them.

  Scolari and his team finished in two and a half hours and came back into the airlock. All four vessels were again locked onto Alpha, except that they now faced the opposite direction.

  Although he was new to TransGalactic, Klaus Bomar had been the oldest member of the Star's crew, save for the captain himself. Because he was a contemporary, Nicholson had occasionally invited him to his cabin for a drink, and had ended by becoming quite fond of him. Marcel had been wrong about Nicholson: He did have an onboard friend.

  The news hit Nicholson hard.

  One of Wendy's three shuttles pulled alongside Drummond's vehicle. The airlock opened, and Drummond took on a physician: Embry Desjardain.

  Drummond's assignment was to stay near the sack, and pick up the ground team after they'd been hauled clear of the atmosphere. Embry was a precaution, in case a doctor was needed.

  They introduced themselves and shook hands. Then Drummond turned to Janet. "I guess you're relieved," he said. "If you'd like to go back to the Star, your transportation's waiting."

  She declined. "If you've no objection, I'd like to stay around for the rescue. You might be able to use some help."

  Drummond glanced at Frank, who thumbed a switch. "Okay, Karen," he told the other pilot, "that's it."

  Karen blinked her lights and moved away.

  "Time to go," said Hutch. "Let's cut ourselves loose."

  Marcel, Beekman, and Nicholson posted themselves on the Star bridge. They watched with satisfaction the various status reports coming in. Everything secure. Everyone on station.

  All that remained now was to wait while the momentum of the new assembly, the alpha shaft and the four superluminals attached to it, carried the net into the atmosphere above the Misty Sea.

  Nicholson had been uncustomarily quiet. Finally, he turned to Marcel and shook his hand. "Good luck," he said. And, repeating the gesture, "Good luck, Gunther."

  "Marcel." Lori blinked onto his screen. 7 had momentary contact with the lander, but I have lost it again."

  "Okay. Were you able to talk to them at all?"

  "They're in the air. On their way to the rendezvous."

  The three men nodded encouragement to each other. "Thank God. Was Hutch with them? Who did you talk to?"

  “I talked with Captain Hutchins."

  Marcel's eyes closed, and he breathed a prayer of thanks.

  They flew through a sea of dark clouds, lightning strikes, roiling skies, and glowing red eruptions.

  When finally they rose above the worst of the turmoil, Kellie succeeded in opening a channel to the Star.

  "Let us trust we can maintain it this time," said Lori. "It's quite good to know everything is well. We've been worried. Are you on course?"

  "We are indeed," Hutch said.

  "Just a moment, please. I'll notify Captain Clairveau."

  Marcel showed up within seconds. "Hutch," he said, "it's good to see you."

  "And you, Marcel."

  "How'd you get down off the elevator? What happened?"

  "Tell you when we get there. Everything's in order here. We are approximately one hour ten minutes from rendezvous."

  "Good."

  "How are things at your end?"

  She got more interference.

  ". . . on schedule." He refined the previous data, giving them the exact position where the scoop would arrive. And he transmitted some visuals. "As you can see, the whole thing looks like a sack made out of chain-link netting. Here's the opening. A nice circular front entrance. More than wide enough for you to fly through. It'll be facing east, and it's near the bottom of the sack. Once you're inside, there'll be fifty meters of empty net below you. The collar will close. Just nestle in, set' down the best way you can, and leave the rest to us."

  "We will."

  "We may have some more very minor adjustments to the coordinates, depending on how the atmosphere affects the net, but don't worry about them because we'll take you every step of the way."

  "Do we have a precise time yet?" she asked.

  "It'll reach its lowest point of descent in exactly seventy-four minutes and ..." He paused."... thirty seconds. Immediately after that, it'll start back up again." Another hesitation. "Can you make the altitude?"

  "Probably. If we can't, don't wait for us." MacAllister paled. He needed reassuring, and she nodded confidently. "Just kidding, Mac. We'll do this with ease.

  "Keep in mind," she added, "I have no easy way to navigate this thing. I'm not even sure which way is west anymore."

  "You're doing fine. Although I'd like you to cut your speed by about thirty klicks and come left another eight degrees."

  Hutch complied.

  "That's good. I'll stay with you. How's the weather?"

  "A trifle overcast."

  Hutch quietly pulled back on the yoke, relying only on the lander's aeronautical capabilities to get to ten thousand meters. She would conserve her spike until she needed it.

  Marcel transmitted more images of the lower section of the net. It would be hanging almost straight down out of the sky. Facing in her direction. "When you see it," he explained, "it'll be moving southwest at 180 kph. Its course will be 228 degrees—228.7. We'll bring you in close. When I tell you, engage the spike, and just float in."

  "Marcel," she said, "I would not have believed this was possible."

  "With a Frenchman"—he grinned—"everything is possible. Gravity will have hold of it by the time you get there, but we'll already be in braking mode."

  "Okay."

  "We're going to take you in just before we begin to move the shaft back out again."

  "And you say the opening's fifty-three meters across?"

  "That's correct. Half a football field."

  "Can't miss," said Hutch.

  "That's what we thought."

  She said quietly, almost not wanting anybody to hear, "I do believe we're going to pull this off."

  Nightingale looked down at the storms smeared across the sky. They were daubed with fire. Eerily lit black clouds boiled up into the higher altitudes.

  He was having trouble controlling his breathing. Whatever happened, they would not be able to go back down there. God help him, he did not want to die out here. And he did not want the others to know how he felt. They were all scared; he realized that. But they seemed better equipped to deal with it.

  Please, God, don't let me go to pieces.

  Marcel's voice crackled in over the receiver, instructing Hutch to cut back speed or adj
ust course or go a bit higher. The voice was level and cool. Unemotional. Confident.

  Easy enough for him to be confident. Nightingale would have given anything to be with Marcel at this moment, safely tucked away on one of the superluminals.

  Hutch had said nothing about his behavior in the elevator, as far as he knew, to the others. Nor had she mentioned the incident to him, except to reply to his expressed regret. Yet he could read the disappointment in her eyes. The contempt. Years before, when MacAllister had held him up to worldwide ridicule, he'd been able to rationalize his behavior. Anybody could pass out under stress. He'd been injured. He'd not had much sleep during that period. He'd—

  —whatever.

  This time he'd failed in a more visible way. In a way he could rationalize neither to others nor to himself. When it was over, if he survived, he'd make for Scotland. And hide.

  "Marcel, this is Abel. Deepsix is beginning to disintegrate."

  Marcel put the climatologist on-screen. "How? What's going on?"

  "Major rifts opening in the oceans and on two of the continents. Several volcanoes have been born on Endtime. There's a fault line east of Gloriamundi. One side of it has been shoved six thousand meters into the air. It's still coming up. There are massive quakes in both hemispheres. We've got eruptions everywhere. A couple have even shown up in the Misty Sea, not far from the lander's last position."

  "They should be safe. They're pretty high."

  "You think so? One just let go in Gloriamundi. Some of the ejecta will go into orbit."

  "Show me where they are," he said. "The Misty Sea volcanoes."

  Kinder was right: Two were close to the lander's flight path. But he couldn't reroute them in any significant way. Not if they were going to be in place when the net arrived. Best just to ride it out and hope.

  "Thanks, Abel."

  Kinder grunted, one of those pained sounds. Then someone pressed his shoulder, handed him a note. He frowned.

  "What?" asked Marcel.

  "Hold on." The climatologist looked off to one side, nodded, frowned again, talked to the individual. Marcel couldn't hear. Then he came back to the monitor. "Northern Tempus is doing an Atlantis."

  "Sinking?"

  "Yes."