Starhawk (A Priscilla Hutchins Novel)

by McDevitt, Jack

  “Okay,” said Priscilla.

  “Good. I’m glad we have that settled.”

  “What will I be doing when I’m not functioning as a backup pilot?”

  “You’ll be doing administrative work.”

  That sounded exciting. “All right.”

  “You’ll be keeping track of every underway mission to ensure that our support facilities know well in advance what’s going on. There’ll be some interesting stuff crossing your desk, so don’t think of it as just an office job. For example, you’ll have access to the reports from the Quraqua dig sites, and there’ll be information coming in from Pinnacle. You know what that is?”

  “Yes,” she said. Pinnacle had been home to a high-tech civilization three-quarters of a million years ago. “Have we figured out yet what happened to them?”

  “No. It’s going to take a while. Anyway, we’ll also be getting reports on the Noks. On Orfano. On Barton’s World. Wherever we have a presence. Your job will be to scan them to make sure they get correct distribution. It’s all in the manual. Anything that looks interesting, especially if there’s an indication something has gone wrong, make sure you get it to me.”

  “Okay, Frank.” Orfano, she knew, was a world adrift. Torn from its sun millions of years ago.

  “You’ll be responsible for tracking the maintenance work on the Baumbachner. Rob Clayborn will handle the actual maintenance, making sure it gets done and whatnot. Rob’s our pilot. He’s the guy you’re backing up. But he doesn’t go out on any long-range missions. He’s strictly local.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, technically, the job doesn’t exist. Don’t push it, okay. We don’t want to get involved in operations run by the corporates if we can help it.”

  “Okay, Frank.”

  “You’ll also be responsible for managing schedules and accommodations for VIP guests, for maintaining personnel records, for setting up tour groups through the station and making them happen, and for assorted other stuff.” He paused. Looked at her. “Think you can handle it?”

  “I can’t see where there’d be a problem,” she said.

  “Okay. And I know what you’re thinking: that it sounds like make-work. Basically, you’re on hand to help in an emergency. The office job has been created so you actually have stuff to do. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t serious about the work. Okay?”

  “What does Rob do?” she asked.

  “Well, the truth is he’s getting ready to retire. His health has been a problem, and I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t bail out within the next month or two. By the way, he hasn’t said anything like that, so I’d appreciate it if it doesn’t leave this room.

  “One other thing. There’ll be a staff meeting”—he glanced at the time—“at one. In the Altair room.”

  * * *

  NIKKI WAS HER office AI. Every day, as Priscilla came into work, Nikki greeted her with a sparkling “Good morning, Priscilla.” The AI was relentlessly cheerful. Priscilla thought of herself as being reasonably upbeat, but there were limits to what she could endure. When she got buried in routine administrative matters that stultified her brain, the last thing she needed was that happy gurgle from Nikki. She asked her finally to tune it back. But that seemed to be beyond Nikki’s capability, so Priscilla made the adjustment as best she could.

  Despite whatever desperation she might have known at becoming an office worker, she was still able to feel some satisfaction when, at night in her apartment, she could look up at the framed certificate, hanging on the wall over her working table, which stipulated that she was competent to direct the movement of an interstellar.

  Her mother was happy with the situation. “Well,” she said, “I think it’s a distinct improvement from running all over the place in those rockets. At least I don’t have to worry about your getting lost out there somewhere.” And then: “We can still get you into law school in the spring if you like.”

  She’d been six days on the job when she got a call from Calvin. “I miss you,” he said.

  “How’s the show going, Cal?”

  “It’s okay. The audiences like it.”

  “You have any more coming up?”

  “Well,” he said, “the Players do, but I won’t be auditioning for the next one.”

  “Why not?”

  “It takes a lot of time. Anyhow, they’ve decided to do Hamlet.”

  “Hamlet? And you’re going to pass on a chance to perform in that?”

  “You want the truth, Priscilla?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t think we’re anywhere near good enough to pull it off. You need professionals for something like that.”

  “You guys are pretty good.”

  “Priscilla—”

  “Yes, Cal?”

  “Any chance you’ll be coming home again soon?”

  “Probably not right away. I’m trying to adjust to a new job.”

  “What kind of ship are they giving you?”

  “Actually, I’m not really going anywhere. I’m in an office. And in a couple of weeks, I start taking tour groups around.”

  “Oh. Sure. Well, listen, when you do come home, I’d love to take you out again. Okay?”

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING DAY she was adjusting paychecks to fit the new standards being applied by the financial services division when she got a call from Irasco. “Priscilla,” he said, “can you come over for a minute?”

  The boss was relaxed behind his desk, bathed in sunlight. “Good morning,” he said. “Come on in.” She took a seat. Irasco was reading one of the news sheets. He asked if she had seen the latest statement by Andy McGruder. McGruder was revving up his presidential campaign. He was a former Minnesota governor running for the Gold Party nomination. His platform seemed to consist mostly of trying to scare the voters about the size of government. And especially the cost of maintaining what he saw as a nonproductive space program. “As if the country doesn’t have real problems—” He shook his head.

  “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.