Jack Mcdevitt - Engines of god

by David Geary

  "We're lucky," said Sill. "A small one."

  "Coming at seven-kay klicks." He tapped his earphone, listened, and nodded. "Melanie," he said, "Winckelmann says they don't have a pilot aboard. Nobody knows how to run the damned thing."

  Truscott stared out into the dark.

  Sill exhaled and sank back in his chair. "We're not going to be able to get everyone off."

  "I know. What have we got nearby?"

  "Nothing close enough to help."

  "Okay." She opened the common channel. "This is Truscott," she said evenly. "We have a snowball bearing down on us. Collision in thirteen minutes. Abandon the station."

  "We've got two APVs and a shuttle," said Sill. "We can get three passengers, plus the pilot, into each APV. That's one more than they're designed for, but we can do it. We can put twelve more in the shuttle."

  "Make it fourteen."

  "Goddammit, Melanie, it won't accommodate fourteen."

  "Find little people. Do it. That leaves how many?"

  "Four," said Sill. "You and me. And two others."

  She thought of ordering him off, but paid him the compli­ment of saying nothing.

  Voices rippled through the heavy air:

  "I read A deck secured."

  "Terri, we haven't heard from Dave. Check his quarters."

  "No, Harold. Don't come up here. You're scheduled on the boat. With Julie and Klaus—Yes, I'm serious. Now move."

  "Well, he's got to be somewhere."

  Nine minutes. "Ask for two volunteers. Jeff, close out and go. We don't need you anymore." Before Christopher could comply, she added, "But first get me some cushions."

  "How many?"

  "As many as you can. Make it quick."

  Sill was struggling with his assignment. "Why not ask your staff to stay on? The senior people?"

  She looked at him, and felt a wave of affection. "They're as scared as everybody else," she said. "I won't order anyone to stay. Harvey, we may die here. I want to have good com­pany." She was watching her technicians moving reluctantly

  toward the exits. They knew there wasn't room for everyone, and their eyes glided over her. She read embarrassment. And fear. A couple of them approached, Max Sizemore, who touched her shoulder in an uncharacteristically personal ges­ture; and Tira Corday, who mouthed the word "thanks" and was gone.

  Sill spoke to lan Helm with the Antarctic group. He was trying to arrange a quick rescue for the people in the APVs, who would have only an eight-hour air supply. Danielle Lima, the station's logistics manager, was bent over her commlink giving instructions to someone, but her dark eyes never moved from Truscott. Her features were immobile. She was a lean young brunette, bright, ambitious, a good worker, a woman at the beginning of her life. All the color had drained out of that lovely face. She signed off, but her eyes continued to cling to the director. "I'll stay," she said, and turned quickly away.

  Truscott stared at her back. "Thanks," she said. But Danielle appeared not to hear.

  Blue section was 70 degrees around the arc from Opera­tions, opposite the direction of rotation. Which meant they were probably as safe here as they could hope to be. They'd be well out of the way of the thing both coming and going. What the hell—maybe they had a chance at that.

  Danielle spoke into her commlink: "Okay, Hans. Get over here as quickly as you can." She smiled up at Truscott. "Stallworth will stay."

  Truscott was trying to think, do what she could to give them a chance. "Get back to him. Tell him to stop by Supply on his way and pick up four Flickingers."

  She surveyed her operating team: Marion Edwards, who had never worked for anyone else in Kosmik; Chuck White, a young climber who hoped to be an executive one day (and probably would); and Penny Kinowa, innocent, quiet, bookish. Penny read too much, and desperately needed to become more aggressive. But she was one hell of a systems coordinator. Edwards was removing the base crystal from the mainframe. "I'll see that this gets off the ship safely," he said uncomfortably. Unstated, of course, was his intention to carry it off personally. However this turned out, things would never be the same among this crew.

  The crystal contained their records and logs. Wouldn't do to lose that, even if they were all killed. That would be

  Norman Caseway's first response to the disaster: did they save the data? Reassured on that point, he would want to know who was responsible for the catastrophe. It wasn't enough that she would be dead; they would also destroy her reputation.

  "Okay," said Harvey. "CR team out. You three are on board the remaining APV. Go."

  Penny and Danielle traded glances. There was a world of meaning in that final exchange. The two were friends. That also might end, if they survived.

  Sill was directing the final shutdown of the station. Truscott watched him. He would make a good manager, but he had a little too much integrity to survive in a top job. After a promising start, he'd made enemies and had wound up here. He'd go no higher, no matter how things turned out.

  Edwards closed off his position. "All nonessential systems shut down," he said. "Hatches are closed, and the station is as secure as we can make it."

  Chuck White was trying to look as if he were considering staying. "If you need me—"

  Truscott wondered how he would respond if she accept­ed the offer. "Get moving. They're waiting for you. And thanks."

  "Six minutes," said Sill.

  The snowball, gouged, lopsided, ominous, grew in the screens.

  Christopher appeared with two crewmen. They had a pile of cushions and pillows, which they dumped on the deck.

  "That's good," said Truscott. "Thanks." She waved them out. They were now alone.

  The shadows and the surface features didn't seem to change. "It isn't rotating," said Sill.

  She nodded. "We'll think about it later, Harvey." "Everything rotates." Sill stared. Maybe it was simply very slow.

  Hans Stallworth came in, arms full of harnesses. He was tall, intense, formal. His specialty was electronics, and he always seemed uncomfortable in Truscott's presence. She thought of him as being superficial, and had been surprised when he offered to stay. "Hello," he said, with as much elan as he could muster. Sill shook his hand. "Good to have you here, Hans."

  He set the harnesses down, and no one needed to be told to put one on. Truscott removed her belt. "Find something you can use to tie yourself down. We don't want anyone flying around in here."

  "Pity we don't have a serious set of deflectors on this thing," said Danielle.

  Sill laughed. "It would be like drawing the blinds. Look at that son of a bitch."

  It filled the screens.

  "Harvey, let's depressurize the station. All of it."

  Sill nodded.

  "I wonder,"' said Stallworth, "whether we wouldn't be bet­ter off outside."

  "No." Truscott secured her harness and activated the field. "Let's keep as much protection as we can get."

  Danielle and Stallworth, who had had little experience with the Flickingers, helped each other. Sill swung his harness lazi­ly over his head and dropped it across his shoulders. "Other shuttle's on the way," he said.

  "ETA?"

  "About three hours. They should be in plenty of time to pick up survivors." He inspected their harnesses, announced his approval. "Activate the homers," he said, and demon­strated how. "If you're thrown clear, and you're unconscious, they'll still get to you." His fingers moved across the com­mand console. "Commencing depressurization."

  Stallworth was looking out through a viewport, shading his eyes. "I see it," he said.

  Truscott followed his gaze but could see nothing. "Con­firming original projection," said Sill, not without a trace of pride. "It'll hit Blue on the way in, and then impact directly with the hub."

  Danielle had posted herself at the comm console. "Both APVs are away. Shuttle's about to launch."

  "They get everybody?"

  "They've got twenty-two. We make twenty-six." All accounted for.

  "They m
ay not get far enough away," said Danielle. "We may be safer in here."

  "Two minutes," said Sill.

  "Shuttle?"

  Danielle checked the board. "Negative."

  "What's holding them up?"

  The officer spoke into a side channel. "They thought some­body else was coming. Ginger says they have room for one more."

  "Doesn't matter now," Truscott said. "Tell her to clear out." She looked toward Sill. "Seal it up. Close off every­thing. Power down. Except the lights. Let's keep the lights on."

  Electronics died throughout the wheel. Computers went to maintenance modes, monitors blanked, food processors gurgled to a halt, water heaters died.

  "Shuttle away," said Danielle.

  A star had appeared. Truscott watched it brighten and take shape. It developed ridges and chinks. No craters. Irregular, almost rectangular surface. Club-shaped, she thought.

  Not spinning.

  "Okayr" she said. "Everybody down. The main shock will come through the deck. Lie flat. Use the pillows to protect all vulnerable parts. Tie yourself to something solid."

  They watched it come.

  Forty seconds.

  It sailed through the sky, bright and lovely in the sunlight. It moved across the viewport, corresponding to the rotation of the outer rim, and disappeared finally to the left.

  Truscott reached deep inside for the old arrogance, her lifelong conviction that things always turn out well if you stay cool and do the things that need to be done. She hoped she looked arrogant. That was what they needed now. That and divine intervention. "Face away from the impact," she said, pointing where she meant.

  "They need to build these bastards with seat belts." It was Stallworth. He sounded calm.

  And in that moment, it hit.

  The station shook.

  Someone screamed. They were thrown against pillows and deck.

  But there was no hammer blow. Klaxons did not scream, and the steel bulkheads did not rip. A few alarms sounded: minor damage. And that was all.

  "What happened?" asked Danielle, still holding tight to her chair.

  Sill said: "Damned if I know."

  "Everybody stay down." Truscott was taking no chances.

  And, in her earphones, there was a voice from one of the ships: "Where is the goddam thing?"

  Truscott, dazed, was also puzzled by the sound of the strike.

  Bonk.

  13.

  Seapoint. Thursday; 2005 hours.

  "The space station is having a problem." This was how Janet alerted the people on Wink and at the Temple site to the approach of the torpedo. She broadcast a running description of events and relayed the frantic plain-language calls among the orbiter, the ground stations, and the tugs. To Henry and Sandy Gonzalez, who were in the Seapoint operations center, she also transmitted telescopic views of the object closing on the orbiter. The station, its twin outer wheels rotating placidly, looked flimsy. It was a tense moment. One would have had to pay close attention to detect the overlay of satisfaction in Janet's voice.

  All work stopped. They watched with morbid fascination.

  "No estimate on mass. But it is closing very fast."

  "Serves the bastards right," said Henry.

  And Carson: "Not very competent, are they? Plunked by one of their own rocks."

  Sandy stood at Henry's side. "Maybe we've got our exten­sion after all," she said.

  "Is everybody off?"

  "Don't know."

  "Can't be. They're still talking on the station."

  Despite their animosity for the terraformers, nobody wanted to see them dead.

  "Is it actually going to hit!" Henry asked Janet.

  "Yes," she said. "No question."

  Henry's next thought was that the Wink should be riding to the rescue. "Where's Hutch?"

  "With you. She's on the surface."

  He noted, and then dismissed, an impression that her reac­tion was wrong. Not pleased. Not fearful. But righteous.

  "Okay. Contact somebody over there. Explain our situa­tion, and tell them we stand by to assist any way we can. I'll turn Hutch around and send her back up if it'll help."

  Janet hesitated. "Okay. But I doubt they'll want any help from us."

  "Offer, anyway."

  She took a long breath. "I'll get right on it."

  Moments later, he had audio contact with Hutch. "What can I do?" she asked innocently.

  "Stand by. We might have a rescue mission for you." And, to the tunnelers: "It's closing fast. Just seconds now."

  Henry watched it race across those last few kilometers, a shining white bullet. It blasted into the space station, and both vanished in an eruption of white spray. "Impact," he said.

  Sandy let out her breath.

  The picture slowly cleared, while excited voices asked for details. Incredibly, the orbiter was still intact. It had devel­oped a wobble, but it was still turning at the same unhur­ried pace.

  Ten minutes later, Janet reported back. "They said thanks. But they're doing fine."

  Below the sea floor, George and Carson worked with a par­ticle beam to extend their tunnel. They were beneath the outer wall of the military chapel, attempting to chart the best route to the printing press. George was nothing if not conservative, and no amount of urging by Henry or anyone else could persuade him to embrace unnecessary risks. Consequently, they installed braces and proceeded with all possible caution. "I'd like to get back down there as much as anybody," he told Henry. "But common sense is the first priority."

  George knew the general direction of the printing press. He employed the particle beam with increasing impatience, and he was tired. Shortly they would go back, George to rest, and Carson to relieve Henry at the monitor. Sandy and Richard would take over the digging, and Henry would man the pumps. In fact, he could already see the flash of lights in the tunnel.

  And something else. A reflection, on the silt. Carson picked it up. It was a piece of smooth rock, a tablet, about eight cen­timeters across, flat on both sides. "It's got writing on it," he said. He brushed it, examined it in the lamplight. "Something

  on the back. An image of some kind. A spear, maybe."

  He held it up for the camera, and they transmitted pictures back to Seapoint.

  "Hell." Henry got excited. "Look at it. It's Linear C."

  "Bingo," said George. "Jackpot." He turned it over and squinted. "What is it?"

  The reverse pictured what appeared to be a long, tapered rod, spade-shaped at one end, heavy and thick at the other. "It's a sex organ," said Sandy, with an oblique laugh. "Fully distended and ready for battle."

  Maggie's voice came from the ship: "Funny how some things seem to be universals."

  "Damndest chapel decorations I've ever seen," said Carson. Maybe there was a brothel in the area. "Did the Quraquat have brothels?"

  "Yes," said Sandy. "And the Noks as well. Seems to be a fixture of the advanced male, regardless of species."

  The important consideration was that they had another sample of Linear C. And there might be more. While Richard and Sandy took over the tunneling, Carson and George began a search. George had little enthusiasm for the hunt, but Carson seemed tireless. Within an hour, they had recovered a small trove of tablets, and other, mostly undefinable, objects.

  Five of the tablets, including the original, were sexually explicit. Others contained arboreal and sea images, and one depicted a sailing vessel. Several lines of text were engraved on each. They were too worn to make out, but restoration might be possible. One by one, George displayed them to the camera.

  He was about halfway through when Maggie's voice came on-line. "These are superb, Henry."

  "Yes," said Henry. "They are quite good."

  "Can we go back to that last one?" she asked. The tablet depicted a disembodied, fully erect male member protruding through a wreath. There was also a line of symbols curved around the perimeter. "We know some of these," she said. "Marvelous." Nobody made a joke of it.


  George showed them another one. "Good," breathed Mag­gie.

  And another.

  "Let's see that again," Maggie said. Another sexual theme, straightforward this time: a simple coupling. "We didn't get a very good picture of the text. Both sides, George. Give us more light."

  There was a single term atop the amorous pair.

  "What are these things?" asked Carson.

  "Probably decorations," said Maggie. "Doesn't matter, for now." Then she started. "Henry, can you see that? The title term?"

  The word at the top of the tablet was from the inscription atOz.

  "Damn!" Henry was ecstatic. "Richard, are you there?"

  "I'm a little tied up at the moment." He was on the beam projector.

  "George, show that one to Dr. Wald."

  "No question about it." Maggie bubbled with excitement. "It's not identical, though. The Oz inscription has an addi­tional character, and the letters are differently formed. But that's purely stylistic. I'll be more certain when we can get it cleaned up. Six of the symbols match perfectly. If we don't have the same word, we should have the same root."

  "You're right," said Richard. "It's lovely."

  "I think," said Sandy, "this building is distinct from the chapel. Frank's probably right about the brothel. Sex may have been part of the rituals."

  "Okay." Richard was speaking to Maggie, and examining the tablet. "What does the word mean?"

  "Sex," said Maggie. "Or ecstasy."

  "Where does that leave us?" asked Henry. "This way to a hot time? Is that what the Oz inscription says?"

  Richard shook his head. "It need not have a sexual conno­tation," he said.

  "I agree," .said Sandy. "The word could mean love. Or fulfillment. Or release."

  "Or," suggested George, "ships that pass in the night."

  Kosmik Station. Friday; 0030 hours.

  Truscott looked up at the sound. "Come."

  Sill entered. His eyes were fierce, his lips drawn into a scowl.

  She pushed back from her desk, and swung round to face him. "What have you got?"

  "It wasn't a snowball."

  "We already know that."

  "We've retrieved some of it. It was a polymer."

  She nodded. "It was manufactured," she said.

  "I don't see what other conclusion we can draw. And since there's no one here except the Academy people—"