The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  “At your leisure.”

  “Doors are opening.”

  “Hutch?” A new voice. Karl’s.

  “Yes, Karl?”

  “Can I get access to a twelve-by?”

  A wall-length monitor. “Yes. In Three A.” That was the auxiliary bridge. “But stay put for a couple of minutes. Okay? We’re doing routine maintenance.”

  “Doors are open,” said Janet. She was inaudible to the others.

  “Okay,” said Karl.

  “I’ll tell you when.” Hutch broke away to Janet: “Clearance?”

  “Looks good.”

  “All right. Here we go.”

  Because ring rotation simulated gravity, the decks were at right angles to the ship’s axis. The cargo doors, therefore, opened off the side of the ship. The torpedo’s exit would be to starboard. Inside Main Cargo, it was already on course. All they needed to do was remove the ship.

  Hutch aimed the thrusters to take the Wink to port, and fired a light burst. And again. “Maneuver complete,” she told Janet.

  “Doing fine. The torpedo has begun to descend.” From her point of view, it was leaving through the deck.

  “Still have clearance?”

  “Enough. It’ll be outside in about thirty seconds.”

  “Make sure you don’t go out with it.”

  “Hutch,” she said, “I believe we’ve just had a baby.”

  Priscilla Hutchins, Journal

  Tonight, for the first time in my career, I have omitted a significant item from a ship’s log. It is an offense that, if detected, would result in the loss of my license.

  This whole business was probably a bit off the deep end. But I couldn’t resist lobbing something back at them. If in the end I am disgraced and run off, it will have been for a good cause.

  Wednesday, June 9, 2202

  Thursday. 0854 hours.

  The descent into the Lower Temple was filled with silt and rock. George Hackett, whose specialty was submarine excavation, had examined scans of the area, and vetoed proposals to dig a parallel shaft. “Safer,” he’d admitted, “but too time-consuming.”

  So they’d braced everything they could, sucked out the loose sand, and cut through the stone. They got down to the side tunnel in good order, but it too had collapsed. Richard Wald, doing his tour as operations officer, was watching when he got a call from Janet on board Wink.

  “I have something for Henry,” she said.

  “He’s in the Temple. You want me to patch you through?”

  “Please. You should listen in.”

  The mission director was a murky image wielding a particle beam projector. That was another aspect of this effort that scared the hell out of Richard: the experience level of the volunteer help. Sending Karl up to Wink with the first group had been a mistake. Karl, Richard had heard, was a master at tunneling.

  Henry’s homely features appeared. “What is it, Janet?”

  “The Field Report is in. Have you by any chance seen it?”

  “No. Truth is, I’ve been a little busy.” He sounded annoyed.

  “Okay. You’re going to want to take a look at the extraplanetary survey from Nok. Section four delta.”

  The Field Report was issued monthly by the Academy. It was an update on current missions and future projects. Richard had found it and was bringing it up on his screen.

  “Janet, please get to the point.”

  “They’ve discovered four rock cubes. In orbit.”

  Richard saw it. My God. “It’s all connected,” he blurted out. This was wonderful. Inakademeri—Nok—was itself a moon, circling the ringed gas giant Shola. The cubes were in the same orbital plain as Shola’s rings and the rest of the bodies orbiting the central world. Early analysis suggests they once occupied equidistant positions. They are of identical dimensions, each roughly 2.147 kilometers on a side. And the Noks, like the Quraquat, had never been in space. What in hell was going on?

  “What do you think, Richard?” Henry asked. The sound of his name startled him.

  What did he think? Right angles again. That’s what he thought.

  Later, Maggie told him about the horgon. “Maybe,” he said, “we can get by without reading the inscription.”

  “In what way?” Maggie was speaking from one of the terminals on Wink’s bridge.

  “All those squares and rectangles. And two round towers.”

  “With slanted roofs.”

  “Yes. My point, exactly. Oz has to be a direction finder.”

  “We’ve thought of that too.”

  “How sure are you that horgon is actually in the inscription?”

  “Reasonably sure, Richard. I wish I could give you more. But I just have no way to check it.”

  “The round towers are unique. Their roofs are not flat, like every other roof in Oz. They incline, directly away from the center of the city. They’re aimed at the stars. What could their purpose be other than to serve as markers, to designate lines of sight? Draw a line across each of those rooftops, from the lowest point to the highest—which is to say, from the precise mathematical center of Oz—and extend them into space. At the angle of the roof’s inclination.”

  “You’re thinking that there might have been a star associated with the horgon—”

  “Like the Dog Star.”

  “Yes. But if it’s true, I don’t know about it. And I don’t know who would.”

  “Dave Emory might.”

  “Maybe.” She still looked puzzled. “If it’s that simple, why build all the rest of it? Why not just make the towers?”

  “I suppose,” said Richard, “you could argue they wanted to be sure the towers weren’t overlooked.”

  “But you think there’s more—”

  “Oh, yes. There’s more.” No doubt about that. Unfortunately.

  Thursday, June 10, 2202

  Dear Dick,

  …The discovery of the cube moons has had an unsettling effect. Yesterday, we were of two minds about recovering George’s printing press. Today, with the link between Quraqua and Nok established beyond doubt, everybody wants to take whatever risk is necessary to get the damned thing. That kind of unanimity makes me uneasy. Even though I agree.

  The refusal of the bureaucrats at Kosmik to budge on the matter of time is nothing less than criminal. I’ve been in touch with the commissioner, but he tells me nothing can be done. He points out, quite rightly, that no one, including me, has been able to get Caseway to listen to reason.

  History will damn us all…

  Richard

  —Richard Wald to his cousin Dick

  Received in Portland, Oregon June 30

  12.

  Quraqua. Thursday; 1950 hours.

  Hutch took Andi, Tri, and Art and another load of artifacts to the ship; and Carson carried Linda Thomas and Tommy Loughery. It was Carson’s last delivery. On his return to the Temple, Henry preempted him for the tunneling effort. Eddie dissolved in apoplexy, but nothing mattered anymore except the printing press.

  There was now a lot of help on Wink. Hutch could unload quickly, but the time saved was negated when she had to replace a fused pumpboard. A good engineer might have handled the problem in twenty minutes, but for Hutch it was a struggle. In-transit maintenance and repair was a skill pilots seldom needed, and it had never been her strength.

  She started back down in Alpha as soon as she finished. But she’d lost her window by then, and faced a long flight. By the time she glided in over the Temple site, the torpedo was homing in for the last stage of its run against Kosmik Station.

  The difficulty and danger of loading without the floatpier had by now forced them to find a harbor. Eddie had located a rock shelf, sheltered from the tide, but at a considerable distance from Seapoint. The water was deep enough for the sub, and the currents were relatively tranquil.

  Hutch was watching a telescopic view of the space station relayed from Wink, and she was monitoring their communications. Traffic patterns showed nothing unusual. No su
dden bursts to the tugs, no change in routine, no upgraded precedence. They had not seen it.

  Below, Eddie and the sub were waiting. Eddie had no help because everyone else was either on the tunnel operation or on Wink. Several dozen containers were stacked on the shelf, and Hutch suspected Eddie had done it all. She blinked her lights at him. Poor bastard. In the crunch, they had left him alone.

  How could Truscott’s people not yet have picked up the torpedo? Answer: they’re not looking. She detected no short-range sensor activity. They were ignoring the regulations. Damn. If the thing came in unnoticed, the whole point would be lost.

  Janet, speaking from Wink, asked if everything was okay.

  “Yes. Descending on Eddie’s harbor.” They carefully avoided discussing, on an open circuit, what was really on their minds. They’d debated making up a code, but discarded the idea as too dangerous.

  Their eyes met, and Janet’s excitement threatened to bubble to the surface. “Everything quiet here,” she said. Translation: she saw no activity either.

  Three minutes later, Alpha set down precisely as Janet, on their agreed-upon schedule, opened a channel to the orbiter, and patched Hutch through.

  Harvey Sill’s beefy frown formed on the screen. “What is it, Winckelmann?”

  “This is Hutchins. Sorry to bother you, but you might have a problem.”

  He angled his head so he could look at her through half-open lids. “What sort of problem?”

  “Are you scanning short range?”

  “Of course we are.” He looked up, away from her. Did something to his console. Spoke to someone.

  “One of your snowballs may have got loose. Check to the northeast, out at about twenty-five hundred kilometers.”

  “Hang on, Winckelmann.” He sighed. There was a fair amount of pleasure in listening to his contempt change, through not so subtle variations, to concern, and then to dismay.

  “I’m surprised you don’t maintain a search,” she said innocently. “It’s a violation.”

  “Son of a bitch.” His voice went up an octave. “Where the hell’d that come from?”

  She shrugged. But he wasn’t watching her any longer. He reached forward, past the screen. “Goddammit, Louise.” He punched keys, and jabbed an index finger at someone. “There,” he said. “Over there.” He glanced at Hutch. “Thanks, lady—” The screen blanked.

  “Let me know,” said Hutch, in the silence of her cockpit, “if I can help.”

  Truscott made it to the operations center from her quarters in less than a minute. The alarms were still sounding, and voices filled the circuits. “No mistake?” She stared at the object, repeated across the bank of twelve situation screens.

  Harvey Sill wiped his lips with the back of his fat hand. “No, it’s closing straight and true. A goddam bomb.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  Helplessly, Sill turned up his hands. “Somebody screwed up.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Seventeen minutes.”

  “Where’s it going to hit?”

  “It’s coming in from above. Eight-degree angle. It looks as if it’ll go right into Engineering.” That was the hub. “There’s a chance it might hit the rim. But it won’t make much difference. That thing will go through us like a hot knife.”

  “Which part of the rim is exposed?”

  “Blue.”

  Someone shut the alarms off. “Get everyone out of there. Harvey, prepare to evacuate. Jeff, get off an SOS to the Winckelmann. Ask them to come running.” She opened a channel to Engineering. “Will?”

  Pause. “I’m here, Melanie. What’s going on?”

  “Collision coming. Big one. Button up and get out of there.”

  “Collision? With what?”

  “Runaway snowball. Don’t leave anybody behind.”

  She heard him swear. “On our way. It’ll take a while to shut down.”

  “Be here in five minutes. You need help?”

  “Negative.” More profanity. “Listen, how big is this thing? We could lose life support and power all over the station.”

  “No kidding,” growled Sill.

  Three crewmen moved smartly into the operations center, took seats at the auxiliary boards, and plugged in. The CRT group: Command Response Team. They would coordinate communications and evacuation efforts throughout the emergency.

  Jeff Christopher, the watch officer, looked up from his screen. “I make it about thirteen hundred tons.”

  “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 Ian 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. “S
tallworth 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.