Omega к-4

by Джек Макдевитт

  But Kellie called her and the issue became moot.

  “Bill says he’s fine,” she told Kellie. “Not to worry.”

  Kellie thanked her and said she hoped Digger would take it easy for a bit.

  Whit seemed to have been affected by events there. His rational, cautious, and thoughtful self had been replaced by someone more romantic, more willing to take a risk. He was in love with the idea of helping rescue the Goompahs. But she wondered how he’d react if things didn’t go well.

  THEY COLLECTED THE second chimney, and, as dawn was breaking over the Intigo, delivered it to an island thirty kilometers west of Sakmarung. Julie’s first act on returning to the Jenkins was to look in on Digger, who was sleeping peacefully. Bill assured her he was fine, all signs normal.

  WHIT HAD DEVELOPED a hobby. He loved being invisible, and he never missed an opportunity to record the Goompahs at work, at play, or during their frequent gambols. He watched them frolicking in the parks, families coming down to the pier to see ships coming and going, young ones playing ball games. It was all of a piece. Life in the Intigo seemed to be one long celebration.

  And he watched it with a joy born of the sure and certain knowledge that this civilization was too vibrant, too alive, to be taken out by an artifact that had no purpose, no reason to be, and might be older than man. Collingdale would take it for a ride, if anyone could do it. And if not, they’d make Digger’s avatars do the work. But one way or another, they and the Goompahs would come through it.

  “How can you be so sure?” Julie asked him.

  “You believe in destiny?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “I do.” He looked at her, his dark face wreathed in thought. “Sometimes you can feel history moving a certain way. People are always saying that history turns on little things, Alexander dies too young to take out Rome, Churchill survives a plane crash and lives to save the Western world. But sometimes the wheels just go round, and you know, absolutely know, certain things have to happen. We had to have Rome. Hitler had to be stopped.”

  “And where is history taking us now?”

  “You want to know what I really think?”

  “Of course.”

  “Julie, the Goompahs are a remarkable race. I think they, and we, have a rendezvous up ahead somewhere. And I think we’ll all be better for it.”

  Avery Whitlock’s Notebooks

  Dave told me today he thinks they can make the kite work. Maybe he can, maybe not. But I’ve had a lot of time on my flight out here to stay up with those who pretend to comment on the state of the human race. Most of them, people like Hazhure and MacAllister, think we are a despicable lot, interested only in power, sex, and money. They maintain, in addition, that we’re cowardly and selfish. Today, I listened to Dave Collingdale, and I watched Julie and Marge come in after starting a rainstorm that might, just might, hide Hopgop from the omega. Anybody who’s listening, be on notice: I’m a card-carrying human being. And I’ve never been prouder of that fact.

  — December 6

  LIBRARY ENTRY

  Everybody else talks about the weather. We do something about it.

  — Motto of the International Bureau of the Climate

  chapter 40

  On board the Hawksbill.

  Saturday, December 6.

  ALL THEY HAD left was the kite. And Kellie’s intuition warned her it would take more than that to sidetrack the omega.

  Collingdale either didn’t share her feeling or wouldn’t admit to his doubts. He behaved as if there were no question that the kite would work fine. But it was sufficient for her to look out the viewport, and to recognize they were buzzing around that thing like a fly, to know just how uneven a contest they were in.

  Collingdale had been plunged in a black mood since she’d found him that morning, pacing the bridge, drinking coffee by the gallon. He insisted he’d slept soundly, but he had rings under his eyes, and he literally looked in pain.

  She checked in with Julie, who was in the process of activating the first rainmaker. Julie listened, looked sympathetic, raised her hand in a gesture that signaled affection, resignation, optimism. Here we go. “We’re rooting for you.” Then: “ Something you should know about.”

  Her tone was scary.

  “He’s okay, but we had a close call with Digger yesterday.” She described how he had plunged into the sea to rescue a Goompah, how the effort had succeeded, but that he had almost drowned. “I should have told you yesterday, but to be honest I wanted to wait until we were sure he was all right. No point having you worry when you couldn’t do anything.”

  “You’re sure he’s okay?”

  “Bill says he’s fine. Not to worry. He’s asleep at the moment, but I’ll have him get on the circuit when he wakes up.”

  “Thanks, Julie.”

  THEY WERE IN front of the cloud again.

  “With all flags flying,” said Collingdale.

  Ahead, Lookout and its big moon had grown brighter. And were right in the crosshairs. Nine days away.

  The omega was continuing to decelerate.

  “We’re ready when you are,” said Kellie.

  Collingdale nodded. “Okay. Bill,” he said, “start the launch process.”

  “Opening the rear doors,” Bill said.

  The kite consisted of thousands of square meters of film folded carefully on a platform that was anchored to the cargo deck.

  “Launching the package.”

  Bill sprayed a lubricant across the deck, released the platform, and accelerated. The platform slid aft and started through the doors. At that precise moment, they cut the main engines so they would not incinerate the package. It drifted out of the ship and fell behind. A pair of tethers, five kilometers long, secured it to the ship. As the range between the ship and the package increased, they started to draw taut.

  Retros cut in, and they braked before the lines had completely tightened, adjusting velocity so that both the Hawksbill and the package were moving at precisely the same rate.

  Within the film, canisters of compressed air acted as thrusters, separating the folds. Other thruster packages carried the platform away, where it could do no damage. Support rods inside the kite telescoped open, connected with each other, and snapped into braces. Crosspieces swung out from brackets and stabilized the supports. The canisters became exhausted and were jettisoned. Gradually, over the next few hours, the world’s foremost box kite took shape. When it was done, it trailed them, glistening in the sunlight, still connected to the twin tethers.

  The box was forty-by-twenty-by-twenty kilometers. Rearrange Berlin a little bit, and it would almost fit inside. With plenty of air space. There was room for Everest, with substantial clearance.

  The tethers looked fragile. But the manufacturer had assured them they would hold. Just be careful, Collingdale had told her. “Any sudden yanks, and we might lose it all.”

  At that moment, Digger came on the circuit. She was delighted to hear his voice, proud that he had tried to rescue the Goompah, angry that he had risked his life in so foolhardy a manner. “You’re all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Okay. Don’t do anything like that again.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay. We’re busy. I have to sign off.”

  “Go.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too. Be careful yourself.”

  Collingdale had not seemed to pay any attention, but she’d seen his jaw muscles move. More important things to do now than personal conversations. But he smiled. “I’m glad he got through it okay.”

  “Thanks, Dave.” Bill’s image appeared on-screen. He was wearing Hawksbill coveralls and looked quite heroic. This was Bill at about thirty-five, with thick brown hair and piercing blue eyes and a dashing mien. She couldn’t restrain a smile, but Bill didn’t react. “How,” she asked him, “is
velocity vis-à-vis the cloud?”

  “Identical. We’re doing fine.” His voice had gotten deeper.

  Collingdale nodded. “Crunch time,” he said. “Let’s make our turn.”

  “Bill,” she said, “let’s do like last time. Three points to port. Ease into it.”

  Thrusters burped. And burped again.

  The cables tightened.

  And they settled back to wait.

  KELLIE WAS BRIGHT and easygoing, but she talked a little too much. She’d encouraged him to tell her about his days as an Academy pilot and his life at the University of Chicago and how he had gotten involved in the omega hunt. He gave short, irritated answers, and she shrugged finally, said okay, as in okay if you want to sit in your room, that’s fine with me. And she went into a sulk and stayed there.

  It left him feeling guilty. That was a surprise. Where social blundering was concerned, he’d beaten his conscience into submission years earlier. He didn’t much care whether people liked him, so long as they respected him. But it was clear that Kellie thought he was a jerk. And not very smart.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, while they waited for Bill to tell them the cloud was turning in their direction.

  “For what?” Her eyes were dark and cold, and he saw no flexibility in them.

  “You wanted to talk.”

  “Not really.” She had a book on-screen and her gaze drifted back to it.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Lamb’s essays.”

  “Really.” That seemed odd. “Are you working on a degree?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Then why—?”

  “I like him.” Slight emphasis on the him.

  “I’ve never read him,” he said. He never read anything that wasn’t work-related.

  She shrugged.

  “I’ll have to try him sometime.”

  She passed her hand over the screen, and the book vanished. “He’s good company,” she said.

  He got the point. “Look, we’ve got another couple of days out here, Kellie. I’m sorry if I’ve created a problem. I didn’t mean to. It’s hard to think about anything right now other than that goddam thing.” He gestured toward the after section of the ship. In the direction of the cloud.

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  He asked how she had come to be there, at the most remote place humans had ever visited. And before they were finished, she’d told him why Digger was such an extraordinary person, and he’d told her about Mary, and about how sorry he was for Judy Sternberg and her team of Goompahs-in-training.

  He learned that she loved Offenbach. “Barcarolle,” from The Tales of Hoffmann, was playing in the background while they talked. They discovered a mutual interest in politics, although they disagreed on basic philosophy. But it was all right because they found common cause in the conviction that democratic government was, by its nature, corrupt, and had to be steam-cleaned every once in a while.

  She liked live theater, and had thought she’d like to act on the stage, but she was too shy. “I get scared in front of an audience,” she told him sheepishly. He found that hard to believe.

  Collingdale had acted in a couple of shows during his undergraduate days. His biggest role had been playing Octavius in Man and Superman.

  He wondered why she had chosen so solitary a profession. “You must run into a lot of people like me,” he said. “Unsociable types.”

  “Not really,” she said. “Not out here. Everybody loosens up. You can’t be alone in a place like this unless you’re literally, physically, alone.” She flashed the first truly warm smile he’d seen. “I love what I do for a living,” she added.

  “Kellie.” Bill’s voice crackled out of the speaker.

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s throwing off a big slug of cloud to starboard.”

  She looked at Collingdale.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Here’s the picture.”

  Bill put it on the navigation screen, the largest monitor on the bridge. A large plume was erupting off the right side. “It’s turning,” Collingdale said. He raised a triumphant fist. “The son of a bitch is turning!”

  “You really think?” asked Kellie.

  “No question. It turns left by throwing dust and gas off to the right.” He was out of his seat, charging around the bridge, unable to contain himself. “It’s taken the bait. It’s trying to chase us. It has a hard time turning, but it’s trying.” His gaze fell on Kellie. “I believe I love you,” he said. “Digger’s got it exactly right. I wish you a long and happy marriage.”

  ARCHIVE

  The beast is in pursuit.

  — Ship’s Log, NCY Hawksbill

  December 6

  chapter 41

  On board the Jenkins.

  Sunday, December 7.

  THE NEWS THAT the omega was turning ignited a minor celebration, and induced Digger and Whit to take the day off. They were sitting in the common room, congratulating one another, when Bill broke in. “Digger, your friend Macao is onstage again,” he said. “—In Kulnar.”

  “Doing a slosh?” he asked.

  “Yes. Would you like to watch?”

  “Actually, Bill, I’m half-asleep. But Whit might enjoy seeing it.”

  Whit looked at him curiously. “Who’s Macao? What’s a slosh?”

  “Whit, you’d be interested. A slosh is a kind of public debate. And Macao is the female I told you about.”

  “The one you talked to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Yes, I’d like very much to see it.”

  Digger signaled Bill to start the feed.

  Macao’s image appeared on-screen. She was in blue and white and was waving her arms in a way that Digger immediately saw signaled frustration. “—Not claiming that,” she said. “But what I am saying is that we should be ready. It’s a storm, like any other storm. Except it’s bigger.”

  The biggest Goompah that Digger had seen was already on his feet. “But how do you know, Macao?” he demanded. “How could you possibly know?”

  There was only one pickup, and it was positioned so that it caught her in profile. There were about two hundred Goompahs in view, but he guessed they were only half the audience.

  “Forget what I know or don’t know, Pagwah,” she said. “Ask yourself what you can lose by moving your family to high ground.”

  Digger translated for Whit.

  “What we can lose is that we sit on a mountain and get rained on for three or four days.”

  Another voice broke in, from someone off-screen: “Maybe if you were to tell us how you know what you say you know, we could make more sense of it.”

  The Goompahs pounded their chairs.

  “There have been signs,” Macao said. “Devils on the road, whispers in the night.”

  Whit chuckled. “Wait till she hears about what happened in Savakol.”

  “Devils on the road.” A female about six rows back got to her feet. “You’re the one always tells us there are no such things.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Come on, Macao, do we believe in spirits now? Or do we not?”

  Digger could see her hesitate. “I believe they exist,” she said.

  “I almost think you mean it.” Again, Digger couldn’t see who was speaking.

  “I do mean it.”

  “That’s quite a change of heart.” This one was difficult to translate. Literally, the speaker said, “That’s not the way you used to put on your pants.”

  “Nevertheless it’s true.”

  They laughed at her. There was a smattering of applause, possibly for her courage, or maybe because she’d provided a good evening’s entertainment. But the mood was different from any of the sloshen Digger had seen previously. The others had been lighthearted, even the more serious events. But some of these creatures were angry.

  “It may be coming,” she persisted.

  “But you’re not sure.”

 
; “There’s no way to be sure.”

  “When is it coming?”

  “In a few more days.”

  “Macao.” Pagwah again. The big one. “Macao, I’m embarrassed for you, that you would play on everyone’s fears at a time like this. I wouldn’t have expected it from you.”

  It ended in pushing and shoving and disgruntled patrons stalking out. One of the Goompahs fell down. Some stayed in their seats and pounded their chair arms. Macao thanked them over the general confusion and then she, too, was gone.

  She reappeared moments later, at a side door, followed by a small group. They were engaged for a minute or two in animated conversation. Then they left, and the place was empty. An attendant entered, moved across to the far side, and the lamps began to go out.

  “Magnificent,” said Whit. “This is the kind of stuff I came to see.” He produced a notebook and gazed at it. “I’d like to capture as much of this as I can. Sloshen. Uh, that’s the correct term, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful,” he said.

  “What’s wonderful? How do you mean?”

  “Nothing seems to be sacred here. They can get up and talk about anything. The audience screams and yells, but the police do not come to get you.” His eyes glowed. “You thought of this place as Athens when you first saw it.”

  “Well, not exactly, Whit. That was Brackel.”

  “I’m talking about the civilization, not merely this particular city.” He fell silent for a few moments. Then: “They have more freedom than the Athenians did. More even than we do.”

  That annoyed Digger. He liked Whit, but he had no patience with crazy academics making charges no one could understand. “How could they have more freedom than we do?” he demanded. “We don’t have thought police running around.”

  “Sure we do,” he said.

  “Whit.” Digger raised his eyes to the overhead. “What kind of speech is prohibited? Other than yelling fire in a crowded place?”

  Digger smiled. “Almost everything,” he said.

  He was baffled. “Whit, that’s crazy. When’s the last time anybody was jailed for speaking out on something?”