Джек Макдевитт - Chindi

The Memphis was secured to the asteroid by cables attached to the docking gear aft, a cargo hoist amidships, and an auxiliary multipurpose linking mount forward. The docking gear was her first target. She moved quickly, resisting the temptation to use the go-pack, even though she wanted to. But she and Hutch had worked everything out, and there was time. If she started flying around and screwed the operation, the price would get high.

She arrived within moments at the docking gear, ignited her cutter, and set to work.

The entire scene was etched in starlight, the giant cargo ship and the modest Memphis, the miniature yacht, the bleak surface of the asteroid, the red blades of the lasers. The stars, which had moved dizzily across the sky when she and Hutch had first gone out onto Dogbone several hours before, were now anchored.

The cable snapped apart, one whip end of it almost taking her arm.

A woman’s voice, apparently one of the Longworth people, warned her that the cables were under pressure and could behave unpredictably. “Look out when they start to give way.”

She had almost learned that the hard way.

Alyx felt a surge of adrenaline and charged forward to the cargo hoist, where she started on the second phase. She was ahead of schedule by about a minute. The Longworth people were chattering to each other, issuing instructions, delivering profanity.

At the hoist, the cable was looped around the base of the mount, and she didn’t see how she could cut it without punching a hole in the ship. That’s what comes of hurrying. She climbed out along the line until she was clear of the hull, using one hand to keep herself from drifting away, and wielding the laser with the other. Somebody asked what she thought she was doing but she didn’t take time to answer.

On the circuit, Yurkiewicz was admonishing his troops to hurry.

The cable blackened. Alyx kept the beam on it, and watched it separate.

The severed ends of the cable drifted apart. Alyx had hold of one of them, but she floated helplessly and didn’t have time to go back hand over hand. What the hell. It was the moment she’d been waiting for: She lit the go-pack and turned it off almost immediately, as she’d seen Hutch do. She sailed smoothly back toward the hull, caught hold of the cargo hoist, dropped neatly to the metal surface, and scrambled forward. By God she was good.

“Alyx,” said Bill. “Two minutes.”

“Almost ready.”

She hurried forward to the linking mount, which was located just over the bridge. She arrived, appraised her best angle, ignited the cutter and finished the job.

WHEN ALYX MOVED forward on the Memphis, she’d gotten out of imager angle, and Hutch had lost her. She’d watched with a mixture of pride and disquiet while she used the go-pack and drifted off her display. But there’d been no scream, no frantic Oh-my-God-I’m-adrift-what-do-I-do-now. So she had to be okay.

Hutch hesitated to speak to her, didn’t want to distract her, didn’t want to admit that she didn’t quite trust her.

Then Alyx’s voice, level, calm, in charge: “Memphis clear.”

“Alyx,” she said, “you’re going to be a legend.”

“I already am, Captain,” she said.

Brownstein pressed his earphones down. “What’s holding up the Longworth?” he asked.

“Ready in a minute.” Yurkiewicz sounded unperturbed.

“Jennifer,” said Brownstein, “prepare to reignite.”

Hutch opened her channel to Bill. “I want you to disengage thirty seconds after the Longworth frees up. Jennifer will take over.” She switched to Alyx. “Well done,” she said. “When we get back we’ll give you an award.”

“Be still, my heart.”

“Get inside now.”

“Yes, Ma.”

The woman had a flippant side.

“Longworth clear,” said Yurkiewicz.

Bill’s image appeared on the overhead. “Congratulations, all,” he said. “Current velocity is.02633 light-speed.”

Hutch felt a surge of elation. That was within parameters of where they’d hoped to be at this point.

“Passing conn to the McCarver,” said Bill.

Jennifer acknowledged.

Brownstein looked pleased. “Restart engines,” he said. The Longworth and the Memphis, released from the asteroid, were drifting away.

Now it was up to the Mac. The little ship that could, thought Hutch. The engines ignited and it struggled to accelerate, to drag the Dogbone with it.

The Memphis turned on its axis and directed its tubes away from the Longworth, the yacht, and the rock. It fired its engines and moved cautiously away. When it had retreated to a safe distance, the Longworth executed a similar maneuver. Both ships were so low on fuel that they would continue on approximately the same course, at the same velocity, until somebody rescued them.

“Good luck,” said Alyx, now safely back inside.

“Two minutes to jump,” said Jennifer. “On schedule.”

The Mac’s engine temperatures were rising again.

Hutch opened a channel to Claymoor’s quarters. “You ready, Mr. Claymoor?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Indeed I am.”

“We’re only going to have a couple of minutes. Meet me at the cargo airlock.”

“On my way.”

“Be careful. We’re still accelerating.” That was probably wishful thinking. The asteroid was massive, and the instruments, not designed for the current situation, were producing confused readings. Red lamps were blinking everywhere.

Brownstein’s lips were drawn back, revealing lots of even white teeth, through which he was sucking air the way people do when they’re watching someone suffer. He had the engine status display on his overhead. “Be good to shut them down,” he said. “Even if it’s only for a couple of minutes.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, Yuri,” she said.

He nodded. Damn right.

She climbed out of her seat, felt her way back down the luxuriously appointed corridor—Universal News treated its correspondents pretty well—and descended to the lower deck, where Claymoor was struggling into an e-suit. He had an imager clipped to his vest.

He seemed to know what he was doing, so she busied herself with her own gear.

“Hutch,” he said, “I appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Claymoor.”

“My friends call me Henry.”

“Henry,” she said, “be careful when you’re out there. This is going to be very quick. Point, click, and run.”

“I understand.”

She pulled on her go-pack and clipped a cutter onto her harness.

Brownstein’s voice: “One minute.”

Hutch heard the captain shut the fusion engines down. Their steady roar was replaced by the somewhat erratic rumble of the Hazeltines. She sat down on the deck, signaled Claymoor to follow her example, and waited for her stomach to tell her they were making the jump.

HUTCH’S VOICE WAS electric: “Under way.”

Tor was sitting outside under the sky. Yes, he thought, come get me. I’m here.

Hutch stayed with him. “Everything’s on schedule. We should be able to make this work.”

And later:

“Tor, we’re passing.01c. That’s nowhere close to the chindi rate, but I think we’ve just set a record for the McCarver.”

His eyes drifted shut. The only sound, other than her voice, was his breathing.

“Still running true. Getting some overheating in the big ship, the Longworth, but it’s nothing we hadn’t expected. In fact, it’s less than we’d thought it would be by this point. We don’t think it’ll be a problem.”