Джек Макдевитт - Chindi

He got momentarily careless. He’d been standing near the rise where he’d been when the chindi had passed the Memphis—when there’s no gravity it doesn’t much matter whether you stand or sit—and he was picturing the shuttle coming in to pick him up, how it would be, Hutch climbing out to embrace him. And he gave way to habit and hunkered down on the side of the rise, breaking the contact between his grip shoes and the hull. He was horrified to realize he’d begun to drift.

“Alyx says not to worry.”

He was able to touch the ground, but there was nothing to hold on to. He succeeded only in pushing himself higher.

Keep calm.

The incline saved him. Just before he floated out of reach, he remembered it was there, behind him now, and he got a foot out and mashed it against the rock.

It stopped him.

The episode had probably lasted less than three seconds, but it left him trembling. If I ever get home, I’m going to spend the rest of my life on the front porch. Hiding under a deck chair. The thought brought a smile.

“When we get close,” Hutch continued, “I’ll let you know. Best will be to wait for us outside. Where we can get to you without any waste of time…. Well, you know that, Tor. I don’t have to tell you…. I guess I’m just making conversation.”

He’d never tried to conduct a monologue. It had to be hard on her. Hell, she didn’t even know for certain that he could hear her. And he wondered if she was becoming resentful of the burden he’d imposed, if when it was over, whether he lived or died, she’d remember these hours, how she’d stayed on the link, talking away, trying to distract the idiot who’d refused to take her advice. How could she not be annoyed?

“Getting ready to start the McCarver’s engines.”

He felt a psychological need to lie down. Take it easy for a bit. It occurred to him he hadn’t slept for a while. But he didn’t want to spend what might be his last hours unconscious.

He looked over at the exit hatch.

Maybe just a few minutes.

“Okay, Tor. We’re up and running. So far, we’re doing fine.”

He climbed back onto the ladder, grateful for the gentle tug of the chindi’s gravity field. He descended back into the passageway, stretched out behind the dome, and closed his eyes.

THE MCCARVER AND Dogbone passed smoothly into transdimensional space. Hutch checked her go-pack, opened the airlock, and did a quick inspection. A few meters below, the rock looked enormous. It was a boulder tied to a large pigeon. Drifting through fog.

“Henry—” she said.

He nodded. “All set.”

“Whatever you do, don’t lose contact with the hull. We aren’t going to have time for retrievals.”

“Don’t worry, Hutch.” He did in fact look as if he knew what he was doing.

The go-pack was strictly a safety feature, a backup. She left her feet and glided toward the prow. Dogbone had been connected forward to the docking assembly, and in the after section the securing cable had literally been looped around the hull.

The rock had constituted a severe drag during the few minutes after the Longworth and the Memphis had cut loose. Now however, the Mac and the rock were drifting together, at the same casual speed.

Hutch arrived at the docking gear, caught hold of a strut, ignited her cutter, and went to work on the cable.

“Three minutes, Hutch,” said Brownstein.

“Why’s the time so critical?” asked Claymoor.

“It determines where we show up on the other side.” In sublight space.

The cable parted, and she separated the links and cast them away, making sure the ship was clear.

“I thought these things, these jumps, were pretty inexact.”

“Not at a range this close.” She turned and moved smoothly toward the Mac’s after section, aiming for a sensor dish. “This is almost pinpoint. Even a few seconds’ delay can put us hopelessly off target.” She became aware that Claymoor was tracking her, recording every move. Details at eleven.

“Two minutes.”

She used the dish to stop herself, pushed down to the mount, activated the cutter, and applied it against the line. Like the other connecting cables, it was really a triple. She realized belatedly she should have tried to work out another plan, had somebody else here to help. This was just too close.

“What are you going to call it?” she asked Claymoor.

“Call what?”

“The show. The report on the rescue.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “If it succeeds, it’ll be After the Chindi.”

One of the strands separated. Mist blew across the rocky surface below her. “What if it fails?” she asked.

“It’ll be different. Don’t know yet what I’d want to call it, but it would have to be different.”

“One minute. Hutch, finish up and get inside. Everybody else, prepare for jump.”

She was still cutting. “Not going to make it, Yuri.”

“Then let it go, Hutch. Get to the airlock.” It was too late to abort. Try that now and he’d damage the engines. Maybe blow them up altogether.

The second strand parted.

“Hutch. For God’s sake.”

And Claymoor: “Let it go, Hutch.”

Let it go and they’d drag the rock back out with them or even if they didn’t and it fell off it would wreck the numbers. Either way Tor was dead.

“Hutch.”

“Wait one, Yuri.”

“Come on, Hutch, let’s go.”

Sweat poured off her. God help her, there was a way, if she could anchor herself to the hull. She shut off the laser.

“Good,” said Brownstein, obviously watching through one of the hull imagers. “Now we’re making sense.”

She clipped the cutter to her harness.

“We’ll figure something out later.”

But of course he knew they wouldn’t.

She reached inside her harness, found the shutoff toggle for the e-suit. Then she pushed the sleeve control and simultaneously pulled the toggle. The suit shut off, the world went frigid, and her senses reeled.

She tugged her belt off and looped it around one of the sensor mount’s supporting bars. Then she let go of it and reactivated the suit. The field re-formed around her.

“What are you doing?”

She turned the cutter on and went back to work. Claymoor was still watching her. “Henry,” she said, “go.”

No fool Claymoor. He was already at the airlock.

“For God’s sake, Hutch—” The captain’s voice was a growl.

She held the laser to the remaining strand, watched it begin to eat through. Jennifer broke in with a stern warning and started a countdown. Trying to scare her. What kind of AI resorts to that sort of tactic? The hull beneath the cable was getting scorched. Not good.

“Fifteen seconds,” said the AI.

Claymoor was leaning out of the airlock, watching her. “Get inside, Henry,” she cried. “Close it up.”

“Not without you.” The idiot didn’t move. He was still pointing the imager at her.

“Get in. Or you and After the Chindi will both stay here.”

She heard him talking with Brownstein, instructing him to cease and desist. God help her, that was actually the terminology he used. Then, at last, apparently persuaded he had no option, he was gone, and the hatch closed.

The cable separated. Because the asteroid and the yacht were traveling at the same velocity, Dogbone didn’t fall away, and the strands remained where they were. She had to heave them clear.

She twisted the belt around her arm. “You’re free, Yuri,” she said. “Go.”

Brownstein had delayed pushing the button, had given her an extra few seconds. But it was the limit of what he could safely do. “Hold on,” he said.

The Hazeltines kicked in and the hull rose under her. Steering thrusters adjusted their angle and fired. The yacht lifted away from Dogbone. The rock began to grow misty.