Джек Макдевитт - Chindi

“I’ve exhausted the first set of go-packs,” said Hutch. “Switching to my reserves.”

The line behind him had gotten tangled.

He was still sorting it out when the shuttle glided past. It was a couple of hundred meters off to one side. There were no directions here, no east or west. Starboard, he thought. It’s off the starboard side. Some of its lights died as he watched.

Keep your head. There’s still time. (Why was it easier to give up?)

As best he could, he set out a strip of cable and made a loop at the top about six meters in diameter. He tied it, and then laid a few crosspieces over it and tied them, so that he had a net of sorts. It was hard to work with because it kept drifting away.

When he was satisfied with it, he pulled what remained of the cable, approximately twenty meters, out of the exit and tied the end of it around his waist.

A NET? THERE was a touch of déja`vu in that. It hadn’t been that long since she’d tried to pilot a crippled lander into a net at Deepsix.

The two go-packs she’d used up and discarded had raced well ahead of her by now.

“You’ll have to stay low,” he said. “It’ll only be a few meters off the ground.”

“Okay.”

“Probably tangled. I can’t do anything about that. Get hold when you come in. If you can.”

“Okay.” She raced over the chindi’s rear tubes, and then the rock landscape swept beneath her. She was slowing, but not quickly enough.

“I’ll be on the other end.”

“Why not anchor it? Let me try to land?”

“You’ll take too much of a beating. Do it my way.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Doesn’t much matter at this point.”

Ahead, the landscape opened into a plain. She picked up a few low hills on the right, which straightened into one of the ridges that bracketed the exit hatch. The second ridge appeared moments later. “When you get hold of it, you should pull me off the surface.”

That was correct. As far as it went. But she was going down.

“With luck, we’ll both come away in pretty good shape.”

“How’s your air?”

“Got enough if you don’t miss me.”

She was still moving feetfirst. If she was going to grab a net, she needed to get turned around. Get her feet out of the way. She shut off both go-packs.

“—Should give you three or four seconds before the cable plays out.”

She struggled out of her belly go-pack.

A last row of hills passed beneath her, then she was out over a stretch of smooth rock. And she saw him ahead, about four hundred meters. Saw the net. It was desperately small, a fragile web that hung shapelessly above him.

She threw the go-pack away, down and to the rear. The action caused her to begin to rotate around her center of mass. Bringing her gradually face forward.

“Try to relax your body.”

Yes. Good idea, that last. Clever guy, Tor.

The two ridges were angling in now centering the exit hatch. Tor was standing just off to one side. Trying to hold up the net. Looking ludicrous.

Forty seconds.

The net was getting bigger, but not by much. It wasn’t really a net at all, just a few strands looped together, tangled, and as she raced across that silent landscape he tried again to coax it higher, to spread it out.

Beyond it, the ground was clear until the ridges came together.

Gray rock rippled past. She had drifted off course and blipped the go-pack, using it to correct.

“Hutch.” Brownstein’s voice spoke from far away.

“Busy,” she said.

Tor was down on one knee, watching. Trying to guide her. Keep coming. Stay straight. A little lower.

Then he sat down. Got his shoes clear of the ground.

Another brief burst from the go-pack.

FROM TOR’S POINT of view, it was terrifying. She came over the horizon, headfirst like a meteor, skimming the ground.

The air was getting thick, but it was still breathable. He looked at her and looked at the rock. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Harebrained scheme. I may have killed her, too.

IT WOULD HAVE taken pure luck to hit it dead center, and Hutch could see she was off to one side. But she picked the section she wanted, a brace of netting that floated free and clear of the tangle. She raced across the last thirty meters, concentrating on her target and blocking everything else out of her mind. Except that she was aware of Tor crouched below her, of his face frozen in horror. She snatched at the cable. And kept going.

It went with her. She got both hands into it. Tried to loop it around her arm.

It took longer than she expected, but the line finally jerked tight. Tore at her shoulder. The rise in front of her went up, and she went down and crashed into the rock. On the other shoulder. The world went briefly dark. The air was knocked out of her, or maybe the oxygen tanks shattered. Didn’t know which. The hills were going down again. She’d bounced, and she saw Tor above her. They were both going up, and the hills rushed beneath.

A sharp pain exploded in her side, but she tried to ignore it. Call Tor. “You okay?”

She heard him, heard something, but it wasn’t clear. And her vision was fading.

Damn. She was passing out again.

THE SUDDEN LIFTOFF had broken a couple of his ribs. But he was off the surface, hauled up and thrown down and whipped back up. He lost track of Hutch when he got yanked away, but then he saw her again, below him.

They kept circling each other, the way the Twins did, he guessed. She didn’t look conscious, but she still had hold of the cable, and he knew he had to get to her before she let go.

Carefully, he reeled her in, while they soared out over the rim of broken rock that constituted the chindi’s prow. She was pale, and blood was dribbling out of her mouth, but she seemed to be breathing.

When he touched her, her eyes fluttered open. She smiled but through his own gathering haze he saw that she was hurting.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She didn’t sound okay. Meanwhile it was getting hard to breathe. “Air,” he said.

She looked startled, nonplussed, apologetic, and pointed to her airtanks. “You’ll have to help.”

He got behind her and released the connection from her harness, then turned so she could remove his own useless tank and plug her unit in. Cool, fresh air rushed in. “Ah,” he said, “the simple joys we take for granted.” And: “Thanks, Hutch.”

She squeezed his arm and smothered a cry of pain, and then assured him that she wasn’t hurt, not really, well, maybe my ribs, a little. I had trouble with them once before. “How about you?”

“Same problem, I think.” Cautiously, he used his cutter to get rid of the loose cable, which floated beside them like a giant tangle of embroidery.

He was suddenly aware that Brownstein was calling from the McCarver. “No casualties,” Tor said. “But we need a pickup.”

THE MEDIBOT DIAGNOSED Hutch with a dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs, a chipped collarbone, some torn ligaments, and what she came to refer to as a body bruise. Tor suffered more cracked ribs, a broken knee, and lacerations. Both were, despite their injuries, in a jovial mood until the painkillers put them under.

Hutch slept sixteen hours. When she woke she remembered only pieces and bits of the previous few days. “Considering what you’ve been through,” Jennifer told her, “I’m not surprised.”

It was a curious experience: At first she recalled only sharing her air tanks with Tor, but she had no recollection of how she got into that position. Then she remembered juggling the go-packs. Then the rest of the flight over the rocky exterior of the chindi. (“Was it really the chindi?”) Her memory proceeded backward until the giant starship blew out of the snowstorm and made for the oort cloud.