Джек Макдевитт - Chindi

“Anything else, Captain Hutchins?”

There was. “Send us everything you have on the flare.”

It was still coming. It was big and it was hot and it was going to turn Renaissance into a memory. Its range had closed to 6.6 million klicks, and it was approaching at thirty-seven thousand kilometers per minute. She’d need an hour running in orbit before she could gain enough momentum to lift away.

She’d be able to get clear, but she was going to get her feet toasted.

She thanked him and signed off. Moments later, she saw a flash of silver in the mist. The station.

RENAISSANCE STATION WAS composed of three ancient superluminals: the Belize, a former Academy survey vessel; the Nakaguma, a ship that had once hauled supplies and people out to the terraformers at Quraqua; and the storied Harbinger, which had discovered the Noks, the only known living extraterrestrial civilization. There’d been a long fight to have the Harbinger declared a global monument. But the effort had failed, and the legendary ship would end its days out here in this inferno.

Their drives had been removed, hulls heavily reinforced, cooling systems beefed up. Thick connecting tubes joined them, and a vast array of sensors, antennas, particle detectors, transducers, and assorted other hardware covered the hulls.

The proud legend ACADEMY OF SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY was emblazoned across the Nakaguma’s hull. And the after section of the Harbinger bore the Academy seal, a scroll and lamp framing the blue Earth of the World Council.

Ordinarily she would have turned the ship over to Bill, who liked to dock, or claimed he did. But with the sensors down, she switched to manual.

They’d hollowed out a substantial section of the Nakaguma, which was by far the largest of the three vessels, to create a service bay for incoming ships. She matched orbit and attitude and glided toward it. Several rows of utility lights blinked on to guide her, and a controller assisted. With systems down, it became fairly primitive. “A couple of degrees to port.” “Ease off a bit.” “That’s good. Keep coming.”

“You’re doing quite well,” said Bill.

AI’s weren’t supposed to display sarcasm, but there it was. “Thank you, Bill,” she said quietly.

She got smoothly through the doors into the interior of the Nakaguma, and eased into the dock.

“Switch to maintenance, Bill,” she said.

The AI acknowledged. Engines shut down, and power went to minimum. An access tube spiraled out of the dock and connected with her airlock. She checked to make sure her uniform looked good, opened the hatch, and strode through into Renaissance Station. Dimenna was waiting. He looked past her as if she didn’t exist. “You don’t have much time,” he said.

She needed to replace the burned-out gear on the hull.

Her passengers were already arriving. Mostly women and children. They were carrying luggage. A few of the younger kids had toys, model starships, balls, dolls.

Outside, two technicians in e-suits hurried along the docking skirt and inserted fuel lines.

Hutch stood back to let her passengers board. Others, husbands, friends, fathers probably, a few other women, filed out into the observation gallery. One of the women pushed her child forward, a sandy-haired boy about six. Tears were streaming down her eyes. She implored Hutch to take care of the child and turned to Dimenna. “I won’t leave him,” she said, referring to someone not present. “Put somebody else on in my place.”

“Mandy,” said the director.

“His name’s Jay,” Mandy told Hutch. She hugged the boy, the scene grew more tearful, and then she was gone, pushing back through those trying to get on board.

“We decided not to crowd the ship,” said Dimenna. “Some of us are staying.”

“That’s not the way—”

He held up a hand. It was decided. “Her husband is a department head.”

In that moment Hutch conceived a hatred for Barber that was stronger than any emotion she had felt in her life. She wanted him dead.

“I’ll get someone to replace her,” Dimenna said coldly. “How exactly do we handle this? Twenty-five of us have volunteered to stay. Is that the way we do it? Does that provide a reasonable number? Or can you take a couple more without compromising safety?”

It was the most terrible moment of her life.

“We don’t have to do it this way. We can load everybody up and—”

“This is the way we have chosen.”

He was right, of course. If everyone boarded the Wildside, they became extra mass, slowed acceleration, used up air, put the others at risk, and eventually, barring a miracle, would have to go out through the airlock. If they stayed, they were at least in a place where a rescuing vessel would know to come. Small enough chance, but maybe the best one there was.

“Hutch,” said Bill, “there are things you need to attend to if we’re to get going.”

The world swam around her, and she looked from Dimenna to the people staggering through the airlock, to children asking why their fathers were not coming, to the desperate faces gathered inside the gallery.

“Hutch.” Bill was getting louder. “It’s essential that we complete repairs on the hull. There is very little time.”

She scarcely heard him. Dimenna stood before her like a judge.

And that was the moment Preacher Brawley chose to ride to the rescue. The signal from the Condor might have been picked up earlier had any of the technicians at the station been at their posts. But Bill caught it, recognized it immediately for what it was.

“Hutch,” he told her, “I have good news.”

WHEN THE ACADEMY announced that Clay Barber would receive the Commissioner’s Special Recognition Medal for his actions during the Renaissance Station incident, Hutch realized it was time to go. She had put in more than twenty years hauling people and cargo back and forth between Earth and its various outstations. The flights were long and dull. She spent weeks at a time inside her ship, usually with no crew, with a code that required her to minimize social relations with her passengers, with no clear skies or empty beaches or rainstorms or German restaurants. And without even recognition for services performed. For people’s rear ends bailed out.

Other women her age had families, had careers, at least had lovers. Unless something radical changed, Hutch had no prospect for marriage, no likelihood of advancement, and no serious chance for anything other than an occasional ricochet romance. She was never in one place long enough.

Moreover, the Academy had now hung her out to dry twice during the last year, once at Deepsix, and now at Renaissance Station. It was enough. Time to walk away. Find a nice quiet job somewhere as a lifeguard or a forest ranger. Her retirement money would keep a roof over her head, so she could afford to do whatever she liked.

She returned to Serenity for refueling and maintenance, then carried some of the Renaissance Station personnel back to Earth. It was a five-week flight, and she spent most of it on the bridge making plans.

Her passengers grumbled extensively about management and how their lives had been needlessly jeopardized. And they formed a community bond on the way home, a bond that might have been stronger than whatever had held them together at Renaissance, because they’d now come through a terrifying experience together.

They played bridge and hung out in the common room and organized picnics on a virtual beach. Although Hutch was not excluded, and was in fact quite popular with them, especially some of the younger males, she was nevertheless always an outsider, the woman who, in their view, was never at risk.