Джек Макдевитт - Deepsix

"She's going to get heavier," Marcel continued. "But only for thirty seconds. Hang on that long, and it'll be okay."

"Why? What?"

"On a five count. One."

"For God's sake, do it."

He waited. And abruptly the net jerked up. The line tore at him. Tore the flesh off his hands. Cut to bone.

He whimpered. He screamed.

He hated Hutchins. Hated her. Hated her.

Let go.

Please God let go.

The line curved away from him, disappearing under the net.

Won't.

Voice in his head or on the circuit telling him to hang on.

Any moment now.

We're almost there.

Won't.

Won't pass out. Won't let go.

Mac's voice, but the words unintelligible.

Not this time.

Not this time.

And suddenly the weight vanished. For a terrible moment he thought she was gone. But he floated free. Weightless. Zero gee.

He still held on.

"Randy." Marcel now. "You have about forty seconds. Tie her to the net. Tight. Because it's coming back. The weight's coming back."

His fingers ached. They refused to open.

"Randy?" Kellie now. "You okay?"

"I'm here."

"Do what they tell you."

"Half a minute, Randy. Get it done." Marcel sounded desperate.

There was no down anymore. He drifted peacefully through the sky, waiting for the agony in his hands and shoulders to subside.

"Randy." Hutch's voice sounded small and far away. "Do it, Randy."

Yes. He pulled slowly, painfully on her line. Hauled it in. Looped it through the net. And tied it. Knotted it. Square knot. Never come loose.

Not in a million years.

They were moving again, rising, the weight flowing back. "It's okay," he said. "I've got her."

He hurt. Everything he had hurt.

But a joy unlike anything he'd ever known before washed through him.

Most of us sleepwalk through our lives. We take all its glories, its wine, food, love, and friendship, its sunsets and its stars, its poetry and fireplaces and laughter, for granted. We forget that experience is not, or should not be, a casual encounter, but rather an embrace. Consequently, for too many of us, when we come to the end, we wonder where the years have gone. And we suspect we have not lived.

— Gregory MacAllister, Deepsix Diary

"Hey!" Mac sounded frantic. "What just happened?"

"They went to zero gee," said Kellie. "To give Randy a chance to get himself together."

"How'd they do that?"

"You understand they were never trying to pull the net straight out of the atmosphere, right? You understand that?"

"Not really. But go ahead."

"They had to angle the extraction, to get us into orbit. That neutralizes gravity and allows them to pick us up. They were probably turning into a parabola right from the start. What they must have done was to pick up the pace. Remember how heavy you got?"

"I have a vague recollection, yes."

"That gains time. Then they cut the engines. In all four ships."

"What's that do?"

"The whole system begins to drop back. It puts us in free fall."

"Did we want that?"

"Zero gee, Mac. It makes everything weightless. Until they restart the engines, which of course they had to do pronto. But it gave Randy time to get Hutch aboard."

"I'll be damned." "Probably that, too."

One of the shuttles moved in just ahead of the Star and used a laser to cut through the Alpha shaft. This divided the system into two sections. The Star and Zwick remained attached to the trailing portion, whose length was reduced to a more manageable eighty kilometers; the other two vessels remained connected to the balance, which was over two hundred kilometers long, and which they could not hope to control. But other shuttles rendezvoused fore and aft to set Wendy and Wildside free, leaving the separated pieces spinning off into the dark.

The Star and Zwick, carrying what remained of the shaft, the net, and its four passengers, continued maneuvering cautiously toward orbit.

Hutch was still trailing behind the linkage. "Randy," she was saying, "you did a helluva job."

Nicholson came on the circuit to inquire after the welfare of his passenger Mr. MacAllister. And belatedly of the others. Whoever they might be, thought Kellie. The Star was planning a celebration in their honor.

Canyon showed up, en virtuo, to inform Kellie she was on live, and to ask if she was all right.

"Pretty good," Kellie told him. He tried to conduct an interview, and she answered a few questions, then pleaded exhaustion. "Mac would enjoy talking to you," she added.

When at last they achieved orbit, they didn't need anyone to let them know. Their weight simply melted away. This time for good.

Marcel, sounding as cool and collected as he had through most of the crisis, congratulated them on their good fortune. "I thought," he said, "you might like to hear what's going on in the main dining room."

They listened to the sound of cheers.

The sky was black. Not the smoky debris-ridden sky of the dying world below, but the pure diamond-studded sky that one sees from a superluminal.

Nightingale, still cautiously hanging on to the net, gave her a nervous little wave, as if he didn't want to show too much emotion.

She was drifting toward him. "Hi, Hutch," he said. "I didn't freeze."

No, you didn't, she thought. And she said: "You were outstanding, Randy."

"Welcome to the accommodations, Hutch," said Kellie.

And Mac: "Nice to have you aboard. Next time you'll want to reserve a better seat."

Lights moved among the stars.

"You all right?" risked Nightingale. He reached for her, and she felt a sharp pain in her left shoulder when she responded. But what the hell.

"I'm fine," she said.

"I'd never have dropped you." Nightingale's voice sounded strange.

She nodded yes. She knew.

"I'd never have let you go. Not ever."

She took his head in her hands, gazed at him a long time, and kissed him. Deep and long. Right through the Flickinger field.

"There they are." Embry pointed at the screen and Frank enhanced the picture. They were still far away, but she could make out Hutch, even amid the tangles. One of the others, Kellie probably, waved.

Frank set course and reported to Marcel that he was about to pick up the survivors.

Embry had already been on the circuit with them. "Be especially careful with Hutchins," she said. "I think she's got a problem."

"Okay, Doc," said Frank. "We'll be careful."

They closed on the net.

"Get Hutchins first. Just pull up alongside her. I'll bring her in."

"You need help?" asked Frank.

"It wouldn't hurt."

The situation demanded a human pilot, so Frank looked around for a volunteer. He'd gotten the impression, from bits and pieces of things said, and from nonverbal clues, that Drummond didn't like the idea of going outside. Janet Hazelhurst caught his eyes and eased out of her chair. "Just tell me what to do," she said.

Drummond tried to look as if he'd been about to offer, but had been too late.

Hutch watched the lights coming. It was okay to relax. She closed her eyes and floated. The shuttle came alongside, and she could hear voices on the circuit. Somebody was cutting through the tether, taking her off the net.

The pain in her shoulder got worse. Now that she was safe.

Hatches closed somewhere. More lights appeared. Bright and then dim. Lowered voices. Pressure on the injured shoulder. Restraints. A sense of well-being flooding through her.

Somebody was telling her it was over, she was okay, nothing to worry about.

"Good," she said, not sure to whom she was speaking.

"You look all right, Skipper."

Skipper? She opened her eyes and tried to pierce the haze.

Embry.

"Hello, Embry. Nice to see you again." Randy was still there, off to the side, staying close. Then he became indistinct, as did Embry, the restraints, the voices, and the lights.