Джек Макдевитт - Deepsix

"I talked with Captain Hutchins."

Marcel's eyes closed, and he breathed a prayer of thanks.

They flew through a sea of dark clouds, lightning strikes, roiling skies, and glowing red eruptions.

When finally they rose above the worst of the turmoil, Kellie succeeded in opening a channel to the Star.

"Let us trust we can maintain it this time," said Lori. "It's quite good to know everything is well. We've been worried. Are you on course?"

"We are indeed," Hutch said.

"Just a moment, please. I'll notify Captain Clairveau."

Marcel showed up within seconds. "Hutch," he said, "it's good to see you."

"And you, Marcel."

"How'd you get down off the elevator? What happened?"

"Tell you when we get there. Everything's in order here. We are approximately one hour ten minutes from rendezvous."

"Good."

"How are things at your end?"

She got more interference.

"… on schedule." He refined the previous data, giving them the exact position where the scoop would arrive. And he transmitted some visuals. "As you can see, the whole thing looks like a sack made out of chain-link netting. Here's the opening. A nice circular front entrance. More than wide enough for you to fly through. It'll be facing east, and it's near the bottom of the sack. Once you're inside, there'll be fifty meters of empty net below you. The collar will close. Just nestle in, set' down the best way you can, and leave the rest to us."

"We will."

"We may have some more very minor adjustments to the coordinates, depending on how the atmosphere affects the net, but don't worry about them because we'll take you every step of the way."

"Do we have a precise time yet?" she asked.

"It'll reach its lowest point of descent in exactly seventy-four minutes and…" He paused."… thirty seconds. Immediately after that, it'll start back up again." Another hesitation. "Can you make the altitude?"

"Probably. If we can't, don't wait for us." MacAllister paled. He needed reassuring, and she nodded confidently. "Just kidding, Mac. We'll do this with ease.

"Keep in mind," she added, "I have no easy way to navigate this thing. I'm not even sure which way is west anymore."

"You're doing fine. Although I'd like you to cut your speed by about thirty klicks and come left another eight degrees."

Hutch complied.

"That's good. I'll stay with you. How's the weather?"

"A trifle overcast."

Hutch quietly pulled back on the yoke, relying only on the lander's aeronautical capabilities to get to ten thousand meters. She would conserve her spike until she needed it.

Marcel transmitted more images of the lower section of the net. It would be hanging almost straight down out of the sky. Facing in her direction. "When you see it," he explained, "it'll be moving southwest at 180 kph. Its course will be 228 degrees-228.7. We'll bring you in close. When I tell you, engage the spike, and just float in."

"Marcel," she said, "I would not have believed this was possible."

"With a Frenchman"-he grinned-"everything is possible. Gravity will have hold of it by the time you get there, but we'll already be in braking mode."

"Okay."

"We're going to take you in just before we begin to move the shaft back out again."

"And you say the opening's fifty-three meters across?"

"That's correct. Half a football field."

"Can't miss," said Hutch.

"That's what we thought."

She said quietly, almost not wanting anybody to hear, "I do believe we're going to pull this off."

Nightingale looked down at the storms smeared across the sky. They were daubed with fire. Eerily lit black clouds boiled up into the higher altitudes.

He was having trouble controlling his breathing. Whatever happened, they would not be able to go back down there. God help him, he did not want to die out here. And he did not want the others to know how he felt. They were all scared; he realized that. But they seemed better equipped to deal with it.

Please, God, don't let me go to pieces.

Marcel's voice crackled in over the receiver, instructing Hutch to cut back speed or adjust course or go a bit higher. The voice was level and cool. Unemotional. Confident.

Easy enough for him to be confident. Nightingale would have given anything to be with Marcel at this moment, safely tucked away on one of the superluminals.

Hutch had said nothing about his behavior in the elevator, as far as he knew, to the others. Nor had she mentioned the incident to him, except to reply to his expressed regret. Yet he could read the disappointment in her eyes. The contempt. Years before, when MacAllister had held him up to worldwide ridicule, he'd been able to rationalize his behavior. Anybody could pass out under stress. He'd been injured. He'd not had much sleep during that period. He'd-

— whatever.

This time he'd failed in a more visible way. In a way he could rationalize neither to others nor to himself. When it was over, if he survived, he'd make for Scotland. And hide.

"Marcel, this is Abel. Deepsix is beginning to disintegrate."

Marcel put the climatologist on-screen. "How? What's going on?"

"Major rifts opening in the oceans and on two of the continents. Several volcanoes have been born on Endtime. There's a fault line east of Gloriamundi. One side of it has been shoved six thousand meters into the air. It's still coming up. There are massive quakes in both hemispheres. We've got eruptions everywhere. A couple have even shown up in the Misty Sea, not far from the lander's last position."

"They should be safe. They're pretty high."

"You think so? One just let go in Gloriamundi. Some of the ejecta will go into orbit."

"Show me where they are," he said. "The Misty Sea volcanoes."

Kinder was right: Two were close to the lander's flight path. But he couldn't reroute them in any significant way. Not if they were going to be in place when the net arrived. Best just to ride it out and hope.

"Thanks, Abel."

Kinder grunted, one of those pained sounds. Then someone pressed his shoulder, handed him a note. He frowned.

"What?" asked Marcel.

"Hold on." The climatologist looked off to one side, nodded, frowned again, talked to the individual. Marcel couldn't hear. Then he came back to the monitor. "Northern Tempus is doing an Atlantis."

"Sinking?"

"Yes."

One of the screens was focused on Wendy's hull. Marcel saw movement, but it happened so quickly he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. "Thanks, Abel," he said.

He was still watching the screen. A shadow passed across Wendy, and one of her sensors vanished. A communication pod broke open and its electronic components spilled into the void. He switched over to the AI and picked up Bill's voice in midstride: "… to several forward systems. Intensity seems to be lessening…" The voice failed, and the image flickered and went off. It came back, long enough for Bill to add the word assess; then it went down again.

Nicholson, in the command chair, took a report that communications with Wendy had failed.

He asked a technician whether she could restore them.

"Problem's not on this end, Captain," she said. Another technician was running the visuals backward.

Nicholson looked at Marcel. "What the hell's happening over there? Can you make it out?"

"More rocks, I think," said Marcel. "It'll get worse as Jerry gets closer.

The screen remained blank.

"What happens if we don't regain contact?"

"We don't need to. Bill knows what to do. All the AIs do. As long as there's no emergency that requires us to make adjustments."

Canyon sat in a pose one could only describe as relaxed attention. "So this was your first time outside a ship, Tom. Why don't you tell us what was running through your mind when you went through the airlock?"