Джек Макдевитт - Odyssey

If Abdul’s hypercomm was down, they had a serious problem. They could not precisely compute the ship’s position in hyperspace. Where transdimensional space was concerned, there was always a fudge factor. Academy pilots were trained, in the event they had to exit, to send a message immediately before they took the action. His failure to do so left them operating from guesswork.

Vehicles moving through hyperspace traveled at an equivalent rate of approximately 1.1 billion kilometers per second. Not knowing precisely when Abdul made his jump meant they could be anywhere along a track billions of kilometers long. Abdul and his people might be pretty hungry by the time help arrived.

She listened to the original message, in which Abdul said he was having engine trouble, and they were going to make their jump. And she decided she was worrying unnecessarily. The guy was a veteran, and he was telling them he was seconds away from pulling the trigger. The Wildside should have no trouble finding them.

Nothing more she could do. Outside it was still dark. She let her head drift back and closed her eyes.

“Hutch,” said Marla. “Sorry to interrupt. You’ve a call from Eric.”

Eric Samuels was the Academy’s public relations director. He held the job primarily because he had an engaging smile and a reassuring manner. Everybody liked Eric. When he was in front of an audience, you knew things were going to be okay. He was about average size, black hair, blessed with the ability to sound utterly sincere no matter what he was saying. Curiously, his private manner was at contrast with the public persona. He was a worrier, his gaze tended to drift around the room, and you always got the feeling the situation was headed downhill. His subordinates didn’t dislike him, but they didn’t like working for him. Too nervous. Too excitable. “Do you really think it blew up?” he asked.

“I hope not, Eric. We just don’t know yet.”

“Have we started notifying the families?”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? The families would assume the worst no matter what they were told. “No,” she said. “When do you plan to talk to the media?”

“At ten. We can’t wait any longer than that. I understand the story’s already gotten out.”

Moments later she had another call. “Cy Tursi,” Marla said. Tursi did the science beat for the Washington Post. “Wants you to get right back to him. And hold on, there’s another one coming in. Hendrick, looks like.”

Hendrick was Newsletter East. “Refer them to Eric, Marla. And get me the commissioner.”

“He’s not in his office yet.”

“Get him anyway. And I need to see the passenger manifest for the Heffernan. And a next-of-kin list for them and for Abdul.”

Asquith’s voice broke in on her: “What is it, Priscilla?” He always used her given name when he was annoyed with her.

“The story’s getting out. We need to notify the families.”

“I know. I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of it. Personally. Tell them all we know is we lost contact. No reason for alarm.”

“I’d be alarmed.”

“I’m not worried about you. Anything else?”

“Yes. I assume you’ve talked to Eric.”

“Not within the last hour.”

“Okay. The press conference is scheduled for ten.”

“Good. I’m going to want Eric to keep it short. Just read them a statement and maybe take no questions. What do you think?”

“Michael, we can’t get away with that. Not in this kind of situation.” She pointed to the coffeemaker, and the AI turned it on.

“Okay. Maybe you’re right. I hope he’s careful out there. I’m not sure you shouldn’t do it.”

“If you change the routine, you just ratchet things up. Eric’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Michael.”

“Yes?” He was wishing the situation would go away.

“After I talk with the families, I’ll want some time with you. Are you on your way in?”

He sighed. “I’ll be there.”

Hutch was in her sixth year as director of operations. She’d had to make these sorts of calls after the losses at Lookout, and when the Stockholm had bumped into the dock at the Origins Project and killed a technician. In past years, talking to families had been a duty assumed by the commissioner, but Michael had delegated it to her, and it was just as well. She squirmed at the prospect of wives and kids getting bad news from him. He was a decent enough guy, but he was always at his worst when he was trying to be sincere.

SHE CALLED PETER first, but he still hadn’t heard anything. So she started making the calls. Get it done before the press conference begins.

It was painful. In all five cases, as soon as she identified herself, they knew. Two were in the NAU, where it was still an ungodly hour, and that alone screamed bad news. The others were across the Atlantic. They took one look at her and eyes widened. Fearful glances were exchanged with whoever else was present. Voices changed timbre.

In the case of one of the researchers, the wife had come out of a classroom, where she was conducting a seminar of some sort. She came close to cardiac arrest as Hutch explained, as gently as she could, then had to connect with the front office to get help for her.

Among the four passengers, three had never before been in Academy ships. One near-adult child told her that he knew something like this would happen, that he’d pleaded with his father to stay home.

When at last it was over, she sat exhausted.

THE SUN WAS well over the horizon when she cornered Asquith in his office. “Do we have any news yet, Priscilla?” he asked.

“Not a word.”

He took a deep breath. “Not good.” Asquith was a middle-aged guy who was always battling his weight, and whose primary objective in running the Academy was to stay out of trouble. Keep the politicians happy and continue to collect his paycheck. His doctorate was in political science, although he never disabused people of the notion he was a physicist or a mathematician.

The first thing Abdul should have done after the jump would have been to send a message. Let everybody know he was okay. And where he was. The silence, as the saying goes, was deafening.

Asquith was behind his desk, keeping it between them. “The Colby-class ships,” she said, “are no longer safe. We need to scrap them.”

He reacted as if she’d suggested they walk on the ceiling. “Priscilla,” he said, “we’ve had this conversation before. We can’t do that. You’re talking about half the operational fleet.”

“Do it or cut the missions. One or the other.”

“Look. We’re under a lot of pressure right now. Can we talk about this later?”

“Later might get somebody killed. Look, Michael, we don’t really have a third alternative. We either have to scale things back or replace the ships.”

“Neither of those is an option.”

“Sure they are.” She stared at him across the wide expanse of his desk. “Michael, I’m not sending anybody else out on the Colbys.”

“Priscilla, I’ll expect you to do what the missions require.”

“You’ll have to find someone else to do it.”

His face hardened. “Don’t force me to take action we’ll both regret.”

“Look, Michael.” She was usually even-tempered, but she kept thinking about Abdul and his passengers when the alarms went off. “I knew before the Heffernan went out that it wasn’t safe.”

He looked shocked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Sure I did. You just don’t listen unless I beat on the table. The whole Colby line is unsafe. We’re taking people’s lives in our hands. You and me. It’s time to go talk to your friends on Capitol Hill.”

“All right,” he said. “Okay. Keep calm. Take a look at what you think we have to do. Give me a plan, and we’ll go from there. I’ll do what I can.”