Jack McDevitt - Cauldron

“What happened?”

“ An omega. They got in its way. ”

François was the guy who wouldn’t quit. When everything was shutting down, he’d found a way to stay with the interstellars. Most recently he’d been working for the Prometheus Foundation. Probably for expenses and lunch money. “We have details?”

“ They’re running an interview with Dr. Golombeck now. ”

“Put it on. Let’s see what happened.”

Golombeck’s image appeared. He was seated at a table, looking forlorn, saying something about a derelict ship. He was a thin, gray man. Gray mustache, gray clothes, gray skin. He didn’t look as if he had ever been out in the sun. He was, of course, the director of the Prometheus Foundation.

François and Matt had never really been friends. They’d not seen enough of each other for that. But they’d met periodically in the Academy ops center and at the outstations. They’d had a few drinks together on occasion, including that last memorable night at Union when the Academy announced it was closing down. There had been four or five of them present when the news came. Matt had returned less than an hour earlier from a flight to Serenity. François and one of the others had been scheduled for outbound missions, which had been delayed two or three days without explanation, and finally canceled. A couple of the others had been going through refresher training.

The talk, of course, had centered on the conviction that it wasn’t really happening. A shutdown had been rumored for years, but the common wisdom was that the threats were always designed to shake more funding out of Congress. There was some hope at the table that it was true this time, too.

But if not, what would they do?

They’d talked about getting piloting jobs with Kosmik and Orion and the other starflight corporations. But the field was drying up, and everybody knew it. One female pilot had talked about going home to Montana. “Maybe work on the ranch,” she’d said. After all this time, he could still remember the way she’d tilted her head, the way her blond hair was cut, the pain in her eyes. Couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered the pain.

Work on the ranch.

And François. He’d been solid, quiet, competent. The kind of guy you wanted playing the action hero. He was a born skeptic, thought nothing corrupted people quicker than giving them promotions. What was he going to do now? He’d shaken his head. Stay in the backcountry, he’d said. Ride the ships. Matt seemed to recall that he’d added he would never stoop to selling real estate for a living. But that was a false memory. Had to be.

“ They were trying to salvage what they could out of the derelict, ” Golombeck was saying.

The interviewer was Cathie Coleman, of The London Times . She sat across the table, nodding as he spoke. Her dark skin glistened in lights that did not exist in Matt’s living room. He described how the Langstons had boarded the derelict, had cut their way into it. How they had cut things a bit too close. How the derelict was by far the oldest ever discovered.

“ And you say this object was a billion years old? ”

“ That’s what they’re telling us, Cathie. ”

“ Who was flying around out there a billion years ago? ”

“ That’s a question we might not be able to answer now. ”

“ Were they able to salvage anything? ” she asked.

“ A few relics, we know that, but we don’t know what specifically. Apparently almost everything was lost. ”

Matt halted the interview. “How far away are they?” he asked the AI.

“ Two hundred sixty-four light-years. ”

Almost a month travel time. Well, they clearly had adequate life support, so there was really nothing to worry about. Other than losing a billion-year-old artifact. What would that have been worth?

“ The rescue ship is leaving from here ? ”

“ Yes, that’s correct. ”

“ Dr. Golombeck. ” Cathie took a deep breath. Big question coming. “ Are you going to be able to salvage the Jenkins ? ”

“ We don’t know the extent of the damage yet. They were hit by lightning. We’ll send a team of engineers out as soon as we can assess what’s needed. We’ll do everything we can to bring the Jenkins home. ”

There’d been a time, during the peak of the interstellar period, when someone would have been close by, when help would have arrived within a few days, at most. That was only twenty years ago. Hard to believe. The era was already being described as the Golden Age.

In the morning, Golombeck was back. He’d been a bit optimistic, he admitted. The Foundation would have to write the Jenkins off. “ Beyond repair, ” he said.

The interviewer, Wilson deChancie of Chronicle News, nodded. “ Professor, ” he said, “ there aren’t many people left doing serious exploration. And Prometheus is now down to one ship. ”

“ That’s correct, yes. ”

“ Will the Foundation survive? ”

“ Yes, ” he said. “ We’ll survive. There’s no question about that. ”

“I’m sure our viewers will be happy to hear that.”

“ Yes. We do not intend to give up and walk away from the table, Wilson. And by the way, I should mention we’ll be conducting a fund-raiser. That’ll be at the Benjamin Hotel, next Wednesday, at noon. ”

“ The proceeds to be used to buy another ship? ”

“ That’s our hope, yes. The problem, of course, is that no one manufactures superluminals anymore. The few operational vehicles that remain are extremely expensive. ”

“ I’m sure they are. ”

Golombeck turned and looked directly at Matt. “ The public’s invited, of course. And again, that’s Wednesday, at twelve. There’ll be a luncheon, and your viewers can secure reservations by calling us directly. ”

The code appeared at his knees.

DeChancie nodded solemnly. Expressed his hope that the event would be successful.

Elsewhere, experts argued that the derelict could not possibly have been a billion years old, as reported.

On another show, one guest asked the others on the panel whether anyone could name anything the Prometheus Foundation had discovered during its five-year lifetime. “ Anything anybody really cares about? ”

The panelists looked at one another and smiled.

In the morning, Matt sent Prometheus a donation. He wasn’t sure what impelled him to do that. He never had before, had never even considered it. But he felt better when it was done. They responded within the hour with a recorded message, an attractive young woman standing in front of a Foundation banner, blue and white with a ringed star in the center. She thanked him for his generosity, reminded him it was deductible, and invited him to attend the Wednesday luncheon at the Benjamin Hotel in Silver Spring. The guest speaker, she said, would be Priscilla Hutchins, a former star pilot and the author of Mission .

Her name induced a moment of pride. When, years from now, his grandkids asked him what he’d done for a living, he knew he wasn’t going to bring up real estate.

He had a leisurely breakfast, bacon and eggs, and headed for work. It was a cool morning, with rain clouds coming in from the west. But he could beat the storm. Or maybe not. The possibility of getting drenched added a bit of spice to the morning. It wouldn’t matter. He had extra clothes at the office.

He strolled past the Senior Center, ignoring the rising wind. The place was well maintained, with clusters of oaks and maples scattered in strategic places and more benches now than there’d been in earlier times. The morning’s stream of flyers were already passing overhead, most making for DC. Across the Potomac, the Washington Monument seemed poised to free itself from the gravity well.