Chindi

Chapter 34

AT ABOUT THE time power was shutting down in Tor’s pocket dome, the McCarver and the Longworth reported they were on the way, and bringing lots of cable and connectors. Bill began broadcasting so they’d have no trouble finding the Memphis when they came out of the sack.

For Alyx, it was becoming unbearably exciting. When Hutch excused herself because she had to start preparing Dogbone for the operation, she volunteered to go along.

“You sure?” asked Hutch, while Nick suggested it was dangerous.

Was she sure? Alyx was beginning to feel like a veteran. She strolled down to the cargo bay, pulled on her e-suit and air tanks without help, and activated the Flickinger field. Hutch wore a go-pack. She’d made up three loops of cable, exhausting all that they had left. She tied two of them together and gave the third to Alyx, who pulled it over her shoulder. They went into the airlock (Alyx was still limping a bit, but this was no time to give in to minor injuries) and looked across at Dogbone, which was almost close enough to touch. It was immense. A boulder more than three-quarters the size of the ship. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “We’re going to hustle that up to several thousand kilometers per second?”

“I hope so,” said Hutch, “But we’ll have help.”

If it looked far too massive to accelerate to any appreciable velocity, it was pretty small to walk around on. This wasn’t like going into the moonbase at 1107. Or even onto the chindi.

It struck her as a far more unnerving act, but she wasn’t scared, as she’d expected to be. Instead she had to damp down her elation. (Did she actually feel enthusiastic about sticking her neck out like this?) With luck, Bill would be taking pictures, and she could see them playing around the world. ALYX BALLINGER IN DARING RESCUE.

Lovely.

Hutch pushed herself gently out the door, crossed the void, descended smoothly onto Dogbone, turned, and waved. Easy as pie. The woman should consider a career in dancing.

Alyx waved back and followed. The gravity went away and she discovered that floating across to Dogbone came as easily as if she’d been born to it. She was tethered to Hutch, who smiled at her as she arrived, and patted her shoulder. Good show and all that. Alyx glowed in the warmth of her approval.

Bill had matched the tumble and rotation of the asteroid fairly closely so that the Memphis moved only slowly across the sky. That was good. Kept her from getting ill.

The stars rotated pretty quickly though. And there was no horizon. It was like standing on the edge of a piece of rock with a precipice all around and no bottom. The stars rolled up one side, scrambled themselves, and drifted back down the other.

“Don’t look at them,” Hutch warned. “Keep your eyes on the ground.”

Such as it was.

They strolled across Dogbone, examining the terrain. Hutch found what she wanted, a relatively smooth spot in the center of the long axis. “We’ll put the McCarver here,” she said. They wrapped three pieces of cable completely around the object, literally walking around it to do so. Alyx would have preferred to stay put and let Hutch circle the rock, but they were tethered, so she had to follow.

They cinched the cable to secure it. Hutch began looking at the rock, making faces, jabbing her finger, and making comments like “Yes, right here,” and “I think that’ll work.”

Hutch also spent a lot of time talking to Tor. She told him in detail what they planned to do, how they were moving as quickly as they could. She sent him the timetable, encouraged him, assured him that the situation now looked encouraging.

Sometimes she handed it off to Alyx, who was too accustomed to having an audience to be able to talk comfortably into a commlink with no indication there was even anybody listening. Nevertheless, she tried. “It’ll be good to have you back, Tor,” she said. And, “Hutch is confident we can pull this off.” And, “We’re planning a party in your honor.”

Henry Claymoor’s producer, a man named Easter, called over in the middle of everything, while they were connecting additional cable to the base units. He was delighted to find Alyx along on the mission. Would she consent to an interview?

Of course she would. Claymoor was a popular figure with a big audience. She’d watched him do his commentaries, Claymoor on the Middle East, Claymoor on why religious belief grew stronger as the evidence for a mechanical universe mounted, Claymoor on why we should discontinue the Methuselah Project, which promised a thousand-year life span.

His professional persona had always seemed a bit stodgy, and she’d have preferred an interviewer who was closer in spirit to the younger generation. But out in the boondocks, one took what was available.

With about nine hours to go, they finished everything they could do and sat back to wait for the other ships. “So this is what a comet looks like,” Alyx said, kicking at the frozen surface. “It’s not much of an oort cloud. I don’t see anything else out there at all.”

“You wouldn’t if you were back home in our oort cloud either,” said Hutch. “The rocks tend to be spread out over a pretty wide space.”

The chunk on which they stood was probably several billion years old, left over from the formation of the planetary system. “We’re lucky,” Hutch said. “This thing is in close. It’s right where we needed it to be.”

“How far out is the one at home?”

“The oort cloud? About a light-year away from the sun.”

“And this one?”

“A few light-days.” Hutch kept looking at the time.

“I wonder why that is,” said Alyx.

Hutch shrugged. She didn’t know the details. “Oort clouds form at all kinds of different distances. It seems to be dependent on the number, size, and location of the planets, as well as solar mass.”

“Let’s get to details,” said Alyx. “When the time comes, who’s going to cut the cable?”

“I’m hoping we can find a qualified volunteer on one of the other ships.” Hutch, of course, would be aboard the McCarver. They needed three people on the Longworth.

“You really think you can find somebody?”

“Probably.”

“How about me?”

“You’re not experienced outside.”

“I beg your pardon, Priscilla, but where did you think we are at the moment? Where have we been several times over the past few weeks?”

“I know you’ve been out, Alyx. But you’re still new at this. We’d like to have some experienced people.”

“Look. I can do this. It’s not exactly complicated. Anyway, you’ve already admitted there probably isn’t anybody else.”

“I know. I was going to ask you.” Hutch looked down at the icy surface.

“It’s just a matter of cutting a cable, right? I already know where to make the cut. And the laser seems simple enough to operate. What else do I need?”

“You need to know how to run the go-pack.”

“Why?”

“In case you fall off.”

“So show me.”

“Now?”

“What else do you have to do for the next couple of hours?” Alyx looked deep into Hutch’s blue eyes. “Listen, I’m part of this. As much a part as you are, or anybody else. I want to help. And I’m ready, willing, and able.”

Hutch turned shining eyes on her. “Thanks, Alyx,” she said.

They embraced, briefly. On the periphery of her vision, Alyx noticed a flash, something barely glimpsed, but gone when she tried to focus on it. Starlight and passing ice, she thought.

“The Longworth has just completed its jump into the area,” said Bill. “ETA fifty-six minutes.”

THE LONGWORTH WAS enormous. It dwarfed both the Memphis and Dogbone. And it turned out they had plenty of help. Half a dozen volunteers, some familiar with e-suits, and some apparently learning, piled out and joined the effort to secure the rock to the two ships.

They brought substantially more cable. People in shorts and shirts emblazoned with university slogans swarmed over the ice, stringing lines, connecting links, drawing a web around the rock. Unfortunately, they had no push-button devices that would allow them, when the time came, to separate the cables from the ships. They’d have to do that manually.

Mogambo surprised Hutch by seeking her out, introducing her to two people he wanted to take with him on the McCarver. He was trying to be friendly, but he had to work at it. He wanted so desperately to get to the chindi that she suspected he’d have a stroke if the tactic didn’t work and they failed to catch up with it.

His two aides were a physicist and an engineer, a woman and a man, both old enough, she thought, to know better than to board the chindi. But they complimented her on her “ingenuity,” and thereby won her over. Hutch knew she was a sucker for a few words of praise, but then who wasn’t? She advised them to stay away from the chindi, but otherwise let it go.

Mogambo asked whether she had arranged for him to be taken on board the McCarver. “Brownstein’s being a horse’s ass. He doesn’t understand how important this is.”

Hutch had forgotten the request.

She had no social connection with the captain of the McCarver. But the pilots usually accommodated one another. “I’ve been a little preoccupied, Professor. Let me see what I can do.”

“You won’t forget?”

She nodded wearily. “I’ll do what I can, Professor.”

The McCarver reported in. She had materialized on the far side of the uncertainty envelope, but she was en route and would make the rendezvous within two hours.

HUTCH SUPERVISED THE completion of the web. She stayed as close as possible to Bill’s design. But there were areas that created problems, particularly a set of sharp-edged ridges along what would become the rear of Dogbone. The ridges looked capable of cutting through the lines, so they went after them with lasers, but gave up because it was taking too long, and instead redesigned the net.

When they were satisfied it was strong enough, they ran lines up to the Longworth and secured the rock to her underbelly. Bill rotated the Memphis on its long axis and eased her in along the opposite side of the asteroid. Lines were exchanged in both directions, secured, and tightened. The asteroid was now supported between the undersections of the two ships by a network of cables sixty or so meters long.

There followed an uncomfortable hour while they waited for the McCarver. Too long. It was taking too long.

If everything worked, they were still going to have to go hunting for the chindi. And time was becoming desperately short.

Hutch took advantage of the delay to open a channel to Brownstein.

“I don’t like him,” Brownstein said. He had an accent she couldn’t quite place. Eastern Europe, probably.

“As a favor,” Hutch persisted, turning on the old charm.

She was standing beneath the Longworth’s hull. It was an ungainly-looking craft, long and blocky, a series of boxes of different dimensions stuck together like a child’s puzzle. Symmetry seemed to be the only concession to aesthetics.

He gazed at her, and she knew he would make the accommodation. “Suppose something happens to one of them?”

“You’ve no liability. I have it in writing.”

After a long pause: “All right. I’ll do it for you.”

“Thanks, Captain.” She shifted tone. Old friends, just between us. “Was there a problem?”

“He forgot to ask. He started telling me he would come aboard and I would do so and so.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll have him make the request again.”

“It’s all right. You want him along, he comes.”

She also talked to Tor, told him the operation was on schedule, assured him everything looked pretty good. “We’re coming,” she said. “Just stay put.”

Stay put. She regretted the remark almost before she’d said it. But it was too late to call it back.

“THEY’RE HERE,” HUTCH told Tor as she watched lights move through the sky. The McCarver, the Mac, was little more than a yacht.

“Okay,” somebody said. “Let’s roll.”

The Mac went to reverse thrusters, aligned itself with the other two ships, and drifted between them to take her place on the asteroid. Unlike them, she touched her hull to the rock.

The McCarver was less than half the size of the Memphis. Dogbone was considerably bigger than she was.

The work crew tied her down.

Her main hatch opened while Hutch and Yurkiewicz were giving the web a final inspection. Brownstein appeared, waved, and descended to the surface. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

Hutch shook hands and thanked him for his help. Meantime, lines were attached to the media ship, and she was secured to the asteroid.

Mogambo and his two companions appeared. He told Brownstein how happy he was to see him, how pleased to be able to ride along with him. (He appeared to be getting smarter.) He introduced his colleagues, Teri Hankata, from the Quraquat space station, and Antonio Silvestri, who’d been leading an inspection team that had been trying to find out why terraforming on that world had been going wrong. They were wearing go-packs, and carrying other equipment, which, with Brownstein’s permission, they stored in the McCarver.

They’d brought a pocket dome with them, a larger model than the one Tor had, which would be put to use while they camped out on the chindi. Mogambo also did what he could to reassure everyone. “I know all this is an inconvenience,” he said. “But we only want to take a quick look.”

“I hope so,” said Brownstein. “You’re aware we may be stranded alongside this thing for a while. In which case I won’t care much whether you’re with me or over there. But when I’m ready to leave, I’ll expect you to come back. Without any delay.”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t the luxury of being able to wait around. If you’re not on board when we’re ready to go, it’ll be sayonara.”

Mogambo wasn’t used to being talked to in that fashion, and he struggled visibly to keep everything amicable.

Hutch and the others in the party got a quick introduction to Henry Claymoor. Claymoor was one of those tall, self-important types, loaded with a kind of sticky charm, who had never learned to turn it off. Dark hair, dark eyes, brandy voice that seemed to lend significance to every detail of existence. He was a distant man working hard at being casual. Tendencies, she thought, that had been magnified by the rejuvenation treatments, which had fended off the debilities of aging without making him youthful. He seemed like one of those unfortunates who had never been young. Hutch couldn’t imagine him having a good time.

The McCarver lay flat on Dogbone’s surface. The work crews secured it by lashing cables around the central stem and over the Mac’s hull.

Hutch tried to help but it turned out the work team had practiced while en route. “Just stay clear, ma’am,” one of them told her.

And more quickly than she could have hoped, they were finishing up.

Hutch said good-bye to Alyx and Nick. “Been a pleasure,” she said. “See you at home.” She offered to get a volunteer from one of the other vessels to provide whatever assistance they might need.

They declined, and Hutch reminded them they’d be marooned on the Memphis indefinitely. Alyx said they’d be fine, could take care of themselves. And Nick looked delighted. Stranded with Alyx? A man could do worse.

The line crew announced everything was ready to go, and Brownstein wasted no time warning everyone that they were about to leave, that they would be in a “fast forward” mode (by which he meant they’d be accelerating) for two hours. “Let’s move out,” he said.

As the volunteers retreated to their respective ships, all but one to the Longworth, Brownstein invited Hutch to sit with him on the bridge. They waited through a tense few minutes, exchanging comments on how they wouldn’t want to go through anything like this again, until the AI informed them they were ready to depart. The captain warned his passengers, then leaned over and shook Hutch’s hand. “Good luck,” he said.

The engines on the Memphis and the Longworth ignited. They began to move.

The McCarver remained quiet. For the early part of the voyage, she would be strictly cargo.

Hutch spoke to Tor over her link. “Under way,” she said.

PROCEEDING WITH DELIBERATION, the two superluminals dragged Dogbone out of orbit, turned in the direction of the chindi, and began to accelerate. Bill had predicted the cable would take the strain, but it was nevertheless uncomfortable to watch the net between the rock and the ships pull tight and begin to stretch.

Bill was relaying all significant data to the McCarver. Hutch was especially concerned about engine temperatures. The propulsion system was designed to run continually for about an hour maximum, which—under normal conditions—was more than sufficient to provide adequate power to the jump engines. On this excursion, because of the deadweight they were hauling, they were going to need more than two hours of non-stop acceleration to achieve that objective.

Brownstein provided coffee, and they sat talking, watching their velocity mount, watching the clock. Occasionally, Hutch talked to Tor, and to Alyx and Nick in the Memphis. And to Bill.

They passed.005c. Half of 1 percent of light-speed. Target velocity was.026c.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Brownstein.

From the Longworth, Yurkiewicz reported all in order. “Burning more fuel than I want to. But we’ve made some adjustments.”

Later, Claymoor appeared beside her in virtual. “Eventually, I’d like to do a show with you, Hutch,” he said. “But I’ll want to get some background first. Aren’t you the same woman who was caught on Deepsix last year? Got rescued by Gregory MacAllister?”

That wasn’t exactly the way it had happened, but he wasn’t interested in corrections. He asked where she’d grown up, how she’d become a pilot, why she’d become a pilot, whether she had kids, what she did in her spare time. What was her connection with the guy caught out on the alien rust bucket, Tor Whatzis-name?

“He’s a passenger,” she said.

“Just a passenger?” He looked suspicious and disappointed. “No personal feeling for the man?”

“He’s a passenger. I’m responsible for all my passengers.”

She answered his questions as best she could, and finally asked to be excused. “I need to communicate with him,” she said.

“With whom?”

“Tor.”

Claymoor was visibly surprised. “You’re in touch with him? I’d been given to understand—Well, never mind. May I speak with him, too?”

“He can’t answer you,” she said.

“Why not?”

“He’s too far away. The transmission from the chindi doesn’t have enough power to reach this far.”

“Then how do you know he’s listening? Do we know for certain he’s still alive?”

“We know he was alive a few hours ago.”

“And how do you know that?”

She showed him the picture. Tor standing atop one of the ridges with his arms raised. Waving. The hatch open off to one side.

“Magnificent,” he said. “And this is the outside of the chindi? Why, that’s”—he hesitated—“very affecting. Good stuff.”

Brownstein looked over at her. “Passing.008c,” he said.

“Double-oh eight cee? Is that significant, Hutch?”

“It’s a bit less than 1 percent of light-speed. It’s as fast as I’ve ever traveled.”

“HUTCH,” SAID BILL, “our number two is overheating.”

They were still almost fifty minutes from the jump. “I know,” she said. “We’ve been watching it on the board.” Some rise in temperature was inevitable with this kind of sustained use. Less than six minutes later they began seeing it in the Longworth. But there were measures the ships could take. The coolant could be modified, the fuel mixture adjusted, damping procedures instituted. If necessary, they could even shut down for a few minutes, but it was time they didn’t have to spare.

Hutch conferred with Bill and directed some changes. The temperatures stabilized.

Mogambo got on the link periodically to reassure himself. Are we still on schedule? How are the engines holding up? Had there been any evidence at all, any at all, of life aboard the chindi? How far forward had they been on the ship? How deep? Had they seen any sign at all of engineering spaces?

Antonio Silvestri, who’d come aboard with Mogambo, came by the bridge. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.

He was smallish, not much taller than she. Olive skin, black hair, dark eyes. Quite good-looking, with features that were almost feminine.

She’d seen him somewhere, but she was terribly sorry. Don’t recall where.

“Call me Tony,” he said disarmingly. “You took me over to Pinnacle from the station once, years ago.” He spoke English with a slight Italian accent. “It was only a two-day flight, and I really shouldn’t expect you to remember. But I remember you.” The eyes flashed. “I understand your concern for your passenger, Mr. Kirby. He is an artist, is he not?” Nodding. “I looked up his work when I heard.” He smiled. “He is worth saving. If I can do anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Hutch also had a few minutes with Teri Hankata, Mogambo’s other outrider. She was more like her boss, perfunctorily polite, but ambitious and, Hutch thought, desperately intent on boarding the chindi.

“THIRTY-NINE MINUTES TO system jump,” said the McCarver’s AI, which responded to the name Jennifer and, unlike Bill, exhibited a no-nonsense attitude. “Two minutes to ignition.”

Brownstein nodded and informed the passengers. “Not that it really matters,” he added. “I don’t think you’ll notice any difference.”

The captain had turned the entire operation over to Jennifer—pointedly not Jenny, Hutch learned when she tried to use the diminutive—who counted down the final minute in ten-second increments, and then the last few seconds. It was all very dramatic, and the yacht’s engines fired precisely on schedule. The McCarver lifted against the lines securing it to the asteroid. It didn’t have much push, but it did have some, and that reduced the stress on the other vessels. The rise in their engine temperatures, which had reached alarming levels, declined somewhat. When it began to climb again it did so more slowly.

“We are gulping fuel like bandits,” Yurkiewicz informed them from the Longworth.

“Long as it holds out another half hour,” said Hutch.

They were by then approaching.018c, and had broken every record for attained velocity. “And we’ve done it,” said Brownstein, “hauling that son of a bitch along with us.” He jerked his thumb out at Dogbone.

Claymoor came on-line again. Audio only. “Hutch? Are you busy? May I have a moment?”

“Yes, Mr. Claymoor? What can I do for you?”

“Hutch, is it true you’re going outside when the big ships unhitch?”

“No,” she said, knowing immediately where the conversation was headed. “I’m staying right where I am.”

“I heard something different,” he said, disappointed. He turned his attention to Brownstein. “Yuri.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you arrange for me to go outside during the operation? I’ll want to get some close-ups.”

“Not a good idea, Mr. Claymoor.”

“Why not?” His voice rose slightly.

“We have to get that over and done with in the shortest possible time.”

“I can get in and out in a couple of minutes.”

“Sir, we’ll still be accelerating. You’d get ripped off the hull. Not at all good for your digestion.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not like the last time.”

Brownstein didn’t explain what the last time referred to, but she could guess that he’d been allowed to walk around somewhere in an e-suit.

“Damn,” he said. “We’ve got a hell of a story developing here, and we’re missing the pictures.”

“We’ll be getting pictures from the scopes.”

“I’ve been watching them. They’re not good enough.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not physically possible.”

“Brownie, people are going outside to cut the cables. It must be possible.”

He was right. There would be a couple of minutes during which the drives would be shut down. But they were going to be moving quickly. No time for picture-taking. If they missed their window, it would be over.

“I will not get in the way,” Claymoor said. He seemed to be addressing Hutch again.

Brownstein glanced over at her, his eyes suggesting it was her call.

“He’s your boss?” she asked.

Yes, he is.

She turned back to the journalist. “Mr. Claymoor,” she said. “The captain’s right. You go out there, we could lose you. But if you insist, and you’re willing to come back in as soon as I tell you—”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “No problem there.”

“You know how to wear an e-suit?”

“Of course.”

“Yuri thinks I should take you when I go out, so we’ll do it.”

“Thanks. You too, Yuri.”

The Longworth’s temperatures were starting up again, but Yurkiewicz reassured them they’d be all right, that he would hold it together as long as he had to, but she should know that he would need new engines when it was over.

Bill reported continued mild overheating, but under control. “We’re running short of fuel though. We’re using it at a substantial rate.”

There were fail-safes built into the engines on both the Longworth and the Memphis that would cut in to shut them down if conditions became intolerable. In fact, the failsafe on the Longworth would have acted already except that Yurkiewicz had obviously overridden it. The unit on the Memphis didn’t allow tinkering. But conditions were less severe there.

Brownstein passed her a sandwich. “Relax,” he said. She wasn’t sure where the food had come from.

“Approaching jump mode,” said Jennifer. “Eight minutes to shutdown.”

Neither the Longworth nor the Memphis would have enough fuel left to halt its forward motion. When the attempt was over, Hutch thought, they were all going to need rescuing.

The sandwich was roast beef. She chewed it slowly, tried to concentrate on it. Enjoy it.

ALYX’S MOMENT OF glory had arrived. She released her restraints and climbed out of her chair. On the Longworth, Yurkiewicz’s people would be doing the same thing.

She strode down to the cargo bay, slipped smoothly into an e-suit, picked up her air tanks, and collected the laser cutter. Then she pulled on a go-pack.

“Three minutes,” said Bill. “I remind you that cutting the outside lines should be done with expedition.” The AI was transmitting outside, speaking to everyone in all three ships.

Alyx opened the airlock. She was going over the route she would follow once she got on the hull.

She stepped inside, leaning against the bulkhead to keep her balance against the constant acceleration. She closed the inner door and depressurized.

Hutch ran a quick check from the McCarver. Was everybody ready on the Longworth? Aye, they were all set. In their case, the three volunteers had to cut eight lines, two of which were less accessible, meaning farther away from the airlocks, than anything Alyx had to worry about.

The Mac’s engines were hot. The little yacht, even with the help, was simply hauling too much mass for too long. Brownstein saw her glance at the numbers and shook his head. We’re a little warm, he seemed to be signaling, but we’re okay.

Was Alyx ready?

“Yes, I am.”

“Thirty seconds,” said Bill.

Alyx opened the outer hatch, but stayed away from it. They were still accelerating, she was off-balance, pressed against the rear bulkhead, and it wouldn’t do to fall out.

Bill counted down the last ten seconds. When time expired, the engines shut off on all three ships. The tendency to fall backward against the bulkhead was gone. She stood away from the wall, checked her sense of balance, which needed a few seconds to return to normal, and stepped out of the hatch. At the same time, three people moved out of the Longworth. She saw their lamps glitter as they scattered across the hull.

The Memphis was secured to the asteroid by cables attached to the docking gear aft, a cargo hoist amidships, and an auxiliary multipurpose linking mount forward. The docking gear was her first target. She moved quickly, resisting the temptation to use the go-pack, even though she wanted to. But she and Hutch had worked everything out, and there was time. If she started flying around and screwed the operation, the price would get high.

She arrived within moments at the docking gear, ignited her cutter, and set to work.

The entire scene was etched in starlight, the giant cargo ship and the modest Memphis, the miniature yacht, the bleak surface of the asteroid, the red blades of the lasers. The stars, which had moved dizzily across the sky when she and Hutch had first gone out onto Dogbone several hours before, were now anchored.

The cable snapped apart, one whip end of it almost taking her arm.

A woman’s voice, apparently one of the Longworth people, warned her that the cables were under pressure and could behave unpredictably. “Look out when they start to give way.”

She had almost learned that the hard way.

Alyx felt a surge of adrenaline and charged forward to the cargo hoist, where she started on the second phase. She was ahead of schedule by about a minute. The Longworth people were chattering to each other, issuing instructions, delivering profanity.

At the hoist, the cable was looped around the base of the mount, and she didn’t see how she could cut it without punching a hole in the ship. That’s what comes of hurrying. She climbed out along the line until she was clear of the hull, using one hand to keep herself from drifting away, and wielding the laser with the other. Somebody asked what she thought she was doing but she didn’t take time to answer.

On the circuit, Yurkiewicz was admonishing his troops to hurry.

The cable blackened. Alyx kept the beam on it, and watched it separate.

The severed ends of the cable drifted apart. Alyx had hold of one of them, but she floated helplessly and didn’t have time to go back hand over hand. What the hell. It was the moment she’d been waiting for: She lit the go-pack and turned it off almost immediately, as she’d seen Hutch do. She sailed smoothly back toward the hull, caught hold of the cargo hoist, dropped neatly to the metal surface, and scrambled forward. By God she was good.

“Alyx,” said Bill. “Two minutes.”

“Almost ready.”

She hurried forward to the linking mount, which was located just over the bridge. She arrived, appraised her best angle, ignited the cutter and finished the job.

WHEN ALYX MOVED forward on the Memphis, she’d gotten out of imager angle, and Hutch had lost her. She’d watched with a mixture of pride and disquiet while she used the go-pack and drifted off her display. But there’d been no scream, no frantic Oh-my-God-I’m-adrift-what-do-I-do-now. So she had to be okay.

Hutch hesitated to speak to her, didn’t want to distract her, didn’t want to admit that she didn’t quite trust her.

Then Alyx’s voice, level, calm, in charge: “Memphis clear.”

“Alyx,” she said, “you’re going to be a legend.”

“I already am, Captain,” she said.

Brownstein pressed his earphones down. “What’s holding up the Longworth?” he asked.

“Ready in a minute.” Yurkiewicz sounded unperturbed.

“Jennifer,” said Brownstein, “prepare to reignite.”

Hutch opened her channel to Bill. “I want you to disengage thirty seconds after the Longworth frees up. Jennifer will take over.” She switched to Alyx. “Well done,” she said. “When we get back we’ll give you an award.”

“Be still, my heart.”

“Get inside now.”

“Yes, Ma.”

The woman had a flippant side.

“Longworth clear,” said Yurkiewicz.

Bill’s image appeared on the overhead. “Congratulations, all,” he said. “Current velocity is.02633 light-speed.”

Hutch felt a surge of elation. That was within parameters of where they’d hoped to be at this point.

“Passing conn to the McCarver,” said Bill.

Jennifer acknowledged.

Brownstein looked pleased. “Restart engines,” he said. The Longworth and the Memphis, released from the asteroid, were drifting away.

Now it was up to the Mac. The little ship that could, thought Hutch. The engines ignited and it struggled to accelerate, to drag the Dogbone with it.

The Memphis turned on its axis and directed its tubes away from the Longworth, the yacht, and the rock. It fired its engines and moved cautiously away. When it had retreated to a safe distance, the Longworth executed a similar maneuver. Both ships were so low on fuel that they would continue on approximately the same course, at the same velocity, until somebody rescued them.

“Good luck,” said Alyx, now safely back inside.

“Two minutes to jump,” said Jennifer. “On schedule.”

The Mac’s engine temperatures were rising again.

Hutch opened a channel to Claymoor’s quarters. “You ready, Mr. Claymoor?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Indeed I am.”

“We’re only going to have a couple of minutes. Meet me at the cargo airlock.”

“On my way.”

“Be careful. We’re still accelerating.” That was probably wishful thinking. The asteroid was massive, and the instruments, not designed for the current situation, were producing confused readings. Red lamps were blinking everywhere.

Brownstein’s lips were drawn back, revealing lots of even white teeth, through which he was sucking air the way people do when they’re watching someone suffer. He had the engine status display on his overhead. “Be good to shut them down,” he said. “Even if it’s only for a couple of minutes.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, Yuri,” she said.

He nodded. Damn right.

She climbed out of her seat, felt her way back down the luxuriously appointed corridor—Universal News treated its correspondents pretty well—and descended to the lower deck, where Claymoor was struggling into an e-suit. He had an imager clipped to his vest.

He seemed to know what he was doing, so she busied herself with her own gear.

“Hutch,” he said, “I appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Claymoor.”

“My friends call me Henry.”

“Henry,” she said, “be careful when you’re out there. This is going to be very quick. Point, click, and run.”

“I understand.”

She pulled on her go-pack and clipped a cutter onto her harness.

Brownstein’s voice: “One minute.”

Hutch heard the captain shut the fusion engines down. Their steady roar was replaced by the somewhat erratic rumble of the Hazeltines. She sat down on the deck, signaled Claymoor to follow her example, and waited for her stomach to tell her they were making the jump.