"Omega" - читать интересную книгу автора (Макдевитт Джек)chapter 3THE CHINDI HAD finally begun giving up its secrets. The gigantic alien starship, apparently fully automated, continued its serene slower-than-light voyage toward a class-F star whose catalog number Hutch could never remember. It had taken a major effort, because of its velocity, to get researchers on board. But the Academy had begun to get a good look at its contents, artifacts from hundreds of cultures. And live visual recordings over a span of tens of thousands of years. The ship itself was thought to be more than a quarter million years old. Its pictures of lost civilizations were opening up whole new areas of knowledge. The vast distances that separated sentient species tended to create the illusion that civilizations were extremely rare. It now appeared they were simply scattered, in time and in space. And, disconcertingly, they did not seem to last long. They were sometimes suicidal. They were often destroyed by economic, political, or religious fanaticisms; by the selfishness and corruption of leaders; by an inability to stop ever-more-deadly wars. They sometimes simply behaved in stupid ways. Some that had avoided the more obvious pitfalls were swept away by something that should not have been there: the clouds. Hutch had always felt a special kinship with the Monument-Makers, who’d roamed this section of the galaxy for thousands of years, who’d tried to save others from the omegas. She had been to their home world, and had seen the remnants of a race reduced to savagery, unaware of their proud history. They’d been on her mind recently because the chindi had, a week ago, provided a record of another demolished culture. She’d sat during the course of a bleak wintry day looking at pictures of smashed buildings and ruined cities. And she’d recognized some of the images. It was the home of the Hawks, the race that had come to the rescue centuries ago on Deepsix when the inhabitants of that unlucky world had faced a brutal ice age. The images haunted her, the broken columns, the brave symbols scrolled across monuments and public buildings, the overgrown roads, the shattered towers, the cities given over to forest. And perhaps most compelling, the starship found adrift in a solar orbit. The Hawks and the Monument-Makers. And the human race. It was hard not to dwell on what might have been, had they been allowed to sit down together, to pool their knowledge and their speculations. To cooperate for the general good. To become allies in the great adventure. As has happened with the Monument-Makers, a few individual Hawks had survived. But their civilization was gone. Their racial memory consisted only of a cycle of myths. Kellie Collier had been there, had been first to board the Hawk starship, and had complained later to Hutch about the cost imposed by the existence of the clouds. There had been tears in her eyes when she described what she’d seen. KELLIE AND THE broken cities and the clouds were never far from Hutch’s mind. The chilling possibility that they were about to experience another wipeout had kept her awake these last two nights. It would be the most painful of ironies if they had finally found a living civilization, someone other than the Noks, that they could actually talk to, just in time to say good-bye. The cloud in question was at a substantial distance, more than thirty-one hundred light-years. Nine months away. The Bill Jenkins was enroute, diverted from its survey mission by the station at Broadside. But they’d need a month to get there. Add another week for the report to reach her. It would be April before she knew whether she had a problem. Prudence, and experience, suggested she expect the worst. She arrived at the Academy bleary-eyed and in a foul mood. She’d talked it over at home with Tor, but all he could think of was to suggest she ease the pressure on herself by quitting. We can live comfortably on my income, he’d suggested. He was a commercial artist, and the money was decent, although they weren’t going to wind up with a chalet in the Rockies and a beach home on Sea Island. She needed to talk to somebody. The commissioner wasn’t the right person either, so she put in a call to Harold as soon as she arrived at her desk. He wasn’t in yet, his watch officer explained, but they would contact him. Five minutes later he was on the circuit. Just leaving home. “Harold,” she asked, “have you had breakfast yet?” “No,” he said. “I usually eat in the Canteen.” “How about eating with me this morning? My treat.” “Is there a problem?” he asked cautiously. “I need your advice.” “Okay. What did you have in mind?” “Meet me at Cleary’s,” she said. “Twenty minutes okay?” CLEARY’S WAS THE small, posh coffee shop overlooking the Refuge, the alien habitat that had been hauled in from the Twins and reconstructed on a platform at the edge of the Potomac in Pentagon Park. The sun was warm and bright, and the sky full of lazy clouds. When Harold walked in, Hutch was sitting in a corner booth, stirring coffee and staring out the window, her mind gone for a gallop. She didn’t see him until he slid in across from her. “This is a pleasant surprise, Priscilla.” He smiled shyly. She knew that she intimidated him, but didn’t know why. She’d noticed it years before when she’d provided transportation for him on a couple of occasions. It didn’t seem to be all women, just her. “It’s always good to get away for a bit,” she said. She asked him a few questions about Weatherman, and the tewks, to put him at ease. Cleary’s used human waiters. A young woman brought more coffee, and some orange juice. “So what did you actually want to talk to me about?” he asked. She told him about the report from Broadside that a cloud was changing course. Heading insystem. His eyes dropped to the table. “That’s unsettling.” He picked up his spoon, fiddled with it, put it back down, gazed out at the Potomac. “Well,” he said finally, “with any kind of luck, it’ll be a false alarm.” She looked at him. “Priscilla,” he said, “it doesn’t matter. Whatever it turns out to be, there’ll be nothing you can do.” “There might be somebody out there.” “—In its path. I understand that.” He tasted his coffee, patted his lips with a napkin, shrugged. “If there is someone there, they’ll have to look out for themselves.” He was trying to be detached, but she heard the resignation in his voice. “To be honest, Hutch,” he continued, “it’s not worth worrying about. Not if we can’t intervene. Anyway, at most it will probably turn out to be more ruins. That’s all they ever find out there anyhow.” The waitress was back. “Bacon and eggs,” he said. “Home fries and toast.” She’d heard that he was supposed to be on a diet, egg whites and bran flakes, that sort of thing. But she said nothing, and ordered French toast. What the hell. When the waitress was gone, he sat back and made himself comfortable. She liked Harold. He got the job done, never complained, and on Family Day had made a big fuss over Maureen. “Is that why you asked me here?” he said. “The omega?” Hutch nodded. “Assume the worst happens. Somebody’s in the way. Is there really nothing we can do to disable this thing? Blow it up? Scatter it? Something?” It was a lovely morning, crisp and clear. The Potomac, which had risen considerably during the last century, and was still rising, was not unlike a small inland sea. The Capitol, the White House, most of the monuments, were islands now. Hutch had been around long enough to remember when Rock Creek Park could be reached on foot, when you didn’t need a boat to get to the Washington Monument. You could stand out there now on one of the piers, and watch the river, and look out toward Sagitta, which was where the local cloud was, the one with Arlington’s number on it, and you got a sense that despite everything, despite the extended life spans and the superluminals and the virtual disappearance of organized violence on the planet, civilization was still losing ground. “If it had a physical core of some sort,” Harold was saying, “a vital part, then yes. We could go after it. Take a hammer to it. But it seems to be holistic. Throw as many nukes at it as we like and it simply seems to pull itself back together.” “We don’t know how it does that?” His jaws worked. “It’s not my field. But no, as far as I’m aware, we have no idea. The technology is well beyond anything we know about. It uses nanos, but we haven’t been able to figure out how they work, what they do, even how they guide the cloud.” He took a long sip of orange juice. “I look at what those things can do, and I look at the fact they seem to be only dust and hydrogen, and I feel as if I should be sitting off somewhere beating a drum. It’s a whole new level of technology.” Their food came. Harold dumped a substantial amount of catsup on his potatoes. “Of course,” he continued, “the real problem is that we can’t seem to penetrate the cloud. Ships don’t come back. Probes disappear. Even scans and sensors don’t give us much.” He sampled the eggs, smiled with satisfaction, covered his toast with strawberry jam, and bit off a piece. “Good stuff,” he said. “This where you normally eat?” “Usually at home,” she said. “Yes.” He studied her. “You survived one of those things, Hutch,” he continued. “You were actually inside it, weren’t you? When it came down on Delta?” Hutch had been with Frank Carson that day. Thirty years ago—my God, had it really been that long? — when they’d deliberately baited a cloud, had structured some plateaus to look artificial, and had watched with horror as the monster came after them. “Yes,” she said. “I was there.” “You survived it.” “Heaviest weather I’ve ever seen. Lightning. Tornado winds. Meteors. Not the way you’d want to spend a weekend.” He used his toast and a fork to finish off the eggs. “Well, I can understand you might be worried. Where did you say this thing is?” “Out near the Dumbbell.” “My God. It’s really over in the next county, isn’t it? Well, look, your role, it seems to me, is simple. These things attack cities. If it turns out there are actually inhabitants, you just sail in, tell them what’s coming, and they can head for the hills. Or maybe they could build themselves some underground shelters.” Out along the pier a gaggle of kids were trying to get a kite in the air and not having much luck. Beyond, a few sails drifted on the river. The kite was red, and it had a dragon on it. She needed a dragon. WHEN SHE GOT back to her office, she called the Lunar Weapons Lab, which had been founded twenty years earlier for the express purpose of developing something that could be used against the omega clouds. The weapons lab was under the control of the Science Advisory Commission, which was a quasi-independent group overseen by the World Council. Like the Academy, it was underfunded. Arky Chan, the assistant director, was an old friend. He greeted her with a cheery good morning. “We hear,” he said, “you’re taking over permanently up there.” “They don’t tell me anything, Arky.” Thirty-three years ago, on her first flight beyond the solar system, Arky had been one of her passengers. His black hair had grayed only slightly since then, and his smile was as infectious as ever. “What can I do for you, Hutch?” he asked. “Find me the key.” It was code for a way to neutralize the clouds. He nodded. “Anything else while I’m at it? Maybe produce the universal solvent? Or a time machine?” “I’m serious. What’s on the table?” “Why? What’s happening?” “One of the damned things changed course.” “I heard. You have anything yet on what’s in its path?” “A G-class sun. Presumably a planetary system to go with it. We’re still waiting. I’m hoping it just picked up some natural formations and got confused.” That had happened once. A group of remarkably straight stress fractures on a satellite had been attacked. Whatever else the damned things were, they were not bright. “I hope so too. But no, Hutch, I’m sorry to say we haven’t really made any progress.” “Nothing at all?” “They don’t give us any money, love. And the Academy doesn’t give us any ships.” That was pointed at her. “You have one.” “The Rajah spends more time in the garage than it does in the field.” “That’ll change,” said Hutch. She’d been trying to free up some money for more than a year. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, but to tell you the truth, I’ll believe it when I see it. What we need is for the cloud to be sitting up over the Capitol. Put a couple of bolts down the pants of the Congress. Then they’d damn soon get serious.” “You have anything at all we can use, if it becomes necessary?” “Not really.” “How about nukes?” “We tried that at Moonlight.” “How about something bigger? A supernuke? Or maybe we shovel a load of antimatter into it?” “The problem we keep having is that the thing seems always able to reconstitute itself. Somewhere it has a heart, a control pod, an AI, probably. But we don’t know where it is, we can’t probe it, we’re blind—” He held out his hands. “If you have an idea, I’d love to hear it.” “Arky, if that thing’s bearing down on somebody, I don’t want to be in the position of having to just sit here and watch.” “I understand completely.” “Find me something. Just in case.” “Look.” His voice got cold. “It’s easy enough for you to demand a miracle. But you people are the ones who keep saying there’s plenty of time, don’t worry about it, we have other priorities right now.” SHE HAD LUNCH with Tom Callan, her number two guy. Tom was assistant director of operations for special projects. He’d been, in her opinion, the most capable of the applicants for the D.O.’s job, except herself, of course. Tom was young, ambitious, energetic, and if he hung around long enough, would undoubtedly succeed her. That would be as high as he could go in the Academy, however. The commissioner was a political appointment, and the position never went to anybody in-house. Tom held a license to pilot superluminals, he could work under pressure, and he didn’t mind making decisions. He was about average size, with clean-cut good looks, but without the intensity one usually found in able young people who’d already climbed pretty high. Probably because he knew he was good. “I was thinking maybe,” he said, “if we had to, we could decoy the damned thing.” “How would you go about it? A projection?” “That’s what I had in mind.” “Throw a big cube out there for it to chase.” “Yes.” He bit into a turkey sandwich. “It might work. We’ve never experimented with it, so we don’t really know. It would help if we knew what kind of sensory system it uses.” If it were strictly visual, then a big picture of a box might be enough. “Let’s look into it,” she said. “Check the literature. See if you can find anything that either supports the idea or negates it.” “Okay.” “And, Tom. Priority. If there’s a problem, we won’t have much time.” “Consider it done.” He took a long pull at his iced tea and went after the sandwich again. The kid had an appetite. “There is a good chance it wouldn’t be fooled by a holocast.” “I know.” “We might try a backup.” “What did you have in mind?” “Be ready to put a real box out there.” THAT BROUGHT HER back to the kite with the dragon. Her first afternoon call went to Rheal Fabrics. Rheal specialized in producing a range of plastics, films, and textiles for industry. (They also had a division that operated a chain of ice-cream outlets.) Hutch had, on a number of occasions, taken their executives out to Serenity, and she had kept in contact with several over the years. One of them was Shannon McKay, who had something to do with Ramp;D. Shannon was tall, redheaded, and very much in charge. They did a couple of minutes’ small talk, during which Hutch got congratulated on her forthcoming promotion. She was surprised that Shannon knew. “We keep track of the important stuff,” Shannon said. The Academy was a major customer for Rheal, so it made sense that they would. “I need a feasibility study,” Hutch said. She explained what was happening, emphasized that it would probably amount to nothing, but that if a difficult situation arose, she wanted to be ready to deal with it. “I might need a kite,” she said. “A big one.” Shannon nodded. “Give me the dimensions.” Who knew? Who had the slightest idea? She tried some numbers and Shannon said okay. They could do it. “How long will it take?” A blue lamp blinked on. And Harold’s name. He was on the line, waiting to talk to her. “How long do we have?” “From the time you get the go-ahead, not much more than a week. At best.” “You’re kidding.” “Can you manage it?” “Let me look into it. I’ll get back to you.” “YES, HAROLD.” “Thought you’d like to know. We’ve got another one.” “Another what?” “Another tewk.” A quasi nova. It was the first time she’d heard him use the term his people had coined. Short for Tewksbury Object. The pride in his voice was evident. “Okay.” “Different spectrogram. Different color. But the same essentials.” “Same area?” “Other side of the sky. Different Weatherman.” “Okay. You’re sure it’s a tewk and not a nova?” “We’re sure.” “All right, Harold. Keep me posted.” “It’s very strange.” “When you want to make an announcement, let me know.” SHE DIRECTED THE AI to get Marge Conway for her at the International Bureau of the Climate in London. Twenty minutes later Marge was on the circuit. “Been a long time,” she said. “What can I do for you, Hutch?” Marge and Hutch had been friends at Princeton a long time back, had once competed for a boyfriend, now best forgotten, and had kept in touch over the years. Marge had been thin and quiet in those days. Later she’d become a bodybuilder. She’d gone through several husbands. Wore them out, people said behind her back. “Is there a way to generate a cloud cover?” Hutch asked. “For maybe a few days. Hide some stuff.” “Cloud cover?” “Yes. I’m talking about a terrestrial atmosphere—” “Not Earth.” “No.” “Okay. How big would the coverage be?” “Planetary.” She shook her head. “No. A few thousand square klicks, maybe, yes. But that’s about the limit.” “What would it take?” “You’ll need some landers.” “Okay. That’s no problem.” “Four of them. Plus a hauler. An AV3 would probably be best.” “All right. What else?” “How much time do we have?” “To put it together? Ten days. Maybe a week. No more than that.” “That’s a bit of a rush.” “I know.” “And we’d need a helicopter.” “A helicopter? What’s that?” “Antique aircraft. Propellers on top.” “Marge, where am I supposed to get a helicopter?” “Work it out. Keep it small, by the way. The helicopter.” “I’ll see what I can do.” “Okay. Let me take a look at things on this end. I’ll get back to you.” Marge broke the connection and Hutch called Barbara, the Academy AI. “Find out where there’s an air show. Antique aircraft. I’ll want to talk to whoever’s in charge.” SHE DISPOSED OF her routine work, handing most of it over to assistants. Eric called to remind her that she’d be expected to make a few remarks at Sylvia Virgil’s retirement. That was tonight! She’d forgotten. “And you’ll be handing out one of the awards,” he added. “Okay.” She had started making notes on what she would say when the commlink blipped again. This time it was the commissioner’s three short bursts. She answered, was asked to wait, the commissioner would be with her momentarily, then Asquith’s plump, smiling features filled the screen. “Hutch,” he said, “do you have a minute?” “Yes, Michael. What can I do for you?” “Why don’t you come over to the office? I need to talk to you.” When she got there, the blinds were drawn. Asquith waved her in, got up, and came around to the front of his desk. It was a substantial walk because the thing was the size of a soccer field. The office was ringed with leather chairs and walnut side tables. The walls were decorated with pictures of the Andromeda Galaxy and the Twins and the North American Nebula and the Refuge sitting out on the Potomac. Several lamps glowed softly. “Hutch.” He angled one of the chairs for her. “How are you doing today?” “Fine, Michael,” she said, warily. He waited until she’d sat down. “Well, last day for Sylvia, I guess.” He managed to look wistful while adjusting the blinds, brightening the room somewhat. Then he went back behind his desk. “The Academy’s going to miss her.” “Yes, we will.” “Pity about—” He stopped midsentence, shrugged, and she knew exactly what he was implying. Virgil was retiring under pressure after a couple of major embarrassments. Three people had died a year ago when the Yves Vignon had collided with Wayout Station. The problem had been traced to equipment maintenance, and ultimately to a negligent supervisor, but some of it had inevitably washed off on the director of operations at the Academy. And then, just a few months later, a breakdown in scheduling had left the Berkeley mission temporarily stranded at Clendennon III. Not Sylvia’s fault, but she’d taken the hit anyhow, just as she had six years ago when Renaissance Station had been destroyed by a massive flare. Renaissance had remained operational for political reasons, and against her continued protests. But none of it had mattered. “Should have kept an eye on things myself,” Asquith had told a group of Academy researchers. “Sylvia tried to get it right. Not really her fault. Bad luck.” Truth be told, Hutch’s opinion of Sylvia hadn’t been all that high, but that didn’t change the reality that she’d been left hanging in the wind. And that Hutch herself now worked for a guy who would go missing at the first sign of trouble. “Hutch,” he said, “I know you’re busy, so I won’t take your time.” “It’s okay, Michael. What can I do for you?” He opened a drawer and brought out a cream-colored folder, which he opened and placed on his desk. She couldn’t see what it was. “You’ve done a good job here over the last couple of years.” He extracted a document from the folder and gazed fondly at it. It crackled in his hands. “Congratulations,” he said, holding it out for her. She looked down at it. Saw the Academy’s coat of arms. And her name. Priscilla Maureen Hutchins. Promoted to grade fifteen. Director of Operations. Effective Tuesday, March 4, 2234. In eight days. He extended a hand across the desk and beamed at her. “I wish you a long and happy career, Priscilla.” “Thank you.” It felt good. “There’ll be a formal presentation early next week. But I wanted you to know.” He took the document back and returned it to its drawer. “We’ll give it to you then.” “I appreciate your confidence, Michael.” While there had been a selection panel, she knew she would not have been chosen without the commissioner’s approval. He broke out a bottle. “Vintage pavlais,” he said. And, reading the label, “Twenty-one ninety.” Expensive enough to pay the mortgage for a month. He produced an opener, wrestled the cork out of the bottle, and filled two glasses. She was tempted to embrace him. But the formality of the occasion overwhelmed the impulse. “To you, Hutch,” he said. “Never let go.” It was an echo of the now-celebrated comment by Randall Nightingale, when, with bleeding and broken hands, he’d pulled her out of the clouds over Deepsix. I’d never have dropped you, Hutch. It had become a kind of informal Academy watchword. Their eyes met over the rims of the glasses. Then the moment passed, and it was back to work. He handed her a disk and a sheaf of documents. “You’ll want to look at these,” he said. “It’s all administrative stuff, position description, personnel considerations, and so on. And there are a few operational issues in there you’ll need to do something with.” Hutch was no connoisseur, but she knew good wine when she tasted it. He held out the bottle for her. Did she want more? Yes! But she was too well bred to drink up the man’s expensive store. As a compromise, she accepted a half glass. “Michael,” she said, “did you know one of the clouds has changed course?” “Yes,” he said. “I heard.” “I’m concerned there might be somebody out there.” He beamed. Not to worry. “Let’s wait and see,” he said. “If there is, would the Academy support intervention?” His face wrinkled and he made growling noises in his throat. “That could get a little uncomfortable, couldn’t it?” “We’d probably have to violate the Protocol.” He waved the problem away. “No,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. There’s no one there.” “How can you be sure?” “There’s never anybody there.” He smiled paternally at her and studied his glass. “I’ve been in this office, or otherwise associated with the Academy, for more than twenty years. Do you know how many times we’ve gotten reports that somebody thought they’d found someone? And you know how many times it actually happened?” “Twice,” she said. That would be the Angels. And the Hawks. “That’s right. And you were there for one of those. Now if we go back another twenty-five years, there are two more. That makes four. In all that time. Out of thousands of systems visited. Four. I suggest we put it aside and find more important things to worry about.” The door opened behind her, as if by magic, and he was ushering her out of the room. “If it happens,” she persisted, “we’re going to be pressed for time.” “We’ll worry about it when it does, Priscilla.” His smile disappeared as if someone had thrown a switch. HUTCH CALLED UP the archive files on the Pasquarella, the first vehicle lost researching the clouds. That had been twenty years before. It was a voice-only, the voice belonging to Meg Campbell, the only person on the ship. Hutch had seen Meg once, from the back of a lecture hall. She’d been a tall woman, dark hair, lots of presence. Very sure of herself. Hutch played it through, listened to the voice she remembered, not from the long-ago presentation, but because she’d played that same record any number of times. Meg had gone three times into the cloud, each descent deeper, each time encountering more electronic interference. She hadn’t come back from the third descent. A search had revealed nothing, and on July 14, 2211, the Pasquarella was officially designated lost. In the middle of the recording, Barbara’s voice broke in. “Transmission for you, ma’am. From Serenity.” She switched off the recording. “Put it up, Barb.” As soon as she saw Audrey’s face, she knew there was bad news. “Hutch,” Audrey said, “we lost contact with the Quagmor at 0014 hours 24 February. The AI went down without warning. They found an artifact yesterday in the vicinity of the Bumblebee and were investigating. The Heffernan has been diverted and will arrive in the area in three days. Record from Quagmor is attached.” Her stomach churned. It was possible there was nothing more to it than a communication breakdown. Then she watched the attached report. NEWSDESK PITCHERS, CATCHERS REPORT TO SPRING TRAINING Forty-six Teams Start Today STRANDED ORCA RESCUED IN PUGET SOUND AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS STILL LOSING GROUND Who Was Churchill? Nobody Knows GOMORRAH COUNTY RESIDENTS SUE TO CHANGE NAME MASKED ROBBER WEARS NAME ON ARM Tattoo Leads to Arrest ORBITAL AMUSEMENT PARK GETS OKAY ZeroGee Will Open in Two Years UNN SURVEY: HALF OF ALL AMERICANS BELIEVE ASTROLOGY WORKS WHO WILL BE ONE-HUNDREDTH PRESIDENT? Campaign Gets Under Way in Utah, Ontario BASEBALL: MOVE TO OUTLAW ENHANCEMENTS GAINS STEAM Evidence Mounts of Long-term Damage GREAT GATSBY FIRST EDITION SELLS FOR 3.6 MILLION IBC WARNS OF STRONGER HURRICANES Southern Coast Overdue for Big One |
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