The green lamp over the console imager blinked on. “Sara,” she said, gazing steadily into the lens but keeping her voice level, “I’m supposed to be able to evacuate Renaissance if there’s a problem. But apparently somebody forgot they have dependents. Wildside doesn’t have space for everybody. Not close.
“Please advise Clay. We need a bigger ship here tout de suite. I don’t know whether this place is going to blow or not, but if it does, as things now stand, we are going to have to leave twenty or so people.”
“That was good, Hutch,” said Bill. “I thought you struck exactly the right note.”
SHE SKIPPED DINNER. She felt washed out, worried, tired, uncomfortable. Frightened. What was she supposed to say to Harper and Dimenna when she arrived at Renaissance? Hope there’s no problem, folks. Whom did you want to save?
It did nothing for her somber mood when a warning lamp began to flash. A couple of the stations went down, several screens switched off. The lights went dim, the fans died, and for a few moments the bridge was very quiet. Then everything came back. “It’s under control,” said Bill.
“Okay.”
“Conditions like these, we can expect that occasionally.” Ship’s systems occasionally shut down to protect themselves from external power surges.
“I know.”
“And we have a response from Serenity.”
“On-screen.”
It was Barber. Overweight, balding, low irritability level, didn’t like being disturbed when things went wrong. In a rare expansive mood he’d once told her that he’d become a starship pilot to impress a woman. That it hadn’t mattered and that she’d walked out anyhow. Hutch understood why.
He was in his office. “Hutch,” he said, “I’m sorry about the problem. The Wildside was the biggest ship we had available. They’ve been sitting out there for years. Surely they’ll be all right for a few more weeks. I understand the Lochran is ahead of schedule. We’ve got a couple people here who’ve spent time at Renaissance, and they tell me the place always looks scary to people going out there for the first time. It’s because you’re running through all those gases. Can’t see very far.
“What I’d like you to do is just try to play things by ear when you get to Renaissance. Don’t mention that the Wildside is under capacity. They won’t know if you don’t bring it up. I’d send a second ship, but that seems a bit like overkill. Just tough it out.
“I’ll check on the Lochran situation, alert them that we’re uncomfortable with the present arrangement. Maybe I can hurry them along.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair and looked squarely out of the screen at her. “Meantime I need you to just get us through. Okay? I know you can handle it.”
Serenity Station’s ring of stars replaced the solemn features.
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all he’s got to say?”
“His attitude might be different if he were here looking out the window.”
“You goddam know it would be.”
He paused and frowned, distracted by something. “More incoming,” he said. “From Renaissance.”
Hutch felt her stomach lurch.
This time it was the station director himself. Lawrence Dimenna, A.F.D., G.B.Y., two-time winner of the Brantstatler Award. He was handsome in an austere and distant sort of way. Like many accomplished centenarians, he looked relatively young, yet his eyes radiated the inflexibility and certainty that comes with age. She detected no amiability in the man. His hair was blond, his jaw set, and he was not happy. Nevertheless he managed a smile. “Captain Hutchins, I’m glad you got here promptly.”
He was seated at a desk. Several plaques were arranged on the bulkhead behind him, positioned to reveal they were there. She wasn’t close enough to make out details unless she increased magnification, an action that would have been perceived as less than polite. But one carried the United Kingdom coat of arms. Knight of the Realm, perhaps?
He gathered himself, studied the broad expanse of his desk, then brought his eyes up to look into hers. He looked frightened. “We’ve had an eruption,” he said. He used the sort of monotone that suggests the speaker is keeping his head amid serious trouble. “Proteus has thrown off a major flare.”
Her heart picked up.
“I told them this could happen. There should have been a ship on-station and ready to go.”
My God. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?
“I’ve given the order to evacuate. When you get here tomorrow, we’ll have a couple of technicians standing by to refuel you—.” He paused. “I assume that’ll be necessary.”
“Certainly advisable,” she said, speaking out of a haze. “If we have time.”
“Okay, we’ll take care of it. I don’t suppose you can do anything to speed things up?”
“You mean get there more quickly? No. We’re locked into our present flight plan.”
“I understand. Well, it’s all right. We don’t expect the flare to arrive until about 0930.”
She let a few seconds pass. “Are we talking total loss of the station?”
The return transmission took several minutes. “Yes,” he said, stumbling a bit. He was having trouble maintaining his composure. “We see little possibility that Renaissance can survive. Well, let me be honest. This time tomorrow, the station will have been blown away.” His head sank forward, and he seemed to be looking up at her. “Thank God you’re here, Captain. At least we’ll get our people out. If you arrive on schedule, we think we can have your ship fueled and be on our way three hours before it arrives. Should be plenty of time.
“We’ll have everyone ready to go. If you need anything else, let the ops officer know, or myself, and we’ll see that you get it.” He got up, and the imager followed him as he came around the desk. “Thanks, Captain. I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t gotten here when you did.”
The reply lamp flashed. He was finished. Did she have anything to say?
The engines were silent, and the only sound in the ship was the electronic burble of the instruments on the bridge and the steady hum of the air ducts. She wanted to tell him, to blurt out the truth, let him know there wasn’t room for everybody. Get it over with.
But she didn’t. She needed time to think. “Thank you, Professor,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Then he was gone and she was left staring desolately at the blank screen.
“What are you going to do, Hutch?” Bill asked.
She had to struggle to keep the rage out of her voice. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Possibly we should start by notifying Barber. Hutch, this isn’t your fault. Nobody can blame you.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, Bill, but I’m the front woman out here. I’m the person who gets to tell Dimenna that the flare’s a bigger problem than he realizes.” God, when I get back I’m going to throttle Barber. “We need help. Who else is in the neighborhood?”
“The Kobi is headed to Serenity for refitting.” The Kobi was a contact vessel, funded by the Alien Research Council. It was out looking for somebody to talk to. In more than forty years, it had found nobody. But it did perform a service, training ship captains and other interested persons in how to behave if they actually happened to stumble across aliens. Hutch had been through the course: Make no threatening moves. Blink lights “in an inviting manner.” Record everything. Transmit alert to nearest station. Don’t give away strategic information, like the location of the home world. If fired on, depart hastily. The Kobi’s skipper was Chappel Reese, finicky, nervous, easily startled. The last person in the world you’d want out saying hello to the civilization down the road. But he was a fanatic on the subject, and he had relatives in high places.
“What’s the Kobi’s capacity?”
“It’s a yacht. Maximum is eight. Ten in an emergency.” Bill shook his head. “He’s got a full load on this flight.”
“Who else?”
“The Condor is not far.”