Magic Dirt: The Best of Sean Williams (50 page)

The reactivated nanomachines were scuttling through every crevice of the probe, repairing or building from scratch the equipment it needed to survive the six years until the next refit crew arrived. Most of their work was on the microscopic level: welding invisible fractures, realigning stanchions with inhuman accuracy, tracing every cable to ensure that the passage of data proceeded with perfect reliability. Gradually, however, a silver bubble would take shape at the probe’s mid-section: a variable fuel-tank designed to contain water beamed by d-mat from Earth years ago and due to arrive in the not-too-distant future. This would be the only obvious change the nanomachines left in their wake.

That point, however, was still some time away. First, they had to gather enough scrap material from which to weave the fabric required for the bubble. In an elaborate process, the nanomachines would ‘taste’ every item on the probe for macromolecular blocks mounted during manufacture. Everything identified as being necessary to the probe’s continued operation was ignored; that which had outlived its usefulness, on the other hand—or which didn’t possess the correct blocks, like space-dust—was disassembled, processed and recycled. In that way, the nanomachines could be entrusted to ensure that the probe would have the correct facilities when it needed them but not to devour it in the process.

Hallows had always found the nanomachines fascinating and not a little hypnotic to watch. Within minutes, his eyes were drifting closed. Before he even became aware of what was happening to him, he was asleep.

He dreamed—

—of himself, standing at one end of an Olympic swimming-pool. His task was to throw a dart at either of two targets; the choice of which was his to make. As he stood on the concrete lip of the pool, weighing up the decision, he suddenly realized that the choice was obvious: not the target at the far end of the pool, but the one floating in the water less than a car’s-length away ...

An unknown time later, the ambient noise in his ears rose slightly and triggered his space-worker’s reflexes. Someone had joined him on the open line. He awoke instantly.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Rod. Did I disturb you?”

“That’s okay, Jimmy.” He blinked, and pressed his gloved hands to the visor—a poor substitute for actually rubbing his eyes. Something about the dream nagged at the back of his mind, but eluded him when he tried to recall it. With an effort, he forced himself to concentrate on what Tarasento was saying.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about before,” Tarasento continued. “I lost my head for a moment.”

Hallows sighed. “To be honest, I sympathize with what you’re feeling.”

“But that doesn’t excuse it. There’s no need to go off half-cocked. We’ve still got work to do.”

“I know.” The dedication to duty, which had been drummed into them during training, remained surprisingly strong even in the face of their situation. “That’s why I think Lockley knew what he was doing. He was trying to help us as well as himself.”

“So why didn’t he leave a note?”

“Well, for a start, there’s nothing to write with—and I guess he didn’t want to take up space on the mainframe. With Pearce already on every spare terabyte, to leave any sort of message would require removing bits of his friend.” Hallows swallowed, dismayed by the mental image his words evoked. “Or maybe he was just running low on air.”

Tarasento mulled this over. “I guess it doesn’t matter why. He must have done what he did for a reason—the transmit dishes, the LSM, everything. He didn’t want us fucking it up.”

“So the LSM must be pointing at something.”

“I agree. But what?”

“That’s the problem. There’s nothing out here but us.”

“And the aliens.” Tarasento clicked his tongue. “I decided to do a little research myself. The telemetry data isn’t restricted any more, and it wasn’t hard to get at. Has Roald told you yet that the ship
is
drifting?”

Hallows didn’t reply immediately. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Well, it is. Not much, but enough. Six years ago, when Lockley and the others arrived, it was less than fifty metres away.”

“Really?”

“No doubt about it. And there’s more. Do you want to know where it came from?”

“Tell me.”

“From nowhere, that’s where. It appeared out of the blue. No acceleration, no matching vectors, no jockeying for position—just hey presto, here we are.” Tarasento took a deep breath. “I don’t know about you, but I find that more than a little scary.”

Hallows nodded to himself. It
was
scary, implying a level of technology far above that of Earth. He knew of no physical process that allowed an independent object as large as the ship hanging off
Saul-1’
s bow to appear and disappear at will; d-mat, magical though it sometimes seemed, was confined to small volumes and required a receiving station. Even supposing that the ship’s sudden appearance had been a trick of camouflage and not a genuine matter-transportation, it was still incredible.

Yet somehow the aliens had managed it. And maybe that explained what had nudged
Saul-1
off-course before the arrival of Lockley and the others. An aftershock perhaps, a ripple through tortured space-time ...

“Jesus, Roald!” Tarasento’s startled cry cut across Hallows’ thoughts like a red-hot knife. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Jimmy?” Hallows tensed automatically. “What’s going on?”

“Get over here, Rod! It’s Roald—I think he’s going to jump!”

Hallows was instantly moving, up and out of the forward bay and onto the spine of the probe, with Tarasento’s laboured breath pulling him onward. Gehrke, if he heard, said nothing.

“Where are you, Jimmy?”

“Sector C13. Hurry!”

Hallows cursed and tried to make his hands move faster. C13 was on the far side of the probe, towards the rear. Swinging from handhold to handhold, he tugged himself around the body of the probe. When he reached the far side, he caught his first glimpse of what was going on.

Gehrke was ‘running’ along the probe—kicking himself off every available surface—heading rapidly towards the end. Silhouetted against the stars ahead of him, with his arms outstretched, stood Tarasento.

“Jimmy!” Hallows shouted, unnecessarily loud, into the radio. “Get out of the way! Let him go if he wants to!”

“No! He can’t!”

Gehrke still said nothing, and Hallows guessed that his radio was off. With one mighty kick off an outflung girder, the systems analyst reached half-way. The gap between him and the younger man narrowed rapidly.

Hallows was too far behind to catch up. All he could do was watch as Tarasento attached a line to the probe and launched himself to meet Gehrke head-on.

The two men collided messily, then rebounded along a new course away from the probe’s outer skin. Tarasento wrapped his limbs around Gehrke in a clumsy but effective zero-g tackle. The systems analyst fought back, striking Tarasento once in the stomach and making him grunt. The younger man hung on, refusing to let his crew-mate go so easily.

Hallows came to a halt by the anchor of Tarasento’s lifeline. For a moment he considered going out to help the younger man subdue the older, but decided against it. There was no point risking the three of them if something went wrong—and possibly no point at all in the long-run.

The struggle was one-sided. Gehrke, with superior size and strength in his favour, eventually freed himself from Tarasento’s embrace. He didn’t just push his assailant aside, however; he placed his feet squarely on the younger man’s chest, and
kicked.

The sudden delta-v sent the two men flying apart. Gehrke arrowed up and past
Saul-1,
heading rapidly for the stars. Tarasento angled down and away, in the rough direction of the alien ship. As Gehrke passed behind the probe’s body, Hallows saw the systems analyst’s EMU flare, adding to his already considerable velocity.

“Jimmy?” Hallows tried to keep his voice level as Gehrke vanished into the distance. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, but—Jesus, I almost had him.”

“That’s okay. You did your best.”

“No. I should’ve—”

Tarasento jerked abruptly to halt as he reached the limit of his lifeline. The tether snapped taut, then just as suddenly went limp again. A scream of escaping air in Hallows’ ears deafened him. The grey-suited figure at the end of the line seemed to dance, clutching at the place where the tether had ripped free. Hallows tugged at the cable with both hands, but there was no resistance.

“Jimmy!” he shouted. “Jimmy, answer me!”

There was no reply. The explosive scream gradually faded to a whistle, then died altogether. A moment later, Tarasento’s dance slowed to a halt.

“Jimmy?”

Only silence answered.

Hallows watched, impotent, as the grey-suited figure tumbled end-over-end into the void. After several long minutes, it became apparent that it would miss the dark shadow of the alien hulk, although not by much. Hallows didn’t move until it had done so. And when it had finally vanished, he did the only thing he could do: he turned his back on the stars and went back to work.

~ * ~

“I’m sorry,” said Gehrke, some time later. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Hallows jumped at the unexpected voice in his ears, but recovered quickly. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

“Not stupid.” The systems analyst sounded calm, resigned; the reception from his suit crackled with static but was clear enough. “Just tired of waiting.”

Hallows shook his head, rage and grief still burning in his gut. “You could have waited a little longer, couldn’t you? Until he was asleep, at least. I would have let you go; you know that.”

“I know. But I thought he was on the far side. He was meant to be installing some nanos in the drive shaft. He should never have seen me like that. He wasn’t supposed to
be
there, staring up at that damned ship like ...” Gehrke stopped, swallowed audibly. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

“You killed him,” said Hallows. “That matters to me.”

“We’re all dead, Rod. I did him a favour.”

Hallows shook his head in frustration.

“You still believe you’re going to make it?” Gehrke asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you’re as crazy as I am.” Gehrke’s laugh was bitter. “As crazy as Lockley.”

“Lockley wasn’t crazy—but if it makes you feel better believing that, go right ahead.” Hallows waited for more mocking laughter, but it didn’t come. “Just tell me one thing, Roald: what made you do it?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Gehrke wouldn’t reply. When he eventually spoke, his voice was tired and empty. “After I discovered what Lockley had done, I took a closer look at the
PEARCE
file.”

“And?”

“
Saul-1’s
mainframe isn’t anywhere near large enough to store an entire human being in crypt, and Lockley knew it. So he didn’t try to save the lot, only the bits that mattered.”

Hallows swallowed. “How much is there?”

“A couple of kilos.” Gehrke paused for effect. “His head.

“And there’s one other thing you should know,” Gehrke said when Hallows had absorbed the gruesome truth. “Lockley didn’t just screw up the tracking algorithms on the transmit dishes. He fiddled with the core programming. Everything installed to deal solely with human survival went first, mainly to make room for his buddy. The only things he left untouched were the guidance and maintenance systems. He obviously wanted to make damned sure
Saul-1
arrived safely, whether it was occupied or not.

“One of the files he tampered with but didn’t erase is the self-destruct program.”

Hallows could understand that. “I guess he thought one of us might blow the probe out of spite, to take it with us.”

“You’re missing the point, Rod. The program’s
still there.
It’s just different.”

“How?”

Again Gehrke hesitated. “Maybe you should try it for yourself, Rod. See what happens.”

Hallows didn’t respond, reluctant to take the suggestion seriously. Hitting the self-destruct went against everything he stood for, and for all he knew Gehrke had only brought it up to torture him. But if Lockley
had
changed the program somehow, then once again it must have been for a reason. Everything—the transmit dishes, the graffiti, the LSM, the self-destruct program, even the alien ship itself—all had to fit together somehow.

“Roald—”

“No, Rod, you’re right,” said the systems analyst. “It does matter. But I’ve found my leap of faith, and you’ll find yours eventually. Maybe we’ll both get what we want, or what we deserve, in the end.”

The line went dead, and Hallows was alone.

~ * ~

Alone on a human-made probe, twenty-two light years from home, with nothing but ghosts for company.

As time passed, Hallows focused less and less on the four dead men—Prosilis, Pearce, Tarasento and Gehrke—and devoted himself entirely to his work. If he thought about any of the other refitters, it was Lockley who came to mind, or the men and women in the refit crews following his: Ngo, Maschmedt and Lontis; Schumacher, Valente and Gill. The dead were dead; only the living mattered.