Starhawk

Chapter 26

PRISCILLA HAD NOT been able to get Monika Wolf out of her mind. On her way back to the Wheel, she decided to call her. Monika sounded pleased to hear her voice. “I’ve been wondering how my favorite pilot’s been doing,” she said. “Wish we were close enough to manage an occasional lunch.”

“Me, too,” said Priscilla, as they rose above some storm clouds. “Have you gotten a job yet?”

“Oh, yes. I’m with Baxter Intelligence. Not as interesting as what I used to do for Kosmik, but at least I’m not causing any harm anymore.”

“I quit them myself,” she said.

“Good for you. I wish we could get everybody to walk out.” It was strictly an audible conversation, but Priscilla sensed that she was smiling. “Political pressure is building. A lot of people are unhappy about what’s going on. I think eventually we’ll be able to shut them down.”

“I hope you’re right,” Priscilla said.

* * *

IN THE MORNING, she checked in with Frank Irasco. “I’m glad you’re back. I hope you enjoyed your vacation.”

“Very much,” she said.

“Good. We’re ready to put you to work. Can you come in today?”

Twenty minutes later, she took the elevator up to the third floor. He was standing in the passageway talking to a couple of staff people when the doors opened. He looked toward her, finished the conversation, and came over. “Welcome back, Priscilla. You ready to start?”

“Absolutely.”

“Excellent. Let’s go this way.” He showed her a small office just around the curve of the corridor. “It’s yours,” he said.

“It looks nice.”

“Your formal title will be support assistant. You’ll have a variety of responsibilities.” He invited her to sit down behind the desk. She did, and he leaned over and pressed the comm pad. “Janna,” he said, “would you bring us some coffee, please?” Then he settled into one of the two chairs. “Your most critical job is to be our backup pilot. Which means, if there’s an emergency, and there’s nobody available to send out, you’ll get the assignment. Are you okay with that?”

“I can live with it,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why backup? Why borrow somebody else’s pilot and ship if we’re having a problem?”

“Priscilla, I understand how you feel. But we have an established method for dealing with emergencies. The method is that we use whatever vehicle might be available. The deep-space corporations have an obligation to assist. And they do. When something happens, we want to get someone to the site as quickly as possible. Usually, that means somebody who’s already within a reasonable range. We could keep an emergency vehicle here at the Wheel, and years might go by before it would get used. So we can either use the corporate vehicles that are scattered around, or we can construct a fleet and spend a hell of a lot of money maintaining them in strategic locations.”

“Okay,” said Priscilla.

“Good. I’m glad we have that settled.”

“What will I be doing when I’m not functioning as a backup pilot?”

“You’ll be doing administrative work.”

That sounded exciting. “All right.”

“You’ll be keeping track of every underway mission to ensure that our support facilities know well in advance what’s going on. There’ll be some interesting stuff crossing your desk, so don’t think of it as just an office job. For example, you’ll have access to the reports from the Quraqua dig sites, and there’ll be information coming in from Pinnacle. You know what that is?”

“Yes,” she said. Pinnacle had been home to a high-tech civilization three-quarters of a million years ago. “Have we figured out yet what happened to them?”

“No. It’s going to take a while. Anyway, we’ll also be getting reports on the Noks. On Orfano. On Barton’s World. Wherever we have a presence. Your job will be to scan them to make sure they get correct distribution. It’s all in the manual. Anything that looks interesting, especially if there’s an indication something has gone wrong, make sure you get it to me.”

“Okay, Frank.” Orfano, she knew, was a world adrift. Torn from its sun millions of years ago.

“You’ll be responsible for tracking the maintenance work on the Baumbachner. Rob Clayborn will handle the actual maintenance, making sure it gets done and whatnot. Rob’s our pilot. He’s the guy you’re backing up. But he doesn’t go out on any long-range missions. He’s strictly local.”

“Why?”

“Because, technically, the job doesn’t exist. Don’t push it, okay. We don’t want to get involved in operations run by the corporates if we can help it.”

“Okay, Frank.”

“You’ll also be responsible for managing schedules and accommodations for VIP guests, for maintaining personnel records, for setting up tour groups through the station and making them happen, and for assorted other stuff.” He paused. Looked at her. “Think you can handle it?”

“I can’t see where there’d be a problem,” she said.

“Okay. And I know what you’re thinking: that it sounds like make-work. Basically, you’re on hand to help in an emergency. The office job has been created so you actually have stuff to do. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t serious about the work. Okay?”

“What does Rob do?” she asked.

“Well, the truth is he’s getting ready to retire. His health has been a problem, and I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t bail out within the next month or two. By the way, he hasn’t said anything like that, so I’d appreciate it if it doesn’t leave this room.

“One other thing. There’ll be a staff meeting”—he glanced at the time—“at one. In the Altair room.”

* * *

NIKKI WAS HER office AI. Every day, as Priscilla came into work, Nikki greeted her with a sparkling “Good morning, Priscilla.” The AI was relentlessly cheerful. Priscilla thought of herself as being reasonably upbeat, but there were limits to what she could endure. When she got buried in routine administrative matters that stultified her brain, the last thing she needed was that happy gurgle from Nikki. She asked her finally to tune it back. But that seemed to be beyond Nikki’s capability, so Priscilla made the adjustment as best she could.

Despite whatever desperation she might have known at becoming an office worker, she was still able to feel some satisfaction when, at night in her apartment, she could look up at the framed certificate, hanging on the wall over her working table, which stipulated that she was competent to direct the movement of an interstellar.

Her mother was happy with the situation. “Well,” she said, “I think it’s a distinct improvement from running all over the place in those rockets. At least I don’t have to worry about your getting lost out there somewhere.” And then: “We can still get you into law school in the spring if you like.”

She’d been six days on the job when she got a call from Calvin. “I miss you,” he said.

“How’s the show going, Cal?”

“It’s okay. The audiences like it.”

“You have any more coming up?”

“Well,” he said, “the Players do, but I won’t be auditioning for the next one.”

“Why not?”

“It takes a lot of time. Anyhow, they’ve decided to do Hamlet.”

“Hamlet? And you’re going to pass on a chance to perform in that?”

“You want the truth, Priscilla?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think we’re anywhere near good enough to pull it off. You need professionals for something like that.”

“You guys are pretty good.”

“Priscilla—”

“Yes, Cal?”

“Any chance you’ll be coming home again soon?”

“Probably not right away. I’m trying to adjust to a new job.”

“What kind of ship are they giving you?”

“Actually, I’m not really going anywhere. I’m in an office. And in a couple of weeks, I start taking tour groups around.”

“Oh. Sure. Well, listen, when you do come home, I’d love to take you out again. Okay?”

* * *

THE FOLLOWING DAY she was adjusting paychecks to fit the new standards being applied by the financial services division when she got a call from Irasco. “Priscilla,” he said, “can you come over for a minute?”

The boss was relaxed behind his desk, bathed in sunlight. “Good morning,” he said. “Come on in.” She took a seat. Irasco was reading one of the news sheets. He asked if she had seen the latest statement by Andy McGruder. McGruder was revving up his presidential campaign. He was a former Minnesota governor running for the Gold Party nomination. His platform seemed to consist mostly of trying to scare the voters about the size of government. And especially the cost of maintaining what he saw as a nonproductive space program. “As if the country doesn’t have real problems—” He shook his head.

“The reason I called you, Priscilla: There’s a load of parts in the Bomb that they’ll be using to refit the scanners.” He pointed at the overhead. “The big ones. On the roof. Rob was supposed to take care of it, but he woke up with his head spinning this morning, and the medics want us to get someone else to make the delivery.”

* * *

SHE WOULD HAVE enjoyed wearing one of her two uniforms for the assignment. But they’d have laughed at her.

The Baumbachner had a pathetic appearance. Even considering the age that had spawned it, the thing looked clumsy. It could have been an oversized barrel with thrusters. A laser was attached to the hull, which made it, as far as she knew, the only armed vehicle in the fleet. Its name was inscribed across the hull in pretentious Celtic script.

Myra Baumbachner had been a billionaire who’d donated enormous sums and her life to getting the space program up and running after the national efforts had all, to one degree or another, failed. She was the prime force that came to the rescue when the Iapetus monument was discovered. It was a pity they couldn’t have named a better-looking ship for her.

You and me, Myra, thought Priscilla as she went into the air lock, crossed the passenger cabin, and settled onto the bridge. Actually, the interior looked much better than the outside. Of course that simply meant the cabins weren’t awful.

“We have an AI here?” she asked as she took her seat.

“Right here,” a female voice replied. “Who are you, please?”

“Priscilla Hutchins. Rob had a dizzy spell, so I’ll be taking his place.”

“No one has informed me, Priscilla. You won’t object if I seek confirmation?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Good. My name is Myra.”

No surprise there. “Hello, Myra. Can you connect me with Ops?”

Two clicks. Then: “Done, Priscilla.”

“Ops,” she said, “this is the Baumbachner. We’re ready to go.”

“Very good, Baumbachner. There’s nothing in the neighborhood. You’re free to depart when you’re ready.”

“Roger that.” She flipped a couple of switches, activating a scope and a monitor. “Myra, start engines.”

“Just a moment, if you please, Priscilla. I’m—Ah, yes, here it comes now. Very good. You are approved.” The engines came online with a rumble.

So here she was ready for her second solo. All the way to the roof of the space station. “Release the lines.”

Control-panel lights blinked. “Release confirmed.” The magnetics binding the Baumbachner to the dock shut down.

“Move us out. Gently.” She activated her harness and pulled it over her shoulders.

Scopes mounted across the hull provided views in all directions. The port thrusters switched off. The bow began to swing toward the launch doors, and the navigation thrusters came on. The ship moved toward open sky.

When they’d cleared the launch doors she looked out across the top of the station. “Myra,” she said, “do you know where the equipment is to be delivered?”

“No, ma’am. I have no idea.”

“All right.” Dumb. She’d assumed the AI would have the information. “I have control, Myra.”

“Okay.”

She took the vehicle slowly higher until she could get a good look at the rooftop. It supported two facilities used for storage and maintenance, and multiple clusters of scanners and scopes. At one of them, a group of technicians was at work.

She switched back to Ops. “Have you any idea where I’m supposed to make delivery?”

“Negative, Baumbachner. Let me give you to Tao.”

“Tao is the person in charge?”

“He is. Hang on a second.”

Then a baritone: “Priscilla?”

“Yes, Tao.”

“All right. We can see you.” One of the technicians waved. “Bring them here, okay?”

“On my way.”

“You stay at the con. Don’t turn it over to the AI. Come in as close as you can. Then just open up. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Will do, Tao. Keep everybody back.”

“We’ll stay out of your way.”

They needed her to go in under the scanners. I hope I can do this without hitting one of the damned things. She swung slowly to starboard and moved forward with as much deliberation as she could manage.

* * *

THE SCOPES DIDN’T provide sufficient perspective. But Tao apparently realized that. “Back off a little more, Priscilla. That’s good. A little more.” Her screens were filled with support beams and dishes and cables. “Okay. Keep coming.”

It didn’t seem as if there could be any room left.

“You’re doing fine. Stay with it. Just a little closer.” Something bumped under the deck. “All right. That’s good. Lock in.”

She used the magnetics to attach the Baumbachner to the roof. “Perfect, Priscilla. You relax. We’ve got it now.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Negative. Take it easy. We’ll need about an hour.”

* * *

SHE WAS HUNGRY. “All we have,” said Myra, “is tuna casserole. And there’s some cherry pie.”

She went back into the passenger cabin, collected the casserole and a tomato juice, and sat down. Unfortunately, since she was sitting on top of the spinning space station, the centripetal force, which acted as a slightly-off-center gravity if you were walking around Union, tended now to drag her toward the starboard bulkhead. But she belted in. The Moon was visible through one of the ports.

The only sounds in the Baumbachner were the blips and bloops of the electronics. It wasn’t exactly paradise, but it felt good to be back on the bridge.

* * *

LIBRARY ENTRY

. . . When Governor McGruder poses his trademark question to the voters—What is the point of running around out there?—someone should show him the Great Monuments. He doesn’t really have to go out personally to look. Just pick up the Haversak collection and run the images. Let him examine the golden pyramid orbiting Sirius, or the Procyon Monument, a circular pavilion with columns and steps that would have accommodated something a bit larger perhaps than a human. Show him the crystal cones and spheres apparently arranged arbitrarily in a field of snow at the south pole of Armis V, but which reward the careful observer with an elegant pattern. Let him see the magnificent obelisk rising out of battered ridges on the Moldavian moon, otherwise a completely pedestrian satellite circling a featureless world. There’s no need even to mention the compelling self-portrait on Iapetus.

If the governor can look at these stunning images and still ask why we have gone to the stars, then it should be clear to all there is no hope for him. And if the voters send him to the New White House, there may be no hope for us.

—The Washington Post, January 12, 2196