Engines Of God

"That's true."

"You know this is the first functional artifact we've found. Anywhere."

"I know."

"This is a historic trip." Another pull from the coffee. Maggie was nervous. "People will be reading about us for a long time to come."

Hutch didn't think she would look so good. She would rank right in there with the captains of the Titanic and the Regal.

"You ever been in serious trouble before?" asked Maggie. "Like this?"

"Not like this."

"Me, neither." Pause. "I don't think we're going to come out of it."

Hutch said nothing.

Maggie's eyes shaded away from her. "I can understand this has been harder on you than on the rest of us."

"It hasn't been very easy on anybody."

"Yeah." Her face was masked in the shadows. "Listen. I know you're blaming yourself."

"I'm okay." Hutch's voice shook. Tears were coming. She wanted to tell Maggie to go away.

"It isn't anybody's fault."

Maggie's hand brushed her cheek, and it was more than Hutch could stand. "I feel so helpless," she said.

"I know," said Maggie.

Janet Allegri, Diary

—— April 2, 2203 This is an odd time to start a diary. I've never done it before, never even considered it, and I may be down to my last few days. Still, I watch Maggie writing into her lightpad every evening, and she always looks calmer when she's finished, and God knows I'm scared silly and I need to tell somebody. I feel as if I should be doing something. Writing a will, maybe. I've neglected that, but I can't bring myself to begin it. Not now. Maybe it's too much of an admission.

I should probably make some recordings. There are people I need to say goodbye to. In case. But Tm not ready for that yet either.

I've been thinking a lot about my life the last few days, and I have to say that it doesn't seem to have had much point. I've done well professionally, and I've had a pretty good time. Maybe that's all you can reasonably ask. But tonight I keep thinking about things not done. Things not attempted because I was afraid of failing. Things not got around to. Thank God I had the chance to help Hutch throw her foamball. I hope it gets out. It's something I'd like to be remembered for.

(No second entry to the «Diary» is known to exist.)

We will have to pitch somebody over the side. Hutch had one of the divans that night, but she remained awake. If it had to be done, then 'twere well it were done quickly. And, though she shrunk from the necessity, though tears rolled down her cheeks, and cold fear paralyzed her, she understood well enough the ancient tradition: save her passengers, at whatever cost to herself. Without her, they had a chance.

Every moment she continued to breathe, she lengthened the odds against them.

Midway through the night, she found herself back in the pilot's seat, unsure how she had got there. Outside, the bay was black. Silent. Dimmed lights from the cockpit threw a glow across one of the cradle bars. Snowflakes drifted through the illumination.

The ship's air supply was freezing. Do it now. Get it over with. End it with dignity. Alpha had two air tanks. One was full, the other had already dropped off by an eighth.

Maybe she should wait until morning. Until her head was clear. Maybe then, somebody would find a way to talk her out of it. Maybe someone else would volunteer. She shook the idea away. Do it.

A pulser bolt would end it quickly. She got up, opened the storage compartment behind the rear seats. Two pulsers gleamed in the half-light. They had orange barrels and white stocks, and they were not too heavy even for a woman of Hutch's size. They were used primarily as tools, but had been designed so they could double as weapons.

She picked one up, almost casually. She charged it, and when it was done, and the little amber light pinged to green, she set it on her lap. Bright metal and black handgrips. She raised it, not intending to do it now, just to see how it felt, and pressed the muzzle beneath her left breast. Her index finger curled round the trigger. And again the tears came. Do it.

The drifting snow blurred. Be careful. If you make a mess of it, you could slice a hole through the shuttle. Kill everyone else too.

She realized suddenly that would happen anyway. The weapon had no setting low enough to ensure the vessel's safety. She would have to gc outside into the bay to do it right.

George, where are you?

She put the weapon down.

They had talked about their options before the lights went out. By now everyone understood that four people had a good chance at survival. And five had none. Hutch had said little. Carson took the moral high ground: / don't want to be rescued at the expense of seeing someone else die. No one disagreed, but she knew what they were really thinking. Really hoping.

Maybe they would get lucky: maybe the SOS would bring the Monument-Makers; maybe they could sleep a lot and use less oxygen. If anyone harbored resentment against Hutch, there was no hint. But she felt the weight of their eyes, of the occasional unguarded inflection.

Janet suggested a lottery. Write everybody's name on a piece of paper, put the pieces in a box, and draw one.

They looked guiltily at each other. And George's eyes had found Hutch, and she'd read what was in his mind: Don't worry. It won't come to this.

And Maggie: If we're going to do it, we need to get to it. This is a window that's going to close fast. And then two of us will have to go.

In the end, they postponed the discussion until morning.

But there was no way Hutch could face that tribunal. She pushed herself from her chair, picked up one of the Flickinger harnesses, sealed off the i

Snow flakes floated before her eyes. Not snow flakes, really. Frozen atmosphere. The temperature had dived further, faster, than they had expected.

Holding the pulser, clasping it close, she stepped out of the shuttle. The deck crunched beneath her magnetic boots; some of the flakes clung to metal surfaces. It would have been easy to imagine she was back home, beneath a heavy sky, the white ground cover extending off into the dark.

She used her remote to seal the cockpit. Lights blinked on and off, signaling the return of heat and air.

Goodbye.

She crossed the bay. Behind one of the storage containers would be best. Somewhere out of the way. Good form. Don't want to be lying out in plain view. She managed a grin.

Equipment lockers and overhead struts and consoles retreated into the dark swirl. She turned on her wrist lamp, and kept its beam low. Her imagination carried her into the Pe

There were no stars, and the storm pressed down on the trees, heavy, and wet, and quiet.

She moved slowly across the deck, and stopped behind a row of storage cabinets. Here.

Just pull the trigger.

Don't damage the Flickinger harness. Or the air tank. Stay away from the chest. Head is best. Maybe she should kill the energy field. It wouldn't stop the pulser beam, but it might deflect it.

The snow drifted through the lamplight.

She looked at her wrist controls and raised the weapon.

Push the button, pull the trigger.

Snow.

Snow!

The idea washed over her. Yes. She held both hands out to the flakes. They swirled and danced. Some landed on her palm. They did not melt, of course, but remained white and soft against pink flesh.

Yes!

A few hours later, Hutch and George came outside and opened the shuttle bay doors. (Whenever they touched, their fields flashed.) Since all other partitions and hatches and doors throughout Wink were already open, whatever remained of the starship's heat escaped quickly into space.