Chindi

She held the laser to the remaining strand, watched it begin to eat through. Je

“Fifteen seconds,” said the AI.

Claymoor was leaning out of the airlock, watching her. “Get inside, Henry,” she cried. “Close it up.”

“Not without you.” The idiot didn’t move. He was still pointing the imager at her.

“Get in. Or you and After the Chindi will both stay here.”

She heard him talking with Brownstein, instructing him to cease and desist. God help her, that was actually the terminology he used. Then, at last, apparently persuaded he had no option, he was gone, and the hatch closed.

The cable separated. Because the asteroid and the yacht were traveling at the same velocity, Dogbone didn’t fall away, and the strands remained where they were. She had to heave them clear.

She twisted the belt around her arm. “You’re free, Yuri,” she said. “Go.”

Brownstein had delayed pushing the button, had given her an extra few seconds. But it was the limit of what he could safely do. “Hold on,” he said.

The Hazeltines kicked in and the hull rose under her. Steering thrusters adjusted their angle and fired. The yacht lifted away from Dogbone. The rock began to grow misty.

Hutch watched it fade. Felt the first sensations of approaching transition.

“Stay with us, Hutch.”

INSIDE A SUPERLUMINAL, people usually take transition with little or no discomfort. Some get mildly ill, suffer disorientation, lose the contents of their stomachs. It’s why passengers are always cautioned to eat lightly, or skip the meal altogether, when a jump is imminent. Theory holds that the damping field, which protects against momentum effects, also helps limit the physical reaction. To Hutch’s knowledge, that was a notion that had never been tested, and consequently she had no idea what to expect riding the hull of the McCarver as it went sublight.

Had there been time, she’d have run her belt through the harness, in one sleeve and out the other, to make sure she didn’t fall off. But there hadn’t been time and now she was no longer sure where the belt was, or her harness, or her arm. Her mind retreated into a dark cave while everything around her swirled.

Somewhere she was holding onto something. And she should continue to do that. Hang on. Don’t let go.

Her gorge rose. Not good. There was no provision in the e-suit for emptying the contents of her stomach.

Once, at about the age of seven, she’d been playing with a swing that hung from a tree limb. In an experimental mood, she’d stood beside the swing and turned it round and round until the sustaining ropes were so twisted she couldn’t continue. Then she’d climbed into it and lifted her feet and it had begun to spin. It had continued spi

It was like that now. The cave was turning, and she caught flashes of light but the images were all indistinct, faces, clouds, a stretch of metal hull, voices far off talking to her, or about her or maybe about the weather. Who knew?

Transition time is normally about six seconds. But vertigo went on and on until she became convinced that she and the belt had somehow slipped into one of the nether regions associated with TDI.

She threw up. Couldn’t help it. The warm wet sticky stuff went into her nose and back down her throat. She choked. Couldn’t breathe.

Darkness crowded the edges of consciousness.

There was a sudden blast of extreme cold. Suit was off. How the hell…?

It was her last thought as she slipped angrily into the night.

AS A RULE, Claymoor approved of heroic types. They made good copy, and they were generally self-effacing in interviews, unlike, say, politicians, who were always trying to take over the conversation. But there was a problem with heroes: They tended to get other, more reluctant, people involved in the heroics. Consequently, if a death-defying act was to be performed, it was always a good idea to arrive after it had been, successfully or not, completed.

He had tried to intervene when he saw what Hutchins was going to do, urging Brownstein to call off the jump. But he’d been too late, had hesitated too long. The ship might slip out of this ghostly place at any moment, and he was damned sure Henry Claymoor was going with it.

Given time, he’d have dragged the damned fool inside. But he’d had to settle for whispering good-bye and closing the hatch, grateful to be inside, thinking what a waste, somebody that attractive. He’d sat down on the bench, propping himself against a bulkhead, where he endured the brief giddiness that always assaulted him during jumps.

He’d learned they were easiest for him if he rode backward and closed his eyes. He’d done that. He knew when it was over, always knew because the vertigo went away as if someone had thrown a switch. And he was listening to Brownstein frantically calling Hutch’s name.

He reopened the hatch, and was delighted to see that she was still there. He had the imager ready and got pictures. But she’d apparently been knocked loose from her perch and was drifting away from the yacht. The ru

Her struggles were growing more intense. She was already a long way from the ship. Maybe ten meters.

“Henry.” Brownstein’s voice. “Can you reach her?”

Claymoor paused in the hatch. Not really, he thought. Not me. She’s way the hell out there. Off the port beam, as they like to say in command circles.

“Henry?”

If Claymoor was devoted to anything, it was keeping risk to a minimum. Come out with a whole skin, that was his motto after a lifetime of working in, and beyond, the world’s trouble spots. But he’d produced when there had been nothing else for it. He’d been with the Peacemakers during the Guatemala rescue, he’d gone down once at sea in a flyer, and in his time he’d faced angry mobs and outraged heads of state.

And he’d hated every minute of it.

He gauged angle and trajectory, wondered what would happen if he missed, and jumped for her. But his adrenaline was ru

“Henry!” Brownstein’s startled voice. “Not like that. I wanted you to throw her a line.”

Lot of good that would do. The captain apparently hadn’t seen what Claymoor had.

Her struggles had begun to lessen. He was going to pass in front of her, but her belt was leading her, and he was able to grab it as he went past. It jerked her after him.

He congratulated himself, and caught a glimpse of the McCarver through his legs as they tumbled away. It was already begi

He twisted her around to get at her right arm, found the red pad on the sleeve, and the emergency toggle inside her vest and shut off the field.

Flickinger fields are reflective. In the glow of the ship’s lights, Hutch had been surrounded by an aura. It blinked off, and the ejecta and a few frozen flakes of oxygen drifted away. He watched her spasm and cough. Next time, baby doll, don’t try to do everything yourself.

The vacuum helped. The air exploded out of her lungs, bringing the vomit with it. He released his vest, gave her face a quick wipe, and reactivated her suit. She coughed a few more times, but he was relieved to see that she was breathing again.

“What happened?” Brownstein broke in on him.