It was beginning to feel cold inside the suit.
“I know you can understand me. I know why you want to destroy the project.”
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. And heard Terri’s voice. “Valya, get clear.”
A plate had begun to lift off the surface of the tower. It was disk-shaped, set in a cradle, and the cradle was attached by extensors to a base.
“You can have the place,” Valya said. “We won’t try anything like this again. Just please give us a little more time to get everybody off.”
“Valya, get out of there.”
On the far side, a second plate was rising. Angling itself toward one of the moonriders.
Each had targeted a globe.
They were gravity generators, part of the system used to manipulate local traffic. “Terri, this is not a good idea.”
“For God’s sake, Valentina, we’re not going to sit here and let them kill us. Are you clear yet?”
The devices locked on to their targets.
“Wait!”
“Do it!”
“No, Terri. They — ”
The tower trembled beneath her as power flowed into the generators. Lamps along the bases began to glow. The globes started to descend. To fall. Red lights blinked on, the same ones she’d seen at the East Tower, and those deadly beams flared out and swept the sky. Touched one of the generators. It exploded. Simultaneously, one of the globes plowed into the hull. Valya dived for cover, scrambling behind a dish antenna.
The metal shuddered beneath her.
When she looked again, one moonrider was gone. The other remained where it had been, while coral lightning played across the sky and sliced gaping holes in the tower. She jumped clear, igniting the go-pack. It pushed her up and out, away from the conflagration. For a moment, she thought she was going to make it.
chapter 43
I can’t imagine what life would be like without the knowledge that death is inevitable. It is because of that single, overwhelming reality that we have the arts, religion, the illusion of love, and probably even architecture. It is doubtful whether, did we not see ourselves as helpless transients, we would appreciate life for what it is. On the other hand, being grateful is not that big a deal.
— Gregory MacAllister, “Death at Manny’s Grill”
Eric recoiled as the sky lit up. His passengers, watching images on the ship’s display screens, gasped obscenities and sobbed and held on, to the ship or to one another. They cursed the moonriders with unbridled fury and swore vengeance. They demanded explanations from God. And they wanted to know whether the Salvator could move faster.
He had heard Valya’s transmissions, and he had no hope for her. Nevertheless: “Bill, get Valya.”
“No carrier wave, Eric.”
“I’ll try it.” He leaned over his commlink. “Valya, answer up.”
Nothing.
“Valentina. Where are you?”
Where the tower had been, there was only darkness.
The woman with the Russian accent sat frozen, unable to believe what she’d just seen. Eric switched over to the deputy director’s circuit. “Terri. Are you there?”
The globes had become lost in the carnage. He couldn’t tell whether they were still there.
“Terri? Larry?”
Thick black smoke drifted away.
“Anybody? Anybody at all?”
My God.
He sat back, told himself not to panic. It didn’t feel real. Close your eyes, count to ten, and it will go away.
The Russian woman’s name was Alena. Somehow, their positions had reversed, and she was doing what she could to calm him. “Okay,” she told him. “Everything okay.”
There were voices on the link.
He ran a check with the four shuttles. One of the West Tower shuttles reported an apparent heart attack. One of Angie’s engineers. They were doing what they could for the victim.
He asked Alena to walk back and check the passengers. She nodded, released herself from her harness, and left the bridge.
Mark Stevens informed him the Rehling was okay. The WhiteStar pilot said that she’d been hit by debris “ — got my tail feathers singed — ” and had lost thrust. A few minor injuries, but the ship was otherwise okay.
“Eric,” said Bill. “The moonriders are gone.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I lost them during the attack. They are no longer there.”
“Okay, Bill. Thanks.” He used the allcom to inform his passengers. Moonriders had left. No immediate danger. There were a few rabid comments. And some cheers. Then he got on the circuit with the incoming ships and described what had happened.
He recorded a message for Mission Operations: “West Tower destroyed. We got almost everyone out. Ten probable dead. Including Valya.” He hesitated before transmitting, as if the reality of the loss wouldn’t take hold until the report was on its way. Then he let it go.
WITHIN A FEW hours, the survivors were safe and secure, though not without some adroit juggling and sharing of air tanks, some exquisite maneuvering by the Granville and the timely arrivals of the Carolyn Ray and the Zheng Shaiming. And, Eric thought, not without the deployment of his own organizational skills.
He had unloaded his passengers onto the Ray and was still in the area hoping for a miracle when a message came in from Hutch: “Eric, I’m sorry to hear about Valya and the others. The Academy is proud of her, and of you. Unless you’ve already started back, transfer your passengers to one of the relief ships. When that’s been accomplished, conduct a final search for victims. You probably won’t find any, but look anyway.
“When you’re satisfied there’s no one, nothing, to be found, come home. Bill tells me he’s been instructed to do as you direct, so just tell him to go home, and he’ll take care of it. The World Council is sending a couple of ships to investigate, but don’t wait for them.”
He watched it several times. Despite what she said, he knew the Academy wasn’t going to be proud of him.
BILL BROKE THE silence. “I’m sorry about Valya, too, Eric.”
“I know, Bill.” He knew of no relatives. Not that it mattered. Hutch would see to contacting next of kin. He hoped she would tell them how Valya had died. “Let’s go in and do a sweep, Bill. We’re looking for bodies.”
The tower was gutted, as the other one had been. The hull on which Valya had stood was ripped away. The smoke was dissipating; he looked out at charred struts and beams and a few battered decks.
He stayed two days. The other ships came and redivided the passengers. They asked if they could help. And they left.
When they were gone he did one last scan of the area and told Bill to take him home.
AIs have a range of modes. They can be cheerful or morose, they can be sports enthusiasts or literary snobs, they can play chess at a range of levels, they can be irreverent or pious. Whatever the moment requires. It is what persuades us they have no reality in and of themselves. They are software and nothing more. No soul informs the electronic synapses, no mind looks out of its assorted sensors and lenses. When you are alone with an AI, you are alone.
The flight home will take three and a half days. For the most part, I’ll probably stay up front, on the bridge. Where Valya’s presence still lingers. And I can still take comfort in Bill’s respectful silence.
— Wednesday, May 13
chapter 44
Fiction is unlike reality because it has an end, a conclusion, which allows the characters to stroll happily, or perhaps simply more wisely, out through the climax into the epilogue. But life is a tapestry. It has no satisfactory end. There are simply periods of acceleration and delay, victory and frustration, seasoned with periodic jolts of reality.