Carl said “They’re still working on their approach.”

A steady blur of static. Then:

“Confirm docking? Negative on auto-servo coupling pip, but we do show counter-comm on reppledex four-over, though. Await that marker pip for none-in.”

The men and women listened to the words from a civilization now as distant in time as it was in space. The mission monitors Earthside, they knew, were trained in the jargon of 2060, to minimize confusions, but still odd terms and mannerisms from the more modern era slipped in. A glance at his thumbnail told Carl that three hours had passed since the explosion. It felt more like a year. He ordered refreshments brought in. The faction leaders listened sullenly, silently.

“Should come anytime now,” Jeffers said.

The wavering voice kept on. “Carrier cinch-by reads nominal. Coded.”

A sudden pause. The sun’s own spiky popping seemed to flood the room, bringing a reminder of the warm regions they had left so long ago, the brooding eternal voice a pressing presence.

Then vague shouts, a commotion. “UV and visible flux! It’s gone off!”

“Too early!” Somebody else cried out. “By my estimate…”

A babble of talk, a distinct thump. “Get away from that! It might’ve already docked, we don’t know.”

An argument, voices shouting one another down. “See if those infect rejects are still transmitting. Goddam, I knew we shouldn’t have safe-armed the bastard.”

Another thump. “Neg, Fred. They’re off the air.”

Faintly, someone yelled, “Those screamers are steam!”

Everyone’s eyes widened s a thin sound came, plainly from somewhere near the speaker— a hearty laugh, a cry of celebration, then the rolling sea-sound of many hands clapping.

The men and women of Halley looked at each other for a long time, silently. There seemed very little to say.

Carl cycled the doors and stepped out through the crystalline refractions of the surface lock. It was eighteen hours later. He had conferred with envoys of various factions, won agreements, soothed as best he could. By all rights he should be holed up in his bunk, getting some rest.

But that would have meant crawling away and licking his wounds, something he might well have done a few decades ago … Now it wouldn’t work, he knew. Too much had happened, too fast. If he brooded over it, he would just get depressed and accomplish nothing.

That was a standard he had slowly learned to impose on himself: What will you have when this is over? Amemory of bitter ruminations, drunken attempts to forget? Recriminations against the hand fate had dealt you? That might satisfy something inside that wanted such sour fruit. But now he knew from experience that he would feel better in the long run if he threw himself into a job, built or fixed or moved something. Let the muscles work their own logic. Then he would be able to sleep, knowing that he had at least gotten something done, kept moving, shown the bastards.

A slight puff of air followed him onto the ice. instant billowing fog. He moved at a steady ground-hugging, ice-gripping lope toward the equator. He could hook on to the cable and jet over, but this way he got more exercise.

There had been a lot of craziness to contend with, and he was glad to be out here now. Where I belong. I’m still a spacer, goddammit!

Some pop-eyed idiot had stopped him in a corridor, accused him of deliberately sabotaging the Care Package. Madness. People didn’t want to accept the cold clear reality— that their homeworld had sworn to erase them.

Well, okay. Just like I didn’t want to face the reality that nothing is ever really going to separate Saul and Virginia. It’s just a matter of scale…

The belt of launchers loomed above the horizon as he loped along, feet finding purchase on the crusty, speckled ice. They were like slender, elegant cannon, each canted at a slightly different angle from its neighbor. Weeks ago they had slowed and stopped Halley’s spin, to make alignment of their thrusts simple. Now the stars hung steadily above, and each launcher aimed exactly at the same point in the sky: Right Ascension 87°, Declination +35°.

—Yo, Cap’n.—Jeffers waved from atop Launcher 16.

“I’m not captain,” Carl said automatically.

—Might’s well be.—

“I’m just operations officer. That’s all the clans will tolerate.”

—Bunch of horses’ asses.—

“I don’t suppose I’ll be getting a promotion from Earthside now, either.”

Jeffers chuckled dryly.—Not much of one, I’d say. You through soothin’ ever’body?—

“Yeah.” Carl leaped up to the launcher cowling.

—Funny, how some of ’em can’t believe what happened.—

“It was their Great White Hope.”

—Pretty rough, when Mother Earth offers you a tit and then— boom.—

Carl smiled despite himself. From here he could see many launchers, a dashed line sketching out Halley’s equator, as if drawn by a careful high-school student for a science project. Their muzzles veered gradually to the north as his eye swept to the horizon. Each lay buried in an oil-hydraulic pad that absorbed the recoil and transmitted it to the all-too-fragile ice. Robos and mechs stood beside each narrow tube, ready to unsnag any trouble with the conveyor-belt feeders.

—They agree down below?—

Distracted by the orderly march of launchers to the horizon, Carl could not understand for a moment what Jeffers meant. “Oh, about Earthcomm?”

—Yeah, ever’body agree to shut up?—

“Not exactly.”

—Who?—

“Sergeov. Quiverian.”

—Sergeov I’d expect few people to listen to, sure. He’s good ’ol boy, straight-arrow Percell. Maybe li’l heavy-handed. But Quiverian? He’s murderin’ bastard! Who’d pay attention to—

“Some Arcists still think it must’ve been a mistake. They can’t picture Mom slaughtering her children, even if they are carrying diseases.”

—Craaaazy.—

“Right.”

Beneath the silent ebony sky these issues seemed petty, diminished. Carl could deal with them inside, encased in ice…but here, human problems and opinions seemed dirty, small, shameful. “So…I had JonVon take a few mechs and…knock out the microwave antennas.”

To his surprise, Jeffers laughed. —Damn right!—

“You…think so?”

—Course I do! We let Earth know we’re still alive, they’ll send another Care Package. Only this time they won’t tell us.—

“This will but us maybe a couple of crucial years. Maybe.” Carl nodded. “They didn’t fail utterly, of course. We lost a couple of people on the surface, and with our attention on the Care Package, we lagged a little on the nudge. We’re starting late.”

Jeffers nodded. —Damn near aphelion. Gonna be a big job, givin’ that much push to this much ice.—

“You’ve realigned the launchers already?”

—Just like you said. Gonna deliver big delta-V if we get started soon enough.—

At least the Care Package fiasco was behind them. While others mourned, Carl was relieved, in a way. It meant they had to break from Earth, ignoring their homeworld, even hiding from it for as long as possible…

Who could tell? In forty years new people might be in charge, back home. Or Phobos colony might have its independence by the time the cometary refugees came streaking in on their blazing aeroshells. Who am I kidding? Carl thought.

The tension in him wouldn’t go away. He needed something. Or someone, he thought, and shut away as quickly as he recognised it.

The launchers. They were ready, calibrated.

“You check the pin settings?”

Jeffers tapped on his board, nodded.

“Pressure manifolds? The magnet alignments?”

—All okay.—

“What are we waiting for, then?”

Jeffers looked up and slowly grinned. —Damned right!—He switched channels and spoke rapid-fire to the engineers.

Around Halley the belt stirred to life. Electromagnetic surges mounted, reached saturation, lay in wait for their release. And inside the ice, Carl knew, men and women were involved with their own lonely questions, doubts, despairs. They needed something to rouse them.