Lifeline

Behind him, Dobo sloshed about in a vat of nutrient solution. Synthetic rubber boots rode up to his crotch, making him look ridiculous. The bittersweet aroma of the amniotic solution mixed with the rank smell of growing wall-kelp. On the other side of the crystal windows, sunlight poured through, illuminating the alcove like a weird jungle.

Sandovaal had never before considered mass-producing the sail-creatures. In fact, he was new to the entire idea of gearing his work to assembly lines. On Magsaysay’s insistence, Sandovaal had documented all his work and left dozens of assistants marginally trained to follow in his footsteps.

The wall-kelp grew by itself and needed little work, but the sail-creatures were much more complicated. With his tinkering in the lab, Sandovaal could produce one sail-creature embryo per day, at most, by cloning from the viable samples he had on hand. More than 90 percent of the clones died.

Now, though, for the trip to L-5, all the sail-creatures must be the same age when they left the Aguinaldo. Otherwise, it would ruin Sandovaal’s plans for getting back home. He had expanded his operation, finding ways to increase production, to take shortcuts.

Dobo’s feet made a plopping sound as he moved through the vat. It broke Sandovaal’s concentration. He turned and opened his mouth to snap at his assistant but stopped at what he saw.

Dobo was kneeling in the vat, leaning over a pocket of sail-creature embryos. Hands cupped, he delicately directed some of the amniotic fluid into the sac. It would dry sticky on his dark boots.

Memories flooded Sandovaal’s mind. The rice paddies, and the loving care the Filipinos gave to each seedling as they planted the sprouts in the flooded marsh. The Filipino culture was still here, present even in this giant rotating drum in space. And now, for the first time since the War, Sandovaal was certain that the old ways—the important aspects, at least—would still survive. Magsaysay had nothing to fear about that.

He composed himself and slipped from the chamber, leaving Dobo alone. Dobo hummed to himself—probably one of the hymns he had sung at Mass.

The viewport veranda afforded a view of the sail-creatures they would use. They were strung out in a line with their sails oriented at right angles to the sun, like gigantic, wispy butterflies. The creatures seemed to explode in growth, transforming from puttering, clumsy-looking animals into beautiful organic sails. They stretched out their skins to catch every photon within reach. They were relatively small now, but Sandovaal knew that in a short time they would be ready for the trip. The imagined sight made him draw a deep breath—an array of sail-creatures, clustered as a mighty armada of old, carrying Dobo and Sandovaal into new territory.

And if they were successful with their request, they would return with Ramis and enough weavewire to scale their next obstacle: Orbitech 2.

Chapter 42

KIBALCHICH—Day 44

When the inner airlock rotated open, Karen saw only darkness. She removed her helmet and stared into the shadows.

“Ramis?” she called in a quiet voice, but the word sounded as loud as a gunshot. He would be somewhere inside, but she had no idea where, or why he had not met her. She was glad she had not been the first to enter the silent station.

A dark hallway curved up ahead and behind her. Wetting her lips, she stepped out of the airlock into the Kibalchich. She tapped a toe on the floor in an instinctive gesture, to make sure it remained solid. She dragged her pack of personal belongings just inside the corridor and plopped it to the floor. She started to set her helmet down, but decided to put up with the inconvenience of carrying it.

The Kibalchich was dead quiet. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. All the lights were dim.

The airlock hissed shut behind her.

Karen drew in a breath to stop herself from shaking. Ramis is here somewhere, she thought. Nothing is going to happen.

“Karen?”

She whirled, then her shoulders slumped with relief. She had not heard Ramis approach with his bare feet. Soft light outlined his face. His eyes looked bleary with sleep.

“You are very early. Two hours.” He pointed an elbow at one of the wall chronometers. “I am sorry I did not meet you. Have you been here long?”

“Early?” She noticed the digital time next to an intercom, a flatscreen, and several buttons. Frowning, Karen glanced at her own suit watch. “This clock is two hours fast.” Then she rolled her eyes in a ridiculous expression.

“They’re on Moscow time! Why didn’t they standardize, like everyone else? Orbitech 1 is on Greenwich Mean.” She sighed. “We should have synchronized clocks, but who would have thought?”

She shook her head, still puzzled. “But why are you two hours late, and not early?”