Lifeline

He kept kicking himself, damning himself. He had acted too soon. Brahms realized how the people on Orbitech 1 were growing more and more dissatisfied with the memory of the RIF, even though Ombalal had ostensibly been responsible.

Brahms had been wrong. All those people out the airlock, ultimately for no benefit.

Their efficiency ranking had been too low. And now Brahms had proven himself inefficient. At the moment of greatest crisis, he had made the wrong decision—a disastrous decision—and forced it upon the others. While still cowed by shock after the murder of Ombalal, the colonists had caused no serious trouble. Now, though, they were beginning to think of other paths Ombalal—Brahms!—should have taken, options to be tried first.

In his daily broadcast to the colony at large, Brahms continued to emphasize the gravity of their situation—how the wall-kelp was helping, but they could not depend on it too much; how their plight still remained grim. But Brahms knew he was just blowing smoke to keep them distracted. The words sounded hollow. He could only maintain a façade of fear in the face of success for so long.

“To continue our policy to pursue every means of improving our chances for survival, I have directed a team of seven experts in biology, electronics engineering, and cryogenics to go to the Kibalchich. Apparently, nearly a dozen of the Soviet sleepfreeze chambers are empty. They will dismantle the chambers and ferry them back here to Orbitech 1, so our people can learn how the Russians have done it.

“We hope to receive every cooperation from Dr. Anna Tripolk, the Soviet researcher who helped develop the process.”

Brahms worked the stereotank controls himself, freezing the image for a moment while he glanced down at the script he had prepared. The people watching would see only a second of motionless silence on his face; few would suspect any interruption at all.

“These times are too desperate for petty national boundaries. We need the sleepfreeze process. It appears that we can now see a light at the end of our tunnel. But we cannot allow ourselves to grow complacent. Thank you for all your efforts on our behalf.”

In the daily routine, Brahms also tried to make amends, or at least concessions. He listened to Allen Terachyk’s complaints about the ranking system, about the mistakes the Efficiency Study might make. Brahms had scanned back over the case of Sigat Harhoosma, the man Terachyk had pointed out. Brahms considered that maybe the man did need a little more slack, some more opportunities to prove his worth.

So Brahms had chosen him to assist Karen Langelier in her Jump, though many of the other engineers had heftier credentials. He wanted to give Harhoosma a chance to earn more points, to improve his position. He was making every attempt to be fair.

Even in the most brutal decisions, Brahms insisted on being fair and just. It was the only anchor he had.

But at night, Tim Drury continued to haunt him in his nightmares. Brahms could not fool his own conscience with rhetoric.

Tim Drury had been an adequate manager. His crime had been an underactive metabolism. Brahms had watched him eat—he took no more than his own share. He also exercised. But his genes had determined that he would be obese, and he had died for that.

It was only now that he realized that, of all the division leaders, Tim Drury had perhaps been the most worthy to remain alive. Something had not shown up properly on the scores from the Efficiency Study—some factor had not been accounted for. How does one measure ultimate loyalty?

Drury was dead. Arnando had turned traitor and was now dead. McLaris had turned traitor and was still alive, now trying to worm his way back. Only Allen Terachyk remained with Brahms.

Terachyk did his best, but he did not seem to support his director as enthusiastically as he should. At times, Brahms caught him looking sidelong, a veil of accusation lifting from his eyes before Brahms could challenge him.

Tim Drury had only wanted to play checkers with everybody.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Brahms whispered. He slipped on his robe, listening to the soft rustle in his dim quarters.

He opened the door, startling the two armed watcher bodyguards outside. They looked at him, raising their eyebrows in question. Both seemed tense, afraid, and uncomfortable.

“Something wrong, Mr. Brahms?” the woman, Winkowski, asked.

“I need to go for a walk. Follow me.”

But he merely went halfway down the corridor until he reached Tim Drury’s old quarters. He unsealed the door using the pass code he knew.

The Filipino boy, Ramis, had lived in these rooms for the few days he had stayed on Orbitech 1, but he had been merely a guest there. The presence of Tim Drury still hung in the quarters.