Lifeline

When the callous thieves had come on board the Kibalchich, Anna realized more than ever the implications of the remaining colonies joining forces. The technicians had already dismantled three sleepfreeze chambers and hauled them back to Brahms. The weavewire yo-yo from Clavius Base was hurtling toward Orbitech 1, and she had heard a message about Filipino emissaries from the Aguinaldo riding solar sails and bearing down on L-5 even now.

Without pause for discussion or even consideration, Anna Tripolk felt left out on the fringe, brushed away while everyone else made decisions for their future. Things were getting away from her, moving too fast and out of control. She clenched her hands so that the fingernails bit into her palms. Her arms felt cold. “Computer, raise the temperature in the command center!”

Anna was thankful that only Dr. Langelier and the Barrera boy still remained on the Kibalchich. Brahms had recalled the other techs to work on the stolen sleepfreeze chambers over there, but Anna knew they would return to take more. She had no doubt that if Orbitech 1 needed them, Brahms would pull out the sleeping Soviets and leave them to die on the infirmary floor.

Brahms had shown his ability to justify anything he required.

Barrera and Langelier had insisted on staying here, though. Brahms had asked them to return, but they had both requested to remain longer. By now they had been on the Kibalchich for weeks, eating Soviet supplies, reveling in their complete freedom. No wonder they did not wish to return, and Brahms did not seem inclined to press the issue. As commander of the Kibalchich, Anna felt well within her rights to send them back—even toss them out of the airlock if it pleased her. But she knew what would happen—a swarm of Americans would then ransack the Soviet station in vengeance, all with the approval of Director Brahms.

Anna drifted around the control room, pushing against the bulkhead to change directions. She reached out and grabbed the back of the command chair to pull herself down. Once strapped in, she turned to the holotank surrounding the station’s massive central axis. Consoles were set into the curving walls. Green ready lights outlined the dim screens, indicating their dormancy. The voice-activated main computer made it unnecessary for her to identify each separate station. When other people filled the command center, each working their own tasks, they used the old-fashioned direct-input method. But Anna Tripolk was alone now. The computer heard only her voice.

Alone.

She drew in a deep breath. She was alone with everything that had shaped her life, all her memories.

She spoke toward the holotank. “Computer: flashback image sequence from catalog—Novosibirsk, two years ago, spring. Display outside, then laboratory views. Whatever you have on record.”

Instantly the scene appeared in the holotank, the three-dimensional image overflowing into the control room. A flat river plain extended for miles about; squat buildings dotted the horizon; a crisp, cloudless sky seemed to envelop her; the lead-gray Ob River did not appear to be moving at all. She saw the buildings, the industry, the Akademgorodok where all the researchers had settled.

The image swept Anna into the main physics laboratory—scores of people milled around a new-generation tokamak, talking and smiling with excitement. But this was a standard image from the computer’s library, emphasizing the powerful magnetic fusion prototypes. She didn’t expect to see any highlights of her own biochemical work.

Anna spoke again, in a whisper. “Computer, same time, display Moscow, then dachas.”

The scene transported her to the center of Red Square. Graceful minarets, impossible arches, colorful Tatar-inspired onion domes.… Thundering footsteps pounded past her as if she stood in the center of a parade—standard images again, May Day, crowds of bright uniforms. She could almost feel the cool spring air, but she realized it was just the chill in the command center.

Tears streamed down her face as the holotank transported her across her homeland. Everywhere she saw the same scene: hard-working Russians, or Estonians, or Kazakhs, or Belorussians, or any of the other nationalities, proud of their work and unwavering in their values … at least according to the documentary films the Kibalchich had stored for years to come.

She drew back from the holograph, allowing it to play in front of her, instead of being immersed in its progression. What is left of it all, then? she wondered. And what’s to come of us with all this activity on the other colonies?

She knew the answer—she only had to look at the demise of the Third World nations before the War. Entire cultures swept away, integrated into the superpowers’ way of life, run over by an economic steamroller.