Lifeline

Not that Brahms condoned what they had done to him, but in a way, Ombalal had asked for it. When you do stupid things in space, the universe makes sure to punish you for it!

Brahms had sat in anger for longer than an hour after the riot. Everything was falling apart—the chief administrator of Clavius Base had issued a pretentious statement, breaking all contact with Orbitech 1. In an apparently unrelated move, the Soviets on the Kibalchich had ceased all transmissions, leaving only a warning that they were not to be disturbed. The last centers of civilization seemed to be disintegrating.

Brahms couldn’t afford to remain silent anymore. He needed to stop even a hint of mutiny. Orbitech 1 was his station now.

He activated the intercom, speaking simultaneously with the security crew and the maintenance staff. “I want cafeteria complex five scrubbed clean, all traces of the disturbance removed. But first, I want every square inch of the place documented. Lots of graphic stuff.” He drew in a deep breath, forcing back the anger.

“I want to show the blood. I want to show these people—everyone on this station—what they have done!”

Brahms snapped off the intercom, but continued grinding his teeth together, thinking of the people, the simmering mob, on his own station.

He realized that was the part that concerned him—keeping the people under control—since he was now the true director of Orbitech 1. No longer did he have to pander to Ombalal’s incompetence just to save face for the Orbitechnologies Corporation.

Another part of him, a tiny but insistent voice, kept Brahms wondering if that’s what he had really wanted all along.

Chapter 16

KIBALCHICH—Day 12

All the reckless I-won’t-care-until-tomorrow singing had stopped. Anna Tripolk wondered if she would ever hear it again. The others stood silent now, shifting uneasily. A few of them broke into forced jokes or flat conversation, but that quickly petered out. Tripolk smelled a haze of nervous sweat in the Kibalchich’s recycled air.

The big lab space had been converted into a giant infirmary and medical center. At another time, a better time, they had done delicate engineering work here—precision laser applications. None of that mattered anymore.

Tripolk raised her eyes as the line moved forward. Standing in line again, she thought. Even to the end, we must stand in line for everything. High above in the curved ceiling of the research station, she could look through the slitted windows. The suspended saucer-like mirror hung over the rotating torus of the Kibalchich like a giant silver dinner plate. The two lower decks were lit by yellowish artificial light, but Rurik had decided that this was best done in sunlight. Tripolk agreed with him.

The station’s walls were metal, cold, sterile—fabricated from Moon rock, but with no concessions made for the appearance of comfort. All the rooms had been enameled a dreary eggshell white—walls, floors, ceilings, doors. It hurt the eyes after a while.

A few months ago, one of the other researchers, Danskoy, had painted a broad mural along one wall in the recreation hall. It broke up the Kibalchich’s monotony in a startling way.

Danskoy had been sent home soon afterward. Tripolk couldn’t figure out how anybody Earthside had learned of it.

As the next man in line stepped forward, Tripolk took another clean syringe and filled it with the vile-looking yellow chemical. She smoothed her doctor’s uniform, tried to look professional and strong. She, of all people, had to show confidence now. The testing phase had ended; this was for real.

Tripolk didn’t want to look at the man shuffling up, but she did anyway. He had mouse-brown hair, cut too short to be attractive; two days’ growth of beard bristled on his chin. A week before that lack of attention to personal hygiene would never have been tolerated.

A name patch sewn to the man’s uniform said Sheveremsky. Tripolk had never bothered to learn the names of all five hundred people on the Kibalchich. She could have done it, of course, but it had not seemed a necessary effort … and her own work kept her busy enough.

Tripolk started to say something inane, something encouraging, out of habit, but the man cut her off. “Just get it over with. No speeches.” Sheveremsky stared at her. “We all know what we are doing.”

Tripolk clenched her teeth, resenting Sheveremsky’s attitude. Did he think she enjoyed this? The Party wasn’t paying her a bonus for it. It was nothing she wanted to do. She hated to be pushed into such a desperate situation. But this was their only hope, and necessary things had to be done.

“What do you want me to say, then?” She held the syringe in her hand and locked her eyes with Sheveremsky’s. “Do you want me to say everything will be all right? Yes? So—everything will be all right. Now, give me your arm.”