Lifeline

He recognized one of the men: Sigat Harhoosma. His wife was a sickly woman with a muscular disease that required her to live in the low-gravity environment. It had taken two people—a physical therapist and a nurse—to monitor her condition. Brahms had placed her on the first RIF list, and she was gone now.

Afterward, Terachyk had heard some people muttering that Harhoosma’s wife had deserved to be chosen for the first group—as if they condoned Brahms’s madness! That left her husband saddled with their two children and his high-pressure job as a metallurgist. Harhoosma was a hard worker, but he was trapped in the ranking war, and would probably never pull himself up. He had too many factors against him.

Brahms could always argue that people were going to die anyway, so it might as well be the ones pulling down the rest of the colony—like Sigat Harhoosma. And to make things worse, other people were beginning to believe as Brahms did. He had fooled them. Otherwise, they would have revolted against him a month before.

Unless no one was willing to stand up and organize the rebellion.

Terachyk spoke as Brahms continued to stare at the data. “I’m not sure how valid those rankings are. I did my best, but you shouldn’t just take the results at face value. They know they’re being watched, and they’ll only make adjustments to do better when I’m around.”

Brahms waved a hand at the holotank. “You can get statistics from all over—how many times they access their computers, how many times they call up entertainment on their holotanks, how many hours they spend with their families compared to how many hours they spend at their jobs. There are dozens of ways to get around them.”

“And dozens of ways to be fooled,” Terachyk shot back.

Brahms sat up straight in his chair. “The efficiency survey can’t be fooled. It has too many safeguards built in.”

“You can’t be absolutely sure.”

“Yes, I can. I know. It was my master’s thesis at Harvard. It passed all of its beta tests.”

Terachyk nodded at the holotank. Data still floated, names highlighted with a blood-red glow. “I see an error right now—look at Sigat Harhoosma. Your Efficiency Study didn’t take his particular situation into account.”

Brahms studied the statistics. He came back quickly—too quickly. Terachyk realized that Brahms must have prepared a justification for every single person on the potential RIF list.

“You’ve pointed him out before, Terachyk. Harhoosma wasn’t hit any harder than anyone else. He is unable to perform under pressure. In fact, he gets worse. This shows that our efficiency ranking does work. Tough times demand tough people.”

Brahms rocked back in his chair. He lifted an eyebrow. “Any other examples?”

Terachyk’s stomach burned. He needed to get out of there. He stood, shaking his head. “No.” The response sounded lame.

Brahms smiled tightly. “I’m glad you approve of the technique, then. I wouldn’t want my chief assessor having second thoughts.”

Terachyk felt Brahms’s voice closing in around him, like the metal doors of the spoke-shaft elevator carrying him up out of his nightmare and into cold, empty space. He turned toward the door, feeling dizzy.

“You should keep track of Ramis’s progress, Allen,” Brahms called. “He might find something over on the Kibalchich that’ll help us all.”

Mumbling a good-bye, Terachyk backed out of the office and let the door close by itself. He saw Nancy Winkowski lounging outside the door, dressed in her spring-green watcher jumpsuit. She stared at him without emotion. Terachyk mumbled a greeting to her as he turned down the corridor. He didn’t let his face show any worry, although he wondered why Brahms had seen fit to station one of the Watchers outside his own door. Was he afraid of other colonists? Or did he not trust Allen Terachyk?

He drew in a breath to clear his thoughts. The air smelled stale and cold. He walked past the elevator, feeling trapped.

He was going to be sick.

He quickened his step.

Chapter 33

KIBALCHICH—Day 40

As Ramis approached, the torus of the Kibalchich turned in front of him like a colossal windmill. It astounded him that it had been just a point of light seen from Orbitech 1.

Karen’s voice came over the radio. “Ramis, the Doppler has pegged you five hundred yards from the Kibalchich. You’ll feel some tension in the weavewire as we help slow you down.”

Ramis mumbled an acknowledgment but continued to stare at the giant construction.

The Soviet station looked like a huge doughnut with four thick spokes radiating away from a small central sphere—the command center, most likely, which would be at zero gravity. Thinner support struts extended between the thick spokes.