EMERGENCE (41 page)

"There were quite a few hominems in the
Bratstvo
already—though none ever realized that they were different from the rest of us. All were first-generation hominems, raised by human parents unaware of their potential. All were angry, disturbed antisocials, the type your people have labeled 'classic AB sociopaths.'

"But they
were
brilliant, so we put them to work in areas where their brilliance would be most effective. That new alloy that your scientists are so fascinated with was developed by our hominems. They were also responsible for most of the breakthroughs that led to the final design and construction of the vehicle which houses the strontium warhead."

Kyril smiled coldly. "They thought that what they were building was the ultimate ideological housecleaning tool. They never knew that they were creating the means of their own species' destruction. Naturally, we stationed them in locations known to your intelligence people during the attack. American missiles solved the problem for us.

"We were amazed at how many of you there proved to be after the plague eliminated all extraneous humans. Our studies suggested nothing like the figures that McDivott's group extrapolated, which seem to have been borne out by experience. But no matter; isolated hominems around the world are not a problem: Even if a few somehow manage to get under cover in time to avoid fatal overdoses at the outset, strontium-90 fallout is patient. It takes planning and preparation to survive two centuries underground; only we and McDivott's people are ready.

"We knew that he and his organization would come through the attack and plague intact—I was amused to learn that he hadn't known he was a hominem himself. So we leaked enough details about the strontium bomb's existence, and what it would take to stop it, to guarantee that he would have no choice but to try to launch a shuttle. We knew that he would have to gather every single member of his group there to accomplish it.

"I was planted on them both to keep an eye on their progress as well as to make myself an indispensable part of the mission. I was quite taken aback, upon being admitted into their organization, to learn that they had acquired far more information through their own efforts than we had leaked. Which meant that I had to watch my step; I had no idea how much they might know in addition. So I played absolutely straight, relying upon being able to stop the mission at the very last moment, as I have done.

"Now, there were only three facilities in the entire world equipped to launch an expedition of this type. The one in Russia, of course, is gone; that left the two in America. I anticipated that they would use the Vandenberg facility; being a military base, it is more completely, independently equipped than Cape Canaveral. And I was right. But it made no difference: In either case the outcome would have been the same.

"You see, the Murray Fracture Zone is not the target. It never has been. The warhead is less powerful than McDivott was given to think; but even so, if it exploded there, the resultant quakes would reduce much of the Earth's crust to rubble. That would be too sweeping a remedy even for us—though it would have been a satisfying revenge, had that really been our intention. No; we would not destroy the Earth's surface; we need it for ourselves.

"The bomb is targeted to impact about 25 miles due west of Point Arguello. The crust is thicker there. The explosion
will
generate earthquakes, massive ones; but it won't ruin the planet, not permanently anyway—at least not our part. We'll ride it out; our shelters are constructed of the new alloy—yards thick.

"However, Vandenberg lies inside the fireball, within the radius of total destruction. McDivott's group will still be there, to the last man. They will be eliminated at a single stroke; they literally will never know what hit them.

"There never has been a cancellation signal, by the way; only a retargeting signal, in case it might have been necessary to shift impact to, say 25 miles out in the Gulf Stream, just off Kennedy. That was false information, deliberately leaked to confuse the issue. The bomb cannot be stopped other than by physically boarding and disarming it. Preventing that from happening was my mission. It was not difficult.

"Now, I am sure that you must hate me at this moment more than you have ever hated anyone in your life, and I don't blame you. But I want you to know that meeting you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. I wish that you were human. Even though you are not, I salute you."

And, so help me, actually
did
salute.

But Kyril wrong: Didn't hate him. Didn't hate anybody—didn't have time for peripheral distractions. (Maybe would hate him later.) But for now, had
job
to do: suddenly expanded, desperately important job—this changed
everything .
. . !

Disarming bomb no longer adequate solution. Still necessary, yes—vitally! But
Khraniteli
would just try again, using different approach; probably succeed next time around—hominems didn't even know threat existed; would get no warning!

Simply
had
to warn my people!—
that
was mission's primary goal now! Disarming bomb, then dying nobly, exercise in futility unless got word back in process.

Had no choice. Simply must. And would.

Somehow.

But Kyril between me and next step—
whatever
might prove to be. Had to do something about that. First. Immediately.

Debate over options took only seconds; limited, as practical matter, to single course of action. Hoped acting skills up to challenge.

Responded to Kyril's explanation, salute, with total flood: surely most abjectly pitiable performance since Bambi calling for Mother in forest fire. Covered face in hands (peeked between fingers, gauging effect), curled into fetal position. Sobbed as if world coming to end—which, unless managed to do something about it, pretty well summed things up!

(Now, awfully fond of Kyril—before—and Russian well aware of feelings. Likewise, as top-level
Khranitel
operative, held probably justifiably high opinion of own physical prowess. Unlikely to fear assault from 11-year-old. Plus was awfully fond of me, too. Finally, was very well educated; certain to have read same child-psychology theories I did: knew abusee usually turns to abuser for comfort once attack over. [Irrational? I'll say. Own approach would be to wait until adult asleep, take baseball bat—
stop
; getting sidetracked.] Point is that dependent child normally turns to nearest adult of whom is fond for comfort
regardless
what atrocities said adult may have just committed.)

Looked up through tears, held out arms, wailed, "Oh,
Kyril
. . . !"

He bought it: Expression softened; propelled himself across cabin, catching me gently in passing.

Redoubled weeping, threw arms around neck, buried face in shoulder. He sighed unhappily, put arms around me, held close, patted clumsily on back, murmured soothing noises. Didn't notice legs closing around waist until too late. If at all.

Snuffled, bubbled, then wiped eyes with right hand; which brought forearm across beneath Russian's chin, left still around neck.

Whispered hysterical-strength tap trigger, closed trap in single motion: Legs tightened about torso, ankles locked. Left hand seized back of head, left side; right hand closed on chin, right side of face; both in unbreakable grip. Kyril barely had time to register surprise before I

. . .
TWISTED!

Don't know how might have made out against Russian in fair fight—particularly in free-fall. As top
Khranitel
agent, probably one of very best. But will never know: Hysterical strength rotated head beyond vertebrae's yield limit in briefest fraction of second. If live to be 100, will never forget that noise.

Body convulsed momentarily; subsided gradually to consistency of Jell-O. Maintained grip until, pressing ear to chest, heard heart sounds slow, stop. Then released, shrugged free of corpse's embrace, pushed off for wall. Landed, took firm grip on handhold; watched as body drifted across cabin in slow-motion sprawling tumble.

Realized, then, at least part of solicitude impelling Kyril to strap Harris into command chair was elementary tidiness: Would be in way constantly otherwise under weightless conditions. Jumped across cabin, grabbed body by belt, propelled toward copilot's chair, secured with harness.

Then looked purposefully around at surroundings. Over which now held undisputed sway.

Would have been easy to let emotions go: Had just killed someone of whom had become very, very fond. Had watched him kill someone else of whom had become very, very fond. Was more alone than anyone in human history—nearest human at least 22,300 miles away. And own lifespan now measured in hours . . . .

Yes, would have been
very
easy to let go. But couldn't afford luxury. Bomb departing from orbit less than half day hence; must be disarmed first. Much work remained undone in preparation—plus still didn't know how was going to get message back to earth . . . .

Well, logical first step in solving any problem is inventory of available assets: Familiarity with gear confined to that intrinsic to own once-limited responsibilities; surely Harris, Kyril brought along equipment relating to their jobs. Spent solid hour scouring
Hale's
entire pressurized demesnes; confident would turn up something to solve, or suggest solution to, communications dilemma.

But didn't.

Boys brought even fewer personal articles than self (my toothbrush no less likely to figure in solution than theirs). Mission equipment limited to three adult-size EMUs, four MMUs (one spare of each), single toolbox, two plug-in briefcase terminals. None of which triggered spontaneous inspiration.

Returned to cockpit, growing more worried by moment. Debated briefly returning after disarming bomb, attempting OMS retroburn to drop
Hale
from geosynchronous orbit. Perhaps could jury-rig heliograph-type device from shiny interior panel, flash warning to hominems as passed over California (pretty good at Morse; only member of scout troop to qualify for merit badge). Pretty sure could get RCS, OMS running (tried to memorize Harris's duties as thoroughly as own during endless simulator run-throughs).

But gave that up moment saw fuel gauges: Could drop from geosynchronous orbit with remaining fuel, but not far; be lucky to achieve even shallow parabola. Plus initial progress very slow;
Hale
would be ghost ship by time got around to far side of globe: Life-support due to run out barely 18 hours hence; even without boys' added consumption, no chance still alive by then to send signal.

Worrying in earnest now. Unless managed to get word back,
Khraniteli
surely successful in wiping hominems off face of Earth, sooner or later.

But
how
. . . ? Here I sat (okay, floated), stranded in orbit—in fuel-depleted ship stripped of exterior insulation, aerodynamic controls, landing gear—everything necessary to get down. All of which immaterial: Even were everything in 100-percent flightworthy condition, most unlikely that 15–plus hours in ultralight qualified me to power up, accomplish solo reentry, landing—in single most complicated vehicle ever assembled by
H. sapiens
. . . !

But always have had this tendency to keep beating head against wall when situation hopeless—even more so when
obviously
hopeless. Just not the giving-up kind. Mind kept dodging, weaving, bobbing, looking for solution. Didn't discard any idea without scrutinizing thoroughly first. Not even silliest conjecture dismissed out of hand; retained long enough to see how looked in conjunction with all the rest.

Got so bad, even started wondering whether bomb's computer, lasers, would hold still for slow, close approach by
Hale
on RCS thrusters. Certainly enough fuel in bomb for reentry, after all. If somehow could transfer fuel from bomb to
Hale,
maybe could extend retroburn long enough to put me over California before life-support ran out. Knew would get only one shot at signaling, of course; be days before
Hale
returned to perigee again.

Hominems
better be looking
!

Only, how does one go about transferring monomethyl hydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide in quantity from one vehicle to another in vacuum? Without proper high-pressure equipment . . . .

Doesn't, of course. Scratch another idea.

Scratch
Hale,
really: "All the King's horses and all the King's men" couldn't prepare shuttle for reentry without full resources of Space Transportation System crew, facilities. Simply no way lightened, stripped—gutted—ship could survive plunge into atmosphere as result of anything
I
could do.

Pity bomb carrier not designed for cargo, I thought wryly. Could just—

Blinding flash. Soundless concussion. Universe bucked, rocked, shuddered.

Of course!

(Suddenly felt very stupid.)

The
bomb
. . . !
Mounted in vehicle eminently capable of reentry; already programmed, equipped—scheduled, in fact—to do just that, commencing in less than six hours. So what if not designed for cargo; ample structural dead space around warhead; same dead space through which would be crawling when entered to disarm.

No reason couldn't leave message in there . . . !

Except that missile presently targeted for impact some 25 miles offshore; to deliver message would be necessary to reprogram computer's ballistics software (disarming warhead
first
).

Well . . . during one of those rare quiet moments during otherwise hectic week at Vandenberg, noticed yellowish paperback titled
IFR Supplement of the United States.
Contained longitude, latitude, time zones, etc., plus other pertinent data, for almost every airport on North American continent. Thumbed through; spotted couple familiar names. One was Vandenberg; remember it well—together with coordinates: 34 degrees 44 minutes north longitude, 120 degrees 35 minutes west latitude. Not launch facility, of course; nearby Air Force base.