Lifeline (21 page)

Chapter 27

ORBITECH 1—Day 36

To Ramis, Karen Langelier’s lab seemed like a toy store, filled with remnants of American industrial technology that in light of their disaster were alien or even nonsensical. The lipstick fabrication section seemed especially ludicrous.

Karen showed him how she extruded her weavewire, making it zip up the laser guide beam into a fiber so fine that it couldn’t be seen—and though two rockets couldn’t snap it in half, it could cut through titanium. Even to touch a single strand of the fiber would have sliced his fingertips off.

And when Karen pointed out that some of the garments on
Orbitech 1
were woven from the monomolecular fiber, he was even more astonished. He listened to her explanation of
how the manufacturing prototypes spun together hundreds of kilometers of thread—thereby making it safe—into a single piece of indestructible clothing that could be worn like any other shirt.

Over the last two days, he and Karen had spent hours together. They found in their loneliness a friendship that transcended the quarter-century difference in their ages.

Now he sat and watched. She wanted to talk, but he knew she couldn’t afford to give up more time from her research, not with the assessors watching over them all. Karen’s lower lip was drawn back, held between white teeth in an expression of concentration. Her red hair was tousled.

The air stank of escaped chemicals from burners and polymer melts. His eyes stung at first, but he got used to it. The other polymer chemists worked on their own projects, and Ramis knew how dangerous it would be to interrupt them.

He could drift in the zero-G labs, float from cubicle boundary to cubicle boundary, though he could not Jump here. They didn’t have the wide-open spaces. He thought of the
Aguinaldo’s
core.

Here, only the wraith-like spider plant, sealed vials of chemicals, and empty spheres from drinks bobbled and drifted in the air currents. The zero gravity offered them freedom, so they caged everything.

After a burst of static, the “attention” tones sounded from the PA holotank column in the center of the lab cubicles. Karen sat up with a start and turned to look, focusing back in on her situation. The neutral gray of the holotank resolved into colored speckles that congealed into a three-dimensional representation of the face of Curtis Brahms.

“May I have your attention, please?” His voice warbled and his face moved, as if he was working the controls himself and didn’t quite know what he was doing.

“May I have your attention, please?” The voice became stronger, firmer. “I must make an announcement of the greatest importance to all on
Orbitech 1.”

The other workers in the lab complex snapped to attention. “Another RIF already? My God!” someone said. Ramis drifted closer to the curved face of the holotank.

“You all know the desperate plight the War has brought us to. You all know how hard you’re working to help save us from starvation, to rescue us by using our technical excellence to make up for the few resources we have on hand.”

Brahms lifted his chin and swallowed, as if opting not to continue his morale-building speech. His face had a haunted look. Ramis noticed he was not wearing his eyeglasses, and he appeared too young for the burden he bore, too boyish.

“I am sorry to say that two among us have been traitors to that mission. They have tried to sabotage our survival by lying and cheating, to improve their own situation at the expense of the rest of our people. This man—”

The scene dissolved, and a camera swiveled to show a man being hauled along by two of the watchers. His lip looked wounded, and his eyes were sunken and dark with bruises.

“—is Daniel Aiken. He altered research results to make his work seem more important, to make us seem closer to survival than we are. His lie has stolen a valid hope from all of us. He sidetracked and wasted valuable resources.”

“Look, they’ve beaten him up!” one of the polymer chemists cried. “Brahms beat him up!”

“Linda Arnando is also part of this,” Brahms continued. “She worked with Aiken. She was our chief assessor—one of my division leaders. But instead of reporting Aiken’s falsified data, she used it to blackmail him. She also used her administrative position to steal our rations—to take more than her share.”

Arnando looked broken. The view pulled back to show her and Aiken inside the empty shuttle bay. Several of the researchers muttered; someone in the background began to sob.

The armed watchers let go of their charges and then pushed toward the spoke-shaft elevator, sealing it behind them. Aiken stood looking battered and stunned, but Linda Arnando gathered herself and bounced for the sealed doors.

The camera flicked back to Brahms again. “These two do not deny what they have done. They are guilty of cheating us, of hurting our chances for survival. I hope to God these are the only two in our midst.

“Director Ombalal did not try to hide his reduction in force from you, and you killed him for it. But these two are not innocents, and I will not hide this. Their guilt is cut and dried, and clear. Linda Arnando and Daniel Aiken have forfeited their right to live on
Orbitech 1
while others have sacrificed themselves.

“Therefore, these two will add their numbers to those who have already gone to reduce our population.”

The camera showed a full view of the shuttle bay now. Ramis could see where he had come in, drifting with the carcass of Sarat, the colored lines painted on the floor where a shuttle would land—a shuttle like the
Miranda,
which Duncan McLaris had stolen.

Aiken floated upside down, cross-legged, above the bull’s-eye with his head in his hands. Linda Arnando bounced off the walls, shouting something, but the picture carried no sound. A magenta warning light flashed by the outer airlock doors, but Ramis could hear no klaxon.

The other people in the lab complex were quiet, terrified. “This is going to backfire on him,” Karen whispered out loud, but she seemed to be talking to herself. “The first RIF was for survival—this one is for revenge.”

The camera pivoted down the length of Brahms’s arm to where his hand rested on a red button on the control panel. He had already removed the interlocks.

As the camera focused on his hand, he pushed the button.

Karen drew in a single gasping breath. The holotank showed Brahms’s face again. He looked drained.

“I don’t want you to think of this as a reign of terror. Our future lies in the people of
Orbitech 1,
on our skills and our abilities. There is no prejudice in survival—all are equal here.

“You have the ability to prevent another RIF, but you cannot prevent it with lies.” He paused and swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice sounded dry and cracked. “We’re all in this together.”

The picture of him winked off, to be replaced by the gaping starlit maw of the open shuttle-bay doors and the empty, empty chamber where Linda Arnando and Daniel Aiken had been only moments before. A patch of smeared frost stood out on the polished floor.

Ramis watched, appalled and sickened. He stared at the vastness of black, cold space where Aiken and Arnando had now set their sails, but they had no Sarat to catch them. A giddiness swirled up around Ramis, and he muttered quietly, but loud enough for Karen Langelier to hear, “I do not want to stay here anymore. I want to go home.”

Karen went looking for Ramis after he fled the lab complex. The Filipino boy moved stiffly, reeling and uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

Karen knew the shock the other people on
Orbitech 1
were feeling—the stunned resignation and growing fear that the nightmare would never end. But Ramis seemed worse off. He had not been there for the first RIF; he had not suffered the horrified astonishment that the rest of them had. He had heard about it, but that was not enough.

Karen felt sorry for the boy in an almost maternal way as she searched for him. She smiled at that. She and Ray had never had any children, which was no surprise—they couldn’t find enough time for each other in the relationship, so how could they possibly have introduced a wild card like a child?

Karen had wanted children, though. She and Ray had discussed it, but always conditionally. We’ll talk about it after this. Or we’ll wait and see how that turns out. After they had been married for five years, Karen had had the estrogen implant on the inside of her left arm removed, theoretically making her fertile again, but nothing had happened.

She looked for Ramis in the Japanese garden, the obvious place for him to have gone to find peace. But Watchers were there, planting some confiscated plants and inspecting the progress of the wall-kelp.

Karen found him on the darkened observation deck in one of the plush lounge chairs, staring out into the blizzard of stars. The smoky belt of the Milky Way swept across the view along the Galactic plane, but the spatters of outlying stars were impressive even in the dimmest areas.

Karen didn’t see him at first, with his dark hair, sitting so still in the chair. “Ramis?”

He didn’t get up. He must have heard her approach. “I’m just looking at the stars.”

She lost her voice, and had to cough before words would come out again. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I can’t stay here anymore.” His words sounded sad and devastated. “The embryos I brought with me will not be ready to go for a year. I cannot return to the
Aguinaldo.”
She didn’t know what to think, or if she should humor him. “I have found where I want to go.”

Then Karen saw he had raised a hand and pointed out the window. With the broad sea of stars, it was difficult to follow exactly where he pointed, but she knew he meant the brilliant point of light, brighter than anything in view.

“Look in the observation scope,” Ramis said.

She stepped forward and pressed her eyes against the cushioned eyepieces. The shining torus of the silent Soviet
Kibalchich
burst into view.

“Ramis, you can’t get over there—you can’t go over there. I don’t think they’ve made contact with us since just after the War. They warned everyone to stay away.”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t move in his chair. “I can get there. It is only a hundred kilometers. I can Jump.”

For the first time, Karen realized that Ramis was serious, not just fantasizing. Then a deep fear for him struck her. She put her hand on his shoulder; he flinched, then relaxed.

“Ramis, that’s too dangerous. It’s foolish! You can’t—” She cut herself off and remembered that Ramis had indeed flown by himself all the way from L-4.

“It can’t be any worse than here.” His next words were spoken in a soft, cold whisper. “The most frightening part is going to be asking Brahms for permission.”

ORBITECH 1—Day 37

In the director’s office, Ramis tried to remain still. He sat up straight and met Brahms’s gaze. Karen Langelier remained beside him, giving him moral support, but Ramis knew this was his show—the confrontation would be up to him.

Curtis Brahms smiled and steepled his fingers across the desktop. It was an annoying gesture he seemed to make often. He appeared warm and welcoming to his visitors, but he made Ramis’s skin crawl. Ramis had watched him eject two people from the airlock the day before. He could sense the anger, the violence of this man hiding behind his cool, efficient facade.

The acting director was cordial now, though, as if all those terrible things had been done by someone else. By bringing the wall-kelp, by distracting all the people on
Orbitech 1
with his heroic mission, Ramis had earned Brahms’s gratitude—at least enough for him to see the two of them when Ramis had asked, and to listen attentively to the
Kibalchich
proposal.

Brahms pondered the idea in silence. Karen said nothing, but Ramis was glad she was there.

Brahms took a deep breath. “Ramis, that is a fascinating proposal. I don’t know why none of us thought of it.” Brahms flashed the briefest of sharp glances at Karen, as if she were a scapegoat for all the researchers on
Orbitech 1.

“But listen to this last transmission from the
Kibalchich,
broadcast on the open band about three weeks ago.” His fingers spent a few moments working at the keypad, linking to the communications center log. Ramis and Karen remained silent, waiting for him. Brahms found what he wanted and played it over the set of desk speakers. “It’s voice only. We can’t even see for sure who was talking.”

He sat back and listened.

“This is Commander Stepan Rurik of the Soviet research station
Kibalchich.
We hereby sever all ties with other survivors on Earth’s space colonies. Do not attempt to contact us. We wish to remain isolated.”

Brahms drew his mouth tight. “We haven’t heard a word from them since. I’ve had my communications people try to contact them daily, but no one ever answers. I can’t tell if they’re just being stubborn, or if something’s happened to them.”

He frowned again. “And you want to go over there and investigate. My automatic inclination is to say no, it’s too dangerous. But then secondary thoughts kick in, and I come up with many different reasons why I
should
let you go.”

He held up his fingers, ticking them off. “First, I think it’s important for us to find out what happened to them, why they’ve broken off contact. Even if we were adversaries in the War, we could find some way to work things out, now that we’ve got so much to lose.

“Ah!” He smiled as if another thought had just occurred to him. “And you’d be going as a Filipino citizen, not as a representative of
Orbitech 1.
They won’t be able to hold anything against us.

“The second reason—if they all did die, it happened much too quickly for them to have used up all their supplies. Even though we now have the wall-kelp, the
Kibalchich
could have lots of other provisions just sitting there for the taking. Hmmm, although getting them back over here will be another problem.”

Karen spoke up. “I have an idea about that, Mr. Brahms.”

He looked at her and nodded. “Let me finish my reasons first, then I’ll ask.”