Lifeline (41 page)

Chapter 60

L-5—Day 72

The sight from the external monitor showed the sail-creatures barely moving with respect to the rotating
Kibalchich.
Luis Sandovaal held his breath out of anticipation. The cluster of sail-creature bodies showed as glimmers against the starry sky. Sandovaal caught only a wisp of the organic sails as they extended across the gravity well, aiming for the heart of L-5.

The armada reached past
Orbitech 1
and the
Kibalchich,
like a giant piece of tissue separating two armies. The sails would not appear to be a formidable foe, but the symbolism in the gesture should be clear to everyone on the two colonies. Any act of violence between the
Kibalchich
and
Orbitech 1
would have to destroy the sail-creatures, and would thus be directed against the Filipino people as well.

Sandovaal pressed his lips together in a grim line. “Dobo, I hope you are ready to be brave,” he said into the direct communications link. “We will show these people that no one can stake a political claim again. Our actions affect all of the survivors away from Earth. We cannot behave like children on a playground.”

It was the only way they were going to survive, he knew. If anyone went against the unified body, then the human race might not survive.
United we stand, and all those other patriotic sayings,
he thought to himself.

Dobo’s voice came over the speakers. “I am glad you are here, Dr. Sandovaal. I hope Ramis will be all right.”

Sandovaal wondered why Dobo put up with so much from him here, so far away from the
Aguinaldo.
“I am glad you are here, too, Dobo,” Sandovaal whispered, but he kept his voice so quiet that he doubted Dobo could hear. Which was what he had unconsciously intended anyway.

Sandovaal watched the monitor. The
Kibalchich
and
Orbitech 1
continued to orbit around L-5. The sail-creatures slid between them, a wall of passive resistance.

Luis Sandovaal switched the monitor from external back to the open intercolony ConComm.
Orbitech 1
personnel yammered about the armada of sail-creatures being off course, but admitted that sails were difficult to steer anyhow. Sandovaal snorted. A separate window on the channel remained devoted to the ascent of the
Phoenix.

The
Aguinaldo
had done its part in bringing the colonies together. And now
Clavius Base
had joined in the task. Sandovaal envisioned all the colonies connected by a lifeline of sail-creatures and weavewires. He felt confident that his ploy would work in preventing the
Kibalchich
from any aggressive act—if, in fact, it could be prevented.

Sandovaal felt warm, satisfied that his life’s work had played an integral part in the unification. The rest of the journey, and even the remainder of his career back on the
Aguinaldo,
would be spent tying up the loose ends of his work. He punched off the ConComm and moved to transmit a message that he had altered his course on purpose.

But as he reached for the control, his right arm went numb, ice cold. All feeling stopped. He tried to flex his hand—nothing. No pain, no feeling. He started to twist and felt a stab across his rib cage, through his stomach.

Heart attack,
he thought.
Strange that I feel no chest pain. I must contact Dobo and let him know.…
He felt tired. Thoughts flashed into blackness, as if they were leaking out of his head.
Dobo. Yes, Dobo can carry on.
He had, after all, studied under one of the greatest biological engineers of all time.

Sandovaal coughed. Blood came out of his mouth, bubbling, boiling in tiny swirls and globules in zero-G. He had trouble breathing. Air whooshed past him. His eardrums pounded.

He noticed a small slit in the sail-creature cavity, growing wider. Air rushed out, water vapor crystallized, leaving a thin sheen of ice covering everything in the cavity.

They had flown into the weavewire.…

Unlike MacArthur, he knew he would never return.

As he died, Sandovaal cursed himself for his idiotic incompetence.

***

Chapter 61

ORBITECH 1—Day 72

Brahms exited the control bay with as much grace as he could muster to face the uprising. He held himself rigid to quell his anger and astonishment. His expression was like a mask of ice. The watchers in the control bay had bolted out into the maintenance corridor upon seeing the attackers—mutineers?—charge out the spoke-shaft elevators.

Two bodies drifted in the docking bay, surrounded by droplets of blood. They had murdered two of his Watchers! They had
killed
two people.

Brahms forced his outrage down. He wished he had his eyeglasses to hide behind, to make him look dignified.

Allen Terachyk floated up to Brahms. A mass of his supporters followed, and dozens more emerged from the elevator shaft. Terachyk wore a defiant, victorious expression.

Allen Terachyk—his only remaining division leader. They had all failed him—McLaris, Arnando, and now Terachyk. And Brahms himself had RIFed Tim Drury, perhaps the only one worth keeping.

As Brahms watched the approaching group, he drew himself up. He grasped the handhold on the wall, but found it slippery with his sweat. He would not—could not—allow the mutineers to know they had frightened him. It was the easiest way to lose control. He had come so close to bringing things back to normal, and now Terachyk was going to ruin everything. Brahms took a moment to center himself, to clear his thoughts. This was going to be the most difficult negotiation of his life.

The people behind Terachyk pushed off from each other. Brahms recognized a few of them, but couldn’t pin down names. The motion sent them spreading out in a pattern that surrounded Brahms, above and below. Two women hit the bulkhead and bounced back out into the shuttle bay, coming in over his head. They must have practiced the effect.

Brahms scanned the faces. Some had their eyes open wide with fear and uncertainty, others carried a righteous anger, some just stared back diffidently. He realized that Terachyk must have contacted the low scorers on the Efficiency Study and convinced them that another RIF was in the making. Perhaps he had also banded together those who had lost friends or family in the first RIF. What most surprised Brahms was that Allen Terachyk had actually done it. And he had chosen a time when the entire colony would be watching.

Brahms had never expected to see Terachyk, who moped about and did nothing but complain and wallow in misery, adopt any kind of cause—especially not one like this.

Terachyk hung in midair, facing Brahms, but a few inches below eye level. In the back of his mind, Brahms faulted him for that—as a psychological advantage, he should have tried to tower over the director. Brahms decided to use it to his own effect.

Terachyk waited until the shuttle bay became silent before he spoke. “It’s over, Curtis.”

Brahms’s mouth twitched. He debated how to play his own hand. “Before the fat lady sings? I appreciate your concern, Allen, but until the
Phoenix
arrives, we don’t know for sure we can connect the colonies. Your timing is a little off.”

“Nice touch, Curtis—but it isn’t going to work this time. Everybody here knows you were responsible for the RIF. It’s time to pay the piper.”

Brahms widened his eyes in a condescending expression. He used his position to glare down at Terachyk, ignoring the others around him. He felt so weary of all this. “I was responsible? I seem to recall you were there, too, Mister Division Leader Terachyk, and you did nothing to stop it. If you’re going to dump blame on me, you’d better take your own share.”

Terachyk blinked, caught off balance. “It wasn’t me who—”

Brahms pressed his advantage. “Shall we call up the minutes of the meetings and show all these people exactly how much you were involved?” He raised his voice so it would carry to all the other people in the shuttle bay, but he kept his tone even, conversational. He knew the minutes of the meetings would show little or nothing, but the gathered people wouldn’t realize that.

He didn’t let Terachyk answer. “Why do you insist on harping on the one bad decision and ignoring everything else? Do you think you would have been able to get the wall-kelp from the Filipinos? Do you think you could have gotten the sleepfreeze chambers from the Soviets? Do you think you could have established a weavewire link between us and
Clavius Base
?”

Brahms knew he was taking more credit than he deserved, but his life was on the line. “Really, Allen. Do you honestly think the other colonies are going to help us, unconditionally, if push comes to shove? What’s in it for them? Think! What does an alliance mean if everyone is not a player? The
Phoenix
is on its way, and so are the Filipino solar sails. We’ve got to have them in with us; otherwise, it will be one Lagrange colony against another—”

“At least we won’t have to worry about another RIF, dammit!” Terachyk was losing control.

Brahms felt confidence surge up in him. He tried to make his voice soothing. “Of course not. With everything I’ve done to help us survive, we’ll never have to worry about a RIF again.

“Allen—” Brahms turned to face the other mutineers. “All of you. We’re so close. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for the bad decisions that were made in the past. But if we’re going to bring in a new civilization, at least make sure we’ve got all our players in place.”

He set his mouth and waited. He hoped he had stalled them long enough to defuse the mob psychology Terachyk had whipped up in them.

The loudspeaker broke the mood. “Attention in the shuttle bay. ConComm reports one minute until
Phoenix
deceleration. We have lost contact with the
Aguinaldo
emissaries, and a salvage crew has been dispatched to recover them. They will rendezvous with
Orbitech 1
shortly after the
Phoenix
arrives. ETA is five minutes.”

Brahms spoke up even as the PA clicked off. “Well, Allen? Can you afford five more minutes, or will you bow to anarchy? Why don’t we wait and see how this all turns out?” Terachyk set his jaw; Brahms could see the muscles working in his cheeks. Around him, dozens of eyes glittered, staring, angry, uncertain.

Brahms sensed them faltering and tried not to show his relief.

***

Chapter 62

PHOENIX—Day 72

Cliff Clancy rubbed his palms together. His eyes shone with excitement. “Ready, Duncan?”

Duncan McLaris took an instant to whisper, “What if I’m not?”

“Ha, ha—funny man,” Clancy said.

“Shouldn’t we put our suits on or something?” McLaris asked. He remembered clambering into an unfamiliar space suit once before, watching Stephanie Garland to make sure he completed all his checks properly, helping Jessie into an oversized suit.
Diddy, it’s too big!

“If these engines don’t fire like they should, all the suits in the world aren’t going to make one whit of difference. May as well stay comfortable.” Clancy shifted his position in the deceleration seat. “My suit always smells like dirty socks anyway.”

“Huh?” When Clancy did not answer, McLaris checked the straps on his seat. He pulled in a lungful of the stale air. Clancy kept his eyes on the monitor that displayed the countdown. An hour before,
Orbitech 1
had stopped pulling in the weavewire, allowing the yo-yo drift in, but keeping the slack taut for the backward blast of the braking engines.

McLaris felt helpless, dependent on a dozen different people, any one of whom could destroy everything with a careless mistake. He knew all too well how easily people could make mistakes. A crew would be waiting to receive them outside
Orbitech 1,
ready to salvage or rescue—though if the engines failed, neither operation was likely. If nothing else, the “reception committee” would get a grandstand seat to watch the
Phoenix
plow into the shuttle bay.

Clancy cracked his knuckles, as if to distract himself from nagging doubts about the hydrogen rockets he had helped install.

McLaris didn’t react, though the noise increased his own anxiety. In his mind he kept playing over possible scenarios of his upcoming reunion with Brahms. Would the man greet him with a handshake, or with an execution squad?

Less than three months ago he had stolen the
Miranda.

Ten percent of the
Orbitech 1
population had been sent out the airlock in a reduction in force. Much had changed.

He tried to keep his mind open, optimistic—both deeds had been done, McLaris had suffered for it, and no doubt Brahms had suffered for his own actions. That was the past. If they wallowed too much in the past, they would never find their future. Now, with the
Phoenix
from
Clavius Base
, and the Filipino delegation arriving at
Orbitech 1,
he could sense an entire new era about to burst forth—a second stage for human civilization.

Surely Brahms could not hold anything against McLaris for so long.

A voice came from over the ConComm.
“Phoenix,
this is
Orbitech 1
. We have you at two hundred fifty miles. Begin your deceleration now. You have a ten-second window.”

“They’re right on the money, Clifford.” Shen’s voice came over the open circuit. “Do it.”

“There are going to be a lot of fireworks in five minutes if this doesn’t work.” Clancy moved to punch at the screen, ready to override the computer-driven command if ignition was not accomplished.

Hydrogen-oxygen rockets kicked in just as he reached out.

McLaris felt as if he were being squashed by a giant hand—months of lunar gravity had deteriorated his stamina for undergoing acceleration. He rolled his head to one side, and it pushed against the deceleration seats they had mounted on the “ceiling.” Clancy continued to stare straight ahead, trying to fix on the control monitors. His face seemed drawn back in a weird mask, a grin twisted all out of proportion by the pull of gravity.

It took an effort to breathe, but somehow Clancy grunted out a comment that McLaris heard even over the roar of the engines.

“Nothing’s gonna stop us now!”

***