by Garon Whited
“Do it. Hardy, you’re with me; we’ll prepare a rescue-and-salvage mission. Fleming, Lewis—back to work.”
The Captain and I went to get the Luna ready for launch. I made a note to get a connecting airlock of some sort rigged up; we had to suit up and go outside, then climb the ladder to the Luna’s airlock. We unsuited once inside; space suits have come a long way, but even softsuits aren’t convenient to work in, and I’m a big guy.
We were on the bridge of the Luna, ticking off checklists, when the Captain got my attention.
“Max.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“We need to have a private talk, and this looks like the best time to do it.”
I stuck the electronic clipboard into its slot. “Fire away, sir.”
“It’s about you and Kathy.”
I felt a sinking feeling in my guts that had nothing to do with gravity. It’s normally a good thing when Captain Carl is informal. Informal about someone’s love life is usually a good indicator of “informal warning.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“You’re aware that she is your superior officer. I’m not going to go over that. You both seem able to keep your personal feelings from interfering with your work; that’s all that I need to say on that matter. What concerns me is your mutual attachment. As much as it may go against our traditional values, monogamy may not be possible for what is left of the human race.”
I swallowed. “Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“Do you?” he asked. “I’ve been over this with Anne in some depth, and I still don’t fully understand it. We have three women, two men. A potential of six genetic crosses among us—fine. But the ones I sire—assuming the ladies are willing—will be no genetic relation to two-thirds of the ones you sire. This gives us many more possible crosses before we have to start inbreeding, assuming that you and I can survive long enough to become potential mates for each other’s daughters.”
I caught my breath and wondered if I’d heard him right.
“Yes, Max. It would be a May-December sort of thing, but I don’t know of any fifty-year-old man who wouldn’t like to have a sixteen-year-old girl. I’m not saying it would be required, but it would help.
“Now, we may be able to avoid this morally-questionable program of engineered breeding. If luck is with us, we will find survivors on that satellite. Perhaps other survivors on other satellites. With enough people in the gene pool, we may be able to retain some sense of moral propriety.”
“I hope so, sir.”
He smiled. He actually smiled. I could hardly believe it.
“I understand your feeling, Max. The concept of coldly crossbreeding humans has been much on my mind, much to my dismay.” His smile went away and he changed topics.
“I also understand that you don’t take the burden of command very well. This much, at least, you must understand: While in this position, I can recognize neither ethical limitations nor moral scruples.” He looked at me keenly, and there was a coldness to his eyes that frightened me. Yes, frightened. “If it were necessary to kill every person aboard that station to preserve the safety of this base, I would not hesitate. Not even at the cost of my own life.”
I gulped. “Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t think you understand it, but at least you’ve been told,” he mused. “That will have to do. But listen to me,” he said, sounding harder and more formal. “The people aboard that station—if alive—may prove to be more numerous than we are. That is a good thing; we need more people for an adequate gene pool. But they may prove to be unwilling to accept integration into our base; they may decide they want to run things to suit themselves. I hope that is not the case. I hope they are disciplined and smart, willing to follow competent and intelligent authority.
“While democracy is a fine thing, it is completely inappropriate when any mistake can cost the mistake-maker his life—and force the rest of us to pay the same price for his foolishness. If these people do anything—anything at all—that strikes you as remotely rebellious, contentious, or adversarial, your orders are to kill them.” He looked me in the eyes as he spoke and I’ve never heard a more stern and inflexible voice.
“Lieutenant Commander Maxwell Hardy, acknowledge your orders.”
I’ve never been ordered to kill a man. Build things for that purpose, yes. Blow up things for that purpose, yes. Design things for that purpose, yes. I’ve even shot at people, maybe even hit a few. I’ve never been ordered to execute anybody.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I whispered. “Roger and wilco.” I simply agreed, mainly out of shock.
Captain Carl smiled again and looked less like a piece of rock. He went on in a gentler tone.
“Max, I’m glad you agreed. Now I can tell you another reason we need to be careful.”
I was still wishing the gravity were stronger; my stomach wasn’t happy.
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’d be willing to bet that the complement of the station is mostly, if not entirely, male. We may be about to invite fourteen Russian men to live with us. There are only three women. I don’t think the men will take kindly to being told ‘no,’ nor do I think they will take kindly to being given orders by a Fed. Such things as nationalism are behind us, now—must be behind us! —but I have to consider how they may feel about it. Since you’re going to be the man on the spot, the decision of whether or not you want them on my base will have to be up to you.”
“Me?” I gasped. “Why me?”
“Because I’m not entirely sure colonel Edwards can kill a man in cold blood,” he answered, bluntly. “She’s a fine fighter pilot, and her hand-to-hand skills are exceptional, but I don’t know of any incidents where she’s been called upon to kill in personal combat.
“But you, with colonel Edwards—Kathy—doing the piloting… I am certain that you can kill a man if there is a need.”
I stared at him. I was trembling. My brain finally caught up with the conversation. Did he really think that I had a murderous streak wide enough to… to… to slaughter over a dozen men? It would be easy enough, yes—just stay suited up during the trip, let them come aboard and strap into seats and sleeping racks, then open the relief valve to vent the cabin. But where did he get the brazen crust to assume that I would be, could be, capable of such a thing!?
“Sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “I am not certain I can carry out those orders.”
Captain Carl looked at me with that smile again. It struck me that it wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of a man standing by the gallows and trying not to cry.
“Max, I cannot abandon the base, not for any reason; I am in command. You must go. I am sending Katherine because she has inhuman reflexes—and because she is also a woman for whom you deeply care. If you don’t carry out your orders—if you let a dozen hooligans loose in my base—then she’s likely to die after being raped. If she’s lucky.”
He picked up his clipboard and climbed out of the seat. I just sat there, not thinking, not moving.
“You’re a good judge of character, Max. I leave it in your hands,” he said, and went aft.
I stared out the cockpit windows for a long time, not really sure what I was feeling.
Chapter Six
“The dead cannot cry out for justice; it is a duty of the living to do so for them.”
—Lois McMaster Bujold (1949-)
It’s no fun to hold life and death in your hands.
I don’t like to shoot at people; I don’t like to be shot at. But at least that’s something that happens quickly, often before I have time to think about it. Someone shoots at me, I shoot back, and I’m so glad to be alive that the fact I just killed someone doesn’t seem so bad.
I had the problem of too much time to think.
Tchekalinsky Station was, technically speaking, an international satellite. True, the United Soviet States were mostly the ones who maintained it, but there could be any number of nationalities aboard—and every person a spacer or scient
ist. It was very likely that the majority of the people aboard spoke some dialect of Russian. There could be fourteen people still on the big, spinning wheel, and every one of them would be desperate to get off of it.
If they didn’t hop when I said “frog,” I was supposed to kill them.
During the two-day trip back into a lower orbit, I thought about it a lot. I began to understand what Captain Carl meant about not recognizing morality or scruples or whatever.
What would happen if I let on that their survival depended on good behavior? Why, anyone with half a brain would behave… at least until we landed at base again. I couldn’t even hint that they were being watched and weighed and judged!
Kathy and I discussed it on the way. It’s not like I could have kept it from her; she knew something was on my mind. But I think Captain Carl underestimates my dangerous little hummingbird. I think she could kill a man—or a dozen men, if she had to. Kathy agreed with Captain Carl’s assessment and offered to help. She didn’t seem in any way put off by the idea of mass murder, either.
A threatened hummingbird goes for the eyes. My half-joking remark is more apt than I expected.
If I have to kill someone, or several someones… I’m not going to like it. It helps, I think, to know that someone else, right there, in the same situation, will nod and agree. It will be my job to turn the valve or blow the lock or whatever—I’ve been given the responsibility, and I’ll take it—but it helps that Kathy won’t think I’m… It helps that she agrees it may need to be done.
I don’t like being judge, jury, and executioner.
* * *
Tchekalinsky Station was a large, slowly-rotating wheel. Inside, the spin gave it an artificial gravity of sorts, about a half-gee at the rim, allowing people to spend longer in space without bone and muscle deterioration. It required that ships dock in the central hub, though, to avoid unbalancing the station and stressing the docking ship.
From the look of it, the whole station was low on power. The docking bay was black as night and as inviting as a tar pit.
“Tchekalinsky Station,” Kathy said into the mike, “come in.” We had the Luna’s directional radio antenna out and we were blasting on all frequencies from a thousand meters away. It was like shouting in someone’s face. If they had anything with more sensitivity than a toaster, they would hear us.
We got nothing but that annoying static S.O.S.
“What do you think, Max?”
“I think we need to pull up closer and see about flashing a landing-light in a window. I’d like to know whether or not anyone is there before we try to dock. Maybe they can turn on the lights in the bay.”
Kathy touched the thrusters. The Luna drifted slowly forward and to starboard until we were right beside the outer edge of the station, maybe ten meters away. It was like standing by the edge of a gigantic water wheel and watching it roll upward. Windows marked the hull at regular spaces and Kathy switched on the landing lights to shine into the darkened portals as they rolled past.
I saw a face, a man’s face, pale and bloodless. It was only visible for an instant as the light swept over it, but it was like seeing the Moon through a sudden break in clouds. I had only a glimpse, and then the station’s motion carried him into shadow.
“Max!” Kathy cried.
“I saw! I saw!”
“What do you think—” she started to ask, but cut off at the next window. There was a confused montage of people, all crammed up against the glass, eyes and mouths wide and round. Some seemed to be shouting, others weeping, and the rest staring dumbly.
“I think we’ve been seen,” I said, staring up through the overhead ports as they were borne out of sight.
Kathy touched the thruster controls again and we drifted sideways toward the docking bay.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll see what the bay looks like before we try docking. If they can’t power it up, I’m not locking on, though.”
The outer doors were already open, and the landing lights illuminated the bay in white glare and harsh shadow. Nothing seemed out of place, just powerless. It was a high-tech cavern.
“What do you think?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure you can mate our lock to theirs whether it’s got power or not, but how do we know if there’s atmosphere on the inside of their lock? The idiot lights won’t be working and I don’t want to put pressure on a door the wrong way. These civilian stations don’t have mechanical gauges, and I don’t trust their construction.”
Kathy frowned in thought. “All right. I’ll pull into the bay. You go EVA and explore. If you can get in, go ahead. If they can power up the bay, it’ll save us a lot of time and effort.”
“I’m on it.” I was already in most of my softsuit; I just attached the gloves and donned the helmet. The softsuits emphasize mobility and visibility, but they’ve still got a long way to go. Going outside the spaceship may require the astronaut to grab for a handhold in an emergency. The tradeoff is they aren’t as tough as the hardsuits. They’re still heavy and durable, but they’re not designed for the rigors of the lunar surface. The designers felt that was reasonable. With no way to fall, it’s hard to hurt yourself accidentally. And even a hardsuit wouldn’t stop a meteorite.
Kathy nudged us gently into the bay proper while I checked the pressure seals.
“Radio check,” I called.
“Roger. While you’re exploring, I’ll bring Captain Carl up to date. Over.”
“Roger that. I’m heading into the lock. Call me when you want me. Over.”
“Roger and wilco,” she answered, and blew me a kiss. Darn spacesuits. “Out.”
I slid into the cabin airlock and cycled it. The outer hatch popped open smoothly—I was proud of it, even though we hadn’t managed to build a window into it yet—and I gently guided myself out. The docking bay wasn’t much bigger than the Luna; I only had about two meters or so to drift before I reached the station’s lock.
The controls were fine, just powerless. I started pumping the manual release lever. If there was air inside the lock itself, the pressure would hold the door closed. If not, I should be able to push it in and enter the lock. Then, after closing the outer door again, I could turn the manual valve and then open the inner door.
The thought of the dead man bothered me. Opening up this can might not be a good idea. It was going to be difficult enough dealing with people I might have to kill without wondering who among them was already a killer. Still, there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation, and there really wasn’t a choice. There were people aboard and they needed help. I’m sure Captain Carl would agree, if only because we needed a larger gene pool. As for me, I’m a softie, I guess.
I worked on the lock for about five minutes before the door swung inward; the pressure inside the lock must have been very low to begin with. I pulled myself in, shut the door, and turned the valve. Air hissed into the lock. Well, they had internal pressure, at least. I wondered what happened to darken two-thirds or more of the station. The warhead electromagnetic pulses, I supposed. The larger the metal structure, the more of a jolt the EMP delivers.
“Kathy?”
There was a pause. “Here, Max.”
“Promise me something.”
“Anything, Max.”
“If some alien creature grabs me by the face and implants an embryo next to my aorta, make sure this movie is just a tragedy and not a horror flick, okay?”
She chuckled. “Spooky in there, Max? I can’t see much through your helmet camera.”
“All I have is this idiot helmet lamp. Have you ever been in zero gee in a metal box with just your helmet lamp for company?”
“No.”
“Yes, it’s spooky in here. I want to go home, mommy.”
She laughed. “All right. If you get turned into an alien incubation victim, I promise to back the ship out and blow up the station. Fair?”
“Eminently so. I’m opening the inner door.”
“Roger.”
Th
e inner door swung open and I was attacked.
Well, okay, I was actually grabbed and hugged by a bunch of people. It’s hard to hug a man in a space suit, even a softsuit, but they managed.
* * *
The only person who didn’t try to be touchy-feely was a big, blond man, obviously the Guy In Charge. He introduced himself as “I am Yakov Petrovich, Gaspadin Hardy,” with a big smile and a knuckle-cracking handshake.
“Pleased to meet you,” I replied, returning the grip as best I could. The gloves made it awkward.
“Allow me to introduce you, yes?” he offered. “This is my assistant, Karl Meinrad,” he continued, indicating a small, nervous little fellow with dark hair. “He is one of our astronomers, and my second in command. After him is Galena Mishenkova, a cosmonaut of the station. She has much responsibility in repairing the station after the disaster.”
I nodded to Karl, then to Galena. “Hello to you both. Galena—may I call you ‘Galena’?—you and I have much in common. I look forward to comparing notes with you; I’m in the same line of work.”
Galena nodded, guardedly, and glanced at Yakov. “I am sure I will be pleased to discuss with you,” she replied. She had short brown hair and green eyes; she looked tired. I didn’t blame her a bit; the rest of the people on the station probably weren’t much as mechanics.
Yakov continued with his introductions. I met Sara Adams, an English microbiologist—a nice lady with dark blonde hair, a bit on the heavy side, with a slightly-furtive look—and Svetlana Armanova, a Russian astronomer. Svetlana stood out among the station survivors; her hair was bright and golden, and she was easily the smallest person in space. She could have bought her clothes in a children’s’ department, if children curved that way.
The last of the introductions wasn’t really an introduction, as such. It was more of a briefing. Her name was Kiska Voronkova, and she didn’t even look around at the sound of her name.
“She is much disturbed,” Yakov told me. “She saw the bombs, watched the destruction. It has affected her mind.”
I waved a hand in front of Kiska’s face. Nothing happened, not even a blink. Her eyes stayed unfocused. I looked her over. She was dressed in a shipboard jumpsuit and her hair was tied back. She needed a bath, but they all did; their water recycling was marginal. Aside from that, she was quite attractive. Dark hair, black eyes, and delicate hands. I started to reach for one hand and Yakov caught my wrist.
