by John Rankine
It was not strictly true. Morrow had been the marksman and he was currently having trouble finding his way through the maze of corridors that the Darian had entered. But Carter was not in a mood to argue. As the pain subsided and his vision cleared, a red tide of anger burned out the lingering effects of the stun beam. He had taken enough. If he could get his hands on a weapon he would start with Hadin and blast every living thing in sight.
Almost as the thought formed, he saw where there was one. The Darian was still lying where he had fallen and there was a blaster in the clip on his belt.
The oldster was uttering pure gibberish, but the crowd of survivors were drinking it all in, waiting for the pay off line which would send another stranger to the death chamber. Backing away from Carter, the old man approached the Darian and began to wave his hands over the body. He was asking for forgiveness, explaining that Level Seven had not been involved in the act of sacrilege.
It was effective. The Darian moved. Reaction was out of all proportion. Some barbarians fell on their knees. A woman began a keening wail. Others backed off. The oldster stood his ground. After all, if there was any credit to be had, it should accrue to him. He said, ‘Spirit of science forgive us . . . Spirit of knowledge protect us . . . Spirit of Neman preserve us.’
Carter’s guards, as bemused as anybody else, had slackened their grip. He wrenched himself clear and took off in a sprint start for the Darian who had gotten himself off the deck and was sitting up. Before the man had time to realise, Carter was on him and had the blaster out of its clip.
There was a yell from the survivors. More sacrilege. More sin to expiate. They were rushing forward to protect the representative of the gods as Carter heaved him to his feet and jammed the blaster in his spine.
Carter shouted, ‘This is no spirit. Do you hear me? Look for yourselves.’ With his free hand, he ripped open the helmet seals and tore it from the Barian’s head.
It stopped the rush. There was a gasp from all hands. Bewilderment was almost comic as they stared at the human head sticking out of the bulky radiation suit.
Carter went on, ‘They have deceived you! This is only a man. A man like you!’
Expressions were changing. Nobody likes to be proved a fool. The Darian could read the signs, he tried to back away, fear growing in his eyes. The blaster shifted station and the muzzle ground into his left ear.
Carter said, ‘Your turn, Spirit, tell them how it is. Tell them what kind of spirit you are.’
There was no answer and Carter shoved the blaster hard home, ‘Don’t push me, Spirit. I’d rather blow your fool head off than not. Tell them the truth or I’ll throw you to them.’
‘No . . . no . . . please!’
‘Then tell them!’
It was no easy assignment. The Barian’s voice was choked.
‘It is true . . .’
‘Louder, Spirit. They won’t get the message.’
This time it was a hysterical shout, ‘It is true . . . I am no spirit!’
The effect on Hadin and his survivors was strange. Suddenly they knew it was true and a whole area of their culture pattern was in ruins. They began to move forward slowly. It was doubtful whether they separated Carter and the Darian in their thinking. They wanted vengeance for all the blood that their own superstition had spilled over the years.
Carter had a neck lock on the Darian and the man was struggling, ‘Let me go.’
There was not much time. If Hadin and his crew got to him, there would be no chance of question and answer, ‘You know where the rest of my people are?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘You will take us there?’
‘Yes.’
Hadin was only three paces off, swinging his club. Carter said ‘Wait,’ and shifted the blaster for a point blank target on the barbarian’s ID disc.
Hadin stopped. It was crystal clear that Carter would rather fire than not and even a body twitch would tip the balance. He held still with his club in mid swing as Carter went on, ‘It’s time you knew the score. This man will take us to the place of false spirits. Then, at last, you will know the whole truth. Who will follow?’
There was a pause as the crowd digested it. A lot had happened in a short time and the implications went deep. But they were not basically stupid. Carter could sense the tide turning his way. He took a calculated risk and turned his back on them, prodding the Darian with the blaster and driving him through the open hatch. Behind him, there was a stir of movement. When he looked around, the survivors of Level Seven, led by Hadin were moving forward to meet their destiny.
Confronted by the two data sheets and Koenig’s hard, challenging stare, Kara showed no sign of confusion. She glanced at the figures, crumpled the papers and tossed the ball neatly into a disposal bin. It was a gesture of finality. The chips were down.
Koenig asked harshly, ‘Is it true?’
‘Does it matter where we get those elements from?’
‘It matters!’
The brilliant eyes never wavered, ‘We would have told you.’
‘When? When it was too late for us to alter our decision?’
There was no answer, he went on, ‘A civilised people . . . why?’
She was stung to a reply, short, but all embracing in her book, ‘To live!’
‘The end justifies the means! Doesn’t it also matter how you live?’
‘Our experience on this ship has taught us the truth. The only ultimate truth. Survival.’
‘You cannot justify using the living bodies of your own people on a plea of survival. Who are the Darians to be that important?’
‘Not our own people. How could we? There are only fourteen true Darians on this ship. But others . . .’
‘Others?’ It was a new piece of information and Koenig rapped out his question.
‘Yes. There are others. They exist out there in the radioactive wilderness. They are the descendants of the original survivors. Only the top executive team were in the fully screened command area. The rest had to be left to die, there was no other action we could take. It was twenty years before we knew that some still survived. You cannot understand what we found when it was possible to make a search. A million years of civilisation . . . wiped clean in less than a generation. What survived were degenerate-creatures, mutants, savage cannibals.’
The proposition was clear enough. Anywhere, at all times and in all places, civilisation was hard won and hard kept, a thin veneer that could peel off and leave man naked to start over as a walking ape. But this time, there was a reservoir of knowledge that had not been lost and could have been used.
‘Why didn’t you help them?’
‘We could not reveal our presence. They would have overwhelmed us and all would have been lost. But we tried to help them to survive. We taught them the rudiments of science. We gave them a god to believe in. A god who showed them how to preserve only the fittest of the stock. The weak, the sick, the mutants were . . .’
Koenig’s contempt was cutting, ‘. . . were weeded out and used as human fodder for your converters. Recycled to keep the godlike Darians in business.’
For the first time, Kara was defensive, ‘That only became a policy decision when our own vital resources gave out. You still refuse to understand . . . we were the only true Darians left. We had to survive!’
Given the premise, the action had a logic, but Koenig said with heavy sarcasm, ‘You Darians put a high value on yourselves!’
She said quickly, ‘You think we did all this for our own personal survival . . . so that Neman and I and the others could continue to live?’
‘What else?’
‘There is a greater survival. Come. You will see what it is.’
Beside the computer bank there was a sealed unit which Bergman had not been able to unlock and Kara had to fetch Neman himself to operate a dual mechanism to which they both carried half the key.
In her absence, Victor Bergman said slowly, ‘What they have done is terrible, but there
is a certain harsh logic in it. The question is whether our people are prepared to integrate with such a community. We would change. They would change. Change in itself cannot be resisted, it is the very business of life.’
‘But we have to make the best choice we can. I am not satisfied that this is the best choice. Moonbase Alpha is finite. I accept that. But our community is in good heart. We don’t have to accept a bad risk. Not yet . . .’
Kara was back again, followed by Neman. Both moved to the sealed unit and used their keys. Kara stood clear like a conjuror’s assistant and left the top hand to show the marvel. As the panel slid away, the glowing interior dominated the drab surroundings. Glistening clusters of fibrous material were coiled in the familiar pattern of a double helix, the structure of the genetic core of the life principle. It was a gene bank.
Neman said. ‘Our mission is to survive this voyage, not for our own sake, but for this . . . our gene bank. It contains the undamaged genetic material of our race.’
Koenig said, ‘The Double Helix . . . it is also the basic genetic brick of our species.’
‘Then you will understand how important this is to us. We have kept it screened from the radiation that irreparably damaged our people. With it we can build up our race again. Pure, healthy Darians. When that is done we will be ready to leave the stage.’
Kara said, ‘That is why we need you, John Koenig. You have the resources we need to complete our voyage and save our race from extinction.’
There was no doubt on that score. Koenig could see that the Darians needed the Alphans. But there were two sides to the coin. Did the Alphans need the Darians that much or at all?
‘You have managed pretty well in your fashion without us.’
Neman said frankly, ‘Not for much longer. The mutant survivors are dying faster than they can replace themselves. If they die, then all life on this ship perishes and with it a million years of civilisation. Can you be content to allow that? Join us, John Koenig, put an end to this terrible thing we’ve had to do. It will guarantee our survival and your future.’
‘We shall consider it. As of now, we do nothing until you have found the rest of our people.’
Kara’s quick look to Neman was her first unguarded act. It did nothing to reassure Koenig. He spun on his heel and stalked out of the Command Centre followed by Bergman.
Alan Carter was prodding his Darian in front of him and Hadin’s band, though looking anxious, was still streaming behind in a ragged column.
Ahead of the field, Paul Morrow was using commando techniques, slamming open doors and going in with a rush to cover empty rooms with his questing laser. For his money, he could have become the only living creature on Daria. Rounding an elbow bend in a corridor that had a better maintained look than anything yet, his theory took a knock. There was at least one other. A Darian had walked smartly out of a hatch and was less than three metres off, a surprised man.
The Darian’s mouth opened for a warning yell which was stillborn. Morrow fired from the hip and black night filled the Darian’s eyes. He was still falling when Koenig and Bergman appeared from another door.
Morrow said, ‘Commander! He would have raised the alarm. They’ve got Helena . . . she must be somewhere around here!’
‘She was with Lowry. Where’s Lowry?’
‘Lowry bought it!’
‘Carter?’
‘I don’t know. He was hit. We got separated back there. But Helena was brought this way. They gave her a bad time.’
Koenig’s jaw set like a trap. Neman was still holding out on them. He must have known what was happening. In a cold fury, he went for the Command Centre.
Followed by Morrow and Bergman he stormed through the hatch. Neman was nowhere in sight. Kara was working at the computer desk. She looked up, suddenly anxious, it was clearly a hostile visit.
‘What is this . . . ?’
Speech cut off. Koenig had reached her and plucked her out of the seat, one hand clamped over her mouth. Hauling her head back, so that he could look into her eyes, he made the position deadly plain.
‘Listen carefully, Kara. We know how you have used those people out there . . . how you have exploited them. All right, that’s your problem and theirs. We make no judgement. But right now you Darians have taken one of our people, a woman. You will tell me where she is or one Darian executive ends her long voyage here and now.’
Fear showed in Kara’s eyes. It was all true. He would do what he said. He felt her frenzied nod of agreement against his hand and released the pressure.
Hardly able to speak she said, ‘Come with me.’
There was another door in the corridor from the gantry to the Command Centre and when the hatch was back, a waft of formaldehyde met them. It was a medicentre and one dedicated for special use. A line of mortuary tables carried four naked bodies preserved under a blue aseptic light. Not only were they dead, they projected the aura of absolute death. They had a curious, caved in, gutted look.
Bergman was on to it in a flash. ‘Transplant donors! Used as needed!’
Koenig hardly heard, he was fully committed elsewhere. Naked as any needle and strapped to an investigation slab, Helena Russell was wired up to a spread of monitors. The Barbarians in the cellar might be content with a manual check; but the sophisticates of the afterguard wanted a detailed scan before they used any part of her in their repair and refit programme.
Kara ran past him, flipped switches along the control panel and a rash of green tell-tales winked live. Helena stirred and groaned.
Koenig’s voice was quiet, but loaded with death, ‘What have you done to her?’
Hastily, knowing she was as near the end of the line as she had ever been, Kara said, ‘She’s reviving. Investigation procedures. She has not been harmed.’
‘Remove the leads.’
Koenig knelt by the bed and smoothed a swathe of honey blonde hair from Helena’s forehead. Her eyes were closed, but her breathing was deep and regular. The sleeping and the dead. What would he have done if Helena had been dead?
He stood up. ‘Give her your tabard.’
When it was done, Kara seemed smaller and older. The face was the same, but the body was seamed with faint marks of scar tissue.
Koenig said, ‘What is this place?’
Shrinking from him, Kara said evasively, ‘We Darians are sterile. Ever since the catastrophe we have had to prolong life by artificial means.’
Bergman said again, ‘Transplant surgery!’
Her face confirmed it. This time Koenig heard and understood. Rage almost choking him, he said, ‘This butchery! This is how you cling on to your lives? Is there no limit to what you Darians will commit in the sacred name of survival?’
‘Could we have done otherwise?’
Another angle had occurred to Koenig, ‘Was this the future you had in mind for the Alphans? To keep you Darians alive for the last lap of your journey? Was that the plan?’
He got an answer, but not from Kara. Neman and a Darian guard had come in unnoticed. They had blasters covering the Alphan party. Neman said, ‘Yes.’
The nearer he got to the heartland of the great ship, the more trouble Carter was having with his column. At the gantry, skirting the fantastic power house, he had to prop his Darian against a bulkhead to rally the stragglers.
‘What sort of people are you? Do you want to turn back now that you know the truth? Come on, Spirit, shout it out. Tell them there’s nothing to fear.’
The Darian mustered a croak. He was afraid of Carter and afraid of the confrontation that lay ahead. But he rightly judged he would have no part in the ongoing action unless he did what the Alphan asked.
‘You have nothing to fear. We are men like yourselves. The last of the Darians.’
Hadin and the survivors came forward. If anything, it was the fear in the Darian’s voice that convinced them. A true Spirit ought to be past concern for its own skin. There was a growl of assent. Carter moved on. There was an open hatch and the
Darian went for it. He muttered ‘Now we are entering the Command Sector.’
It was brighter, clearer than anywhere they had yet seen. Here, at least, it was possible to believe that Daria was a working ship. Two Darians, a man and a woman, leaving the operations area, turned into the corridor and saw the motley rabble filling the way from edge to edge and stood rooted in shock. After so many centuries, the crew had marched aft to see the skipper and from the look of the Alphan at the head of the column it was no social visit.
There was a pause while Hadin’s faction stopped also to look at the trim, uniformed Darians.
The Darians moved first. Unarmed, they made a run for it. Any psychologist would have told them it was the worst thing they could have done. They had put themselves on the level of the fleeing and hunted mutes. The survivors responded like a pack of hounds and were away, sweeping past Carter.
He let them go, turned his Darian to face the wall and clubbed him smartly with the bulbous end of the blaster. ‘Apologies, Spirit. But I don’t want you getting up to any dangerous practices.’ Then he was away after Hadin.
In the transplant room, Neman was using his tactical advantage to push his case. Earnestly, he said, ‘Think of it . . . all of you executive Alphans. Unlimited life. Our techniques are refined and perfected, this is no false claim. When the voyage ends, you will still be alive and your future assured.’
Icy voiced, Koenig said, ‘That is not our way, Neman. We will take our chances in space.’
Stung by the tone, Neman was angry in turn, ‘Do you think we wanted this? You must believe us. Once our race has been established on the new planet . . . we, Kara, the other Darians will gladly die.’
