Lifeline

Chapter 12

ORBITECH 1—Day 10

Most of the docking bay lights had been shut down, leaving the chamber in shadow. Curtis Brahms could still see the colored boundary lines painted on the metallic floor as landing guides for the shuttle-tugs. The doors of the six spoke-shaft elevators yawned open like caves.

Brahms gripped a handhold in the upper control bay, looking out the slanted plate glass windows. His reflection stared back at him at an odd angle from the tilted glass. He didn’t look fresh and young anymore, not a freckle-faced, overtalented kid who had risen too fast for his own good. Now the bags under his eyes, the less-than-perfect set of his hair, hinted at what he had been through in the past nightmarish week. He had to get this over with.

Brahms scanned the panels, looking for the right switch. “That one.” Linda Arnando, the division leader for Administration, pointed beside him, as if she knew what he was looking for.

“Thanks.” A bank of concealed white fluorescent lights lit up, reflecting off the silvery walls and floor. The wash of light made the entire bay seem harsh and barren, a tomb lit by probing searchlights. Brahms tried the switches to the left, but they only activated the rotating magenta warning lights. He shut them off quickly.

“We’ll have to make sure those are disabled,” he said. Linda Arnando nodded and searched for an override switch.

Brahms glanced at her. She was a hard-looking but attractive Hispanic woman in her mid-forties. Her long, dark hair was peppered with gray, and the unsmiling I-am-all-business expression made her seem older still. One of the top five managers on Orbitech 1, Arnando was now disproportionately more important to Brahms since Duncan McLaris had deserted and Allen Terachyk had started spending most of his time brooding. Even Ombalal had surrendered, making little effort even to play the figurehead anymore. But at least he had shouldered his responsibility one last time.

He had made the tape for broadcast, though he had refused to be present when Brahms played it.

In the control bay, Terachyk sat loosely buckled in a chair. He had been silent, avoiding Brahms’s gaze, his conversation, his questions. “I can’t help with this, Curtis.” Terachyk’s eyes looked shadowed and deep. “I refuse.”

Brahms stiffened and turned to the other division leader. “Find me another way, Allen—any other way—and I’ll do it. But if you can’t help, then shut up.”

Brahms had agonized for days, sweated blood, before coming to the only conclusion. He was terrified he might break down and change his mind even now, but that he could not afford to do, not for the survival of Orbitech 1. He didn’t want Terachyk to resurrect any doubts. The fate of the colony rested in his handling of the situation. Brahms did not relish what he was about to do. But he also did not want to lose Terachyk entirely. “I’m sorry, Allen. It’s just all the pressure, okay?”

Terachyk unbuckled and turned to leave.

“Allen, I really need your support right now. Ombalal agreed to tape a message to the station, explaining his reasons for the RIF.” Terachyk raised an eyebrow at the implication that the director had come up with the idea.

“But that won’t help me here.” Brahms clenched one fist, hiding it from Terachyk. Linda Arnando glanced at it, puzzled, but Brahms ignored her.

Terachyk hesitated, then pulled himself down again. “I won’t help. And I won’t watch.”

There were a few seconds of silence, which seemed to last hours. Brahms bit his lip. “Okay, if you feel that strongly. I just want you here, that’s all.” He needed a show of stability right now, not dissent. If the division leaders appeared divided, weak, the other workers would fall on them like wolves.

Terachyk would get over it soon—they all would. Somehow, they had to pull Orbitech 1 through this.

Brahms looked over the control panel again, trying to memorize every button, each switch. He didn’t have much time—the hundred and fifty people would start arriving soon. Brahms knew he was procrastinating again. He needed to master only a few of the controls. All the switches worked now.

It had taken the electronics people two full days to fix the damage McLaris had done. Brahms stared at the shuttle bay. It was empty. The Miranda should have been secured—right there!—in the central docking area.

Brahms’s stomach wrenched with the betrayal again. Somehow, McLaris had suspected what the associate director would decide to do. Somehow, he had known.

Brahms knew he was reacting irrationally, but he had never been stabbed in the back so viciously. He had clawed his own way up the success ladder, but he had fought fairly, according to the ethics of the managerial world.

Even the situation with Ombalal being the figurehead—Brahms respected the man’s position, though he still made it clear that he, Curtis Brahms, called all the shots.

Yet McLaris had not fought according to the rules—he had allowed his emotions to get in the way. He had hurt everyone, for himself.

Brahms tried to tell himself that the loss of the Miranda made no real difference. The shuttle was only a symbol, an imaginary hope that could have no measurable effect on the lives of the fifteen hundred workers. They would still be on borrowed time. The colony’s situation would not be improved.

The associate director gritted his teeth and clutched the corner of the control panel. He stared at the white light reflecting off the metal walls. It was bright, like his rage. He closed his eyes, seeing Duncan McLaris in front of the firing squad of his imagination.

He turned to Linda Arnando. She seemed preoccupied. They were all jittery. In his chair, Allen Terachyk just glared at them behind his black-rimmed eyeglasses.

Brahms found the intercom button on the panel and contacted the two attendants at the bottom of the spoke-shaft elevators. “Send them up.”

The attendants acknowledged; they didn’t know what was going on. Nobody else did either—only the three in the control room and Ombalal, but he didn’t count anymore.

A few moments later, the first of the spoke-shaft elevators opened up and ten people pushed out, looking curious but not afraid. Of course, what could they possibly be worried about? Brahms switched on the public address system. His voice ran out into the empty docking bay.

“Just move out into the loading area. We’ve got a hundred and fifty people to come. Let’s do this as quickly as we can. Thanks.”

Yes, let’s do this as quickly as we can. But the nightmares will bother us for the rest of our lives.

Even with the stress, Brahms kept a cool mask on his face, a gentle tone in his voice. The workers would believe him—the calm, benevolent associate director who could somehow find a way to save them all. They depended on him. Inside, his stomach turned.

Four women and six men emerged from the elevator. Brahms recognized some of them, but couldn’t attach names to any. He didn’t want to know who they were. He dreaded the thought of assigning faces to any of the names on the list. That would make them real to him, flesh and blood. He might not be able to handle that.

“Keep sending them up,” he said to the attendants.

When another load of ten disembarked, people started to cluster in the empty bay. A few of them knew each other. They all seemed baffled as to why they had been picked for this special event.

If they had enough sense, they could look around themselves and begin to figure it out. But mediocre workers were likely to fall into friendships with other mediocre workers, and none of them would dream that their performance didn’t measure up to standards. Certainly not.

The Efficiency Study did not lie. Brahms had used objective criteria. The workers gathering now in the docking bay had come out at the bottom of the barrel. They had no one to blame but themselves.

But part of him insisted that they were people, nevertheless.

Brahms watched them until he had to turn away. Some of them looked up at him. And Terachyk’s accusing expression seemed just as difficult to face. The people in the bay talked among themselves. Brahms switched off the PA system, sick at listening to their chatter.

“I wish I could find some other way,” he repeated to Linda Arnando. “I really do.” He realized he was beginning to whine. He sounded guilty, childish again. He could not afford that.

“I know,” Arnando answered.

On the fifth load, Tim Drury floated out into the bay. Because the Maintenance Division leader was so fat, only six others fit in the elevator with him. Drury hung by the wall. Many of the others didn’t seem to know who he was, but some took his presence as reassurance that one of Orbitech 1’s upper managers had joined them for the reception.

From above, Brahms stared at the obese division leader through the angled observation windows. Drury looked gray and damp, sickened. He moved slowly with his excessive girth, as if his joints pained him. Drury stared at the floor, jittery. Brahms felt his throat tighten, and he wished he had worn glasses, dark glasses, to hide his face. He knows!

Drury glanced up then, and their eyes met. Brahms felt his heart leap. He wanted to run away and hide, but he had to stand strong for Orbitech 1. He mouthed “I’m sorry,” but Drury broke the gaze too quickly.

Brahms closed his eyes. He locked his feet around the chair stem and softly pounded the side of the control panel with his fist. “Damn, damn, damn!” he whispered, over and over again.

According to the reports Brahms had received, only three people had declined his invitation and needed to be “escorted” by the guard team. They were the last to arrive on the elevators. Brahms did not give them a chance to worry the other workers when they emerged from the spoke-shaft doors, upset and indignant.

“Would you like us to come up as well?” the spoke-shaft attendant said, interrupting Brahms.

“No!” he said, faster than he could stifle the alarm in his voice.

“Okay. Everyone’s up, then.”

Arnando acknowledged for him. Brahms nodded to her briskly.

Arnando worked another set of controls. The four spoke-shaft doors pneumatically sealed into their jambs. With a muffled thump, heavy dead bolts shot into place, making the doors impenetrable.

Terachyk glared at her. Arnando turned away from him, aloof.

The people quieted, looking at each other and staring up at the observation windows from the control bay. Some floated up to Brahms’s eye level, waiting. Brahms wanted it all to be over with. He wanted them to stop staring at him.

He had sent out a special invitation to all one hundred and fifty of them. It had been printed on formal, official stationery and marked “In Strict Confidence.” Brahms had signed Ombalal’s name to each one himself: Come to the docking bay for a special announcement at precisely noon on the indicated date.

But Drury knew!—and still he took his fate bravely. Brahms felt sick to his stomach. He had had to put one of his friends on the list, to make the effort sincere. Brahms had taken the lowest 10 percent of the population—those with the worst scores on the Efficiency Study, the least satisfactory performance. Tim Drury had missed that list—many others had done a poorer job than he had—but Brahms had needed to show his impartiality, his honest desire to remove the deadwood wherever he found it.

Besides, Drury was obese. He didn’t necessarily eat any more than his share of food or move any slower than the others, but a fat man looked bad on a starving colony. All the factors had worked against him.

And if he had not needed Ombalal to pull this off, Brahms would have included his name as well.

He switched on the PA system and started playing the tape that would be heard throughout the station. Roha Ombalal’s wooden voice boomed over the speakers. The people stared up at Brahms standing behind the plate glass observation windows. He saw all their faces. Many were expectant; some were skeptical. Only a few seemed angry or afraid. Two men hung only inches away from him in the weightless bay.

“Orbitechnology employees—could I have your attention please?” Ombalal’s tape said. “You all know that Orbitech 1 is not self-sufficient. We were not intended to be self-sufficient. We are a commercial venture in space. Long ago, during the planning stages, Orbitechnologies determined that providing the amount of area required to produce enough food to sustain us was not cost-effective.

“And so, the area that could have been dedicated to agriculture has instead been used for material production. You can figure out their philosophy—food can be grown on Earth, but the things we make here can only be made here. We have merely a token capability to provide for ourselves. Orbitechnologies assumed the exchange would be profitable. Understand, I am not condemning their motives—commercial profit is the reason we’re up here in the first place.”

The mingled faces in the crowd mesmerized Brahms, and his eyes felt gummy. He would never forget them. Linda Arnando handed him a plastic bag of water. He took a sip and swallowed, coating his throat, as Ombalal continued.

“That leaves us in a desperate situation. We have fifteen hundred people aboard Orbitech 1. With regular supply shuttles, this number can be sustained. But we no longer have those shuttles, as you well know. Because of the War, we are limited to our supplies on hand and to the small amounts of food we can grow ourselves. We cannot expect assistance from the other colonies. As you know from the regular ConComm broadcasts, they are in the same straits.

“It will take too much time to significantly increase our own food production. We don’t have the resources, or the tools, or the experience. It boils down to this—we cannot possibly support the number of people we have. Given our current situation, our current population, we have less than four months left to live, even with strict rationing.”

The people muttered at that. Some started crying. Brahms could see it all from the window. Hadn’t they thought of this before? Were they still looking for the cavalry to come rescue them?

“Therefore, for the survival of the greatest number possible, I must propose a ten percent reduction in force—an RIF.”

Linda Arnando stiffened beside him. Brahms swallowed. There it was—no taking it back now. Allen Terachyk appeared devastated and sickened. On the tape, even Ombalal paused.

Some people in the crowd didn’t seem to understand, but Brahms saw Tim Drury drift against the wall, only to rebound. Tears welled in his eyes. Oh, God, don’t come over here! Brahms didn’t know what he would do if Drury came to face him on the other side of the glass. To look him in the eye, accuse him, stare at him.…

Ombalal’s voice continued. “Before we were thrown into this situation, for reasons purely irrelevant now, our Associate Director, Curtis Brahms, conducted a thorough Efficiency Study of every single employee and family member on Orbitech 1. Now that we are faced with a ten percent reduction in personnel, I am forced to fall back on the results of that study.

“I have been obliged to pick the one hundred fifty people who scored lowest on that evaluation.”

At last the workers knew why they had been summoned to the docking bay. One man grasped a handhold and pounded on the spoke-shaft elevator doors, but found them sealed and unresponsive. He shouted, kicking at the metal wall. Panic began to rise among the people. Tim Drury floated alone in the far upper corner, sobbing.

“Everyone deserves to live—but everyone won’t live. We are faced with a crisis, and I contend that if only some of us can survive, then it must be our best—the best of the best. Random selection won’t do that.”

Brahms worked at the controls, initiating the countdown sequence for dumping the main airlock.

The alarm klaxon shrieked like a beast in pain. Brahms jumped, startled. A metallic voice spilled out from the PA system. “The airlock sequence has been activated. Please evacuate the chamber at once.”

Arnando hammered at switches on the control panel. Brahms cursed himself—he had assumed that the warning horns were interlocked with the lights. The PA system fell silent again, but the hundred and fifty workers moved in complete panic. They tried to pull open the spoke-shaft elevators. Brahms thought they might crush each other.

Someone’s thrown shoe thumped against the plate glass window; the frame didn’t even vibrate. Brahms could see some of the people shouting and shaking fists at him, mouthing obscenities he could not hear. He did not want to switch on the PA system to listen to what they were calling him.

He was tempted to switch off the lights in the docking bay, to make the victims dark and faceless. He did not want to see them, did not want to watch their last moments of life.

But he had to—he owed it to them. He needed to make this action as difficult for himself as he could—such decisions should not come easy. His conscience demanded that he look into the faces of the people he was sacrificing.

Tears filled his eyes as the director’s thin voice continued. Brahms doubted if anyone listened anymore.

“You will never know, nor do you care, I think, the depths of my own sorrow at having to do this. It is not fair. It is not just. But it is necessary. This is survival for your friends, your companions, perhaps some of your families. We will hold your memories sacred. You are truly martyrs for all mankind.”

Brahms felt Linda Arnando put her hand on his shoulder.

He triggered the explosive bolts that opened the huge docking bay doors. The air rushed out like a hurricane, dragging everything with it. He thought he could hear a haunted collective scream of terror, of betrayal. He watched their faces, each one drowning in horror.

The hundred and fifty men and women of Orbitech 1 swirled out into the black mouth of space.

Brahms pushed himself backward to his chair, missed the seat, and continued to the cubicle wall. He shook violently, as if in the grip of a seizure. He knew they had only passed into the eye of the storm.

Allen Terachyk threw up in the rear of the control room. Globules of vomit sprayed throughout the air.

But, eyes closed, Brahms felt a strength growing in him—a white-hot steel band, newly forged.

He had done it. He had found the strength. He had accomplished what needed to be done.

Next time, he thought, it will be easier. It has to get easier than this.