by David Palmer
Only after positions, orbits, practically identical do maneuvering inputs produce results compatible with reasonable expectations.
Took me 26 tries to achieve docking. And wasn't until then that I noticed how quiet cabin had become; realized teasing, needling, good-natured, boyish laughter had died out quite some time back. Looked up to meet Harris's gaze.
"Ordinarily," he observed wryly, "I let my students learn how incredible they are from someone else. However, these are rather special circumstances.
"Candy . . ." Harris paused, shaking head slowly, ". . . you're making me look bad! I'm not going to tell you how many tries it took me to manage my first rendezvous and docking on a simulator like this—and I didn't have to figure out the theory first . . . !"
Kyril's grin was ear-to-ear. "You sure you not Russian . . . ?" he prodded. "I knowing you not looking Russian, but . . ."
"But now I'm going back into the software," interrupted Harris firmly, "and I'm going to install the antisatellite-missile launching program."
"Oh, that's being a really toughie," approved Kyril. Turned to Harris: "Trying again?"
Harris shook head. "Uh-uh, I'm not betting against her again. I didn't get where I am today by repeating mistakes. . . ." Paused, looked around cockpit; then grinned ruefully. "Let me rephrase that."
Too late by then for additional computer horseplay; time for bed. Time also to nibble at unsatisfyingly small store of high-protein, high-energy foods which, together with Tang (ick), comprised total nutrient inventory.
Then time to perform other necessary function—truly distasteful business: God obviously had gravity in mind when designed Man's bowels.
(And have I mentioned? Tidy, odor-free, NASA-designed unisex waste-collection system deemed excess weight; removal, viewed with cold practicality, no more than passing annoyance for those involved—inconvenience over in few days anyway. Meanwhile, am paying price for bladder-dumping logistics less conveniently arranged than males': Wearing my old friend, Foley catheter. Again. For "rest of my life." Whee.)
Close of long, exciting day. Experienced no trouble going straight to sleep; tied myself down with blanket, muttered posthypnotic trigger phrase, dropped right off.
Woke in middle of night just long enough to realize: Adults' slapstick enthusiasm, while surely mutually therapeutic, intended primarily for my benefit; Harris, Kyril spending all that energy to keep me from getting depressed. Discovery gave me warm, cozy, "loved" feeling, even though neither in hugging range at moment. Good boys, I thought drowsily; good stock—hoped passed on lots of genes while had chance, before getting mixed up in this. Knew Harris had three grown daughters; didn't know about Kyril.
Snickered sleepily to self: If only little bit older, would see to it they both died smiling.
And resolved to devote equal energy to keeping them cheered up as well: Who knows—might set up loop effect, positive feedback, mutual reinforcement. Be good for all of us.
Second day much like first, but slept later.
Earth visibly smaller; still heartstoppingly beautiful.
Harris, Kyril juiced up orbital-mechanics game as promised. Took me bulk of morning to score first hit. But success did me no good; once I got hang of it, they turned up wick still further by equipping target with antiantisatellite-missile missiles, plus dodging ability. Didn't score again that day.
But did notice C-rations even less filling.
And some things do not improve with practice: Found self hoping Heaven boasts gravity, sit-down commodes.
Third day repeat of second.
Crew's spirits held up well.
Scored intermittently during morning on orbital-mechanics game; didn't miss once during early afternoon, so boys put heads together to complicate things further. Wouldn't say what had in mind. Could hardly wait; wasn't video-game addict before, but this was challenging.
Hunger on way to becoming serious annoyance. (And became necessary to watch boys carefully to verify eating own rightful portions; both had this sweetly distressing tendency to want to treat me as Damsel In Distress. Caught them working shell-game variant to see I got lion's share.)
Still hated lack of toilet facilities; though output dwindling in proportion to intake—plus C-rations probably low on residue.
Nathan Hale arrived at rendezvous point on fourth day at 4:57 A. M. (Pacific Time Zone), just seven hours before bomb scheduled to start down, which meant up at 3:30 (again!). But did get to eat up bulk of remaining C-rations on waking ("Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow . . ." etc.).
Warming up ship's systems, preparing for OMS burn to circularize orbit, took about an hour. OMS burn short, sweet; start, stop, both on money.
Harris looked up as OMS shut down. Glared out windshield, face suddenly hard. "All right, let's find the bastard," he grated.
Activated pulse radar. Antenna covered 90-degree cone straight ahead, centered on ship's axis. Screen lit, remained blank.
Harris rotated ship on RCS thrusters to bring new section of sky into focus. Radar pulsed—and bingo!
Harris took careful range, bearing readings. Recorded figures, shut off radar with emphatic snap.
Smile wreathed face as unstrapped, pushed away from controls. "If you've got to do it for the last time," he breathed, "it sure feels good to do it right! We're just six miles behind it. Our orbit is so nearly identical that I can't read the difference. We're well within MMU range. Let's go get that mother before something goes wrong."
Kyril unstrapped, drifted free. "Is it visible from here?" he asked.
Harris unshipped expedition's sole pair of binoculars, pulled himself to windshield, peered in appropriate direction. "Yes, it's clearly visible through these," he replied. "Very low albedo; must be almost jet black. Wonder if the color's paint or that new material. Ominous-looking beast. . . ."
Unstrapped myself at that point. Started to push gently away from seat; changed mind, but hand slipped—found self hanging immobile, out of reach of everything. Smiled as realized had just committed science fiction's favorite neophyte's standard error. Glanced up to let boys tease me about it. And . . .
Blood froze in veins.
Suddenly everything happening in slow motion.
Eyes focused on Kyril, just drifting past, knife in hand.
Was perhaps two-tenths of second during which could have latched on, torn into him with everything have ever learned about fighting; ample time for even modestly-skilled karate student to save day . . .
But couldn't move! Could only hang there, mouth open, futilely trying to draw breath, scream warning, as reflexes warred within body.
Had been drilling for weeks with modified kata, sparring routine, working to eliminate lethal responses. But my system acquired intact from Teacher: his own—balanced, efficient; painstakingly developed by generations of greatest Masters over centuries; weaknesses long since discovered, rooted out. Now learned penalty for tampering . . . .
Conflicting responses held me immobile during fraction of second it took Kyril to glide out of reach, plunge weapon under Harris's left scapula. Commander went limp so quickly, doubt even felt it.
Then managed scream: "Kyril—NO . . . !"
Russian turned quickly, bloody knife still in hand; motion sent tiny quivering scarlet globules drifting across cabin to squish wetly against bulkhead.
Our eyes met; his contained wild look. No more than six feet separated us. Kyril firmly anchored to command seat with empty hand, both legs; poised to spring. I hung midair, out of reach of every handhold, turning almost imperceptibly about longitudinal axis—already sideways to him; soon would be completely backward to expected attack. Flailed arms, legs, trying to check, reverse spin—added tumble component instead.
Tactical situation growing less promising by the moment.
On point of triggering hysterical strength, turning job over to combat computer with instructions to give it best shot once Kyril within reach, when sanity returned to Russian's eyes. He glanced at knife, sh
uddered, flung it from him.
Felt surge of relief. But didn't lower guard.
Kyril smiled ruefully at me; then looked away quickly, shook head as if in pain. Shocked to realize sparkling beads drifting outward tears. More where those came from; Kyril dabbed at them absently. "Your General Sherman was right, Candy." He sighed. " 'War is hell.' I hated doing that."
He drew limp form downward, settled it in left seat, secured harness almost tenderly. "Hale was his last command; this is where he belongs," he explained, voice unsteady.
He turned back to me. "I wish there had been some way I could have kept you from seeing that," he continued, still speaking with difficulty. "I know that you were very close to him. But Harris was a good marine, an experienced old campaigner. I knew that I would be lucky to catch him with his guard down even once. I had to strike the moment the opportunity presented.
"Now"—Kyril turned back to instruments—"I don't think that it lies within the realm of reasonable possibility that a radio message sent from here would be heard by anyone listening at Vandenberg; that's clear on the other side of the world, after all. However . . ." tore open communications panel fascia; extracted circuit boards, gazed at them thoughtfully, then deliberately began breaking them into small pieces, ". . . I cannot take the chance. And fanatic though I am, I do not want to have to kill you in cold blood . . . .
"I said earlier that I wished I could have met you after you grew up. I meant it. I still mean it. I have never met a woman of any age whom I hold in higher esteem. Our children are educated from birth to understand, as I do, that we exist only to discharge our guardianship; that to sacrifice one's life in that endeavor is the sacred duty and privilege of every one of us—yet I doubt whether any one of them, at a comparable age, would have volunteered as you did. I do not exaggerate when I say that I was more stunned than McDivott when you stepped forward."
Kyril turned back from ruined radio. "There, that takes care of that. We both know that I could never watch you every second; this way I don't have to—nor do I have to kill you. There is no possible way for you to warn your friends."
Only then did situation's gravity sink in: Responsibility for mission's success, failure, now rested solely with me—no advice, no help, no backup. Survival of all but tiny handful of my people hung in balance (and earthquakes meant chances slim even for group in shelters); would be decided by my actions during next few minutes. Never in short, busy life have I felt so totally alone, inadequate, helpless.
Forced attention back to here/now. Realized Kyril speaking flawless, accent-free English; conclusion sent goosebumps up, down spine: To play rôle so convincingly, over so long a timespan; to get past AAs' drug-assisted hypnotic interrogation; to deceive Teacher, Peter, all those AAs—even muscle-reading Gayle—Kyril good at job. Faced first-class opponent.
Now understood why Harris kept lid on my karate skills. And grateful. Opponent still in dark, thanks to him; thought of me as ordinary child, apart from freakish strength. Experienced old campaigner, indeed—crafty: After working with him all this time, old marine still mistrusted smiling Russian's sincerity; held back final trump card—me.
Sure hoped Harris knew his business; awful lot riding on outcome—and now would be really bad time to learn was given to excess optimism regarding associates' talents, capabilities. Intended to do very best, of course; but wouldn't have bet penny on own chances at that moment.
But even as thoughts raced—searching for solution, weighing alternatives, evaluating risks—was already laying groundwork for whatever action might decide on: Feigned horrified, wide-eyed helplessness (didn't take that much feigning!); encouraged tears to come (damned nuisance in free-fall, too; stayed right where formed, pooling, growing deeper; interfered dreadfully with vision); plus began wailing in heartbroken tones.
"Bu-but why, Kyril?" I blubbered, swiping ineffectually at eyes. "This is crazy. Your people are all blown up. What good will it do to kill everybody now? What are you accomplishing? It's meanness for meanness' sake. It's dumb—it's just being a Dog-In-The-Manger. It's—Kyril! Don't ignore me . . . !"
"I am not ignoring you." Response came in unexpected whisper. Looked more closely. Russian in midst of deep-breathing exercise, apparently fighting for emotional control. "I would never ignore you. But becoming a hero of the people is not without cost. Just how much cost I had not realized. I had accepted death for myself. But Harris was the best friend I had among your people. He was brave, intelligent—'noble' is not too strong an adjective.
"He would have made a great Khranitel," Kyril finished mournfully. Suddenly he added, "No, Candy, my people are not all dead."
Heart skipped beat. "What . . . ?" I blurted; "how could anybody . . ."
"None of us died in the holocaust. Many of our subordinates did; but it was necessary to leak their locations to create a convincing illusion of our total annihilation. It seemed poor strategy to have you genetically superior hominems aware that we survived your retaliation."
" 'You genetically superior hominems'?" I parroted, not believing ears. "But—aren't you a hominem, too? What are you then? Who are you people . . . ?"
"No, I'm not one of you Homo post hominems," Kyril continued obligingly. "None of the Khraniteli are. Your people subjected me to a remarkable variety of tests in their efforts to prove or disprove the sincerity of my defection, but that one never occurred to them. Fortunately I was able to remain healthy and they never suspected.
"Because of my regard for you, I will tell you who we are and how matters have come to this sorry state. It can do no harm now.
"We are a small, meticulously screened, rigorously trained group of true humans—Homo sapiens, rightful owners of this planet. We discovered you and yours even before Dr. McDivott did. We studied you thoroughly. We learned your strengths, your weaknesses—we learned your genetic imperative . . . ."
Voice grew resonant; took on edge. "And we decided that we did not want to be replaced. Homo sapiens is a mighty race. We are not as easily brushed aside as was Neanderthal by Cro-Magnon."
"But we wouldn't . . ."
Kyril cut off protest almost midsyllable: "Not from malice," he said sternly; "nor by force. You wouldn't have to; you breed true: Sapiens/hominem breedings produce only hominem offspring; we have proven it. In a few generations you would have replaced us completely.
"So within the framework of the Bratstvo, but unknown to them, we formed the Khraniteli, the 'Guardians,' in English: a secret society within a secret society, dedicated to the preservation of true humans. Naturally, given the genetic realities of the situation, the only means of doing that was, and is, to eliminate you before you eliminated us.
"The Bratstvo, at the time we infiltrated and took over its direction, was working efficiently toward eventual world domination for ideological reasons, a goal with which we were in complete accord. But it was only a beginning; we encouraged their natural impulses and broadened the scope of their thinking. It didn't take too much psychology to bring them around to believing that they had invented for themselves the idea of starting over, unopposed, on an otherwise uninhabited planet.
"There were quite a few hominems in the Bratstvo already—though none ever realized that they were different from the rest of us. All were first-generation hominems, raised by human parents unaware of their potential. All were angry, disturbed antisocials, the type your people have labeled 'classic AB sociopaths.'
"But they were brilliant, so we put them to work in areas where their brilliance would be most effective. That new alloy that your scientists are so fascinated with was developed by our hominems. They were also responsible for most of the breakthroughs that led to the final design and construction of the vehicle which houses the strontium warhead."
Kyril smiled coldly. "They thought that what they were building was the ultimate ideological housecleaning tool. They never knew that they were creating the means of their own species' destruction. Naturally, we stationed them in locations known to you
r intelligence people during the attack. American missiles solved the problem for us.
"We were amazed at how many of you there proved to be after the plague eliminated all extraneous humans. Our studies suggested nothing like the figures that McDivott's group extrapolated, which seem to have been borne out by experience. But no matter; isolated hominems around the world are not a problem: Even if a few somehow manage to get under cover in time to avoid fatal overdoses at the outset, strontium-90 fallout is patient. It takes planning and preparation to survive two centuries underground; only we and McDivott's people are ready.
"We knew that he and his organization would come through the attack and plague intact—I was amused to learn that he hadn't known he was a hominem himself. So we leaked enough details about the strontium bomb's existence, and what it would take to stop it, to guarantee that he would have no choice but to try to launch a shuttle. We knew that he would have to gather every single member of his group there to accomplish it.
"I was planted on them both to keep an eye on their progress as well as to make myself an indispensable part of the mission. I was quite taken aback, upon being admitted into their organization, to learn that they had acquired far more information through their own efforts than we had leaked. Which meant that I had to watch my step; I had no idea how much they might know in addition. So I played absolutely straight, relying upon being able to stop the mission at the very last moment, as I have done.
"Now, there were only three facilities in the entire world equipped to launch an expedition of this type. The one in Russia, of course, is gone; that left the two in America. I anticipated that they would use the Vandenberg facility; being a military base, it is more completely, independently equipped than Cape Canaveral. And I was right. But it made no difference: In either case the outcome would have been the same.