by Allen Steele
A brief pause, then the duty officer comes back online. “That’s it. Do you want me to open the card?”
Dana’s breath shudders as she lets it out. “No thanks. Just download it to my pad. I’ll look at it the next chance I get.”
“Will do. Lima Cherokee Ten over.”
“Thanks. Charlie Eagle out.” She clicks off, borrows another moment to gaze through the window. Uncle Art’s the family patriarch; her late mother’s youngest brother, old enough to remember when black people in the South were sometimes called bad names. He’s still alive, yet only a small handful of family members and close friends know that he now lives in a hospice in Pensacola. He’s barely able to remember his own name, let alone send a lucid voxcard to his favorite niece.
Dana glances at a wall chronometer: 2400 EST, exactly as she anticipated. All the proper code phrases had been used. Best of luck. Don’t call back. File attached. Goodbye.
Goodbye, indeed. One way or another, she’s committed now.
She pushes away from the window, glides across the compartment to a ceiling hatch. She enters the hub access shaft, barely touching the ladder rungs as she floats upward through the ship’s core. She passes Deck H4, where the command deck is located, and H3, the life-support center, and H2, the engineering section, where her own team are going about their business, until she reaches the hatch leading to H1, at the top of the shaft.
The outer pressure door is already open; Dana presses a stud on the bulkhead, and the inner hatch divides in half, revealing a short corridor leading to another hatch. She pauses to touch her headset again. “I’m in the ring, going off-line for a few minutes,” she announces on the common frequency. “Be right back.” She switches off the headset. No further explanation is necessary; everyone will assume that she’s visiting the head.
The corridor takes her to a circular passageway leading to the ring modules. Dana floats to a hatch marked C2. Opening it, she glides through a manhole in the module.
C2 is one of the Alabama’s two hibernation modules: four decks stacked one atop the other, each deck containing fourteen biostasis cells. Folded down from their wall niches, their lids open, the fiberglass cells faintly resemble coffins, a similarity Dana finds unnerving. Through a window on the opposite side of the deck, Dana can sees the dry dock bay.
No time to waste; if she remains off-line for too long, someone in Launch Control might get suspicious. She moves to a console beneath the window, pulls out the recessed keypad, quickly taps instructions into the module’s secondary computer system. A flatscreen lights, displaying the main menu; she touches the button marked PROGRAM INSTALL, and the screen shows a list of options beneath a password prompt. Dana enters her clearance number, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out her pad.
As she hoped, the duty officer has already downloaded the voxcard she received from “Uncle Art.” She clips the pad against the console’s serial port, then opens the photo that came attached to the voice mail message. The picture that appears on the pad’s screen is of Uncle Art’s family, taken during a reunion picnic several years ago in Pensacola; what the casual viewer wouldn’t know is that the digital image contains an encrypted file.
A few deft strokes, and the information is fed into the computer’s backup memory. Once it’s in, Dana takes a few moments to decrypt the file and double-check its contents. Long, dense lines of information appear on the screen. Satisfied that the info is secure, she saves it in the system under a password, then unclips the pad from the console, stows away the keypad, and shuts down the board. With luck, no one will ever know she’s been here.
Dana climbs headfirst down a ladder to the deck below, then enters a horizontal tunnel leading to the next module. C3 is one of the two modules devoted to crew quarters: racks of narrow bunks, tightly packed together between storage lockers. She’s not looking forward to sharing close confines with 103 other crew members; with luck they won’t remain aboard the Alabama for very long after they come out of biostasis. She locates the head, takes a moment to flush its zero-gee commode. The minute change in air pressure will indicate to the duty officer that someone has just used the toilet on Deck C3B; that will help substantiate her alibi.
She lets out her breath. One more task completed. There will be more over the course of the next twenty-four hours, some even more difficult than this, but for now…
A sharp double beep in her headset; someone’s trying to page her. She switches the comlink back on. “Charlie Eagle, we copy.”
“Charlie Eagle, Lima Cherokee Ten. Where are you right now?”
“Charlie Three Baker. Is there a problem?”
An uncertain pause. “Ahh…yeah, there is. We’ve detected a glitch in Charlie Two’s backup computer. You know anything about it?”
MERRITT ISLAND 7.5.70 / T-20.21.01
“Name, please?”
At first, Wendy doesn’t hear the man who’s come up beside her. She’s staring at the row of flatscreens along the wall of the ready room. Most display long bars of coded text—the major events of the prelaunch countdown, slowly scrolling upward one by one—yet the screen in the center, the largest one, depicts something different: an overhead shot of the Alabama, hovering within its orbital dry dock. Every now and then, the screen changes, showing a different view of the giant vessel from another angle, yet never once has it looked like anything except a plastic model cobbled together by a somewhat talented child. Hard to believe that she’s about to board the thing…
“Miss? Excuse me? Your name, please?”
She looks around, finds the white-suited technician standing next to her. She can barely see his face through the plastic visor of his hood, but he doesn’t seem very much older than she. There’s a small mustache on his upper lip, which makes her dislike him almost immediately; she’s always distrusted men who have mustaches. Probably because the first counselor at Camp Schaefly who tried to rape her wore a mustache. And this guy is almost the same age.
“Gunther, Wendy.” She picks up her I.D. badge from the bench where she put it, holds it up. “See? It’s right here.”
The tech barely glances at the badge. He tries to hold the rigid smile, yet when their eyes meet for a moment, she can see the irritation in his face. “Thanks,” he says, then he studies the pad in his right hand. “Sorry to bother you, but there are just a few things I need to ask…”
And again, the list of questions. Have you ever had tuberculosis, diphtheria, rheumatism, chicken pox, gonorrhea, herpes, AIDS, or any untreatable form of cancer? Have you been inoculated within the last twelve months for the following, et cetera. Have you eaten any food or consumed any liquids within the last seven hours? Have you had a bowel movement within the last hour? Have you urinated within the last hour?
So forth and so on; she answers no, yes, no, yes, no, while her gaze wanders around the crowded room. All around her, nearly two dozen men and women, along with a small handful of children, are seated on hard plastic benches. Like her, everyone wears one-piece isolation suits with the Alabama mission patch and the Republic flag sewn on the shoulders. One of the kids, apparently eager to become a spacer, has already put on his hood, but no one else wears theirs yet. They’re not due to board the Jesse Helms for another five hours; until then, it’s going to be a long wait in the isolation ward of the Crew Training Facility while the docs give them their final inoculations.
Wendy knows almost none of these people. She’s met them all, of course, over the course of the last few weeks, while she’s undergone crew training both here and in Texas, but she can’t truly say that she knows any of them. With the exception of Barry Dreyfus—there he is, across the room, sitting with his mother—none is her age. Spouses and children of Alabama’s flight crew, loyal members of the Party, ready to carry the flag across the galaxy for love of God and…
“Have you had any sexual contact within the last forty-eight hours?”
Wendy glances up at the tech. “What? What did you say?”
“
Have you…pardon me, have you had any…?”
“You have my background, right?” she asks. He glances at the pad’s screen, nods. “Then you know I’m fourteen years old. What do you think?”
Nearby, a couple of other crewmen turn their heads, listening in on the conversation.
“It’s just a…sorry. Never mind.” His gloved finger hastily stabs at his pad; Wendy’s faintly amused to see a white fog of perspiration appear within his faceplate. Poor guy’s flustered, she thinks. Good. Serves him right. “Umm…I think we can skip the rest,” he mutters, his voice nearly inaudible through the hood’s grill. “Just one more thing…who are you traveling with?”
Now it’s her turn to look away. “No one,” she murmurs.
“Pardon me?”
“I’m not with anyone. My father’s already aboard the ship.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t…”
“My father is Eric Gunther,” she says impatiently. “Gunther, Eric, ensign, FSA, life support. He’s already aboard the Alabama. I’m flying up to meet him. What else do you need to know?”
And please don’t ask the obvious questions, she silently adds. Like why I was added to the crew roster at the last possible minute, or why I was trained independently from my father, or even why I practically haven’t seen him three months in the last eight years, after he abandoned me after Mom died and left me to rot in a government youth hostel. Because, swear to God, I don’t know the answers either.
Long silence while the tech studies his pad. From the corner of her eye, Wendy can see Barry watching her. Nice guy; quiet, reserved, keeps his hands to himself. Maybe they’ll get to be friends once they get to wherever they’re going. But Wendy has kept everyone at arm’s length during training, because the last thing she wanted was to screw up somehow; that would have meant being shipped back to Camp Schaefly, the humid dorms packed with all the other cast-off and unwanted kids, where you spent your days in paramilitary drills and slept with one eye open. Because whatever waits for her forty-six light-years away, it can’t be anything worse than Missouri…
“Yeah, okay. It’s all here.” The tech snaps the pad shut, steps back. “Shuttle launch is in about five hours, and you’ll get your final briefing before then. When your name is called, you need to report to the front of the room for final medical inspection and your shots. Until then, you can take a nap, read a book, anything else. Understand?” She nods. “Any questions?”
“Can I…” She hesitates. “I’d like to step out. Just to…y’know. One last look around. Catch some air. That sort of thing.”
“Sorry.” His head shakes within his hood. “You know the rules. You’re in quarantine.” He hesitates, then offers his hand. “Good luck, Wendy. I envy you.”
If you knew anything about me, she says silently, you wouldn’t be saying that.
“Thanks,” she says, and takes his hand. “I’ll send you a postcard.”
Hope you’re patient, she adds without saying so. You won’t get it for another 460 years.
SOUTHERN GEORGIA 7.5.70 / T-20.42.45
Gliding a couple of inches above its elevated track, the maglev passenger train races through the forested hill country south of Macon, its spotlight piercing the thin haze above the superconductive monorail. As it rushes past one of the innumerable shantytowns sprawled across the countryside, a squatter warming himself by a trash can fire notices that the train has only two cars and that they have steel slats bolted against their windows. He stares at the train long after it has vanished, silently reflecting on the fact that, as hard as his life has become, it could be much worse.
A sudden vibration awakens Jorge from his restless slumber. Raising his head from where he had propped it between the edge of the seat and the window, he studies the compartment with weary eyes. Crammed together in every available seat are men, women, and children. Most are asleep—wives huddled against husbands, kids dozing in their parents’ laps—but some are awake. Staring through the window slats, they watch the occasional lights that swiftly pass by, their faces taut with anxiety, exhaustion, hopelessness. Precious little baggage in the overhead racks; only a handful managed to take anything when the Prefects came for them. Judging from what little conversation Jorge has overheard, some of these people were taken off the street, arrested while leaving restaurants, shops, even their own homes.
D.I.s, each and every one. Scientists, for the most part—Jorge knows most of these people by face if not by reputation—although scattered among them are also a few writers, artists, students, and various other individuals who present “a clear and present danger to national security,” to use the ISA’s favored term. There must be a couple of hundred people packed into the train; the Prefects were busy this Fourth of July.
Marie’s head lies cradled in Jorge’s lap, her jacket wadded around her shoulders as a makeshift blanket. He tries not to disturb her as he raises his arm to glance at his watch. Almost 3:45 A.M.; they’ve been on the train for nearly five hours now, ever since they left Huntsville along with a few dozen other D.I.s and their kin. No trial, no hearing; only a ride in the back of a government midi to the maglev station, where they were ushered aboard by armed soldiers. The train wasn’t crowded until it reached Atlanta, then it made a long stop while more than a hundred additional detainees were herded aboard, the grey-coated Prefects on the platform carefully checking off each name on their pads. Now a soldier stands guard at each end of the compartment, rifle in hand, forbidding anyone to speak aloud. Nothing to do except sleep and be afraid.
Just north of the Florida state line in Valdosta is their destination: the Patrick J. Buchanan Education Center. Jorge has seen the Govnet propaganda for Camp Buchanan: clean, well-lighted dormitories where D.I.s are allowed to live while they take classes intended to broaden their political awareness. Happy, well-nourished children playing tag while their parents sit at benches, eagerly asking questions of patient teachers. People in blue paper pajamas standing in line in the mess hall, waiting for healthy food served up by smiling cooks. Heartfelt testimonials by former D.I.s proclaiming the worthiness of the reeducation program, repeatedly stating they were well treated during their stay. But Jorge knows three former colleagues who were sent to Camp Buchanan, and he hasn’t seen any of them since.
Across the aisle, Rita stirs, opens her eyes. Carlos is curled up next to her, his head on her shoulder. His wife looks around, sees Jorge, gives him a wan smile that he knows she doesn’t feel. He wants to whisper something to her—an apology? a little late for that now!—but the last thing they need is to have one of the soldiers shouting at him, so all he can is give her what he hopes is a comforting nod. Everything will be all right, everything’s going to work out just fine…
But it isn’t. He knows that now. The ISA must have tumbled to the conspiracy. Why else would they have been arrested?
The train lurches again, a little harder this time, and now there’s a gradual sense of deceleration. Are we already coming into Valdosta? Jorge peers through the window slats. Nothing except darkness, yet Valdosta is a large enough city that he should be able to see its lights. Nonetheless the train is slowing down…
Other passengers are waking up. Jorge catches the eye of an old friend seated two rows up: Henry Johnson, an astrophysicist who also used to work at Marshall Space Flight Center. He’s known Henry since they were postgrad students at MIT, long before the Second Revolution; after that they worked together on Project Starflight, or at least until they signed a petition protesting the National Reform Program. The new government let them keep their jobs until the Alabama was finished, then they were publicly denounced as D.I.s and cast out of the Federal Space Agency. Shortly after that their citizenship was suspended, their voting rights revoked. They became noncitizens, left to fend for themselves as best they could.
Now Henry’s on the train to Camp Buchanan, along with everyone else from Marshall who stood up to the Liberty Party and its social agenda. Six rows back are Bernie Cayle and his wife V
onda, and Jorge spotted Jim Levin on the platform at Huntsville just before he and his family were marched into the next car down. Henry silently gazes back at him, and as the train makes another lurch he slowly nods. Henry is more closely involved in the conspiracy than Jorge; the whole thing has been kept compartmentalized, so that if one person was arrested and interrogated by the Prefects, he wouldn’t be able to reveal all the details. Jorge isn’t sure, but he believes Henry may be the leader. If he is, then…
“Papa? Are we stopping?” Marie has woken up; she raises her head from his lap, knuckles her sleep-wizened eyes.
“Shh. It’s all right, sweetie. Just be quiet.” Jorge strokes her hair, glances over his shoulder to see if the guard has heard them. Not that it matters; although passengers softly murmur to one another as they stare through the windows, for the moment the soldiers aren’t paying attention. The one in the back of the train, a kid not very much older than Carlos, grabs a seat back to steady himself as he bends over to the nearest window. The soldier up front spreads his feet a little farther apart; he yells at everyone to be quiet, but there’s a baffled expression on his face.
The train slows to a crawl, coasts down an incline. A series of metronomic bumps against the undercarriage as its wheels engage the track; now Jorge can see a sparse handful of lights from directly ahead. Warehouses trundle past the windows; they’re coming into an industrial park somewhere north of Valdosta, a rail yard meant for freight trains. Perhaps they’re taking aboard more D.I.s. Yet when he glances at Henry again, his friend’s face is carefully neutral. Jorge has seen that secretive look before. He knows something…