by Allen Steele
“So why can’t we…?” Bernie hesitates, trying to articulate his thoughts. “I mean, can’t we just head straight for the pad? We’ve got our own suits, so why do we have to go through…?”
“Bernie…” Jim lets out an impatient breath. He’s already explained everything to everyone, but for some reason Bernie still doesn’t get it. “Look…for one thing, if we don’t do the walkout, everyone will wonder why the colonists haven’t appeared. Second, we have to ride that particular max out to the pad. We can’t take the one we have, because…”
Jorge has heard this before. He excuses himself to check on his family. The restaurant smells of mildew and rotting wood; the windows have long since been boarded up, so the only light comes from the camp lanterns scattered around the dining room where locals used to enjoy Friday night all-you-can-eat buffet dinners. He wonders again how the underground managed to gain access to this condemned highway inn, but decides it’s one more question better left unasked. Even now, no one wants to divulge secrets. Further evidence that more people are involved in the conspiracy than he realized.
He finds Rita seated at the folding table at the far end of the room, her face scrunched up as she receives one of the antiviral injections everyone has to take. Jorge recognizes the doctor giving the shots: a senior space medicine researcher at Marshall before he, too, signed the petition that got him labeled as a D.I. Jorge can’t remember his name, and he’s surprised to see him here, but his presence makes sense. There’s no way a clean-room facility can be set up here, but at least they can make sure no one carries any viruses aboard the Alabama.
“Okay, you’re done,” the doctor says, and Rita sighs as she pulls down the sleeve of her shirt. “Bring your children over, and I’ll do them next.” Then he looks up and sees Jorge. “Wait a minute…I haven’t taken care of you yet, have I?” When Jorge shakes his head, the doctor turns back to Rita. “On second thought, let Jorge go first. If your kids see their dad doing this, maybe they’ll take it a little easier.”
“Good idea.” Carlos won’t mind a few shots, but Marie has always been a problem at the pediatrician’s office. Jorge sits down in the chair Rita has just left and rolls up his right sleeve. “Of course, it might help if you’ve got a sucker. My daughter expects one when she goes to the doctor.”
The physician shakes his head as he fits a clean needle and another cartridge into his syringe gun. “Sorry. No food for anyone from here on out. I don’t like it either…I could use a cup of coffee right now.” He checks Jorge’s name on his list. “After this, you can help your wife get the kids in their isolation suits.”
Jorge nods. The crowd in the dining room has gradually thinned over the last hour; after they received their shots, everyone had gone into the kitchen nearby. When he peered through the swinging doors a few minutes ago, he saw that shower curtains had been draped from the ceiling pipes, forming makeshift changing rooms. One by one, people took folded garments behind the partitions and emerged a few minutes later wearing one-piece coveralls. Whoever made the isolation suits had done their job well; they’re identical to those he had just seen the flight crew wearing during walkout, right down to the Republic shoulder flag and the Alabama mission patch.
“You managed to send the medical data, didn’t you?” the doctor asks quietly as he dabs alcohol on his biceps.
“Just before we left.” The voxcard sent to Houston from his desk contained encrypted medical records for everyone gathered in this room; they would be needed to reprogram the Alabama’s biostasis cells. “It should have been received and downloaded by now.”
“Should be.” The doctor sighs, massages his eyelids. “Just one more thing that could go wrong between…”
“Look! Papa’s getting his shots!” Jorge turns around, sees Rita shepherding their children to the end of the table. Carlos looks bored, but Marie’s eyes are wide with terror. “See how easy it is?”
“Sure, there’s nothing to…” Jorge starts to say, then the doctor takes that moment to jab the barrel of the syringe-gun against his arm and squeeze the trigger. Jorge tries not to wince as he feels the sting of the needle, and he forces a smile as he looks back at the physician. “Hey, did you just do something? I didn’t feel anything.”
The doctor gives him a faint smile as he changes needles and cartridges again. “As painless as can be.” Marie hides her face against her mother’s side, and Jorge decides not to press the issue. Marie will just have to suffer through this, that’s all…
The Prefect who had taken them off the train outside Valdosta emerges from the kitchen. He’s no longer wearing his grey overcoat, and his tie is askew around the collar of his shirt. He whistles sharply between his fingers, then claps his hands for attention. “Listen up!” he yells, and the room goes quiet as everyone looks toward him. “We’ve only got twenty minutes before we’ve got to be out of here, and we still haven’t taken care of half of you. If you haven’t had your shots, form a line behind the table, then proceed to the kitchen for suit-up. We’re running out of time, so let’s get going here, okay?”
Rita gives the Prefect a cold glare. “He could be a little more…”
“Honey,” Jorge murmurs, then clenches his teeth as the doctor hits him with another shot. Marie seems a little less afraid; now she watches with morbid fascination as the doctor exchanges needles and cartridges one more time. The Prefect crosses the room to where Henry, Bernie, and Jim are gathered in front of the screen. He says something to them, and Jim and Bernie leave the bar to join the line forming behind Rita, yet Henry stays behind. As Jorge watches, his friend pulls out his pad and opens it. The Prefect steps around behind him to peer over his shoulder. Something’s going on…
Another swift jab, and he’s done. “Boy, that was great!” he exclaims as he stands up. “Thanks, Doc! I feel better already!” He bends over to Marie, slaps his hands against his thighs. “C’mon, you gotta try this!”
The dubious expression on his daughter’s face tells him that she isn’t buying any of it, but she allows Rita to escort her to the chair. Jorge waits until the doctor swabs her arm, then asks her if she can spell her mother’s name backward. Marie is still working on the second letter when the doctor gives her the first shot. She yelps, but more out of surprise than from actual pain; Jorge decides that Rita can handle things from here, and he quietly slides away and heads over to the bar.
“If they’re coming, they’d be here by now,” Henry says to the Prefect, as Jorge draws closer. “But we’ve still got twenty minutes…”
“We’ve got twenty minutes, but you know as well as I do that…” The Prefect looks up, sees Jorge approaching. “Can I help you?”
“Who’s coming?” Jorge asks, keeping his voice low. “Is there someone else?”
Henry hesitates, then shows the pad to Jorge: a long list of names, nearly every one highlighted, yet a few remain unlit. “We’ve got forty-five,” he says quietly. “There’s supposed to be fifty. Five remain unaccounted for. They were supposed to be on the train, but it doesn’t look like they were picked up.”
“Or they were picked up, but weren’t taken to the train. And that’s what worries me.” The Prefect absently rubs the beard stubble on his chin. “Not good. Not good at all…”
“They wouldn’t break…”
“Anyone can be broken. Trust me on that one.” The Prefect glances at the line of people standing in front of the table. From behind him, Jorge hears Marie’s high-pitched scream as she’s given another injection. “Never mind. Let’s just get these people out of here.”
“You don’t think…?”
“Just hope no one does a head count during the walkout.” The Prefect shakes his head, turns away. “C’mon. The clock’s running out.”
“He shouldn’t mind,” Jorge murmurs once he’s out of earshot. “He’s getting a seat, after all.”
Henry doesn’t look up from his pad. “He’s not coming with us,” he says very quietly. “We gave him a chance, but he opted to
stay behind…he has to, the way all this is planned.” Then his eyes meet Jorge’s. “When…if his people find out what he’s done, they’ll put him on trial for treason.”
Jorge stares at him. “But why would he…?”
“Asked him that once myself. He wouldn’t tell me.” Henry slaps the pad shut, turns to join the line at the table. “Don’t say anything about it, though, to him or anyone else. It’s something personal.”
Rita has already escorted the kids into the kitchen; Jorge can hear her behind one of the curtains, coaxing Marie into one of the child-size isolation suits. Almost everyone has had their shots and donned their garments; now they’re crowded together in the pantry, gazing through the restaurant’s rear door. Just outside is the government maxvee that had picked them up in southern Georgia. The driver stands next to the vehicle, and Jorge notices that he’s changed clothes; now he’s wearing the uniform of a URS lieutenant. Another nameless man facing death for what he’s doing today…
Sissy Levin hands Jorge a folded suit, motions him toward the nearest changing room. Just as he’s about to enter, Carlos comes out from behind the curtain. He’s put on his isolation suit and carries his helmet under his arm. “How do I look?”
“Fine. Just great.” Jorge gives his son a quick inspection. “How’re you holding up there, muchacho?”
“Okay, I guess.” Yet his face is pale, his shoulders visibly shaking beneath the coveralls. “I don’t know about this…”
“I know. I’m not crazy about it either.” Jorge bends down on one knee, looks Carlos straight in the eye. He’s never lied to his boy before, and he isn’t going to start now. “It sounded like a good idea when we were putting it together, but that was kind of in the abstract. Now we’re here, and…well, it’s going to be tougher than I thought.”
“Then…” Carlos glances at the people waiting by the delivery entrance. For a moment, they’re alone; no one is paying attention to them. “We don’t have to do this, do we? I mean, we don’t have to get to go…”
“You know of another way out?” Carlos’s mouth trembles, but he doesn’t say anything. “Son, we’re escaped criminals now. The government’s undoubtedly frozen my credit account, so we’ve got no money, and we can’t go home even if we could. If we turn ourselves in…”
“I know that!” Carlos’s voice rises, and several people standing nearby turn to look their way. Jorge hastily shushes him. “Papa…it’s forty-six light-years away…”
“I know, I know…” Jorge shakes his head, then grasps his son by the shoulders. “But it’s either this, or we spend the rest of our lives in a D.I. camp. You, me, your mother, your little sister…you want to see Marie in Camp Buchanan?” Carlos snuffles back tears, looks down at the floor. “Believe me, there’s no other way. If there were, I’d…”
A sharp whistle from behind them. “Hey, someone leave something behind?”
Jorge glances over his shoulder, sees the Prefect standing in the doorway of the dining room. He’s holding aloft Jorge’s duffel bag. “Someone dropped this,” he calls out. “Who does it belong to?”
Damn. He had almost forgotten it. Jorge raises his hand. The Prefect sees him, then marches across the kitchen to where he’s crouched with Carlos. “If it’s yours, you can’t bring it with you,” he says, still swinging the bag by its strap. “Sorry, no personal belongings.”
“Those aren’t personal belongings. It’s something we need.”
Surprised at having his authority challenged, the Prefect stares back at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rita and Marie coming out from behind the curtain. Marie’s suit is a size too large for her; its leggings rumple down around the tops of her boots, and it seems as if she could crawl out from within the loose collar.
“Something you need. Man, everyone has something they need.” The Prefect drops the bag on the floor. “Okay, open ’er up, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Jorge hesitates, then unzips the bag and pulls it open, revealing its contents.
The Prefect bends down, studying what’s inside. He frowns, looks up at Jorge. “You really thought about this, didn’t you?” he asks, his voice now so low only Jorge and Carlos can hear him. Jorge doesn’t say anything, and the Prefect reluctantly nods. “Okay, you can take it,” he says quietly. “When we do the walkout, sling it over your right shoulder, so that it’s away from the people standing behind the rope. If someone notices and asks you what you’ve got, pretend you didn’t hear. Just keep walking. Got it?”
Jorge nods, and the Prefect checks his watch. “Hurry up and get dressed. We leave in six minutes.” Then he turns away, clapping his hands once more. “C’mon, people, hustle…!”
Carlos stares at his father as he zips the bag shut again. “Papa, what did you…?”
“Never mind. Just go help your mother and sister.” Jorge hands the bag to his son. “Keep an eye on this, will you? It’s important…but don’t show it to anyone.”
Carlos takes the bag by its strap, pulls it over his shoulder. He slumps a little beneath its weight, and his expression changes from fear to puzzlement. For a moment Jorge wonders whether he’s going to open it, but the boy obeys him. Jorge gives him a smile, then steps behind the curtain.
Alone for the moment, he sags against the cinder-block wall. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, tries to will his heart to stop pounding. This is the first time since he received the phone call at his apartment that he’s been out of sight of his family; until now, he hasn’t allowed himself to show fear, let alone feel it. Yet deep down inside, he’s just as terrified as Carlos. How can Rita accept all this so calmly, when she didn’t know what was happening until…?
No. He doesn’t have time for this now. Jorge opens his eyes, takes another deep breath, then sits down on the plastic chair and begins removing his shoes. Beyond the curtain, he hears Rita begging Marie to stay still and stop fidgeting so much.
No choice. They’re committed now. All of them.
URSS ALABAMA 7.5.70 / T-11.41.12
“He wants to what?” Dana stares at the com officer in disbelief. “You mean now?”
“Nothing I can do about it, Chief.” Les Gillis carefully keeps a hand cupped around his headset mike. “He’s already on the way over.”
“For the love of…” Dana turns to another officer seated a few feet away. “Can you confirm that?”
“See for yourself.” Sharon Ullman has already punched up a real-time image on the nav table; a holographic wire-model of the Alabama appears above the table, surrounded by Highgate’s skeletal dry dock. Most of the service pods have already moved away from the ship, although a fuel barge still holds position beneath the main tank. As Dana watches, a small cylindrical craft moves through the bay, heading toward Alabama.
“OTV has requested clearance for docking at SC2,” Gillis says. “I don’t think the colonel’s going to take no for answer.”
Not now, God. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t do this to me now. Dana and Les share a wary look; Sharon’s one of the handful of crew members who isn’t in on the plot, so they can’t talk freely. “What’s the present ETA for the Helms?” she asks.
“ETA at 1230, on schedule.” Sharon expands the holo to display the distant shuttle on final approach for low-orbit rendezvous with the Alabama. “They’re docking at SC2 in ten minutes.”
“Okay.” Dana takes a deep breath, tries to calm herself down. “Les, inform the OTV driver I want him in and out by 1225 max, and if he hits my ship, I’m going to…never mind. Just remind him that the Helms needs to use SC2, and any delay is going to screw up the countdown.” She releases the ceiling rail, pushes herself toward the deck hatch. “If you need me, I’ll be in H5.”
The orbital transfer vehicle has arrived by the time she makes it to the EVA ready room; through the window next to the egress hatch she watches as the craft gently moves into the shuttle cradle. A slight bump as its blunt forward end mates with the docking collar; a half minute later t
he tiger-striped inner hatch irises open. The five men who emerge wear URS military fatigues, their fléchette rifles strapped to their shoulders. One by one, they push themselves into the EVA compartment, clamping the toes of their boots within the foot restraints. Although Dana is herself an Academy graduate, she never saw combat duty before she transferred to the Federal Space Agency. These men, she knows just from looking at their faces, are seasoned pros, hardened by tours in Colombia and the Sierra Nevadas. Bad mofos and proud of it.
The last man through the hatch is Col. Gilbert “Gill” Reese, something of a legend within the Service and now leader of the URS security detachment aboard Highgate. Reese is built like a bull: thick arms, thick legs, thick neck. Thick head, too, or at least that’s Dana’s private opinion having dealt with him several times already.
Seeing her, Reese gives Dana a smile that borders on being a smirk. Before she can say anything, he turns to the soldier nearest to the hatch and cocks his thumb at it. The soldier closes the outer hatch and dogs it tight, pounds his fist against it twice, then stabs the button sealing the inner hatch. A hollow thump, then the deck shudders slightly as the OTV disengages from the docking collar. Through the window, Dana catches a glimpse of the ferry moving away. Reese makes a show of checking his watch.
“Twelve twenty-five on the nose,” he says, not looking at her. “Satisfied, Chief Engineer?”
A snicker from one of the soldiers behind her. Dana pretends not to notice. “No, Colonel, I’m not. In fact, I want you to bring that OTV back here and put your men aboard.”
Reese raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that throw you off schedule?”
“We’ll make up for it.” She stares straight back at him, refusing to give an inch.
Reese shrugs. “Then you won’t mind if we stay a while. Wouldn’t want you to leave us without a proper farewell.”
Again, the smirk. More muffled laughter from his troops. The colonel gives them a stern look, yet there’s dark amusement in his eyes. Dana feels her face growing warm. “Why are you here, Colonel?”