Exiled to the Stars

by Zellmann, William

  Cesar was getting irritated. "This avatar is acceptable. Can we get down to business?"

  The librarian's face became even more wooden. "Awaiting input, sir."

  Cesar rolled his eyes. Oh well, at least it was more computerlike. "Please give me an overview of your present status."

  "All sensors and auxilliaries on decks 1 through 4 are inoperable, and it is likely they no longer exist. A few sensors and auxilliaries on deck 5 remain functional, though many are damaged. Nearly all external sensors and antennas are no longer functional. Sensors and auxilliaries on lower decks remain functional except for several mechanical malfunctions requiring repair. Food and supply preparation and delivery systems are non-functional on Deck 5, and require repair on Deck 6."

  Cesar started. "Specify repairs necessary to food preparation and delivery system on deck 6!" He noticed Robert struggling to suppress a grin. He could guess why. His formal, old-fashioned manner of addressing the computer. Most people nowadays talked to computers like friends.

  "Repairs required for food preparation and delivery system on Deck 6 consist primarily of level one and level two mechanical adjustment." Said the wooden voice.

  "Uh, sir," Robert explained. "The repair levels specify the skill levels required to make the repairs. Level one repairs require no skills or experience. That probably means putting back things that got knocked out of place, or something. Level two repairs require someone with basic knowledge of mechanical subjects. Jobs involving bolts, nuts, and wrenches, for instance."

  Cesar nodded, relieved. "Thank you, Robert. Computer, can you estimate the time required to complete the repairs?"

  "Two Level two personnel under tablet instruction could complete the repairs in approximately one-half hour," the computer replied.

  Cesar spun to face Robert, wincing at the twinge of pain in his chest. "Robert, would you see if Tom Abbott survived? If he has, please ask him to come here."

  Robert wordlessly ducked his head and hurried out.

  Cesar turned back to the computer. "What about the surveillance system?"

  "On Decks 1 through 4," the computer replied tonelessly, "the entire system is inoperable, with a 99.6% probability of camera damage. On deck 5, damage is sporadic, with some systems inoperable, some operable but useless due to camera movement, and some 20% operable. On Deck 6, the system is 85% operable, and on decks 7 through 12, functionality is 97%."

  "What about Dorm 25?"

  "Two cameras in Dorm 25 remain operable. The other two appear to have suffered movement and have displayed no activity since the landing."

  Cesar straightened. "Show me dorm 25," he ordered.

  The avatar was replaced by a split screen, each half showing a different view of the dorm. Actually, Cesar decided, Dorm 25 seemed to have survived the crash better than any other dorm on Deck 5, though he could see that bulkheads and the deck itself were warped.

  Rows of bunks had been torn loose, and as with the other dorms, the ceiling had been bowed downward several feet in its center. People could be seen moving around, some limping. Others simply squatted against the bulkheads. Someone was clearly in charge, though. A line of sheet-covered figures testified to both the death rate and the fact that someone was organizing the effort. A young girl with a bandage around her head squatted by the closed hatch, banging on it with a piece of pipe that had formerly been a bunk frame.

  Cesar sat back in relief. "That dorm looks like the least-damaged on the entire deck," he commented.

  "It appears so," the toneless voice replied. "Probability is 72% that the damage was limited by the fact that the dorm was single, without a partner, and surrounded by smaller storage spaces. In addition, the hatch was closed and welded into position. This lent significant strength to resist the crushing effect from above."

  Cesar smiled sardonically. "So by punishing them with isolation, we probably saved lives."

  "A valid assumption," the computer agreed.

  "Can I talk to them?"

  "The public address system appears functional in Dorm 25, and of course, if you can give me a name, I may be able to connect you with that person's tablet."

  Cesar shook his head. "I don't have a name. Let's try the PA system."

  There was a click, and a red light appeared on the microphone on the teacher's desk. "Attention, Dorm 25 residents," he began self-consciously. "Your attention, please."

  On the screen, everyone stopped, many looking around for the source of the voice. Obviously, the PA system was working.

  "This is Cesar Montero," he began. "As you know, we've crash-landed. We have quite a lot of damage, and a large number of casualties. We have been unable to locate the welding equipment the crew used on your hatch, but I have sent people to the lower decks for welding or laser equipment to unseal your hatch."

  A husky woman pushed her way through the crowd and stopped, looking toward one of the cameras. She was in late middle age, with streaks of gray beginning to appear in her shiny black hair. She stood, hands on hips, feet apart, her body language proclaiming a challenge. Surprisingly, she was NorAm, not Egyptian.

  "Well!" she said loudly, "It took a crash to do it, but somebody's finally talking to us again! I'm Helen Shourd, by the way."

  Cesar was irritated. "The last time somebody 'talked' to you, you killed them!"

  She shook her head. "No, the last time was when you stole our kids!" she replied stridently. Suddenly her shoulders fell, and her aggressive manner faded. "Sorry. As you can imagine, we're a bit on edge. Until you called, we were hoping we weren't the only people left." She shook her head. "Is there a better way for us to talk than this PA-and-shouting match?"

  Cesar nodded before realizing she couldn't see him. "Maybe. I'm using the computer to access the PA system, and it tells me it might be able to connect me to your tablet."

  Helen Shourd turned around and grabbed a young girl. In a low voice, she talked for a moment, and the girl nodded and ran off. Helen Shourd returned her attention to the camera. "She's gone to get my tablet. Let's give it a try, by all means!"

  Cesar turned his attention back to the computer. "Can you contact her tablet?"

  "Helen Shourd is on the 'Restricted' list," the computer replied. "Access will require your thumbprint on the pad to assume Administrator status."

  Cesar rolled his eyes, but mashed his thumb onto the pad again. "Please attempt to contact Helen Shourd's tablet," he instructed. On the monitor, the girl reappeared with the tablet, and Helen Shourd was waving her arms, apparently trying to disperse the crowd that had gathered.

  After a moment the broad, lined face appeared on the monitor in place of one of the camera images. "Well!" she said with a smile, "So we finally meet face-to-face!"

  Cesar smiled. "In a manner of speaking." He noticed on the monitor that the crowd around her had disappeared, apparently to give her a measure of privacy. "Mostly, I just wanted to let you know that you weren't going to die sealed into a tomb. We should be able to remove the bodies and the injured in a few hours, and get food to you before that."

  She nodded. "Good. And then what?"

  "What?"

  "Once you open the door, and remove the bodies, then what?"

  Cesar shrugged, and almost cried out from the pain in his chest. "I really don't know, madam. I suspect that for now, we will break the hatch, remove the bodies and the seriously injured, and then lock the hatch again. Things are very confused right now. Your rather comfortable confinement falls far down the priority list."

  She looked irritated, but replied in a reasonable tone. "We are 21 women and 11 children. We are not a threat, and you need our help."

  Cesar's face was stony. "Fanatics are always a threat, madam." He started to shrug again, winced, and relaxed slightly. "As you are already aware, we have crash-landed on the planet. As far as I know, all of the ship's command crew is dead, and I have no idea how many, if any, of the Dorm Council, well, the 'Governing Council' now, I guess, survived.

  "At the mo
ment," he continued, "I am simply doing what is necessary until I find someone else to saddle with the responsibility."

  Surprisingly, she grinned. "I know that feeling. But you are on that Council, right?"

  He sighed. "For my sins, yes. But so far I know of only one other surviving member. Hardly a quorum. And I will not release you on my own authority, such as it is."

  She looked thoughtful. "Messer Montero, I'll make you a deal. We won't make a fuss or cause any trouble for your people when they come for the bodies and the injured, if you will give me your word that you will visit me once things settle down. And I don't mean in three months. I mean within a few days. I have something I think may help you deal with the problem of us."

  Cesar shook his head. "Madam, I've already explained that I have no real authority here. But for what it is worth, you have my word that I will visit you within the next few days. I cannot be more specific; things are too chaotic."

  She smiled and nodded. "Understood. But I think you are a man of honor, Messer Montero, So I will do my best to ensure that your people have no problems here." After a few courtesies, they signed off.

  "Show me the available cameras on Deck 5," Cesar asked. A few moments later, he regretted the request as scene after scene of horror appeared on the monitor. Some dorms seemed to be almost painted red; crushing injuries can be very messy. Others were filled with bodies that resembled broken dolls. As the computer switched from camera to camera and dorm to dorm, he could see Boyet's searchers, here struggling to pry apart bunks that had been crushed together, there crawling through pools of blood to reach people to be checked for life signs. After only a few minutes, he had the computer shift the views to Deck 6.

  Things were much better on Deck 6, and in many cases were regaining some semblance of normality. Bodies, when present, lay mostly sheet-covered in neat rows. Injured appeared to be receiving treatment in a systematic manner.

  The door to the classroom opened, and Robert led Tom Abbott in. Tom appeared unhurt, except for a large bruise on his left cheek. "Hey! Cesar!" Tom shouted, "Glad to see you're okay."

  Cesar smiled. "Looks like you made it too, Tom."

  The wide man waved his hairy arms. "Right as rain," he replied. "Robert tells me you've got a job for me."

  Cesar nodded, smiling. "Yes. The computer tells me that the supply and food distribution system needs a little repair. It claims it's a level 2 job and should only take two people about half an hour with tablet instruction. I figure you and one of your students can have us ready to eat in fifteen minutes. What do you think?

  Tom snorted. "Level 2? I could do it in the dark with a pocket knife. Just have the computer put a map on my tablet, and we'll be eatin' in no time!"

  Cesar grinned as Tom walked jauntily out. He admired people like Tom: Competent, stolid, utterly dependable, and unflappable.

  He sighed as he turned back to the computer. "What is the status of the fusion reactor? Oh, and what about the Cobb drive?"

  "The fusion reactor underwent emergency shutdown. Detailed inspection is underway. Basic systems review revealed no problems. Reactivation is anticipated in 14 hours. The Cobb drive remains in orbit. As of the time of impact, power was being beamed, and a homing signal was being sent to ensure proper targeting. However, external microwave receivers were destroyed in the crash. Spares are available."

  "What about available power reserves?"

  "Reserve storage was at 100% at time of impact. At current rate of usage, reserves estimated to last 4 months. At normal power usage, reserve estimate is 3 weeks."

  A thought occurred to Cesar. "What about life support? I'm particularly interested in the atmosphere system. I wish to know if we can raise the air pressure aboard to slightly above ambient, to permit an outward air current to carry away the odors of decomposition and necrotic products. We are going to be unable to retrieve all the bodies on decks above deck 6."

  "Ship's air pressure is .1 atmosphere higher than the planetary ambient, sire, so air currents should prevent entry of local atmosphere, and permit venting of odors. Ship's atmosphere plant is managing to maintain that pressure differential. Indeterminate variables include efficiency of efforts to seal off levels above deck 6, atmosphere leaks due to damage on Deck 6 and below, and the effects of wind pressure overcoming the differential. These variables cannot be assessed with current data."

  "Very well. What is the location of the ship's Armory, and how do I gain access?"

  "The Armory is located on Deck 7, directly beneath Dorm 4. It is designated as Compartment 7-243A. Admission will require retinal scan. At present, you are the only person authorized access. To gain admittance, it will be necessary for you to physically visit the location and undergo retinal scan. I do not possess the capability to modify these requirements remotely, though access restrictions can be modified from the secure terminal inside the Armory.

  "Please be advised," The computer continued, "That the Armory terminal is a secure terminal. It will accept modifications only if you are alone in the Armory at the time. This precaution is to ensure that no coercion is involved. If you are accompanied and attempt modifications, the Armory will be flooded with sleep gas, and the designated Security Officer will be notified."

  Cesar smiled sourly. "And who is the designated Security Officer?"

  "Raymond Koh."

  Cesar shook his head. "Raymond Koh is dead. At present, Boyet Mamerto is fulfilling that function. However, once the Council can meet, they may appoint someone else."

  "Understood, sir. I will register Boyet Mamerto as Interim Security Officer."

  A discreet knock at the door presaged the arrival of Boyet. He was accompanied by Messer Sun from Dorm 11. The Korean's left arm was in a sling.

  "Messer Sun!" Cesar cried. "Am I glad to see you!" He turned to Boyet. "What about the others?"

  "Aside from you and Vlad, four Council members apparently survived the crash. Of the four, one is in critical condition, and the second is serious. Messer Sun, here, is the only one that I can be certain is ambulatory. The dorm 10 representative kept the hatch sealed and told me to go away."

  Cesar frowned. "I had hoped we would find enough to make a quorum."

  Sun shrugged, then winced. "Why? It appears that you have done magnificently. Literally within minutes of the crash you were rounding up volunteers and sending out search parties. Why do you think the Council could have done better?"

  Vlad suddenly appeared behind the little Korean. "He's right, Cesar. You just keep doing what you're doing. In an emergency like this, we don't need rule by committee. We need someone who can lead."

  Cesar shook his head. "No. There are too many vitally important decisions to be made. I will not be a dictator."

  Vlad smiled. "Don't worry about it, Cesar. We have half the surviving Council members right here." He turned to Sun. "I move we appoint Cesar Chairman, with the authority to make decisions in the Council's name. With advice from us, of course."

  Sun's grin was broad. "Second. All in favor? Aye. The ayes have it, Cesar. Even if you vote 'nay', you're outvoted two to one."

  Chapter 8

  Firstmonth 1, Year 1

  Doug Ryles awoke to total blackness and a feeling of pressure on his chest. He tried to move his arms, but something was holding them. In panic, he struggled wildly, and his left hand came free; it was just a belt or something that held it. Belt! Memory came flooding back. The ship. The Captain, calmly telling them they were going to crash. That was it! They had crashed! After the Captain's announcement, Doug had run to his bunk and…strapped in! That was what was holding his hand – a damned safety belt.

  More calmly, now, he freed his right hand. But there shouldn’t be anything pressing on his chest. After a moment's exploration, he realized it was the bottom of the bunk above his. The crash must have forced it down on top of him. Panic arose again, and he began struggling, flailing against the hard metal. After a moment, he calmed, and began pushing against the bunk bottom with his hands
and his knees; but it was hopeless. He had no leverage, and there was no give.

  God! He thought, I'm trapped! The bastards crashed the damned ship and trapped me! I'm gonna die of thirst trapped here. It's all their fault!

  It was always their fault. They had been out to get Doug all his life, and it looked like they had finally succeeded.

  First it had been the crèche, and school. Doug was big and tough, but there was always someone a little bigger, a little tougher, to bully Doug, and steal anything he managed to get. And the teachers weren't any better; always making Doug look dumb in front of the other kids.

  Oh, he could, and did, bully the younger and weaker kids, but there was always someone waiting to pick him clean. So, Doug learned to 'keep his head down', keep a low profile around the bigger, tougher kids, while lording it over the younger, smaller ones.

  And all the time Doug seethed with anger. They wouldn't let him have anything of value. They were keeping him down. Someday he'd show them!

  Doug's hopes had rested on the aptitude tests administered to every student. Score high, and you could get out of the ghetto. You could move to a real neighborhood, and go to college and get to be somebody.

  Oh, Doug realized that he'd never be book-smart, like some of the kids, but that was boring, anyway. But if he could just get out of the ghetto, he could be the biggest and toughest, and he could finally get what he deserved.

  Doug should have known better, he admitted. They scored the tests, and they claimed that Doug didn't qualify. They had cheated him again.

  And then, one day, they said he had "graduated", and they threw him out on the streets. Suddenly, he couldn't go to the school for meals. They said he had to get a job. But there were no jobs, at least none that looked like fun to Doug.

  He joined a street gang, and for a while, things had gone better. But there was always the cops interfering, and the pecking order in the gang was as rigid as in the school. Besides, a guy could get killed in those gang fights! So, he'd left, and started scraping by on his own, knowing all the time that it was their fault.