Bolos: The Triumphant Part 2

And underlying every other worry on his mind, shoved painfully back into a corner where he could almost insulate himself from it, was the agonizing question, When they hit Scarsdale, did the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds kill Ginnie? He had no way of knowing. Might never know.

So Lewis threw himself into the terrible job of keeping everyone aboard the Star Cross alive and refused himself the luxury of grief.

The refugee center wasn't able to give most folks an answer to their question. But they had an answer for Carl Matson. Pity thickened Hal Abrams' throat as the director absorbed the news.

"I'm afraid we received a Mayday from the Star Cross, Dr. Matson. The transport was under attack when the Mayday cut off. We can only presume everyone aboard was killed instantly. I'm sorry."

"I-I see. There's no- No. I suppose not . . . Thank you."

Hal gently guided Carl to one side when he nearly walked into the wall instead of through the door. His eyes were wet, his lips unsteady. "b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," he whispered. "Murdering, vicious . . . They were unarmed. Unarmed, dammit!"

Hal just guided him outside, past the line of frightened refugees waiting their turn for bad news. The refugees from Matson's World had already been told their home wasn't worth the lives of the men it would take to wrest it back--s.p.a.ce Arm was concentrating on saving the critical mining worlds at risk, not a few dozen acres of spindly corn and half-grown apple trees. And now, on top of that blow, this. . . .

Outside, away from the lines and the staring eyes, Carl finally met Hal's gaze. "You going back into the Marines?"

Hal Abrams nodded slowly. "Yeah. My Reserve commission's been updated to active status. Gotta report for transport out in a couple a hours."

Carl straightened his back. "I'll tell the others. Then . . . then I'll go with you. If they'll have me."

"Well, I reckon they'll take just about whatever they can get right now. But you sure about that? You aren't exactly trained for soldiering. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y business."

Carl met his gaze steadily. His eyes were still wet; but back in their depths, they were cold as the black emptiness of s.p.a.ce. "Oh, yes. I'm sure."

Hal just nodded.

He felt sorry for anything caught in Carl Matson's gunsight.

He felt even sorrier that his friend's revenge would almost certainly be very, very short-lived.

Live samples provide the data I require. I am fully equipped to perform biological gengineering tasks. My cultivar work and bio-control programs have been 99.725 percent successful. I harvest internal parasites from the creatures' intestinal tracts and begin genetic modification experimentation. I am patient. The Enemy has withdrawn to a safe distance to regroup and form a new infestation site. The Enemy shows no immediate willingness to reinfest areas inside the colony perimeter. Therefore I have ample time to perfect my work.

I am cautious to ensure that each test batch is gengineered as mules. I will not unleash a biological weapon which cannot be curtailed within one generation. My task requires additional live specimens. I harvest these with difficulty, coming under heavy fire each time I attempt live capture. For most tests, I clone tissue samples and determine what effect the gengineered nematodes have on my tissue cultures.

The first infestation is reinforced as predicted from the orbital ship. I do not attack the transport. It would please me to have this pest carry the means of its destruction to the home nest. An interminable 3.7 weeks post-infestation pa.s.s before I discover a virulent gengineered strain. I obtain live samples and contaminate them. The gengineered nematode performs to my expectations, producing desired toxins in the Enemy's digestive tract. Sample pests undergo progressive circulatory disorders over the next 1.72 days. After a toxin exposure of 2.6 days, extremities undergo rapid necrosis. The Enemy dies of convulsions within 0.25 hours of necrosis onset.

All gengineered nematodes die 6.25 hours after their hosts. Gengineered nematodes without a host survive for only 2.36 hours. I carefully infect samples of Terran species and determine that this nematode and its toxins are harmless to the animals and crops I have been charged to protect.

I am ready.

"It's hopeless!" Oliver Parlan cried. "Don't you realize that? Why should any of us spend twenty years scratching and struggling to survive when we'll only wind up in Enemy hands at the end?"

"It isn't hopeless," Tillie tried yet again.

At the end of the corridor, Oliver and Sally Parlan had barricaded themselves and their children in, threatening to blow the airlock hatch and vent the whole ship to vacuum. She had to buy the time Lewis Liffey needed to get into position. He'd entered a repair conduit two yards behind her and was worming his way through a maze of conduits toward an access panel under the damaged airlock's operating mechanism. She had to keep the Parlans talking until he was in position. . . .

"It'll be tough, I know that, but we have no way of knowing what will happen in twenty years. The Concordiat may have reclaimed Matson's World by then. Think of your children-"

Sally Parlan burst into tears. "I am thinking of them! All of them. d.a.m.n you, Tillie Matson, you want to condemn them to a living h.e.l.l. . . ."

Oliver looked her in the eye and said quietly, "You are not G.o.d, Tillie. Judge me not." He reached for the damaged hatch controls on the airlock he'd jimmied to remain open when the outer door slid back.

Lewis Liffey kicked open the hatch cover. Tillie dove for the deckplates. Lewis fired his needler almost point blank. Sally and the children screamed. Oliver froze in shock and pain; then slowly crumpled to the deckplates. He died before Itami Kobe could reach him with a medi-kit. Book Howard took charge of Sally and her children, placing them in protective custody. She spat on Tillie as Book pulled her past.

Very slowly, Tillie wiped her face with a sleeve. Lewis looked up from his sprawled position on the deck plates.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Sure," Tillie lied. "I'm fine. You?"

He winced a little as he sat up, but nodded. "Sure. I'm always fine." The slight tremor in his voice betrayed him.

"Never killed a man before?"

His glance was piercing. "No."

"It isn't your fault."

Lewis scrubbed his brow and put the needler carefully to one side. "If there'd been any other way . . ."

But there hadn't been. They couldn't just sedate a man like Oliver Parlan for twenty years. His determination to kill everyone had sealed his death warrant. Tillie knew there hadn't been any other choice. But she understood Lewis Liffey's reaction.

And what would they do the next time?

If there was a next time?

Kelly McTavish arrived with welding gear. "Sir, I'll get to work sealing off this corridor now."

Lewis Liffey glanced up. "Right." He levered himself up and retrieved the needler; then offered Tillie a hand up.

"Thanks. I'll . . . I'll be down in hydroponics if you need me."

She fled, leaving the ship's crewmen to deal with the aftermath of near-disaster. And she really did need to check on progress in hydroponics. She found Hank Biddle and Bartel Ditrik busy installing new, jury-rigged tanks to supplement the ones they'd already set up. Bart glanced up first.

"How'd it end?"

Tillie glanced away. "Oliver's dead. Sally's in custody. Saros will take charge of their kids."

Hank Biddle only thinned his lips. The message was clear: You didn't have to kill him. Tillie didn't feel like arguing.

"Do you have everything you need to finish this?" she asked tiredly.

"Oh, sure. We got everything a man could want," Bart snapped. "Why don't you go b.u.t.t your nose into somebody else's business? We got work to do."

Tillie knew she ought to respond to that. But numb as she was from the shock of watching Oliver Parlan die, she just couldn't think of a thing to say. Rumor mill had it the colonists were set to vote her out and pick another Transport Director. Maybe that would be best, after all. She was tired and battered and numb and so sick of the responsibility she wanted to curl up somewhere and cry.

I didn't sign on for this job for twenty years, Carl, she whimpered silently. I'm not cut out for leadership. . . .

The crisis came to a head the next day, when Sally Parlan was found dead in her quarters. She'd suicided behind locked doors. The only spot on the Cross large enough to a.s.semble the entire colony was Cargo Two, which they were in the process of converting to stables but which remained largely unused. So they'd set off a portion of it for a "Town Hall." When news of Sally's suicide reached her, Tillie called an immediate Town Meeting.

All three Star Cross crewmen attended, as well. Lewis Liffey joined Tillie on the makeshift speaker's platform. Kelly and Booker Howard, Tillie noted uneasily, blocked the exit--and they wore needlers. So did Lewis.

"As you have no doubt heard, Oliver and Sally Parlan have both died after an unsuccessful attempt to vent the ship to vacuum. If they had succeeded, none of us would be alive now. I know that many of us are experiencing doubts-"

"d.a.m.n right we are!"

"Why the h.e.l.l should we keep going?"

"Only doubt I got is about you, Matson!"

Tillie let the shouts die away. "I accepted the position of Transport Director under certain conditions--namely, that it would be a temporary job. None of us expected it to become a two-decade a.s.signment. Mr. Liffey and I have discussed the need for us to think of the Star Cross as the colony we intended to found. Therefore I suggest we begin work now deciding the form of government we intend to establish."

Before anyone could speak, Lewis Liffey stepped forward.

"Dr. Matson, I have a few words to say on this subject."

Tillie nodded and stepped aside.

"Right now, we're subject to lifeboat rules. There can be only one captain. That situation will not change in the next twenty years, not until we reach Matson's. The government you intend to establish has to be set up with that in mind. Aboard the Star Cross there is one law: the Captain's. There are only three Star Cross crew left alive, which means this colony will have a number of key administrative slots open. You will all have a chance to fill those administrative posts over time. But there can't be more than one captain."

"And that's you?" someone demanded in an ugly voice.

"Yeah, you're the big military man with the guns. . . ."

Lewis cut through the uproar. "Yes, I'm the captain. Whether I like it or not. I didn't ask for this job any more than you asked to be marooned aboard the Star Cross for twenty years. That doesn't change facts. My training and skills and the chain of command mean I'm stuck with the job just as surely as you're stuck with me. But there's something you need to keep firmly in mind. What you decide today will determine the kind of colony your kids grow up in. Will you choose lawless in-fighting, every man and woman for themselves? Or will you choose to set up a government in which every one of you has the opportunity to serve the community in critical decision-making ways?

"As captain, I can only recommend the proper course of action if the information you give me is the best available. I can't do every job there is to be done. That's up to you people. I'll do my best to live up to the responsibility that's been thrust on me. You need to live up to yours. What you decide in the next few minutes will make the difference between simply surviving and building something your children can be proud of when their turn comes to take up the mantle of community leadership."

He stepped back and fell silent.

A moment later, someone near the back of the room shouted, "I nominate Tillie Matson for Transport Director!"

"Second!"

Another voice shouted, "I nominate Hank Biddle for that job!"

"Second!"

Nominations ended at three candidates--and the third refused nomination. Debate opened up. When it became clear that debate would involve nothing more than a shouting match between factions, Lewis Liffey shouted down the tumult.

"The candidates have five minutes each to present their platforms! Hank Biddle, you go first."

The big agronomist nodded grimly and climbed onto the platform. "You all know me. My dream is growing things. And you all know I joined this expedition because I thought we could grow ourselves a good life out on Matson's World. But that isn't going to happen now. Folks like Tillie, here, want us to keep struggling. Keep trying. For what? So a pack of murderous aliens can shoot our children down right in front of us when we get there? They want us to starve d.a.m.n near to death, to give up having more children, to give up everything that means being a human being--and for what? The chance to die in agony under alien guns. They admit Matson's World has long since fallen to this . . . this alien scourge. There's no chance of fighting it once we get there. Captain and his two henchmen have needlers we're afraid of, but don't let 'em fool you. There's nothing on board this ship to fight an alien army with twenty years to entrench itself. I ask--I plead--with you, don't prolong this agony. Let us die quietly, now, by our own hands, while we're still human enough to do so with dignity and courage."

He stepped off the platform amid a vast silence.

Tillie could tell from the uptilted faces that a large number of them had been swayed by his plea. She didn't know what to say. Hank Biddle was wrong, she knew it in her bones . . . but she didn't know what to say. She cleared her throat, more to buy time than because her throat needed clearing; then met the eyes of a young woman near the front of the crowd. Annie Ditrik was visibly pregnant. Her eyes were scared, her lips pale. Tell me what to do, that look said. I don't want my baby to die. . . .

"I'm a veterinarian," Tillie said quietly. "One of the hardest parts of any doctor's job is knowing when a patient is beyond hope. I've had to put down animals before, animals I couldn't save. I wonder how many of you have had to look into the mute eyes of a feeling, suffering creature and know that you're killing it? Out of kindness, perhaps, but killing it, nonetheless. You may think you're ready. Perhaps you are. I can't answer that question for any of you. But I can answer it for myself.

"In a way, this colony has become my patient. We're sick and we're hurt. But are we hopeless? Is euthanasia an answer? Or is it just a way of hiding from painful reality? Sometimes it is easier to lie down and die, particularly when continuing to live hurts yourself and those you love. Some of you may choose to do just that. But your choice doesn't give you the right to choose for anyone else. I won't make that choice for any of you who want to die. But for anyone who wants to live, for anyone who'll take that slim chance and fight for life, I'll be here working to give you that chance.

"We're farmers. If anyone can make this shipboard colony work, we can. We have the seeds and cuttings for hydroponics--and every one of you knows that hydroponics do well in a s.p.a.ce environment. The first year will be brutal, yes; but the second year will be better and every year after that will bring even more improvements in our lives. Don't sell your future short. In twenty years, anything can happen. Wars end, political boundaries are redrawn . . . We might even be rescued. If you want to quit, to give up and die without a fight . . . maybe that's your definition of humanity. It isn't mine."

Someone near the back cheered. Applause, sporadic at first, spread. Tillie found it suddenly difficult to see through the stinging wetness in her eyes. With 60 minors ineligible to vote, the final ballot was 297 to 48, Tillie's favor.

Half an hour later, those 48 suicided quietly in their quarters, poisoning their own children.

Tillie blamed herself. Not for the adults' actions--but for the deaths of the children. She should've ordered protective custody, should've . . .

When she wouldn't answer his calls, Lewis Liffey came to her quarters. "Mind if I speak with you?" he asked quietly.

She shrugged. He came in and closed the door. Tillie sat with knees drawn up to her chest in the corner of her cramped bunk. She'd spent a long time crying, but now all she felt was numb.

"Just because they elected you all over again, Dr. Matson, doesn't mean you're stuck with the job. You can take off that badge any time you want."

She looked up slowly, found sorrow and compa.s.sion in his eyes. But not pity. Not even a hint of pity.

"And if we're wrong? What if Oliver Parlan and Hank Biddle were right? We could be leading these people to a violent death at alien hands. . . ."

His jaw muscles tightened. "Yes, we could. Any number of possibilities exist. The Concordiat may beat this invasion fleet back, then not bother to resettle Matson's. There may not be enough left to make it economically feasible. I've seen it happen, when alien wars ravage a world so badly nothing can grow for a century or so afterward."

Clearly, Lewis had been lying awake nights, too.

"Tillie, we may get there and find an empty world and have no way to contact the Concordiat ever again. Or we may find a bustling city where you and your husband planned to start a colony. Not likely, but that's the point. We don't know what we'll find."

Tillie swallowed hard a few times. "I've been . . . Those of us with family in Phase I are never going to see them again, are we?"

Lewis opened his lips, then paused. "You want my honest opinion?"

"I think I just heard it."

"I'm sorry. But given the circ.u.mstances . . ." His voice changed, wrenching at Tillie's heart. "I had a little girl on Scarsdale, Dr. Matson. Her name's Ginnie. She just turned seven. I said my last goodbye to her the night we found out we couldn't repair the SWIFT unit."

Tillie couldn't speak for a long time. Finally she whispered, "I've been thinking about Carl, too. If he survived to evacuate . . . I know him better than he knows himself, I think. He'd enlist. Especially when he finds out they can't locate us, that we're missing, presumed . . ." Tears threatened to clog her throat again. "He never was any good at that kind of thing." She sniffed back wetness in her nose. "I just don't know if I can keep going, day after day, year after year . . ."

Lewis Liffey was silent for a long moment. "Well, if you want to take off the badge, you can. But I don't think you will."

She looked up slowly.

"Every one of us on the Cross has lost family or friends. The difference between them and you is simple. These folks chose you to lead them. By an overwhelming majority. They're frightened and hurting and they look to you for guidance, for someone to help get them through the nightmare. And I think they made the right choice.

"You're doing the best you can under the worst conditions I've ever seen. You've already got hydroponics set up to feed us and the livestock, and I've just taken a look at the expansions to the system. They're good, sound plans. You've taught the children how to do manual milking, so there's plenty of calcium-rich food for the little ones. h.e.l.l, we may even get real eggs one of these days if those biddies keep growing at this rate." His lips quirked. "Know how long it's been since I tasted a real fried egg?"