“Turn on your suit comm.”
Marghe tongued the channel on. “What’s wrong? What have—”
“Nothing.” Over the closed channel, Hiam’s voice was quiet, intimate. No longer the doctor. “This is off the record.”
“I don’t—”
“Just listen. All those things I said before, about isolation, about spending time somewhere unspecified before going home… that’s not what really happens.”
Marghe listened to her heart kicking under her ribs. She breathed, seeking calm.
Never refuse information, her mother had taught her when she was just six years old, you never know what you might need. But her mother was dead. She managed a Go on gesture.
“If you leave the airlock, if you take the vaccine, you’ll never go home. Not ever.
I had a… a good friend. On the planet. Was one of the initial batch taken off Jeep for study. She promised to be in touch. I think someone else wrote her mail.”
“How could you tell?”
“It felt all wrong.”
“If she’d been ill—”
“No. Just listen. It seemed fine at first. I assumed she just wasn’t feeling good.
Decon’s not pleasant. Anyway, I didn’t pay close attention. But once when I wrote back I put in a private joke we’d shared for a long time. A very long time. When I got her response, I knew. It wasn’t her.”
Marghe said nothing. She wished she had just taken that last step, not listened to Hiam—this new Hiam. The real one?
Hiam watched Marghe intently, then laughed, a short, hard bark. “You don’t believe me.”
“I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me this before. Why you let me get this far.”
Hiam stepped right up to the glass, close enough for Marghe to see the pleats of her irises. “Because I couldn’t decide whether to trust you. But, Marghe… this is real, and somebody has to know. I can’t prove any of it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening. You seemed… I just thought…” She laughed again. “I should have saved my breath.”
Marghe did not know what to say. “You and Sigrid and Nyo have all been up here a long time. I know that must—”
“Don’t patronize me,” Hiam said wearily. “If you don’t want to believe me, then that’s your privilege, but don’t patronize me.”
Marghe shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Silence.
To go down to Grenchstom’s Planet—GP, Jeep—would be the culmination of years of study that had started when she was just a child, first with her mother, then her father, had continued at Universities, and as assistant SEC rep on Gallipoli, then Beaver. This was the reason she had swallowed her pride and set aside her misgivings about Company, why she had recontracted with SEC alter they had betrayed her, why she had traveled vast distances, literally and metaphorically: to come to Jeep and study over a million people who had been out of contact with humanity for two or three hundred years. There would never be another chance like this, never.
“Sara, I have to do this.”
Hiam turned away abruptly. “Then you’d better go ahead and do it.”
Marghe looked at Hiam’s thin back, hesitated. “I’m sorry,” she said again, then tongued off the comm channel and turned slowly to face the flaring red panel. Red for danger.
The known dangers she had prepared for, as far as humanly possible. The vaccine would be waiting for her in D Section.
As for the unknown dangers… Well, they were unknown. Nothing she could do about them.
She stretched out her hand, clumsy in the gauntlet, and tapped out the sequence slowly and carefully. The red panel blinked off and the lights around the door flared green.
The door slid open.
B Section was silent and dark. Ice glimmered in the dim sodium glow of the emergency floor lights. Marghe stepped over the sill and the door closed behind her.
It was done.
The lights ran like runway flares down a narrow corridor between stripped, bare beds, each with its entertainment hookup coiled neatly at the head. Marghe’s boots glowed orange as she walked. Her breathing was loud. She felt utterly alone.
She was the first person who had walked here for five years; five years since the glittering dumbbell shape that was Estrade had been hurriedly converted from an orbital monitoring and communications station to a research and decontamination facility. Five years since the station crew had taken refuge in Section A, leaving Sections D and C for the decontamination of occasional Jeep personnel. B Section, and the long corridor beyond—the shaft of the dumbbell—was the crew’s insurance, their buffer zone, with movement allowed one way only: to the dirty sections.
Marghe watched her boots rise and fall through the orange glow; there was no dust.
The lights at the airlock blinked a reassuring green. The door opened and the wall display told her to blank her visor and hold out her arms; she keyed in the sequence on the next door, stepped through.
The corridor seemed a mile long. The familiar orange running lights gleamed on unsheathed metal and exposed wiring. Gravity decreased rapidly as she approached the center of the shaft; her suit automatically activated the electromagnets in her boots and she had to slide her feet instead of striding.
There was another airlock at the center of the corridor. She went through the dictated procedure, familiar now. The micro-gravity and her sensitivity to the strong magnetic field under her feet made her dizzy. She closed her eyes and took three fast breaths to trigger a meditative state, monitoring for a moment her heartbeat and electrical activity.
She went on: more corridor, another lock. C Section.
In C Section there were beds, like B Section, but each had a hood waiting to be lowered over an occupant to suck out her blood and lymph, ready to push physical and electrical fingers deep into her intestines to kill and remove the swarm of bacteria and yeasts, eager to sear away the first layers of skin and leave red, raw tissues with colorless fluids until new skin grew back. Tombs for the living. She hated them.
They had not been able to save her mother.
She walked faster; she wanted to be out of C Section.
In the lock. Hurry. Eyes shut and arms out. Faster. Key sequence. Now.
Nothing. The panel still flashed red.
Marghe stared at it. If she could not get through into D Section, she was trapped.
The lock systems would not permit her to retrace her steps without a record of her having undergone either isolation in D or fluid replacement in C.
Think.
Perhaps she had input the wrong number sequence. She had been in a rush. Yes.
Precisely, accurately, she tapped in the code a second time.
No change.
She tongued on the comm channel. “Hiam, can you hear me?”
Her helmet speaker clicked. “I can hear. Go ahead.”
“I’m still in lock four.”
“So my readouts say.”
“It won’t accept the sequence.”
“You’re sure you got it right?”
“Seven-eight-three-six-nine.” Silence. “It’s the right one, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Another silence. Marghe imagined the tck-tck of Hiam’s nails on the keyboard. “How much air do you have?”
“About eighty minutes.”
“There should be an emergency suit. In the locker to your left.”
Marghe opened the left locker, then the right. They were both empty. “Nothing.
And all the emergency blow patches have gone.”
“I forgot. We had to clear everything, just in case someone infected tried to blow her way out. Let me think.”
Marghe stood in the dim light and breathed precious air. Eighty minutes. She did not want to die here, alone, surrounded by nothing but dead machinery and empty space.