“I think he’s going to order another RIF. He believes he has to, just so he doesn’t look as if he made a mistake with the first one. He can’t afford to let us think things are getting better. He’s going to distort reality. He’s going to … sabotage things so that we remain in this horrible situation.
“He killed your husband, and Linda Arnando—” he saw her wince at the woman’s name “—just to keep everyone afraid. To make them cowed, to keep them shocked. It’s for his own protection.”
Standing, Sheila Aiken twisted her hands together, staring at him, then sat down without breaking eye contact.
“So?” she said, but the words carried little defiance.
“Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Terachyk asked.
She sidestepped the question. “What do you want me to do about it? Brahms killed my husband. He made a spectacle of him in front of all the other people on the colony. I think that was the worst part—Daniel hated being humiliated more than anything else.”
“It doesn’t matter what I want you to do about it. What do you want to do about it?” He held up his hand to keep her from answering. “Just think about that.”
He turned to leave. She remained sitting, looking at him as if she were about to be sick. He had stirred up things she had obviously been trying to hide.
Allen Terachyk left her quarters.
There had been a hundred and fifty names on the original RIF list. Many of those had left loved ones behind as well.
Chapter 47
ORBITECH 1—Day 53
Fidgeting, Curtis Brahms leaned back in the control room of the Orbitech 1 docking bay. He hadn’t felt so eager or optimistic in a long time. The rotating light inside the docking bay changed from green to red as pumps bled the air from the chamber, cycling the bay doors. An image of the wasteful, explosive openings of those doors—from the RIF, from when Duncan McLaris had stolen the Miranda—flashed through his mind.
Beside him Allen Terachyk remained silent, sulking again. Brahms was getting disgusted with the way Terachyk moped all the time. This should be a good time. With the Kibalchich’s help, they had hope again.
“Almost here, Allen,” Brahms said.
“I know.” Terachyk’s voice carried no emotion at all.
Brahms threw him a sideways glance. “Come on, snap out of it. This is going to be broadcast.”
After another five minutes, the docking bay lights signaled that the chamber had been drained of atmosphere. Brahms, trying to give Terachyk something to do, motioned toward the controls. “You want to run the show?”
Terachyk raised his eyes, then shook his head. “No, you do it.” His voice dropped. “You have more practice than I do.”
Brahms blinked, stung by the remark. He decided it would be better to ignore further comments than to encourage Terachyk’s anger. What did he want? Brahms had bent over backward and was doing everything he possibly could for the good of Orbitech 1.
With stiff fingers, Brahms jabbed at the controls and watched through the bay window. The large doors puckered to break the seal and drew apart, showing stars.
“Okay, send the retrieval crew out,” Brahms spoke into the intercom. Against the starry background he could make out the glinting light of the cargo ferry they had rigged up between Orbitech 1 and the Kibalchich.
Brahms had ordered a crew to go out and move the weavewire pulley from the point where Karen Langelier had first attached it to the outer hull, mounting the terminus above the docking bay doors instead. The original line had been extended, allowing a pulley, protected with weavewire, to be installed. The pulley’s testing phase had ended—Brahms had insisted they put it to use.
All six members of the team he had sent over to the Kibalchich to investigate the sleepfreeze chambers went together in a single large cage framework. Pushing the newly installed weavewire pulley to its limits, the investigation team had made it to the Soviet station in a little under three hours.
Now, on this end, the Orbitech 1 workers waited for the incoming cargo cage. The pulley slowed the weavewire as the cage approached.
As Brahms watched, four space-suited figures emerged from one of the spoke-shaft airlocks and drifted into the open docking bay. They wore bulky MMU packs and moved together toward the gaping hole of space.
“Is the receiving team ready?” Brahms turned to Terachyk.
“Yes, Curtis.”
Brahms felt annoyed at himself. He didn’t usually let impatience bother him like this. Terachyk knew what needed to be done, of course. So did the crew.
The investigation team had made its preliminary report to Brahms, raising his hopes. On the Kibalchich, Anna Tripolk had refused any cooperation in describing her sleepfreeze process. She had refused even to talk to Brahms, to let him reason with her. In disgust, he dismissed it as archaic Soviet paranoia.
He had no sympathy for that. The human need was obvious. This discovery was something that could benefit all the space colonies—and former nationalities be damned. Earth and its political boundaries were a thing of the past. He would not allow Tripolk’s petty jealousies to ruin things for anybody on Orbitech 1.
So Tripolk had withdrawn and remained to herself on the Kibalchich. Fine, Brahms thought. The people on Orbitech 1 were going to find a way to bring the human race back to its feet again. He couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to sleep through that—it would be like hiding their heads in the sand. Tripolk could do all the sulking she wanted to do, as long as she didn’t get in his way.
Brahms told his team to be courteous, but to disconnect three of the empty Soviet sleepfreeze chambers and ignore any protests from Anna Tripolk.
A voice came over the intercom in the upper control bay. “The ferry has slowed to a little less than ten miles an hour—Doppler shows it’s five hundred yards away.” The seconds seemed to draw out.
The voice started a countdown on the last fifty yards. “Three … two … one, and that’s it! We’ve got it. Looks like smooth sailing now—the pulley has stopped and the cage is secure.”
Brahms watched the space-suited figures grapple with the cage. He could see the bulky containers packed inside the cage, watched the figures handle it along the weavewire.
The recovery team opened up the cargo cage just outside the docking bay doors. Working together, they removed three coffin-sized packages and pushed them into the bay, looking like space-suited pallbearers. Techs used their MMU’s to steer the containers to straps on the floor.
Brahms focused his entire world on those containers. He smiled, elated.
After the giant bay doors closed and the chamber once more filled with air, Brahms pulled on a sweater and pushed down into the echoing docking bay. The heaters had not had time to warm up the chamber—that would take a while after the chill of vacuum.
The recovery team began to unsuit, taking off their helmets and detaching MMU packs. Floating next to the chambers, they talked among themselves and watched Brahms; a few nodded to him, unsmiling. He greeted them back, acknowledging the good job they had done.
He drifted to the first of the two sleepfreeze chambers, staring at it. The investigation team on the Kibalchich had encased it in insulating vacuum foam on the chance that the delicate controls might be damaged by the harsh space environment.
Brahms touched the spongy, cold surface. Steam puffed out of his mouth into the chilly bay. Ignoring everything else, he clawed at the foam, tearing away hunks of insulation until he saw the glass cover of the Soviet sleepfreeze chamber. He pulled aside the foam until he cleared away a hand-sized area. His breath fogged the glass.