Burlin stood up, hit the decontamination process. The UV came on. The rest of the procedure sequenced in the lock. Burlin knelt. Harley was breathing shallowly now. "He couldn't have gotten it out there," Warren said. "Not like this, not this fast. Not through the suit."
"Got to get the ship scoured out," Burlin said. "Yesterday, the day before—something got past the lock."
Warren looked up. . . at the pseudosome.
The processing cut off. The lights went back to normal. Warren looked at Harley, up at Burlin.
"Captain—are we going to bring him in?"
"We do what we can. We three. Here. In the lock."
Harley's head moved, restlessly, dislodging the mask. Warren clamped it the more tightly. Before he died it took the three of them to hold him. Harley screamed, and clawed with his fingers, and beat his head against the decking. Blood burst from his nose and mouth and drowned the oxy mask, smeared their suits in his struggles. He raved and called them by others'
names and cursed them and the world that was killing him. When it was over, it was morning again, but by then another of the crew had complained of fever. Inside the ship. They went to every crevice of the ship, suited, with UV light and steam-borne disinfectant, nightmare figures meeting in fog, in the deep places, among conduits and machines. Everywhere, the com: "Emergency to three; we've got another—" Deep in the bowels of the ship, two figures, masked, carrying cannisters, obscured in steam:
"It isn't doing any good," Abner said. There was panic in his voice, a man who'd seen crew die before, on Mortifer and Hell. " Ten of us already—"
"Shut up, Abner," Warren said, with him, in the dark of Anne's depths. Steam hissed, roared from the cannisters; disinfectant dripped off griddings, off railings and pipe. "Just shut it up." Corn's voice faltered, rose plaintive through the roar: "We're not getting any response out of 2a. Is somebody going to check on that? Is there somebody going to check that out?" There was chaos in the labs, tables unbolted, cots used while they could be; pallets spread when they ran out of those. The raving lay next to the comatose; death came with hemorrhage, small at first, and worse. Lungs filled, heart labored, and the vessels burst. Others lingered, in delirium.
"Lie down," Sikutu said—biologist, only sometime medic, tried to help the man, to reason where there was no reason.
"I've got work to do," Sax cried, wept, flailed his arms. "I've got work—" Smith held him, a small woman, pinned an arm while Sikutu held the other. "Hush, hush," she said. "You've got to lie still—Sax, Sax—"
"They all die," Sax said, as he wept. "I've got work to do. I've got to get back to the lab—/ don't want to die—"
He set others off, awakened the sleeping, got curses, screams from others.
"Don't want to die," he sobbed.
Sikutu shook at him, quieted him at last, sat down and held his head in his hands. He felt fevered, felt short of breath.
His pulse increased. But maybe that was fear.
Rule was dead. Warren found her in Botany, among the plants she loved, lying in a knot next to one of the counters. He stared, grieved in what shock there was left to feel. There was no question of life left. There was the blood, the look of all the others. He turned his face away, leaned against the wall where the com unit was, pressed the button.
"Captain, she's dead, all right. Botany One."
There was silence for a moment. "Understood," Burlin's voice came back. It broke. Another small silence. "The pseudosome's on its way."
"I don't need it. She doesn't weigh much."
" Don't touch her."
"Yes, sir." Warren pushed the button, broke the contact, leaned there with his throat gone tight. The dying screamed through the day and night, audible through the walls of sickbay on lower deck, up the air shafts, up the conduits, like the machinery sounds.
This had been a friend.
The lift worked, near the lab; he heard it, heard the metal footsteps, rolled his eyes toward the doorway as Anneherself came in. . . shining metal, faceless face, black plastic face with five red lights winking on and off inside; black plastic mirroring the lab on its oval surface, his own distorted form.
"Assistance?" Anneasked.
"Body." He pointed off at Rule. "Dispose."
Annereoriented, stalked over and bent at the waist, gripped Rule's arm. The corpse had stiffened. Motors whirred; Annestraightened, hauling the body upright; another series of whirrings: brought her right arm under Rule's hips, lifted, readjusted the weight. A slow shuffling turn.
Warren stepped aside. Annewalked, hit the body against the doorframe in trying to exit. Warren put out his hand, sickened by this further horror, but Annetilted the body, passed through and on.
He followed, down the hall, to Destruct. . . utilitarian, round-sealed door. Danger, it said. Warning. They used it for biological wastes. For dangerous samples. For more mundane things. For their dead, down here.
He opened the hatch. Anneput the body in, small, insectile adjustments like a wasp. Froze, then, arms lowering, sensor-lights winking out. Warren closed the door, dogged it down. He pushed the button, winced at the explosive sound, wiped his face. His hands were shaking. He looked at Anne,
"Decontaminate yourself," he said. The lights came on inside the mask. The robot moved, reoriented to the hall, walked off into the dark farther down the halclass="underline" no lights for Anne. She needed none.
Warren's belly hurt. He caught his breath. Decontaminate. He headed for the showers, faithful to the regs. It was a thing to do; it kept a man from thinking, held out promises of safety. Maybe the others had let down.
He showered, vapored dry, took clean coveralls from the common locker, sat down on the bench to pull on his boots. His hands kept shaking. He kept shivering even after dressing. Fear. It's fear.
An alarm sounded, a short beep of the Klaxon, something touched that should not have been, somewhere in the ship. He stopped in mid-tug, heard the crash and whine of the huge locks at Anne's deep core. Someone was using the cargo airlock. He stood up, jammed his foot into the second boot, started for the door.
"All report." He heard the general order, Burlin's voice. He went to the com by the door and did that, name and location: "Paul Warren, lower-deck showers."
Silence.
"Captain?"
Silence.
Panic took him. He left the shower room at a run, headed down the corridor to the lift, rode it up to topside, raced out again, down the hall, around the corner into the living quarters, through it to the bridgeward corridor.