Locked. He pushed the button twice, tried the com above it. "Captain." He gasped for air.
"Captain, it's Warren. Was that Abner, then?"
Silence. He fumbled his cardkey from his pocket, inserted it into the slot under the lock. It failed. He slammed his fist onto the com.
"Captain?—Sikutu, Abner, is anyone hearing me?"
Silence still. He turned and ran back down the short corridor, through the mainroom, back toward the lift.
"Warren?" the com said. Burlin's voice.
Warren skidded to a stop, scrambled back to the nearest com unit and pushed the button.
"Captain, Captain, what's going on?"
"I'm not getting any word out of sickbay," Burlin said. "I've sent the pseudosome in. Something's happened there."
"I'm going."
Silence.
Warren caught his breath, ran for the lift and rode it down again. Silence in the lower corridor too. He looked about him. "Abner? Abner, are you down here?"
No answer to the hail. Nothing. A section seal hissed open behind him. He spun about, caught his balance against the wall.
Annewas there in the dark. The pseudosome strode forward, her red lights glowing. Warren turned and ran, faster than the robot, headed for the lab.
Quarantine, it said. No entry. He reached the door, pressed the com. "Sikutu. Sikutu, it's Warren. Are you all right in there?"
Silence. He pushed Door-Open.
It was a slaughterhouse inside. Blood was spattered over walls and beds. Sikutu—lying on the floor among the beds and pallets, red all over his lab whites from his perforated chest; Minnan and Polly and Tom, lying in their beds with their bedclothes sodden red, with startled eyes and twisted bodies. Throats cut. Faces slashed.
One bed was empty. The sheets were thrown back. He cast about him, counted bodies, lost in horror— heard the footsteps at his back and turned in alarm.
Annestood there, facelights flashing, cameras clicking into focus.
"Captain," Warren said: Annewas a relay herself. "Captain, it's Sax. He's gone. . . everyone else is dead. He's got a knife or something. Is there any word from Abner?"
"I can't raise him." Burlin's voice came from Anne. "Get a gun. Go to the lock. Abner was in that area last."
"Assistance." The voice changed; Anne's mechanical tones. The pseudosome swiveled, talking to the dead. "Assistance?"
Warren wiped his face, caught his breath. "Body," he said distractedly. "Dispose." He edged past the pseudosome, ran for the corridor, for the weapons locker.
The locker door was dented, scarred as if someone had hammered it, slashed at it; but it was closed. He used his card on it. It jammed. He used it for a lever, used his fingertips, pried it open. He took one of the three pistols there, ignored the holsters, just slammed it shut and ran for the lift.
Downward again. His hands were shaking as he rode. He fumbled at the safety. He was a navigator, had never carried a gun against any human being, had never fired except in practice. His heart was speeding, his hands cold.
The lift stopped; the door whipped open on the dark maze of netherdeck, of conduits and walkways that led to the lock.
He reached for the light switch below the com panel. The lift door shut behind him, leaving him in darkness. He hesitated, pushed the button.
He walked carefully along the walk. The metal grids of the decking echoed underfoot. He passed aisles, searching for ambush. . . flexed his fingers on the gun, thinking of it finally, of what he was doing.
A catwalk led out to the lift platform, to the huge circular cargo plate, the lift control panel. The plate was in down-position, leaving a deep black hole in netherdeck, the vertical tracks showing round the pit. He reached the control station, pressed the button.
Gears synched; hydraulics worked. The platform came up into the light. A shape was on it, a body in a pool of blood. Abner.
Warren punched the station com. "Captain," he said, controlling his voice with marvelous, reasonable calm. "Captain, Abner's dead. Out on the lift platform, netherdeck. Shall I go outside?"
"No," Burlin's voice came back.
He shivered, waiting for more answer. "Captain."
He still kept it calm. "Captain, what do you want me to do?"
Silence and static. Warren cut it off, his hand clenched to numbness on the gun. He flexed it live again, walked out onto the echoing platform, looked about him, full circle, at the shadows. Blood trailed off the platform's circle, stopped clean against the opposing surface. Gone. Outside. He hooked the gun to his belt, stooped and gathered Abner up, heaved the slashed body over his shoulder. Blood drenched him, warm and leaking through his clothes. The limbs hung loose. He carried it—him; Abner; six years his friend. Like Sikutu. Like Sax.
He kept going, to the lift, trailing blood, retracing all his steps. There was silence all about, ship-silence, the rush of air in the ducts, the thousand small sounds of Anne's pumps and fans. Two of them now, two of them left, himself and Burlin. And Sax— out there; out there, escaped, in paradise.
He took Abner upstairs, carried him down the corridor, in the semidark of Power-Save. The pseudosome was busy there, carrying Sikutu's bloody form to the destruct chamber. Warren followed it, automaton like the other, trying to feel as little. But the bodies were stacked up there at the foot of the destruct chamber door, a surplus of bodies. Only one was jammed inside. Minnan. Warren's knees weakened. He watched the pseudosome let Sikutu down atop the others, saw it coming back, arms outstretched.
"Assistance?"
He surrendered Abner to it, stomach twisting as he did. He clamped his jaws and dogged the door on Minnan and pushed the button.
They did the job, he and the pseudosome. He threw up, after, from an empty stomach.
"Assistance?" Anneasked. "Assistance?"
He straightened, wiped his face, leaned against the wall. "Sterilize the area. Decontaminate." He walked off, staggered, corrected himself, pushed the nearest com button, having composed himself, keeping anger from his voice. "Captain. Captain, I've got the bodies all disposed. The area's being cleaned." Softly, softly, he talked gently to this man, this last sane man. "Can we talk, sir?"
"Warren?" the plaintive voice came back.
"Sir?"
"I'm sorry."
"Sir?" He waited. There was only the sound of breathing coming through. "Sir—are you on the bridge? I'm coming up there."
"Warren—I've got it."
"No, sir." He wiped his forearm across his face, stared up at the com unit. He began to shake.
"What am I supposed to do, sir?" He forced calm on himself. "What can I do to help?" A delay. "Warren, I'll tell you what I've done. And why. You listening, Warren?"
"I'm here, sir."
"I've shut down controls. We can't beat this thing. I've shut her down for good, set her to blow if anyone tries to bypass to take off. I'm sorry. Can't let us go home. . . taking this back to human space. It could spread like wildfire, kill—kill whole colonies before the meds could get it solved. I've set a beacon,
Warren. She'll play it anytime some probe comes in here, when they do come, whenever."
"Sir— sir, you're not thinking—A ship in space—is a natural quarantine."
"And if we died en route—and if someone got aboard—No. No. They mustn't do that. We can't lift again."
"Sir—listen to me."