“Allen, I really need your support right now. Ombalal agreed to tape a message to the station, explaining his reasons for the RIF.” Terachyk raised an eyebrow at the implication that the director had come up with the idea.
“But that won’t help me here.” Brahms clenched one fist, hiding it from Terachyk. Linda Arnando glanced at it, puzzled, but Brahms ignored her.
Terachyk hesitated, then pulled himself down again. “I won’t help. And I won’t watch.”
There were a few seconds of silence, which seemed to last hours. Brahms bit his lip. “Okay, if you feel that strongly. I just want you here, that’s all.” He needed a show of stability right now, not dissent. If the division leaders appeared divided, weak, the other workers would fall on them like wolves.
Terachyk would get over it soon—they all would. Somehow, they had to pull Orbitech 1 through this.
Brahms looked over the control panel again, trying to memorize every button, each switch. He didn’t have much time—the hundred and fifty people would start arriving soon. Brahms knew he was procrastinating again. He needed to master only a few of the controls. All the switches worked now.
It had taken the electronics people two full days to fix the damage McLaris had done. Brahms stared at the shuttle bay. It was empty. The Miranda should have been secured—right there!—in the central docking area.
Brahms’s stomach wrenched with the betrayal again. Somehow, McLaris had suspected what the associate director would decide to do. Somehow, he had known.
Brahms knew he was reacting irrationally, but he had never been stabbed in the back so viciously. He had clawed his own way up the success ladder, but he had fought fairly, according to the ethics of the managerial world.
Even the situation with Ombalal being the figurehead—Brahms respected the man’s position, though he still made it clear that he, Curtis Brahms, called all the shots.
Yet McLaris had not fought according to the rules—he had allowed his emotions to get in the way. He had hurt everyone, for himself.
Brahms tried to tell himself that the loss of the Miranda made no real difference. The shuttle was only a symbol, an imaginary hope that could have no measurable effect on the lives of the fifteen hundred workers. They would still be on borrowed time. The colony’s situation would not be improved.
The associate director gritted his teeth and clutched the corner of the control panel. He stared at the white light reflecting off the metal walls. It was bright, like his rage. He closed his eyes, seeing Duncan McLaris in front of the firing squad of his imagination.
He turned to Linda Arnando. She seemed preoccupied. They were all jittery. In his chair, Allen Terachyk just glared at them behind his black-rimmed eyeglasses.
Brahms found the intercom button on the panel and contacted the two attendants at the bottom of the spoke-shaft elevators. “Send them up.”
The attendants acknowledged; they didn’t know what was going on. Nobody else did either—only the three in the control room and Ombalal, but he didn’t count anymore.
A few moments later, the first of the spoke-shaft elevators opened up and ten people pushed out, looking curious but not afraid. Of course, what could they possibly be worried about? Brahms switched on the public address system. His voice ran out into the empty docking bay.
“Just move out into the loading area. We’ve got a hundred and fifty people to come. Let’s do this as quickly as we can. Thanks.”
Yes, let’s do this as quickly as we can. But the nightmares will bother us for the rest of our lives.
Even with the stress, Brahms kept a cool mask on his face, a gentle tone in his voice. The workers would believe him—the calm, benevolent associate director who could somehow find a way to save them all. They depended on him. Inside, his stomach turned.
Four women and six men emerged from the elevator. Brahms recognized some of them, but couldn’t attach names to any. He didn’t want to know who they were. He dreaded the thought of assigning faces to any of the names on the list. That would make them real to him, flesh and blood. He might not be able to handle that.
“Keep sending them up,” he said to the attendants.
When another load of ten disembarked, people started to cluster in the empty bay. A few of them knew each other. They all seemed baffled as to why they had been picked for this special event.
If they had enough sense, they could look around themselves and begin to figure it out. But mediocre workers were likely to fall into friendships with other mediocre workers, and none of them would dream that their performance didn’t measure up to standards. Certainly not.
The Efficiency Study did not lie. Brahms had used objective criteria. The workers gathering now in the docking bay had come out at the bottom of the barrel. They had no one to blame but themselves.
But part of him insisted that they were people, nevertheless.
Brahms watched them until he had to turn away. Some of them looked up at him. And Terachyk’s accusing expression seemed just as difficult to face. The people in the bay talked among themselves. Brahms switched off the PA system, sick at listening to their chatter.
“I wish I could find some other way,” he repeated to Linda Arnando. “I really do.” He realized he was beginning to whine. He sounded guilty, childish again. He could not afford that.
“I know,” Arnando answered.
On the fifth load, Tim Drury floated out into the bay. Because the Maintenance Division leader was so fat, only six others fit in the elevator with him. Drury hung by the wall. Many of the others didn’t seem to know who he was, but some took his presence as reassurance that one of Orbitech 1’s upper managers had joined them for the reception.
From above, Brahms stared at the obese division leader through the angled observation windows. Drury looked gray and damp, sickened. He moved slowly with his excessive girth, as if his joints pained him. Drury stared at the floor, jittery. Brahms felt his throat tighten, and he wished he had worn glasses, dark glasses, to hide his face. He knows!
Drury glanced up then, and their eyes met. Brahms felt his heart leap. He wanted to run away and hide, but he had to stand strong for Orbitech 1. He mouthed “I’m sorry,” but Drury broke the gaze too quickly.
Brahms closed his eyes. He locked his feet around the chair stem and softly pounded the side of the control panel with his fist. “Damn, damn, damn!” he whispered, over and over again.
According to the reports Brahms had received, only three people had declined his invitation and needed to be “escorted” by the guard team. They were the last to arrive on the elevators. Brahms did not give them a chance to worry the other workers when they emerged from the spoke-shaft doors, upset and indignant.
“Would you like us to come up as well?” the spoke-shaft attendant said, interrupting Brahms.
“No!” he said, faster than he could stifle the alarm in his voice.
“Okay. Everyone’s up, then.”
Arnando acknowledged for him. Brahms nodded to her briskly.
Arnando worked another set of controls. The four spoke-shaft doors pneumatically sealed into their jambs. With a muffled thump, heavy dead bolts shot into place, making the doors impenetrable.
Terachyk glared at her. Arnando turned away from him, aloof.
The people quieted, looking at each other and staring up at the observation windows from the control bay. Some floated up to Brahms’s eye level, waiting. Brahms wanted it all to be over with. He wanted them to stop staring at him.
He had sent out a special invitation to all one hundred and fifty of them. It had been printed on formal, official stationery and marked “In Strict Confidence.” Brahms had signed Ombalal’s name to each one himself: Come to the docking bay for a special announcement at precisely noon on the indicated date.