“As far as we can tell, they played no active part in the War, but the L-5 colonies are too far away to be in a strategic position. Your own colony would have been the prime target if they did have any weapons, I suppose. But we haven’t received any word from them except to keep the hell away. They aren’t participating in ConComm with the rest of the colonies.”
Tomkins looked pensive again. “We are now citizens of Clavius Base and will likely die here. The old political boundaries were wiped out in the nuclear exchange.” He blanked the holotank.
“We don’t know the current situation on Earth. Most of its communications capability is gone. We’ve got a few reports from amateurs, other broadcasts we picked up from scattered sources, but the puzzle has plenty of pieces missing. Even though it was only a limited exchange, we think the War may cause the deaths of about sixty percent of Earth’s population—that includes indirect deaths from long-term fallout. There’s no way to guess the fatalities that’ll result from starvation, lack of medical care, and housing.
“We can be certain the industrial base is effectively gone. All manufacturing has been knocked to its knees, and what’s left will no doubt be used exclusively for survival of the remaining people. The Earth has been knocked back into the nineteenth century: no electricity, clean drinking water, sewage treatment, or local communications.”
The chief administrator squeezed McLaris’s shoulder with a massive hand. “You realized it before anyone else, Duncan. You knew it immediately. Earth can’t possibly afford the technological effort to come up and rescue us. And with all those casualties in the War, how can the people left down there worry about a few thousand of us left stranded in space? No, our numbers are already written in their books. We’re on our own.” Tomkins bumped his plastic teacup, knocking it over. He scrambled to pick it up, but the cup was empty anyway.
In his mind, McLaris ran over the scenario. It wasn’t a role-playing game, it wasn’t a newsreel from World War II—it had actually happened to him, to everyone. Diane had been down there, in the middle of it.
He felt his calm expression melt away like candle wax, and he jerked his head around so that Tomkins would not see. Under the table he clenched his fist, trying to squeeze out some of his tension.
Orbitech 1 had discarded 10 percent of its people.
After an awkward pause Tomkins stood up. “Why don’t you get some more rest? After you’re all healed, come back to me. I’ve got some things you can help me with.”
The two men shook hands again before McLaris turned to leave. His slippers scritched on the polished floor as he shuffled back down the corridors toward the infirmary.
Chapter 15
ORBITECH 1—Day 12
He had always considered himself a benevolent director.
He cared for the people on Orbitech 1. Roha Ombalal went to see them; he listened to their concerns; he wanted them to think of him as a gentle leader, a “papa” for them all.
For more than a full day, though, he had isolated himself in his quarters, shivering, having nightmares about the reduction in force. He made sure his porthole remained sealed, terrified that accusing corpses would drift by and stare at him through the quartz. He kept seeing a finger—Brahms’s finger, but it might as well have been his own—pushing the explosive release button, over and over again.
Ombalal had made the tape. The entire colony had heard him explain the reasons, give the order. He wondered what his wife would think of him now.
What would she tell his two girls, his precious children? Ombalal stood in front of the mirror, trying to wipe away the horrified look on his face. His deep black hair seemed to have more silver strands in just the last few hours.
But he couldn’t hide any longer. He was the director of Orbitech 1. He had to show the people he still cared, he still thought of them. He had had to make a horrible, difficult decision … but sometimes even a “papa” was faced with painful choices like this.
A part of him cursed Curtis Brahms for forcing him to act so quickly. Brahms had been persuasive—and he did hold the ultimate authority, according to the Orbitechnologies Corporation. But no matter how much sense the RIF decision might have made, Ombalal hated Brahms for making him select that course of action. Now there could never be any turning back.
Ombalal dressed in his formal uniform with the insignia of Orbitech 1 at his breast. The people would remember all the good things he had done, all the times he had chatted with them, kept his door open for anyone.
They would forgive him.
His throat felt dry. His hands were shaking. But he drew himself up with dignity. He would earn their respect.
In cafeteria complex five, people had already started muttering before Roha Ombalal entered. Orbitech 1 had begun rationing immediately after the War; but this was their first day on further restricted rations. They stared at the small quantities of food as the fear sank in that they would get no more than this for a full day. The server stood behind the line, looking harried and frightened. Beside him stood one of the security men, but he looked just as disgruntled. They had been taking the brunt of the complaints, Ombalal realized. He felt sorry for both of them, but they would all have to deal with hard times from now until … whenever.
At least the people would survive, though—those who had died in the RIF had not made their sacrifice in vain.
When Ombalal stepped into the cafeteria complex, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Conversations stopped. Faces turned toward him with expressions molded into bleak despair or vengeful anger. Suddenly Ombalal felt a thread of fear, which he tried to push away. These were his people; he had been among them for years. But he had lost all their names—he couldn’t remember any of them! They seemed completely faceless, strangers to him.
Ombalal looked around. He drew himself up. His voice was soft. He meant it to be consoling, but instead it came out like the words of a frightened rabbit.
“I … I cannot tell you how sorry I am for the decision I have been forced to make. We must all stick together. Things will get better. I pray I never need to order such a thing again.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone move. A plastic beverage container bounced off his shoulder blade.
“Stop!” Everyone stood still for just a moment.
Then a woman stood at the table in front of him and dumped her tray of steaming beef-flavored noodles into his face. Ombalal let out a cry of pain and brushed them away from his eyes. All the while, he wanted to shout, Don’t waste food like this!
A third person threw another beverage container, which struck him on the side of his head. He heard shouts. Where was the security man? Why didn’t he stop them?
But when Ombalal looked up, he saw the man standing with narrowed eyes and his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Please—” he said, then choked.
Someone hit him on the temple with a serving tray. Ombalal fell to his knees. Astonishment reared up in him so fully that he had no room for fear.
He heard more shouting. Fists began pummeling him. He heard only the voices, felt the pain—he saw no faces. Part of him imagined that they were the faces of those hundred and fifty people he had ejected out the airlock.
In his mind, he watched himself give the order.
This was what it cost him. Ombalal squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep from whimpering. The fight in him drained away. With a hand over his head to fend off the blows, he cried how sorry he was, over and over.