From behind the counter, the serving man brought out a tray of knives.
Curtis Brahms sat in his own office with the door sealed, allowing absolutely no one to enter. Outside he had stationed two guards, but he didn’t necessarily trust them, either.
He squeezed his eyes shut and saw the bright light of anger inside him. Roha Ombalal was so stupid! How could a man manage to live for so many years and understand so little of human nature? Even after the RIF, he had still considered all the people on Orbitech 1 to be One Big Happy Family. Idiot!
Not that Brahms condoned what they had done to him, but in a way, Ombalal had asked for it. When you do stupid things in space, the universe makes sure to punish you for it!
Brahms had sat in anger for longer than an hour after the riot. Everything was falling apart—the chief administrator of Clavius Base had issued a pretentious statement, breaking all contact with Orbitech 1. In an apparently unrelated move, the Soviets on the Kibalchich had ceased all transmissions, leaving only a warning that they were not to be disturbed. The last centers of civilization seemed to be disintegrating.
Brahms couldn’t afford to remain silent anymore. He needed to stop even a hint of mutiny. Orbitech 1 was his station now.
He activated the intercom, speaking simultaneously with the security crew and the maintenance staff. “I want cafeteria complex five scrubbed clean, all traces of the disturbance removed. But first, I want every square inch of the place documented. Lots of graphic stuff.” He drew in a deep breath, forcing back the anger.
“I want to show the blood. I want to show these people—everyone on this station—what they have done!”
Brahms snapped off the intercom, but continued grinding his teeth together, thinking of the people, the simmering mob, on his own station.
He realized that was the part that concerned him—keeping the people under control—since he was now the true director of Orbitech 1. No longer did he have to pander to Ombalal’s incompetence just to save face for the Orbitechnologies Corporation.
Another part of him, a tiny but insistent voice, kept Brahms wondering if that’s what he had really wanted all along.
Chapter 16
KIBALCHICH—Day 12
All the reckless I-won’t-care-until-tomorrow singing had stopped. Anna Tripolk wondered if she would ever hear it again. The others stood silent now, shifting uneasily. A few of them broke into forced jokes or flat conversation, but that quickly petered out. Tripolk smelled a haze of nervous sweat in the Kibalchich’s recycled air.
The big lab space had been converted into a giant infirmary and medical center. At another time, a better time, they had done delicate engineering work here—precision laser applications. None of that mattered anymore.
Tripolk raised her eyes as the line moved forward. Standing in line again, she thought. Even to the end, we must stand in line for everything. High above in the curved ceiling of the research station, she could look through the slitted windows. The suspended saucer-like mirror hung over the rotating torus of the Kibalchich like a giant silver dinner plate. The two lower decks were lit by yellowish artificial light, but Rurik had decided that this was best done in sunlight. Tripolk agreed with him.
The station’s walls were metal, cold, sterile—fabricated from Moon rock, but with no concessions made for the appearance of comfort. All the rooms had been enameled a dreary eggshell white—walls, floors, ceilings, doors. It hurt the eyes after a while.
A few months ago, one of the other researchers, Danskoy, had painted a broad mural along one wall in the recreation hall. It broke up the Kibalchich’s monotony in a startling way.
Danskoy had been sent home soon afterward. Tripolk couldn’t figure out how anybody Earthside had learned of it.
As the next man in line stepped forward, Tripolk took another clean syringe and filled it with the vile-looking yellow chemical. She smoothed her doctor’s uniform, tried to look professional and strong. She, of all people, had to show confidence now. The testing phase had ended; this was for real.
Tripolk didn’t want to look at the man shuffling up, but she did anyway. He had mouse-brown hair, cut too short to be attractive; two days’ growth of beard bristled on his chin. A week before that lack of attention to personal hygiene would never have been tolerated.
A name patch sewn to the man’s uniform said Sheveremsky. Tripolk had never bothered to learn the names of all five hundred people on the Kibalchich. She could have done it, of course, but it had not seemed a necessary effort … and her own work kept her busy enough.
Tripolk started to say something inane, something encouraging, out of habit, but the man cut her off. “Just get it over with. No speeches.” Sheveremsky stared at her. “We all know what we are doing.”
Tripolk clenched her teeth, resenting Sheveremsky’s attitude. Did he think she enjoyed this? The Party wasn’t paying her a bonus for it. It was nothing she wanted to do. She hated to be pushed into such a desperate situation. But this was their only hope, and necessary things had to be done.
“What do you want me to say, then?” She held the syringe in her hand and locked her eyes with Sheveremsky’s. “Do you want me to say everything will be all right? Yes? So—everything will be all right. Now, give me your arm.”
She grasped his bicep and jabbed the needle into his arm. Deep behind the man’s eyes, Tripolk could see a startled wince, but the man himself did not cringe.
The next person came up, a thin woman, silent and looking very frightened. Tripolk gave her the injection.
At the other end of the wide, echoing room, several people looked groggy and disoriented—the first visible effects of the drug. A team of de facto orderlies wheeled them out of the room before they could grow cold and still.
More workers came and went, each receiving an injection, not daring to let pride slip while in the presence of comrades.
Tripolk looked down at the medical cart beside her. She had known of a slaughterhouse just south of Moscow; as a child she had often thought of the lines of animals marching in ignorance to their deaths, trusting and unconcerned. Now, the Kibalchich seemed like that slaughterhouse to her: lines of workers in the vast infirmary, waiting for a pinprick to send them off on a single hopeless chance.
On the supply cart, she saw so many vials left, so many people. A film of tears flashed across her eyes and she looked down, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze. She drew a deep breath and tried to burn the moisture away with determination.
As the hours ticked by, the numbers of people in the infirmary room diminished. She knew this was going to require more than a day. She and two assistants had been working without a break, but the strain was growing. Tripolk found her hands shaking. The large chamber began to take on a funereal air.
When a tech named Orvinskad went into convulsions after receiving the injection, Tripolk found herself startled and scared. That was not supposed to happen, she thought. It is supposed to be peaceful and painless. But considering the circumstances, how pushed to the edge they all were, there were bound to be surprises.
Two men wrestled Orvinskad to the ground and held him still until the seizure left him drained and motionless. They hauled him out. After a few nervous moments, the remaining people fell into an uneasy quiet again, and shuffled forward to face Tripolk’s needle. She wished they would start singing again.