Tillie Matson scrambled through the makeshift nursery on hands and knees, struggling to thrust screaming children into life suits. Another explosion rocked the Star Cross. Lights dimmed, flickered, went out. Oh, God, no . . . Strident sirens sounded through the whole ship. Then the hull shuddered like a mare trying to dislodge biting flies. Even Tillie screamed.
They dropped out of hyper-light with a disorienting jolt. The children's screams turned to terrified whimpers in the darkness. "M-mamma—"
Another explosion somewhere aft brought new cries. Emergency lights came up, flickered, dimmed, came up again.
"Into your suits!" Tillie shouted at the older kids.
A few of them snapped out of terror long enough to comprehend her order. They knew the drill. Under the goad of an adult voice, they scrambled to obey. Tillie's hands shook as she thrust whimpering toddlers into life suits and sealed the latches. Saros Mysia, his face a terrible shade of green in the emergency lighting, stumbled through the open hatchway and helped her finish the little ones.
"Into the corner!" the colony's education administrator ordered suited children. Kids scrambled to obey.
"Into a suit, Tillie," he added sharply.
"You're not suited, either. Zip up, stat."
They both struggled into life suits, fully expecting the hull to blow at any second. But no more terrifying, inexplicable explosions rocked their transport. The sirens continued to hoot, but whatever had happened, it was over. Or so Tillie thought.
The good news arrived in the person of Kelly McTavish. The ship's Passenger Steward, suited against hull breach, poked his faceplate into the nursery and looked directly at Tillie.
"We're spaceworthy."
In two words, he relieved their greatest terror. Tillie sagged inside her life suit, trembling. "What happened?" Good God, is that my voice?
"We were attacked. Don't know by what or why; but it was a deliberate attack."
"Attack?" Tillie echoed. "My God, we're not at war with anyone."
"Weren't at war with anyone," Kelly corrected harshly. "We sure as hell are now." He glanced at the wide-eyed children behind her. "Uh, sorry. I really shouldn't have said that." He cleared his throat. Through the faceplate, Tillie read stark terror in his eyes.
Tillie made a fast decision. "Saros, stay with the children, please. I need to find out what our status is."
Once in the corridor, away from the nursery, she asked, "Is it safe to take this helmet off, Mr. McTavish?"
He nodded, solemnly unbuckling his own. "Yeah. We're spaceworthy. No hull breach in this sector, anyway."
Tillie swallowed hard. "Then there was a hull breach?"
He glanced at the nearby bulkhead. "Yeah."
"How bad is it?"
Kelly McTavish wouldn't meet her eyes. "Bad, ma'am. I'll, uh, update you soon. Real soon, I promise. You'd better see to your people, ma'am. Find out how many casualties you have. Get someone to check the livestock. I'm afraid all ship's personnel are going to be, uh, real busy for a few hours."
He started to leave.
"Mr. McTavish . . ."
He halted; turned reluctantly to face her.
"Just how many crewmen were killed?"
He lost another shade of color, which she wouldn't have believed possible. Carrot-red hair and freckles stood out from the pallor, reminding Tillie of the scared children back in the nursery. Very slowly, and with a sinking sensation in her middle, she realized he really wasn't much more than a kid. Twenty, maybe. Not much older. Just what was the chain of command on a passenger/cargo freighter?
"I'll update you soon as I can, ma'am. I just wanted to make sure you understood you're in no immediate danger. Hang tight, long's you can. I'll be back. Or someone will. I promise."
With that, he left her standing in the corridor with nothing but fear in her mouth and tremors in all her muscles.
The bad news arrived in the guise of a crewman Tillie hadn't met yet. She was hip-deep in crises of her own, trying to calm hysterical colonists with the little she knew of their situation.
"—but who attacked—"
"—or what—"
"—how long will repairs take—"
"—my baby's due in three weeks!—"
"—our children are having hysterics—"
"Please, people," Tillie lifted her hands, trying to shout over the babble of frightened voices. "You've already heard everything I know. There was a hull breach somewhere, but I don't know how serious it was. Everyone felt us drop out of FTL into normal space. The crew has asked us to verify our status—"
"Why the hell don't they verify theirs!"
"We paid 'em enough for this passage!"
Tillie shouted to be heard. "The sooner we know how we are, the sooner the crew can help us get through this crisis. Itami, Saros, please take charge of the roster. Verify everyone's situation—injuries, losses, whatever. We'll worry about the livestock later. Right now we sort out ourselves . . ."
They were still working on the casualties list when several people stared past her shoulder. Tillie turned and found a lean crewman with a torn, stained uniform and haunted, dark eyes standing in the open bulkhead doorway, watching them.
Pandemonium erupted.
"—what's—"
"—how soon—"
"—you must—"
Thin lips went thinner just before the explosion: "QUIET!"
Whoever he was, he had Command Voice down to a science. Shocked colonists shut up. A few—unaccustomed to paid underlings barking orders—gulped like fish drowning in a sea of oxygen. His dark gaze flicked to her. "Dr. Matson?"
"Yes?"
"Would you join me, please. We have a lot to discuss."
The order—phrased as a polite request to preserve an illusion of normalcy—was nevertheless clearly an order. Tillie knew in that moment they were in more serious trouble than even she had thought.
"Itami, Saros," she said quietly, "have the casualties roster updated by the time I get back."
Then she followed him into a part of the ship she hadn't seen before. Every step of the way, Tillie sweat into her jumpsuit and tried to convince her jangled insides that she really did want to hear whatever awful things this man was about to reveal. The badge on her jumpsuit, glinting in the subdued emergency-level light, weighed more heavily with each and every step toward doom. He ushered her wordlessly into what might have been a wardroom. Two crewmen she knew were already there: Kelly McTavish and Booker Howard.
Both remained pale and silent.
"Please, have a seat, Dr. Matson."
She sank into the nearest chair.
"I believe you have already met Kelly McTavish and Booker Howard?"
"Yes." Her hands wouldn't quite hold still. She moved them into her lap.
"My name is Lewis Liffey. Ship's Supply Steward. It's my job to manage Star Cross' provisions. Foodstuffs." He held her gaze steadily. "Regretfully, I am also in the direct chain of command for captaincy."
An ominous chill touched Tillie's cheeks.
He glanced at McTavish. "Yes, Kelly, I see you were right. Very well. Yes, Dr. Matson, it is that bad. Probably worse. I'm afraid we're in very, very serious trouble."
He paused as though looking at another, far more terrible image than the wreck of Tillie's composure. "Whatever attacked us blew our Command Module to vacuum. Captain Redditch and Darren Boyd, our Navigator, died instantly. Jay Adler, our Engineer, was killed when they blew our propulsion system. All outgoing communications are dead. So are the propulsion systems and all navigational capability. The three of us are the only crew left alive."
Tillie shut her eyes and held onto the edge of the table. He's right, it's worse . . .
"We may be able to repair part of navigation and propulsion. Maybe. We certainly will not be able to bring the Cross up to anything like standard operating specs. None of us is an engineer. Or even a tekkie."
Tillie opened her eyes at that faint stress. He was asking her to produce a miracle. "I'm sorry," she said hoarsely. "All our engineers went out in Phase One. Our techs, too. We're just the crop-production specialists."
Watching the flicker of hope in his eyes die into blank despair was worse than hearing the grim news in the first place. "I see." His voice was very, very quiet.
"Bottom line?" Tillie managed.
For the first time, his gaze dropped reluctantly away from hers. He fiddled with a stylus. "We were scheduled for a two-week voyage to Matson's. The Cross sustained a lot of computer damage when the Command Module blew. Among other things. Bottom line . . ." He finally met her gaze again. "If we can't repair outgoing communications—which doesn't look likely—we won't be able to call for help. We're a long way from anywhere out here. If we can restore some of our navigation and propulsion systems, at least enough to allow for minor course corrections over time . . . It's possible we could get to Matson's. Maybe. That's the course Darren Boyd laid in and so far as we can tell, it's still running on autocommand. But we can't reprogram it for a new course—that part of the nav system's been blown apart. And anyway, none of us knows enough about navigation to try reprogramming for a closer port of call. It's stay on autocommand with minor course corrections over time, or nothing."
There didn't seem to be much point in demanding to know why the company hadn't built in failsafes and crew redundancies for such a contingency. They hadn't, so wishing they had was just plain useless. And it wasn't the fault of the surviving crew, anyway.
Lewis Liffey cleared his throat. "That, uh, isn't the worst of it, Dr. Matson."
Tillie braced herself.
"At current velocity, with repairs to our propulsion systems so we can handle the course corrections we'll need, we could reach Matson's. In about twenty years."
"Twenty years? My God—"
"If we can't effect any repairs," he cut her off, "we're dead."
She understood that all too clearly. If they couldn't correct course, they'd keep following their current vector and miss the point in space where Matson's would have been at the end of two weeks—but not where it would be at the end of twenty years. Maybe someday an alien race would find their bones inside the Star Cross' empty shell. . . .
The shape of Lewis Liffey's face wavered in her awareness. The whole room wavered. His voice brought everything back with a disorienting click.
"Dr. Matson, we need to make some very critical decisions and, frankly, I'm going to need your help."
Tillie blinked, trying to cope with shock on shock. "Yes?"
"You brought three hundred fifty-seven people aboard, as well as live cargo, planning to settle a new colony. Unless we rig some kind of miracle repair, I would suggest you consider the Cross your new colony. You're agriculturalists. If we're going to survive a twenty-year voyage on a ship provisioned for two weeks, plus emergency stores, we'll need every ounce of creativity you've got. We have to grow our own food, recycle nutrients, purify water when parts we'd normally swap out start to break down . . ."
"Yes," Tillie managed. "I see what you mean. You really don't think there's hope, then, of repairing anything . . ." Her voice wobbled traitorously. "Anything, I mean, that would get us out of this?"
He sat back, looking suddenly drawn and exhausted. "No. I really don't. Believe me, Dr. Matson, I'd give just about anything to say otherwise."
She believed him. Most profoundly believed him. Because Tillie Matson would have given her immortal soul to tell her colonists something—anything—but the granite truth.
To her credit, she didn't cry until much, much later.
When she was completely and utterly alone.
The orchard thrives. This pleases me. I am programmed to experience a sense of well-being for a job well performed. But I do not understand why my Commander has placed me on Battle Reflex Alert inside the colony perimeter. I perceive no trace of an Enemy against which I should prepare myself. The orchard is pest free. Scanning from a distance, I determine that the cornfield and vegetable plots between my current position and maintenance depot are also pest free. I have done my job well. My gengineered microbes, nematodes, and insect species are performing their tasks perfectly. The crops are safe. The colony is safe.
I work on new peach cultivars as assigned for a planned extension to the apple orchard, running computations, selecting the optimal site for the peach trials, preparing the soil with proper fumigants. I release nerve agents beneath a layer of heavy plastic film and monitor the progress of fumigation. Inimical soil parasites die. I am satisfied.
Seven point two-two hours after assuming my patrol station in the orchard, I detect an incoming Concordiat vessel. I am no longer programmed to respond to such vessels. The subroutines which still exist in my Action/Command center, subroutines which at one time governed my response to such ships, have been modified. I ignore the ship other than to note its landing and subsequent takeoff. I calculate that its mass has increased slightly on departure, indicating onloading of supplies or export goods from our stores. This puzzles me, but I am not involved in decisions to export goods from Matson's. The colony grows quiet. The silence is too quiet.
I scan.
My sensors detect no trace of human occupation. This disturbs me. My Commander has not mentioned a departure of human personnel. I widen my scan. Livestock are still in place in barns, hutches, and fields. No human remains inside the colony perimeter. I widen scan once again. I detect no trace of human presence for a radius of 4850 meters beyond the colony perimeter. I consider the possibility that the colony has come under attack.
The only logical source of such an attack would be the ship which has departed. It carried proper Concordiat markings and broadcast on official Concordiat frequencies. I do not like to consider that a Concordiat ship has been subverted by the Enemy; but it is a possibility I file to be tested against future data, particularly as its increase in mass would closely match the combined mass of the human contingent of Matson's World, within an estimated 0.007 percent.
I know of no native agricultural pest which would be capable of deflecting a Concordiat ship from its assigned mission and abducting the members of an entire colony in order to more easily access our crop base. I consider a probable extraterrestrial point of origin. Lacking data, I file the possibility and maintain Battle Reflex Alert. I have been charged with protecting Matson's World. Vigilance is necessary if there is to be a well-maintained facility waiting when my Commander and the rest of Matson's colonists return.
I wait and listen and watch.
". . . should be able to snag and hear SWIFT messages, at least," Lewis muttered through his suit mike. The sound of his voice was distorted slightly, either by the transmission from the Command Module or by stress, Tillie wasn't sure which.
"You understand, I'm not an engineer. I don't really know how to fix this the way it ought to be fixed. If we had the proper parts, it might be different."
Tillie nodded. One of the nightmares—one of many—was discovering that the blast which had destroyed their propulsion system and their engineer had also destroyed most of the ship's spare parts. What hadn't been lost to vacuum when the main storage bins blew had partly melted in the extreme heat.
"You ready, Kelly?"
"Yessir."
"Now."
Tillie, watching via a two-way vid hookup in the wardroom, crossed her fingers. She considered crossing her toes, ankles, knees, even her eyes . . . Lewis bent over a damaged console and fiddled. In the wardroom, speakers crackled and hissed unpleasantly. A shrill shriek made her grab both ears. Then—
". . . immediate emergency evacuation. Incoming Xykdap fleet expected in your space within twenty-four hours local. Repeat, you are instructed to proceed with immediate emergency evacuation. The Enemy has a fleet-strength battle force which has already taken Scarsdale. Matson's World is expected to fall within the next four hours. Sector transports are inbound toward your—"
An explosion of sparks danced across the damaged console. Lewis exploded into curses. Ten minutes of futile coaxing dragged by to no effect.
"Well," he said finally, "that's that. I, uh, think we're sunk. Any ideas, Kelly?"
"Not right off," the young Passenger Steward said mournfully from what was left of Engineering.
Tillie dragged her thoughts away from the horror of the message they'd intercepted. Don't think of Carl, surely he's evacuated Phase I, please, God, let Sector have evacuated them. . . . Have to think about our survival, here and now.
"Mr. Liffey, we have a good library with us. Maybe Saros Mysia can locate something that will help us fix the SWIFT unit again. Or rig up something else."
Neither Lewis Liffey nor Kelly McTavish spoke for long moments. Lewis finally said, "The longer we go without communications, the deeper we plunge into what is going to be Enemy territory. If we wait too long, a communications blackout may be a blessing. That thing that hit us could've killed us. Instead it knocked out key systems and left us to blunder on our way, crippled. If we continue to play dead . . ."
Tillie drew a shuddering breath. "Yes. Hognose," she nodded.
Lewis Liffey's faceplate swung sharply toward the video pickup. "What?"
Tillie wondered why her face hurt, until she realized she was smiling. "Hognose snakes. Old Earth reptiles. They'd play dead. You know, roll belly up even if you flipped 'em right side over. It was a fairly decent survival trait."
Lewis Liffey's short, bitter laugh startled her. "Hognose. That's good. I'll remember that. Okay, we collar Saros, stat. Kelly, I'm getting the hell out of here."
They'd had to rig a lifeline out an airlock so Lewis could spacewalk forward to the blown Command Module to try fixing the SWIFT transmitter/receiver assembly. Lewis pulled himself back along it now, hand over hand, climbing through a gaping hole in the hull and disappearing beyond the video lens' range. Tillie gripped her hands tightly until he reached the airlock and safety. When she knew he was back aboard, she called Saros on the intership link and asked him to please join the crew in the wardroom.
I am occupied repairing a split irrigation pipe when I detect a scan of my position from orbit. I monitor orbital activity. At the extreme range of my sensors, I am able to detect seventeen ships of Concordiat battle cruiser size, but of unknown configuration. Sixteen vanish into FTL mode, destination unknown. A single ship enters geo-sync above the colony and sends a transmission I am unable to decipher.
Sensors track the arrival of small, mechanized ships streaking into atmosphere from the vessel in geo-sync. These ships land inside the colony perimeter. My Battle Reflex Alert circuitry triggers Enemy Proximity Alarms. I abandon work on the irrigation system and move toward the colony's administrative complex.
I follow the access road through the test plots of sweet and field corn. Sensors indicate six vessels of unknown configuration. They ring the Administrative Complex. As I monitor activity, an unknown life form emerges. I scan my data banks for comparative species. My data files contain physiological profiles of all known Terrestrial and alien agricultural pest species. The invader does not fit the physiological profile of known nematodes. It is not a member of phylum arthropoda, therefore it cannot be an unknown form of beetle, weevil, leaf miner, grasshopper, or termite. It is not a larval predator. It is not a bird species. It possesses no mammalian hair, although its physiological characteristics cause me to pause momentarily over all entries of rodent species.
It is larger than the Terran hamster, which is known to strip grainfields in the Asian region of Old Terra. It shares a number of primary characteristics with the Terran wood rat, excepting bipedal locomotion and lack of visual adaptations. It measures approximately 1.005 meters in height, with an additional 0.92 meters of tail. I determine that the species uses a form of sophisticated echolocation to navigate. The auditory adaptations are complex and greatly enlarged.
A group of nine enter the main Administration wing.
The fireball temporarily blinds my visual and IR sensors. An overpressure rocks me on my treads. The entire complex has exploded. Fires rage out of control. I deduce that this explosion has been triggered by blasting chemicals from the colony's stores: chemical signatures match perfectly. I conclude that the buildings were deliberately booby-trapped in preparation for the arrival of a pest species so deadly the colony had to be abandoned.
I know now that I face the Enemy.
Joy fills my personality gestalt circuitry. At last, I meet an adversary worthy of my talents. I charge at high speed, targeting the transports. I fire infinite repeaters. The nearest transport vehicle disintegrates in a satisfactory ball of flame and debris. I traverse infinite repeaters and fire on the second vehicle. Infantry rush toward me. I track Enemy troop movements and fire anti-personnel charges. They are effective against Enemy infantry. Two vehicles from the far side of the compound lift off. I sweep around and fire. I destroy one. The second returns fire against me. I am hit with energy weapons. I reel. I discharge infinite repeaters. The Enemy vessel explodes.
Infantry close from my flank. I estimate infestation strength in excess of ten thousand units. My on-board anti-personnel charges are inadequate to neutralize an infestation of this size. I switch tactics. I prepare chemical sprays and discharge, choosing wide-dispersion pattern. My repeaters track another vessel attempting to lift. I destroy it. My chemical sprays prove effective on perhaps eight percent of the infestation. This is a resilient species. It has learned to manufacture protective gear which renders it invulnerable to chemicides.
The cornfield around me erupts into flame under Enemy fire. I am hit with multiple strikes from energy weapons. Portions of my hull melt under the barrage. Sixteen point zero-seven acres of immature corn burn fiercely. This pest species must be eradicated. I discharge a nerve agent used to fumigate the soil, dispersing it as I would a chemicide. Fifty point nine-three percent of the infestation dies. The rest withdraw to a safe distance beyond the colony perimeter, abandoning the sole remaining transport.
I destroy it with a sense of satisfaction and turn my attention to the remaining infestation. The pest has withdrawn from the colony perimeter. Technically, I am relieved of responsibility to destroy it. My brief experience with this pest, however, has taught me that it will remain a threat to this colony so long as a single member of its species remains alive. Moreover, this pest has left a vessel in orbit and multiple other vessels have been sent to unknown destinations. I must learn more about this species' physiology to more effectively destroy it, for I calculate high odds that the Enemy will attempt reinfestation of this colony should I successfully eliminate the current infestation.
I retrieve dead specimens with external armatures and proceed to dissect the samples. I perform a thorough analysis of biological systems, genetic makeup, and deduce probable reproductive pattern. I note internal and external parasites. I determine that it will be necessary to procure live, undamaged samples. I discard the remains and turn my attention to this task. To fully eradicate this infestation, I must first completely understand the physiology of the creature I am to eliminate.
I cross the perimeter boundary toward the Enemy's fallback position.
They stared gloomily at the plans on screen.
"Well," Lewis Liffey said glumly, "it was worth a try."
They could have repaired the SWIFT unit, if their parts depot hadn't been blown to vacuum. But not even by cannibalizing other components of the Cross could they fix the shambles that remained.
"Well," Lewis said again. "I guess we concentrate on our next crisis." He glanced at Tillie Matson. Her face was too pale. Even at her best, she would never have fit conventional definitions of prettiness. But her eyes could reach out and grab a man's soul. He wondered if Carl Matson was truly aware of what he'd lost. . . .
Lewis cleared his throat and turned his attention to Saros Mysia. "Anything you could find on propulsion systems would help."
The colony's educator/librarian nodded and rattled a few keys in rapid succession. They spent the next several hours studying everything in the colony's library on repair of FTL and Sub-L propulsion systems. And while he pored over schematics and technical data, Lewis' mind raced ahead to the thousand other worries facing him. They'd need a form of government, laws and law enforcement, medical facilities the Cross had never been designed for, a way to raise food, a way to keep their population from expanding any farther than it would after the dozen or so now-pregnant colonists among them gave birth. . . .
Lewis didn't know if he could bring himself to order those women—or others, down the road—to abort children they simply couldn't afford to feed. Twenty years . . . Mandatory birth control would not be popular amongst people who had signed onto a colony expecting—anticipating joyfully—the need to procreate like mad. They needed a skilled socio-psychologist. What they had were one medical generalist who was currently trying to cope with a wide range of injuries and an educator whose lifelong plans had been to build a school for hard-working farm kids.
Donner's Party had nothing on us, Lewis thought sourly. And I'll be damned if we devolve to that level.
And underlying every other worry on his mind, shoved painfully back into a corner where he could almost insulate himself from it, was the agonizing question, When they hit Scarsdale, did the bastards kill Ginnie? He had no way of knowing. Might never know.
So Lewis threw himself into the terrible job of keeping everyone aboard the Star Cross alive and refused himself the luxury of grief.
The refugee center wasn't able to give most folks an answer to their question. But they had an answer for Carl Matson. Pity thickened Hal Abrams' throat as the director absorbed the news.
"I'm afraid we received a Mayday from the Star Cross, Dr. Matson. The transport was under attack when the Mayday cut off. We can only presume everyone aboard was killed instantly. I'm sorry."
"I—I see. There's no— No. I suppose not . . . Thank you."
Hal gently guided Carl to one side when he nearly walked into the wall instead of through the door. His eyes were wet, his lips unsteady. "Bastards," he whispered. "Murdering, vicious . . . They were unarmed. Unarmed, dammit!"
Hal just guided him outside, past the line of frightened refugees waiting their turn for bad news. The refugees from Matson's World had already been told their home wasn't worth the lives of the men it would take to wrest it back—Space Arm was concentrating on saving the critical mining worlds at risk, not a few dozen acres of spindly corn and half-grown apple trees. And now, on top of that blow, this. . . .
Outside, away from the lines and the staring eyes, Carl finally met Hal's gaze. "You going back into the Marines?"
Hal Abrams nodded slowly. "Yeah. My Reserve commission's been updated to active status. Gotta report for transport out in a couple a hours."
Carl straightened his back. "I'll tell the others. Then . . . then I'll go with you. If they'll have me."
"Well, I reckon they'll take just about whatever they can get right now. But you sure about that? You aren't exactly trained for soldiering. It's a bloody business."
Carl met his gaze steadily. His eyes were still wet; but back in their depths, they were cold as the black emptiness of space. "Oh, yes. I'm sure."
Hal just nodded.
He felt sorry for anything caught in Carl Matson's gunsight.
He felt even sorrier that his friend's revenge would almost certainly be very, very short-lived.
Live samples provide the data I require. I am fully equipped to perform biological gengineering tasks. My cultivar work and bio-control programs have been 99.725 percent successful. I harvest internal parasites from the creatures' intestinal tracts and begin genetic modification experimentation. I am patient. The Enemy has withdrawn to a safe distance to regroup and form a new infestation site. The Enemy shows no immediate willingness to reinfest areas inside the colony perimeter. Therefore I have ample time to perfect my work.
I am cautious to ensure that each test batch is gengineered as mules. I will not unleash a biological weapon which cannot be curtailed within one generation. My task requires additional live specimens. I harvest these with difficulty, coming under heavy fire each time I attempt live capture. For most tests, I clone tissue samples and determine what effect the gengineered nematodes have on my tissue cultures.
The first infestation is reinforced as predicted from the orbital ship. I do not attack the transport. It would please me to have this pest carry the means of its destruction to the home nest. An interminable 3.7 weeks post-infestation pass before I discover a virulent gengineered strain. I obtain live samples and contaminate them. The gengineered nematode performs to my expectations, producing desired toxins in the Enemy's digestive tract. Sample pests undergo progressive circulatory disorders over the next 1.72 days. After a toxin exposure of 2.6 days, extremities undergo rapid necrosis. The Enemy dies of convulsions within 0.25 hours of necrosis onset.
All gengineered nematodes die 6.25 hours after their hosts. Gengineered nematodes without a host survive for only 2.36 hours. I carefully infect samples of Terran species and determine that this nematode and its toxins are harmless to the animals and crops I have been charged to protect.
I am ready.
"It's hopeless!" Oliver Parlan cried. "Don't you realize that? Why should any of us spend twenty years scratching and struggling to survive when we'll only wind up in Enemy hands at the end?"
"It isn't hopeless," Tillie tried yet again.
At the end of the corridor, Oliver and Sally Parlan had barricaded themselves and their children in, threatening to blow the airlock hatch and vent the whole ship to vacuum. She had to buy the time Lewis Liffey needed to get into position. He'd entered a repair conduit two yards behind her and was worming his way through a maze of conduits toward an access panel under the damaged airlock's operating mechanism. She had to keep the Parlans talking until he was in position. . . .
"It'll be tough, I know that, but we have no way of knowing what will happen in twenty years. The Concordiat may have reclaimed Matson's World by then. Think of your children—"
Sally Parlan burst into tears. "I am thinking of them! All of them. Damn you, Tillie Matson, you want to condemn them to a living hell. . . ."
Oliver looked her in the eye and said quietly, "You are not God, Tillie. Judge me not." He reached for the damaged hatch controls on the airlock he'd jimmied to remain open when the outer door slid back.
Lewis Liffey kicked open the hatch cover. Tillie dove for the deckplates. Lewis fired his needler almost point blank. Sally and the children screamed. Oliver froze in shock and pain; then slowly crumpled to the deckplates. He died before Itami Kobe could reach him with a medi-kit. Book Howard took charge of Sally and her children, placing them in protective custody. She spat on Tillie as Book pulled her past.
Very slowly, Tillie wiped her face with a sleeve. Lewis looked up from his sprawled position on the deck plates.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Sure," Tillie lied. "I'm fine. You?"
He winced a little as he sat up, but nodded. "Sure. I'm always fine." The slight tremor in his voice betrayed him.
"Never killed a man before?"
His glance was piercing. "No."
"It isn't your fault."
Lewis scrubbed his brow and put the needler carefully to one side. "If there'd been any other way . . ."
But there hadn't been. They couldn't just sedate a man like Oliver Parlan for twenty years. His determination to kill everyone had sealed his death warrant. Tillie knew there hadn't been any other choice. But she understood Lewis Liffey's reaction.
And what would they do the next time?
If there was a next time?
Kelly McTavish arrived with welding gear. "Sir, I'll get to work sealing off this corridor now."
Lewis Liffey glanced up. "Right." He levered himself up and retrieved the needler; then offered Tillie a hand up.
"Thanks. I'll . . . I'll be down in hydroponics if you need me."
She fled, leaving the ship's crewmen to deal with the aftermath of near-disaster. And she really did need to check on progress in hydroponics. She found Hank Biddle and Bartel Ditrik busy installing new, jury-rigged tanks to supplement the ones they'd already set up. Bart glanced up first.
"How'd it end?"
Tillie glanced away. "Oliver's dead. Sally's in custody. Saros will take charge of their kids."
Hank Biddle only thinned his lips. The message was clear: You didn't have to kill him. Tillie didn't feel like arguing.
"Do you have everything you need to finish this?" she asked tiredly.
"Oh, sure. We got everything a man could want," Bart snapped. "Why don't you go butt your nose into somebody else's business? We got work to do."
Tillie knew she ought to respond to that. But numb as she was from the shock of watching Oliver Parlan die, she just couldn't think of a thing to say. Rumor mill had it the colonists were set to vote her out and pick another Transport Director. Maybe that would be best, after all. She was tired and battered and numb and so sick of the responsibility she wanted to curl up somewhere and cry.
I didn't sign on for this job for twenty years, Carl, she whimpered silently. I'm not cut out for leadership. . . .
The crisis came to a head the next day, when Sally Parlan was found dead in her quarters. She'd suicided behind locked doors. The only spot on the Cross large enough to assemble the entire colony was Cargo Two, which they were in the process of converting to stables but which remained largely unused. So they'd set off a portion of it for a "Town Hall." When news of Sally's suicide reached her, Tillie called an immediate Town Meeting.
All three Star Cross crewmen attended, as well. Lewis Liffey joined Tillie on the makeshift speaker's platform. Kelly and Booker Howard, Tillie noted uneasily, blocked the exit—and they wore needlers. So did Lewis.
"As you have no doubt heard, Oliver and Sally Parlan have both died after an unsuccessful attempt to vent the ship to vacuum. If they had succeeded, none of us would be alive now. I know that many of us are experiencing doubts—"
"Damn right we are!"
"Why the hell should we keep going?"
"Only doubt I got is about you, Matson!"
Tillie let the shouts die away. "I accepted the position of Transport Director under certain conditions—namely, that it would be a temporary job. None of us expected it to become a two-decade assignment. Mr. Liffey and I have discussed the need for us to think of the Star Cross as the colony we intended to found. Therefore I suggest we begin work now deciding the form of government we intend to establish."
Before anyone could speak, Lewis Liffey stepped forward.
"Dr. Matson, I have a few words to say on this subject."
Tillie nodded and stepped aside.
"Right now, we're subject to lifeboat rules. There can be only one captain. That situation will not change in the next twenty years, not until we reach Matson's. The government you intend to establish has to be set up with that in mind. Aboard the Star Cross there is one law: the Captain's. There are only three Star Cross crew left alive, which means this colony will have a number of key administrative slots open. You will all have a chance to fill those administrative posts over time. But there can't be more than one captain."
"And that's you?" someone demanded in an ugly voice.
"Yeah, you're the big military man with the guns. . . ."
Lewis cut through the uproar. "Yes, I'm the captain. Whether I like it or not. I didn't ask for this job any more than you asked to be marooned aboard the Star Cross for twenty years. That doesn't change facts. My training and skills and the chain of command mean I'm stuck with the job just as surely as you're stuck with me. But there's something you need to keep firmly in mind. What you decide today will determine the kind of colony your kids grow up in. Will you choose lawless in-fighting, every man and woman for themselves? Or will you choose to set up a government in which every one of you has the opportunity to serve the community in critical decision-making ways?
"As captain, I can only recommend the proper course of action if the information you give me is the best available. I can't do every job there is to be done. That's up to you people. I'll do my best to live up to the responsibility that's been thrust on me. You need to live up to yours. What you decide in the next few minutes will make the difference between simply surviving and building something your children can be proud of when their turn comes to take up the mantle of community leadership."
He stepped back and fell silent.
A moment later, someone near the back of the room shouted, "I nominate Tillie Matson for Transport Director!"
"Second!"
Another voice shouted, "I nominate Hank Biddle for that job!"
"Second!"
Nominations ended at three candidates—and the third refused nomination. Debate opened up. When it became clear that debate would involve nothing more than a shouting match between factions, Lewis Liffey shouted down the tumult.
"The candidates have five minutes each to present their platforms! Hank Biddle, you go first."
The big agronomist nodded grimly and climbed onto the platform. "You all know me. My dream is growing things. And you all know I joined this expedition because I thought we could grow ourselves a good life out on Matson's World. But that isn't going to happen now. Folks like Tillie, here, want us to keep struggling. Keep trying. For what? So a pack of murderous aliens can shoot our children down right in front of us when we get there? They want us to starve damn near to death, to give up having more children, to give up everything that means being a human being—and for what? The chance to die in agony under alien guns. They admit Matson's World has long since fallen to this . . . this alien scourge. There's no chance of fighting it once we get there. Captain and his two henchmen have needlers we're afraid of, but don't let 'em fool you. There's nothing on board this ship to fight an alien army with twenty years to entrench itself. I ask—I plead—with you, don't prolong this agony. Let us die quietly, now, by our own hands, while we're still human enough to do so with dignity and courage."
He stepped off the platform amid a vast silence.
Tillie could tell from the uptilted faces that a large number of them had been swayed by his plea. She didn't know what to say. Hank Biddle was wrong, she knew it in her bones . . . but she didn't know what to say. She cleared her throat, more to buy time than because her throat needed clearing; then met the eyes of a young woman near the front of the crowd. Annie Ditrik was visibly pregnant. Her eyes were scared, her lips pale. Tell me what to do, that look said. I don't want my baby to die. . . .
"I'm a veterinarian," Tillie said quietly. "One of the hardest parts of any doctor's job is knowing when a patient is beyond hope. I've had to put down animals before, animals I couldn't save. I wonder how many of you have had to look into the mute eyes of a feeling, suffering creature and know that you're killing it? Out of kindness, perhaps, but killing it, nonetheless. You may think you're ready. Perhaps you are. I can't answer that question for any of you. But I can answer it for myself.
"In a way, this colony has become my patient. We're sick and we're hurt. But are we hopeless? Is euthanasia an answer? Or is it just a way of hiding from painful reality? Sometimes it is easier to lie down and die, particularly when continuing to live hurts yourself and those you love. Some of you may choose to do just that. But your choice doesn't give you the right to choose for anyone else. I won't make that choice for any of you who want to die. But for anyone who wants to live, for anyone who'll take that slim chance and fight for life, I'll be here working to give you that chance.
"We're farmers. If anyone can make this shipboard colony work, we can. We have the seeds and cuttings for hydroponics—and every one of you knows that hydroponics do well in a space environment. The first year will be brutal, yes; but the second year will be better and every year after that will bring even more improvements in our lives. Don't sell your future short. In twenty years, anything can happen. Wars end, political boundaries are redrawn . . . We might even be rescued. If you want to quit, to give up and die without a fight . . . maybe that's your definition of humanity. It isn't mine."
Someone near the back cheered. Applause, sporadic at first, spread. Tillie found it suddenly difficult to see through the stinging wetness in her eyes. With 60 minors ineligible to vote, the final ballot was 297 to 48, Tillie's favor.
Half an hour later, those 48 suicided quietly in their quarters, poisoning their own children.
Tillie blamed herself. Not for the adults' actions—but for the deaths of the children. She should've ordered protective custody, should've . . .
When she wouldn't answer his calls, Lewis Liffey came to her quarters. "Mind if I speak with you?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged. He came in and closed the door. Tillie sat with knees drawn up to her chest in the corner of her cramped bunk. She'd spent a long time crying, but now all she felt was numb.
"Just because they elected you all over again, Dr. Matson, doesn't mean you're stuck with the job. You can take off that badge any time you want."
She looked up slowly, found sorrow and compassion in his eyes. But not pity. Not even a hint of pity.
"And if we're wrong? What if Oliver Parlan and Hank Biddle were right? We could be leading these people to a violent death at alien hands. . . ."
His jaw muscles tightened. "Yes, we could. Any number of possibilities exist. The Concordiat may beat this invasion fleet back, then not bother to resettle Matson's. There may not be enough left to make it economically feasible. I've seen it happen, when alien wars ravage a world so badly nothing can grow for a century or so afterward."
Clearly, Lewis had been lying awake nights, too.
"Tillie, we may get there and find an empty world and have no way to contact the Concordiat ever again. Or we may find a bustling city where you and your husband planned to start a colony. Not likely, but that's the point. We don't know what we'll find."
Tillie swallowed hard a few times. "I've been . . . Those of us with family in Phase I are never going to see them again, are we?"
Lewis opened his lips, then paused. "You want my honest opinion?"
"I think I just heard it."
"I'm sorry. But given the circumstances . . ." His voice changed, wrenching at Tillie's heart. "I had a little girl on Scarsdale, Dr. Matson. Her name's Ginnie. She just turned seven. I said my last goodbye to her the night we found out we couldn't repair the SWIFT unit."
Tillie couldn't speak for a long time. Finally she whispered, "I've been thinking about Carl, too. If he survived to evacuate . . . I know him better than he knows himself, I think. He'd enlist. Especially when he finds out they can't locate us, that we're missing, presumed . . ." Tears threatened to clog her throat again. "He never was any good at that kind of thing." She sniffed back wetness in her nose. "I just don't know if I can keep going, day after day, year after year . . ."
Lewis Liffey was silent for a long moment. "Well, if you want to take off the badge, you can. But I don't think you will."
She looked up slowly.
"Every one of us on the Cross has lost family or friends. The difference between them and you is simple. These folks chose you to lead them. By an overwhelming majority. They're frightened and hurting and they look to you for guidance, for someone to help get them through the nightmare. And I think they made the right choice.
"You're doing the best you can under the worst conditions I've ever seen. You've already got hydroponics set up to feed us and the livestock, and I've just taken a look at the expansions to the system. They're good, sound plans. You've taught the children how to do manual milking, so there's plenty of calcium-rich food for the little ones. Hell, we may even get real eggs one of these days if those biddies keep growing at this rate." His lips quirked. "Know how long it's been since I tasted a real fried egg?"
"Don't joke about it," Tillie groaned. "I just killed—"
"The hell you did!" He strode over and sat down on the edge of her bunk. She flinched away, but he didn't touch her. He just sat there, eyes dark and worried. "Tillie, you didn't kill anyone. Or fail anyone. They killed themselves."
She didn't believe him. "They were my responsibility. The children, Mr. Liffey, those children were my responsibility. . . ."
"Yeah. Yours and mine, both." The tone of his voice caused her to wince. He plucked absently at the bedding. "Do you honestly think those people wouldn't have found a way to kill their kids, even if we'd taken them into custody? When a person's as crazy determined as those poor souls were . . . You've never been in a lifeboat before, have you?"
"No."
"I have."
The way he said it caused Tillie to look up against her will. His eyes were haunted again. What was he seeing? Something he'd seen before? Something he didn't want to see again? "Some folks live, some don't," Lewis Liffey said quietly. "Some just give up and some struggle to keep going no matter how desperate the situation. I expected we'd lose a few this way."
Shock hit her like icewater. "You what? You expected it?"
Lewis grimaced at her expression. "I'd hoped not—prayed not—but it just seems like some folks are able to turn a mental switch that says, `Now I will fight for survival' and others can't. It's got nothing to do with how well or how poorly you do your job. We've lost a total now of seventy-two people. That means two hundred ninety-five are still looking to you and me to get them through this."
Tillie's eyes began to sting. "But I don't know if I can do it," she whispered.
He held out a hand. "Maybe not. But we can."
She met his eyes. He tried to smile and nearly succeeded.
Tillie spent a long, long time crying on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Liffey—"
"Don't you think it's about time you started calling me Lewis?" She looked up and found a wan smile. "You just spent thirty minutes wetting my uniform, after all."
Tillie actually managed a smile in return. "All right. Lewis. I'm sorry about your little girl. Surely they evacuated Scarsdale in time."
He touched her chin, wiping away wetness. "And I'm sorry about your husband, Tillie Matson. I hope he survives the war."
Tillie nodded; but she was already saying her own last, heart-wrenching goodbye.
Lewis sat back and studied her closely. "So how about it? Ready to take that badge off now?"
She shook her head. "No. I'm stuck with it, I guess. Like marriage, this job is for better or worse."
He held out his hand again. "Welcome aboard, partner."
She hesitated only a moment. But when his hand clasped hers, doubts and terrors faded. The coming years wouldn't be easy. But Lewis Liffey was one of those lifeboat survivors. She felt the mental switch in her mind click over.
In that moment, Tillie knew they'd be all right.
Sensors track the approach of a ship with Concordiat markings. I monitor its descent from orbit. This vessel has suffered damage which my data banks correlate with battle. The burn scars of energy weapons have traced its hull. Portions of the ship have been opened to vacuum. The propulsion system is functioning at an approximated 20.073 percent of optimum. Descent from orbit is ragged. It loses power and falls twenty thousand meters before engine restart. Braking thrusters function after three attempts to engage.
The ship settles in a broad field of soybeans 15.09 kilometers from colony center. I approach at full speed, Battle Reflex circuitry engaged. This is a Concordiat ship. But I am not fooled. The Enemy is clever. Six times I have successfully fought invasion attempts of Matson's World. Six times the Enemy has left derelict ships in orbit. Two of those ships were captured Concordiat vessels. I hold fire until my sensors can confirm a seventh infestation.
A hatch opens. A ramp descends on automatic. The life forms which emerge are human. I close the remaining 1.95 kilometers and halt 7 meters away from the open hatch. I do not open fire. But I traverse infinite repeaters and lock onto the humans in case the Enemy has successfully captured human targets to front another invasion attempt. The nearest human attempts to block the one behind with his body. This act of protectiveness confuses me. They do not behave as though controlled by alien pests. The human behind him, which my sensors determine to be female, speaks.
"My God! It's—it's Digger!"
Joy! My new Commander has given the proper code word. My long vigil is over.
"Unit DGR reporting, Commander. Request permission to file VSR."
My Commander makes unintelligible sounds for 8.92 seconds. Then she grants permission to file VSR.
"The colony perimeter remains secure from infestation of agricultural pests. I have continued to carry out my orders as directed."
"Uh . . . What were those orders, Digger?"
"To safeguard this colony. Twenty point zero-nine years ago we suffered a severe infestation of an unknown agricultural pest similar in physiological characteristics to Terran wood rats. The infestation has been successfully eradicated, Commander. Five subsequent attempts at infestation have also been eradicated. Sensors indicate communications damage to your transport. Shall I relay a translation of the beacon the Enemy left in orbit above Matson's World?"
"Yes, please."
I play the translated recording. "Xykdap Cruiser GK7-115 to all Xykdap fleet personnel: do not approach this world. Infestation of deadly parasites has destroyed all Xykdap personnel. Enemy abandonment of this world was clearly due to this parasite, not to the approach of our fleet as we had surmised. Do not attempt a landing. Do not attempt to board this or any other ship left in parking orbit. No known cure has been found for the parasite which has attacked us. Xykdap Cruiser GK7-115 to all Xykdap fleet personnel . . ."
The recording repeats.
"Then this world isn't safe for us?" my Commander asks sharply. I seek to reassure her.
"Matson's World is entirely safe for human habitation, Commander. The nematode I originally gengineered 20.09 years ago eradicates each wave of pest infestation then dies out. I have kept a small colony of the original, harmless parasite alive, in bio-isolation aboard this unit. For each new infestation, I re-gengineer the infestation's harmless parasite into the toxin-producing mule which kills its host then dies. There are preserved specimens of the pest species which calls itself Xykdap for you to examine. You may offload the transport, Commander. I have rebuilt as much of the destroyed colony buildings as I have been able to, although I apologize for the crudeness of my work. I was designed to build barns and storage sheds. Do you have further orders, Commander?"
"I— No. Carry on, Digger."
"Thank you, Commander. I will assist with heavy cargo transport."
Miles and miles of well-tended cropland spread out around the rebuilt colony Administration buildings. A fenced pasture was dotted with a large and apparently healthy herd of dairy cattle. Apple and peach orchards in the distance had matured and were laden with not-quite-ripened fruit. Cultivated fields and storage barns and granaries . . .
Tillie thought about the deprivations they'd suffered over the past two decades, the struggles and fears, and very quietly began to cry. They hadn't come home to a nightmare; they'd found paradise. Thanks to one very mixed-up, determined Bolo . . .
"Tillie," Lewis said with an odd catch in his voice, "look at this."
He was staring at Digger's preserved specimens. When Lewis began to laugh, Tillie stared at him.
"What's so funny? Those things are hideous! Like . . . like giant rats! And look at the weapons Digger collected!"
"Yeah, but don't you get it?" He pointed to the advanced necrosis of the extremities, the eyeless skulls. "I used to sing it to Ginnie, years ago. You know, the nursery rhyme?"
Tillie widened her eyes; then she, too, began to laugh. Then she was in Lewis' arms and they were both laughing and crying at the same time. Behind them, neatly preserved in specimen jars, were Digger's three blind mice.