We All Died at Breakaway Station (21 page)

But there were none who seemed to wish to hear Ladislas Rusko’s message of salvation, though here in the liberal atmosphere of New Portsmouth, none seemed to wish him harm either.

“Here, sister, take this and read it,” he said to a plump, middle-aged woman who made the mistake of pausing to stare. “It shows us the
way.”

The woman, without speaking, managed to close her mouth, accepted the tract, and went on, shaking her head. A small boy threw an apple core at him and ran, and a cleaning ’bot come up out of the gutter and gobbled up the apple core, and Ladislas Rusko walked on.

On more than one occasion there had been attempts made on Rusko’s life, lynchings, shootings, even stabbings, and once an assassin’s bullet had pierced his lungs and Rusko had died briefly. The doctors had repaired his injury and restored him to life with the warning to be more careful in the future, and Rusko went on preaching his message when he could find someone willing to listen.

There had also been attempts to jail him by the police of more than one city, but each time he had been released. Even though he preached something that could possibly be considered a message of collaboration with the enemy, the laws of the Galean League and of United Earth had not been violated; Ladislas Rusko had harmed no one but himself; and
he
could hardly be considered a threat to the security of Earth or of her allies.

And Rusko’s message was essentially very simple. It went something like this: all intelligences are a part of the same godhead; the Jillies are not evil; they are just different from mankind; different but equal, a part of the same divinity. There could be peace in mankind’s portion of the galaxy, but for there to be peace, we must learn to understand these alien beings who, despite their appearances, were actually our brothers. To prove his point, Rusko had half become a Jillie himself.

Yet, with mankind’s future doubtful, with mankind’s colonial worlds being bombed and beamed to rubble, with mankind’s sons and daughters being slaughtered in the stars, few men were willing to listen to the mad Jillieman.

So it was on this warm springlike day in New Portsmouth as Rusko stepped off the slidewalk and made his way across the colorful concrete paths into Harrison Memorial Park and gazed up at the towering, multicolored fountains of water jetting half a hundred meters into the air, and then falling back into the water of the pond. A flock of great white swans swam slowly on the surface of the pond, now and then being showered by the falling water when it was blown toward them by the shifting winds.

Two girls, both apparently in their twenties‌—‌though they could have been twice that and more and still looked just as youthful and as beautiful in this age when no women were ugly‌—‌stood at the edge of the pool not far away, tossing bread crumbs to the swans. They had not looked in his direction and apparently were not aware of his presence. Rusko slowly approached them, leaflets in one hand, the other raised in greeting.

“Sisters,” he said, “I have something to tell you.”

Together the girls turned to him and then stopped, stared, their eyes bulging.

“W-what?” was all that one could muster.

The other, taller, darker, bolder, said, “What in the world are you supposed to be?”

“I am the Jillieman, Ladislas Rusko,” he answered slowly, smiling and hoping that he hadn’t frightened them. “I have a message.”

This second girl, the bolder one, immediately attracted Rusko’s attention. She was tall, nearly as tall as he was, and beautifully proportioned for her height. She was Caucasian, though dark‌—‌a man of an earlier age might have thought her Spanish‌—‌and her black hair framed a finely carved face. She wore a simple one-piece garment, a shift of some shimmering, virtually transparent stuff that fully revealed her body beneath it. Her breasts held Rusko’s eyes, for they were full and round and firm and high, jutting proudly against the thin fabric. Her nipples were plainly obvious and he could see through the fabric the fine detail of her pimpled areolae. Then his eyes traveled on down her body, across her slender waist, appreciatively lingering on the black triangle between her thighs.

Then he looked back up at her face and found it as pleasant as the rest of her. Her eyes were brown, her lips were full, her hair pulled back from her face, bound with a bright red ribbon behind her head and then cascading down her back. All in all, she was a delight for a connoisseur of feminine beauty, which Ladislas Rusko had been before he had found his true calling.

“What is your message then, Jillieman?” this girl asked while he gazed at her, her eyes coming to meet his as boldly as she spoke.

“What is your name, sister?” he asked in reply.

“Michelle Britt,” she answered, an odd expression on her lovely face, an expression he could not read.

“Michelle Britt, I am Ladislas Rusko. Have you heard of me?”

“Yes,” Michelle said, turning to glance at her silent companion and then back at Rusko. “I’ve seen you on the tri-D.”

“Then perhaps you know of my message,” he said, finally handing each of them one of his tracts.

It was only then that he really looked at the other girl, smaller than Michelle, and dressed in a similar garment, which revealed as much of her young beauty as it did of Michelle’s. There was perhaps an oriental cast to her features, and a special kind of prettiness about them, but not the same sort of sensuality he saw in Michelle, not the same sort of mystery he saw in her eyes.

“I’ve heard about it,” Michelle said.

“I preach love and understanding,” Rusko said, “for all beings.”

Michelle started to say something, but apparently changed her mind and said, “Do you really believe that crap?”

“Look at me and ask if I believe it. I have become a brother to all sentient beings. I am a human and I am a Jillie as well. Both are combined in me. Love and understanding are possible.”

Michelle shook her head, a strange kind of gleam in her eyes. “I don’t believe it.”

“But, sister, it is so.”

Michelle looked down at his naked loins. “You’re still a man.”

“You say that because I have no female organs,” Rusko said. “That is so. Our Jillie brothers are both male and female at once. I can be that too.”

Michelle looked doubtful, Rusko thought. “How?” she asked.

Rusko smiled. “There are ways. Had I a male lover here I could show you.”

“I don’t think I’d really care for a demonstration.”

“Men can make love to men and women can make love to women. You know this?”

“Sure.”

“And I can make love to either. Either can make love to me.”

“I know what you mean,” Michelle said. “I’ve seen it done. I’ve even tried it, but I don’t care for it.” She cast a pregnant glance at her companion, who averted her eyes and looked away.

“Ah, but to make love to a Jillie,” Rusko told her. “That is what must come next. Men and women making love with Jillies. Then this war can end.”

“Would you really go to bed with one of those things?” Michelle asked quietly, apparently not astonished by his statement.

“Of course,” Rusko said with sincerity. “This must be done if our universe is to be saved.”

“Well, there’s one of them in Asterport,” Michelle said.

“Yes, I know, but I have been denied permission to meet it. They will not allow me to go to the space station.”

“It’s dead,” the oriental-looking girl said, with perhaps pleasure in her voice.

“Dead?” Rusko asked.

The girl nodded. “Yesterday. It killed a government psychologist and tried to steal a scout ship. They killed it before it got away.”

“Oh, that is so sad, so terribly sad,” Rusko said. “I had hoped that understanding could begin. But they‌—‌the government‌—‌they do not know how to go about it.”

“And you do?” Michelle asked.

“Look at me. I
am
the way.”

“Man, have you got a Messiah complex.”

“Perhaps some men must.”

“Maybe,” Michelle said hesitantly, for the first time seeming unsure of herself.

“Think upon this, sisters. Think about all that I have said. You can yet see the truth of it.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” Michelle said.

“Forget it,” said the oriental-looking girl. “I’m going home before I get sick.”

“Jutta,” Michelle called, then paused. “I’ll see you later.”

“We’ve got a date for tonight, you know,” the girl said with something in her voice that may have been mixed anger and pity, and then she turned and walked away.

“What of you, Michelle?” Rusko asked. “Do I repel you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you not leave as well?”

“I’m kind of a nut myself,” she said. “Sometimes I like crazy, ugly things.”

Something stirred within Rusko.

“It grows late,” he said. “I must return to my apartment for nourishment.” He paused, and then said hopefully, “but there is ordinary human food there too. Would you care to dine with me?”

“I’ve never seen a man without a stomach eat before,” she said, though what her eyes said Rusko could not tell. “Might as well.”

And as they turned and headed back toward the slidewalk that would take them across the city to the apartment Rusko had rented that morning, he told himself that this strange, perhaps perverted girl would do much more than just watch him take nourishment. And that was something that he needed very badly. Just how good was she going to be in bed? he wondered.

Five standard days had elapsed since the funeral of the crewmen slain during the abortive mutiny aboard the
Pharsalus
when First Officer Cling Reddick of the
Iwo Jima
did not report to the bridge to relieve Lieutenant Akin Darbi from his responsibility as Officer of the Bridge.

Lieutenant Darbi informed the captain, Daniel Maxel, who had just entered the bridge following a routine inspection tour of the ship.

“Thank you, Mr. Darbi,” Maxel said, concerned over this unusual behavior on the part of the usually efficient new first officer. Going to the bridge command console, which he now shared with Admiral Bracer when he was on the bridge, Maxel punched out the code numbers of the first officer’s cabin and then waited for a reply. None was forthcoming. When a second and a third try brought no response, Maxel went on to all-call. “Mr. Reddick,” he said into the microphone, his voice sounding throughout the cabins, corridors and passageways of the great starship, “this is Captain Maxel. Please contact me immediately. Mr. Reddick, please contact the captain on the bridge at once.”

After waiting for a few moments, Maxel then buzzed the ship’s sickbay, and was answered by Medical Aide First Rutha Jennin.

“Yes, captain,” the nurse said, two-thirds of her face swathed in plastiskin covering the hideous ruin done to her by Jillie small-arms fire.

“Has Mr. Reddick reported to sickbay?” he asked.

“No, sir,” the medical aide said. “Mr. Reddick hasn’t been here since his last physical day before yesterday. Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Thank you.”

Snapping off the communicator and waiting a few more moments for Reddick to respond to his all-call, Maxel wondered what could have become of him. Dammit, that just wasn’t like Cling to fail to show up for duty.

“Master-at-arms,” he said at last.

The young Marine sergeant, the only whole man present on the
Iwo’s
bridge, snapped to attention. “Sir,” he said loudly.

“Please go to the first officer’s cabin at once and see if you can locate him.”

“Yes, sir,” the young Marine said, did an about-face, and marched from the bridge.

While he waited, Maxel felt a growing sense of foreboding. Reddick was being eaten up by his anxieties. He had been ever since the starships lifted from Adrianopolis, but things had gotten worse in the last few days. Maxel had believed that Reddick was still capable of handling himself, of taking control of his emotions, his depressions, his despondency‌—‌but, and this thought frightened the new captain, but what if he hadn’t? What if Reddick were to break under the strain? What if he wasn’t as strong as he and Bracer had believed he was? What if…

The communications gear of Maxel’s command console buzzed. The captain’s prosthetic hand hit the switch and waited while the tank cleared to show the face of the young master-at-arms, an expression on that face of something approaching panic.

“Yes?” Maxel asked.

“Sir,” the master-at-arms said hesitantly, “sir, would you please come to Mr. Reddick’s cabin at once? Bring the admiral and Dr. Jaffe too, sir, please.”

“What is it, Phillian?” Maxel demanded of the master-at-arms.

“I think you’d better see for yourself, sir,” the other replied, his face growing more ashen as he spoke.

“Very well,” Maxel said. “I’ll be there at once.”

Quickly Maxel contacted both Admiral Bracer and the starship’s chief medical officer, and then left the bridge.

Bracer felt annoyed as he rolled down the corridor to meet Maxel. He had been in the officer’s galley, sipping a. cup of warm tea and discussing aspects of astrogation in the difficult nebular regions off Creon with the starship’s astrogator, Bene O’Gwynn, and Mr. Cumberland. It seemed that this was the first time in several days that he had been able to get his mind completely off the problems around him, and discuss something in a purely abstract way. And he had enjoyed matching wits with the keenness of Miss O’Gwynn’s mind. She was sharp, this once beautiful woman whose face and parts of her upper torso were now plastiskin and ceramics, and given time she might one day come into her own as a ship’s commander. And Cumberland‌—‌he was astonished at the chaplain’s knowledge of astrogation. He hadn’t imagined that he was as well-read a man as he was. But‌—‌Maxel’s call had interrupted him, and it had seemed urgent, and now it had plunged him back into the very anxieties he had been wanting to avoid. What had happened now?

“Reddick’s cabin,” Maxel said when he was close enough to speak.

“What the hell’s going on, Dan?” Bracer asked anxiously as they approached the section of the ship devoted to officers’ quarters.