We All Died at Breakaway Station (22 page)

“Beats me, sir. Phillian looked so upset that I didn’t press him about it.”

“You should have.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose I should have.”

“Remember it next time.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

By this time they had reached the cabin. The hatch was standing open, and the master-at-arms and the medical officer were both inside. So was Mr. Reddick.

Reddick had taken an old, worn Sam Browne belt that must have dated back to his Academy days, and carefully fitted one end of the belt around the molding of the cabin’s central overhead light fixture. The other end was looped around the first officer’s neck. His feet dangled a good dozen centimeters from the deck, a meter from an overturned chair that he must have kicked away. Commander Cling Reddick, First Officer of the LSS
Iwo Jima,
was very dead.

“Suicide,” the medical officer said flatly.

“You’re sure?” Bracer asked in the same tone, knowing that was the only answer, but hoping that somehow the medical officer could find another explanation.

“Very sure, sir,” Dr. Jaffe said. “It’s suicide. The man was primed for it.” He looked down at the metabolism analyst in his hands and gazed at its readings for a few moments.

“Doctor Jaffe,” Bracer said slowly, feeling an emptiness inside himself that was more than that of his missing organs, “a few days ago you told me that he was as stable as any man on this ship.”

The medical officer looked up, forced a weak, uncertain smile onto his face. “Yes, I did, sir. He Was, I believe.”

“Are you saying that we’re all ready to do something like this?”

“No, no,” the medical officer answered, one hand going to his forehead in a feeble gesture of uncertainty, almost hopelessness. “What I mean is, well, Mr. Reddick was, a few days ago, as stable as you or me, if any of us can really be called stable. No, I mean, sir, what happened aboard the
Pharsalus
a few days ago…”

“The mutiny?” Bracer asked.

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Jaffe replied. “It did something to Mr. Reddick. It‌—‌well‌—‌he was, I suppose, holding out some kind of feeble hope that someone would do something like that and get away with it. He hoped, sir, that some
dens ex machina
would get us out of this mess. Er, pardon me, sir, I meant…”

“It is a mess,” Bracer said. “Go on.”

“Well, sir, when the
Pharsalus
mutiny failed, it killed something in him. It made him, well, see the uselessness of it, I suppose. From his standpoint, I mean, sir.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Bracer said, still feeling that emptiness. “How long has he been dead?” Maxel asked.

“Well, the analyst says about three and a half hours, maybe just a little more.”

“Would it do him any good to put him in cold-sleep?” Bracer asked.

“Well, normally it would, sir, but my readings also indicate that he took poison before he hanged himself, DBN-derivatives or something of that nature. I had heard that there were some aboard ship.”

“Dan, did you know anything about this?” Bracer asked.

“Yes, sir,” Maxel answered. “I didn’t want to bother you with it. We made some searches, but didn’t come up with anything.”

“Search some more then,” Bracer said.

“Yes, sir,” the
Iwo Jima’s
captain replied.

“Go on, doctor,” Bracer said.

“Well, the damage to his nervous system and his brain appears to be far too extensive. He must have taken a massive dose. No, sir, to answer your question, I don’t think cold-sleep would help. I’m sorry, sir.”

“So am I,” Bracer said and turned away and rolled from the cabin on the power treads of his body cylinder.

Commander Cling R. Reddick, First Officer of the LSS
Iwo Jima
was ejected into space. His body followed a slow trajectory out of sight, aided by a reaction pack strapped to his back. The body vanished in the direction of Breakaway’s sim, where in several months it would be cremated.

In a way Absolom Bracer envied him. It was very clean.

The meters and dials and gauges rose and fell, flickered their needles back and forth. Digital counters spun their number wheels, paused momentarily so that human eyes could read their figures, and spun again. Tape reels, both magnetic and paper, recorded this data, that information, sorted it, while other circuits relayed digests of the information to the central computer that collected all data, growing data that spelled out the simple fact that without replacement parts, without human reinforcements, the modulation station on the planet Breakaway would cease to function in a matter of standard weeks. And beyond and above the click and chattering of relays, the swish of spinning tapes, was the ever-present hum of power‌—‌and even at two-thirds normal, it was an awe-inspiring level of power.

Comm Tech Third Sheila Brandt stood in awe of that massive power, channeled up from the power generating station three thousand kilometers to the south of this, the modulation station that impressed intelligence onto the radio waves created by this enormous power. And though it inspired her, she knew that it was a great, dying beast. Even she could perceive that.

Out there on the surface her team and others like it had searched out every surviving element of the antenna array, other teams had reconnected those elements, and now power still flowed into them, climbed skyward toward the relay satellite. But with each passing hour the fabric of the antenna net grew slightly weaker, even as the power that fed it grew slightly weaker, and it had almost become a matter of guesswork as to which was going to give out first, the power station or the antenna.

And really, to those beyond Breakaway, to Earth and to the Paladine, it didn’t much matter which gave out first. When one did, it was over. The FTL link would be broken, and even if the station were repaired within a few weeks, it would take years before the electromagnetic bridge was re-established with Hart and Obad Stations. FTL messages would stop at Hart and Obad and would have to be carried between them by spaceship, and right now there just weren’t enough ships available for courier duty.

This Sheila Brandt knew, as did every surviving person on Breakaway, and labor as they might, pushing themselves to the very limits of their endurance, there wasn’t a hell of a lot more they could do about it.

Breaking herself out of her trance, Sheila once again made her rounds, checking the dials and gauges and meters, noting the readings of each on the pad of paper on her clipboard. There had been a time, not so long ago, when all of this was done routinely by computer, but now the computers weren’t as reliable as they had been. People like Sheila had to assist the computers, and together they might keep things going a little longer.

She paused before one particular meter, noted that its needle was dangerously close to the red zone, checked the instruction plaque above the meter, and decided to wait just a little while longer before shunting the circuit’s power into another.

Having finished her rounds, she found a place to sit down, glanced at her watch, calculated in her head that she had been on duty for twelve hours so far and was just about as exhausted as she could ever remember having been. God, did she want to lie down!

She almost fell asleep before she roused herself, stood up, shuffled her feet to get circulation going again, and then started out.

She had completed half heir round when she heard a voice calling her name. She turned to see a man walking down the service corridor, and it took her a few moments to recognize him. It was Tommy Decker, Dea’s new boy friend.

“Hello, Sheila,” he said.

“Hello, Tommy. What are you doing here?”

“Came down to see you,” he said, leaning against a cold, riveted panel before her. “Had a few minutes off and didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know, but what the hell? Nobody’ll notice, will they?”

“I don’t know,” Sheila said doubtfully.

“You’ve got it pretty good down here, you know,” Decker said, looking around. “Nobody to bug you. Just go around reading these meters and things.”

“It gets tiresome,” Sheila said, almost angrily. “I’ve been on this shift for twelve hours already and I don’t know when I’m going to get relieved.”

“Why don’t you sit down and rest for a few minutes?” Decker suggested.

“Nobody’ll know, and your gadgets can get along without you for a while. Anyway, I got a couple of happysticks. Care for one?”

Sheila found herself tempted. A few moments of rest were something she desperately needed, and a few inhalations of the euphoric smoke of a happystick might get some of these tensions out of her. But she was on duty. She had a job to do. It
had
to be done.

“Come on now,” Decker said. “You got to get off your feet for a few minutes. If you don’t you’ll end up like Dea?”

“What do you mean?” Sheila asked, alarmed.

“You didn’t hear about Dea?”

“No.”

“She collapsed yesterday. They put her in the hospital. Totally exhausted and on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown.”

“How bad is she?”

“Oh,” Decker said, “she’ll be okay in a few days after she gets rested up. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

“Why?” Sheila asked, suddenly on guard.

“You’re Dea’s friend and I like you. Anyway, I’m lonesome too. Come on, sit down and have a whiff.”

Sheila looked at the two happysticks he pulled from his pocket and she felt her will power drain from her. What could happen in five or ten minutes? Breakaway Station could function without her.

“Okay,” she finally said, “but just for a few minutes.”

“That’s my girl,” Decker said. “Where’s a good place where nobody’ll find us?”

“This is as good as any,” Sheila said, gesturing toward an unoccupied area of the floor between two banks of relays.

“Okay,” Decker said and led her to the place she indicated.

In a few moments Decker had the two happysticks glowing; their aromatic smoke filled the air.

“Take a deep whiff,” he said. “Do you good.”

Sheila held the stick up to her nose and breathed deeply. The smoke smelled good, felt good as it traveled through her nostrils and down into her lungs, filling and warming her, easing from her the burdens of her duties.

“Feel better now?” Decker asked.

Sheila nodded, thought briefly about Len, wished it were he with her rather than Decker.

The man shifted closer to her, put his arm around her shoulder. She started to shrug it away, then relaxed a little more and told herself that there wasn’t anything wrong with Decker putting his arm around her shoulder; that didn’t mean anything, really.

“You’re from Cynthia, aren’t you?” Decker asked. “Dea said you were.”

“Yes,” Sheila responded, for the first time in weeks really feeling at ease.

She leaned back, supported by Decker’s arm, and felt the fatigue begin to flow out of her. That was really a good happystick, she thought, a lot better than most. “Is it true what they say about Cynthian girls?”

“What do they say about Cynthian girls?” Sheila asked, surprised to find herself snugging a little closer to Decker‌—‌well, he wasn’t exactly ugly!‌—‌and wondering if maybe these happysticks were the kind she had heard about, the ones with a form of k’peck in them. Could it be? Did it matter?

“You know,” Decker was saying.

“No,” she said, teasing him, for she knew well the stories about Cynthian girls.

“Come on. You know, what they teach about Life and all that stuff.”

“Oh, that,” Sheila said, feeling Decker’s hand slipping down under her arm and onto her breast, and finding that she liked it. She liked Decker. She liked the whole world. “My mother was a Tribalist, but Daddy was an Orthodox Restorationist.”

“Which are you?” Decker asked.

“I don’t know,” Sheila answered, moving still closer to Decker and slipping one of her hands onto his thigh, and wondering why she had ever thought she didn’t like him. “A little of both, I guess. Sometimes one, sometimes the other.”

“Which are you now?” Decker asked, pulling downward on the clasps of her blouse and snapping them open. His hand entered through the opening, worked its way into her bra, resting on naked flesh, squeezing.

“A Tribalist, I think,” Sheila said, noticing how ethereal the lights had become and wondering why she had never noticed their beauty before.

“You want to take this off?”

“Uh-huh.”

Decker helped her off with her blouse, but she undid the snaps of her slacks and pulled them down without assistance. Her scant underclothing soon followed and lay in an untidy pile at the rear of the tiny enclosure in which they lay.

“Take yours off too,” she said, feeling very warm and comfortable, and just a little bit excited about what a wonderful man Tommy Decker was and how much she wanted him.

“You’re sure we’re safe here?” Decker asked, suddenly less confident. “There hasn’t been anyone around in hours,” Shelia told him, holding the happystick to her nose and breathing in as deeply as she could.

Decker dropped his pants, revealing his own excitement to her but he still seemed hesitant about removing his shirt.

“You too,” Shelia said, finding that she didn’t want to talk anymore. She just wanted Decker, though he had to play the game her way. If she was naked, he would have to be too. “Come on or I won’t do it with you.”

“Okay, baby.” He pulled off his shirt and laid it aside. After removing the remainder of his underclothing, he was as nude as she.

“Be gentle, Tommy,” she said as she spread her legs wide apart and Decker lowered himself onto and then into her.

She sighed from very deep inside of her. Oh, that was good. God, she didn’t know it could be so good. Oh, Tommy, go on, go on. Tommy, do it…

The universe exploded into a scream!

“What’s that?” Decker cried, leaping up and grabbing for his clothing.

“Alarm!” Sheila answered, euphoria congealing into fear as memory and thought came back to her‌—‌the meter that had been near the red. The automatics hadn’t detected it, and she‌—‌she had failed to rechannel the power. Leaping up, disregarding her clothing, she ran across the room to the bank of meters and relays containing the questionable circuit. The needle was fully in the red, yet power still flowed through it and it was burning out.