Lifeline

“Therefore, for the survival of the greatest number possible, I must propose a ten percent reduction in force—an RIF.”

Linda Arnando stiffened beside him. Brahms swallowed. There it was—no taking it back now. Allen Terachyk appeared devastated and sickened. On the tape, even Ombalal paused.

Some people in the crowd didn’t seem to understand, but Brahms saw Tim Drury drift against the wall, only to rebound. Tears welled in his eyes. Oh, God, don’t come over here! Brahms didn’t know what he would do if Drury came to face him on the other side of the glass. To look him in the eye, accuse him, stare at him.…

Ombalal’s voice continued. “Before we were thrown into this situation, for reasons purely irrelevant now, our Associate Director, Curtis Brahms, conducted a thorough Efficiency Study of every single employee and family member on Orbitech 1. Now that we are faced with a ten percent reduction in personnel, I am forced to fall back on the results of that study.

“I have been obliged to pick the one hundred fifty people who scored lowest on that evaluation.”

At last the workers knew why they had been summoned to the docking bay. One man grasped a handhold and pounded on the spoke-shaft elevator doors, but found them sealed and unresponsive. He shouted, kicking at the metal wall. Panic began to rise among the people. Tim Drury floated alone in the far upper corner, sobbing.

“Everyone deserves to live—but everyone won’t live. We are faced with a crisis, and I contend that if only some of us can survive, then it must be our best—the best of the best. Random selection won’t do that.”

Brahms worked at the controls, initiating the countdown sequence for dumping the main airlock.

The alarm klaxon shrieked like a beast in pain. Brahms jumped, startled. A metallic voice spilled out from the PA system. “The airlock sequence has been activated. Please evacuate the chamber at once.”

Arnando hammered at switches on the control panel. Brahms cursed himself—he had assumed that the warning horns were interlocked with the lights. The PA system fell silent again, but the hundred and fifty workers moved in complete panic. They tried to pull open the spoke-shaft elevators. Brahms thought they might crush each other.

Someone’s thrown shoe thumped against the plate glass window; the frame didn’t even vibrate. Brahms could see some of the people shouting and shaking fists at him, mouthing obscenities he could not hear. He did not want to switch on the PA system to listen to what they were calling him.

He was tempted to switch off the lights in the docking bay, to make the victims dark and faceless. He did not want to see them, did not want to watch their last moments of life.

But he had to—he owed it to them. He needed to make this action as difficult for himself as he could—such decisions should not come easy. His conscience demanded that he look into the faces of the people he was sacrificing.

Tears filled his eyes as the director’s thin voice continued. Brahms doubted if anyone listened anymore.

“You will never know, nor do you care, I think, the depths of my own sorrow at having to do this. It is not fair. It is not just. But it is necessary. This is survival for your friends, your companions, perhaps some of your families. We will hold your memories sacred. You are truly martyrs for all mankind.”

Brahms felt Linda Arnando put her hand on his shoulder.

He triggered the explosive bolts that opened the huge docking bay doors. The air rushed out like a hurricane, dragging everything with it. He thought he could hear a haunted collective scream of terror, of betrayal. He watched their faces, each one drowning in horror.

The hundred and fifty men and women of Orbitech 1 swirled out into the black mouth of space.

Brahms pushed himself backward to his chair, missed the seat, and continued to the cubicle wall. He shook violently, as if in the grip of a seizure. He knew they had only passed into the eye of the storm.

Allen Terachyk threw up in the rear of the control room. Globules of vomit sprayed throughout the air.

But, eyes closed, Brahms felt a strength growing in him—a white-hot steel band, newly forged.

He had done it. He had found the strength. He had accomplished what needed to be done.

Next time, he thought, it will be easier. It has to get easier than this.

Chapter 13

AGUINALDO—Day 11

The orbits displayed on the holoscreen made no sense to Luis Sandovaal, but he wasn’t going to admit that to anybody. He cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his seat. He understood little about celestial mechanics, but enough not to believe it when something was supposedly “impossible.” Besides, once he knew even a little about a subject, it was easy to convince others that he was an expert.