Lifeline

The dato straightened. “Dr. Sandovaal, I accept your conclusions and direct the following actions: your tether idea to send wall-kelp to Clavius Base will receive the utmost priority. Your research team will also prepare one of the sail-creatures for a journey to our sister Lagrange point. As chief scientist, you will have all the resources of the Aguinaldo at your disposal.”

Magsaysay lowered his eyes, his voice barely audible as he turned to the rear door of the chamber. He avoided looking at Ramis. “For now, I wish to be alone. The special Council meeting is adjourned.”

Chapter 14

CLAVIUS BASE—Day 11

His slippers scritched on the polished rock floor as he made his way from the infirmary. McLaris had decided not to don a Clavius Base uniform. He still wore his robe, still brandished his bandages, hoping to divert some of the anger of the other base inhabitants.

Sharp pains stabbed his side from the cracked ribs. His eyes were puffed red, and his beard had grown to a rough stubble. All of him ached, but that was a sign of healing.

Dr. Berenger had declared McLaris fit enough to walk about, and McLaris had decided it was best not to avoid the issue any longer. He had to face the chief administrator of Clavius Base.

McLaris knew virtually nothing about Philip Tomkins, except that he’d been running the lunar base for several years. He had contacted Tomkins, who had said he’d be delighted to chat and had given him directions to the communications center.

McLaris decided he’d make no mention of his injuries, try not to show that he was aware of them at all. He didn’t want to come across as looking for sympathy. But neither did he want to appear completely unscathed by the crash.

Fluorescent lights glinted off the lumpy fused rock of the walls. The air smelled damp and dusty, cavelike. He saw no windows, only occasional narrow slits at eye level. He thought the lunar tunnels would get oppressive after a while.

He didn’t know what Tomkins and the others would do. Would they sentence him? Punish him? Would Tomkins himself be the judge and jury? Had the chief administrator already made up his mind? Everyone else on Clavius Base seemed convinced of McLaris’s worthlessness.

But he walked straight, keeping his face set. He had spent days wallowing in guilt, reliving what he should have done and what he had done. He’d passed through that now, though. He felt tempered, stronger.

McLaris regretted his actions. He was guilty—no question about it. But he couldn’t take it back, couldn’t return the Miranda. He could only move forward, changed, and hope that he could work his way back to acceptance.

McLaris paused at the communications center doorway, took a deep breath, then entered the room without announcing himself. Three large holotanks protruded from the white tile walls. A pair of technicians argued over data flashing in the units; another lounged back and spoke to her computer with her eyes closed. A long, narrow window ran at eye level along the far wall.

Beside the window stood a big-boned black man with his back to the door, staring out onto the lunar surface. Philip Tomkins: McLaris recognized him from a picture he’d seen.

“Excuse me, Dr. Tomkins. I’m Duncan McLaris—” He tried to speak calmly, businesslike, but his vocal cords clenched so that no sound came out until the third syllable. He forced himself not to clear his throat—that would seem a nervous gesture.

Tomkins turned around. The chief administrator was heavily built, a massive man. He looked as if he had been well-muscled once but had slacked off his exercise routine in the Moon’s low gravity, allowing himself to soften. His skin was a warm chocolate brown, smooth, with wrinkles around his eyes and throat. His tight, woolly hair was thinning, scattered with white and trimmed close to his head. He looked to be in his early sixties.

Tomkins nodded toward the technicians, who had stopped when McLaris spoke. “Why don’t you three take a break? Thanks.”

McLaris felt the technicians staring as they left the room, but he refused to look at them. Tomkins was the one who mattered here.

Now he was alone with Tomkins, but he could not guess what the chief administrator intended to do. He felt tense, wary, expecting something terrible. Go on, get it over with!

He pictured Tomkins pronouncing sentence, condemning him to be executed for crimes against humanity. They would take him outside in a suit, march him across the flatlands to the middle of the crater, tell him to kneel down. He would bend to his knees in the loose rock and powder, not feeling it in his padded suit. He would look up at the deep pool of stars one last time, and then someone would ritually bash open his faceplate with a club.…