Ark (13 page)

It was obvious that Kelly and Don had been making good of their opportunity just as had Holle and Mel. They sat huddled together, wrapped in blankets, sharing sips from a plastic flask. Kelly raised the flask to Holle. “Malt whiskey. Smuggled it in inside my suit.” Her blond hair was loose, and falling down her neck. Her eyes were sleepy, a half-smile on her lips, and the curve of her bare back showed where the blanket had fallen forward.

Holle smiled at her. “That’s what I call your just-fucked look.”

“Well, you should know.”

Zane and Venus worked doggedly at their food, their eyes lowered, and Holle regretted her remark.

Whenever sex came up among the Candidates, Zane and Venus and Matt always held back, or got out of the way altogether. None of them had been known to have a relationship with anybody in the Academy. Holle had had a whispered conversation about this with Kelly one night. Zane and Venus were both close to Harry Smith. Maybe Matt too. Kelly said bluntly that she thought Harry was running some kind of harem, of both men and women. Holle suspected she might be right. But none of the “harem” were talking. It was up to them to fight their own battles.

Mel asked, “So where’s Matt and Susan?”

“Matt’s off by himself,” Venus said. “Working, I think.”

Kelly frowned. “He spends too much time alone. He’ll be marked down for that.” On the crowded Ark, it mightn’t be possible to go off in isolation; you were supposed to socialize.

“And Susan’s gone out,” Zane said bluntly, around a mouthful of food.

“Out where? Oh, shit,” Don said. “Not to meet Pablo?” Pablo was a kid, a bit younger than Susan, from one of the big IDP camps near Denver. “She should keep away from eye-dees like him.”

Kelly reached out of her blanket and slapped his beefy arm. “Stop using that disgusting word.”

“Well, President Peery uses it,” said Venus, her eyes on Don, provocative. “All your DPD buddies use it—don’t they, Don?”

“What if they do? Just a word.”

“You still hanging around with those Covenanters?”

Don snapped, “That’s my business.”

The Covenanters were a quasi-religious network with a philosophy that justified personal survival. This had come out of the circles of the superrich, safe in their fortress-like gated communities and their vast oceangoing craft. In contrast to his predecessor President Peery endorsed their creed, and was plugging it in his speeches, as a justification for his regime’s treatment of refugees. Holle’s father said that he believed people were reaching for theological justifications for the cruelty they were forced to inflict by circumstance, and that was what Peery was providing. It might be a comfort for somebody like Don.

But Venus said, “Everything the Covenanters say disgusts me.”

Don took a slug of the liquor, unperturbed. “Everything
you’ve
heard, maybe. You want to come along on a patrol some time?”

“Can it,” Zane said sharply. “We’re going to be too busy to squabble. We just got sent an exercise for tomorrow.” He had a laptop at his feet. “I’ll send the details to your machines.”

Mel groaned. “What exercise?”

“They’re making us go through a root-and-branch review of the launch system, the Orion stage. The engineering decisions made so far. We have to come back with a retrospective report on everything: the use of polyethylene versus aluminum to line the pusher plate, the two-stage shock absorber system, the nonlinear instabilities you get when the plasma flow from one nuclear blast mixes with the turbulent ablation products left over from the previous blast, how we can cut down the AI systems to fit the capacity of the mil-spec radiation-hardened chips we’ll have to use . . .”

Kelly frowned. “What’s that got to do with the sim? The Orion will have been discarded light-years back by the time we get to Earth II.”

“Yes. But there will be science to be done on Earth II, from the moment we land. The science of how to stay alive, to begin with. I think they wanted to set us some useful academic work to do in these conditions—hard thinking, in surface suits. Oh, and they gave us a swing. An hour per day for each of us, mandatory, in our envo-suits.”

More groans. But a swing, no more elaborate than a child’s garden toy, had been found to be a good sim of the crew’s experience of the Orion in flight, with a surge in acceleration of a few gravities coming every few seconds as each bomb went off under the pusher plate—surge, float, surge, float, just like riding through the bottom of a swing’s arc.

Kelly quickly brought the conversation around to the topic that had been dominating their small world since the social engineers had dropped it on them: the issue of newly pregnant women being allowed into the crew. In her competitive, logical way Kelly had done more hard thinking on the topic than anybody else.

“You see how it affects us? Think of this. You go for it, you see the launch day coming, so two, three months ahead you find some stud at random and get yourself knocked up. You’re increasing your chances, you think. You’ll be just ripe when the launch day comes, so you plan.
But then there’s a postponement.
Six months, say, nothing drastic. But that’s the end of you because when the Ark flies you will have a belly like a balloon, or, worse yet, a kid in your arms. Wave bye bye, and book your swimming lessons.”

Venus said, “You’re talking about giving birth. About the bond between mother and child. The most primal aspects of our humanity. How can you be so calculating?”

“Because that’s the position the social engineers have put us in,” Kelly said fiercely. “You have to take this seriously, because if you don’t some hardheaded bitch out there is going to play the game better than you and steal your seat.”

“Whatever the soc-eng people say, we don’t have to dance to their tune—”

There was a scream.

Venus shut up immediately. It had been like a bird’s call, muffled by the shelter’s thick layers of fabric.

“Human,” Don said.

“Susan,” said Holle.

Don jumped to his feet, exposing his legs and backside. “Let’s go.”

Zane struggled with the inflated splint that encased his leg. “Wait—the sim protocols—”

Don had a gun in his hand. It must have been under the blanket. “Screw that.” He ran to the wall and pulled a quick-release tag; the panel peeled away. Against a background of mountains and dull early evening sky, Holle saw people, and drifting smoke. Don rushed out, blanket clutched around his waist, gun held out before him.

26

T
he Candidates emerged from the shelters’ linked orange bubbles, their blankets wrapped around them. None of them were armed, save Don.

Holle tried to take in the scene. Ragged people, a line of them, marched warily toward the shelters. They were armed, but as far as Holle could see only with torches, knives, what looked like machetes. They were all adults, but Holle couldn’t tell their ages in the dim light. She wasn’t even sure if they were men or women. She wondered how they had got past the Academy security cordon. It was obvious what they wanted. The Candidates had good-quality shelter, warm clothing and blankets, food, clean water—a mess of matériel that could transform the lives of these people.

At the center of the line was Susan. She had her jumpsuit pulled down to the waist, revealing her underwear, her white bra; they must have caught her with Pablo. She had her hands tied behind her back, and her head yanked back by a woman who had her hand wrapped in her hair. Susan seemed calm enough, uninjured.

Don stood with his gun held before him in both hands. His blanket had dropped, leaving him naked, his body pale. He said nothing. The others gathered behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Susan called. “They followed me, and when I met Pablo they grabbed us both. I think he’s OK—they hit him—”

“He’s alive,” said the woman holding her. She had a Californian accent. She sounded young, maybe no older than Susan herself. “We’re not killers. We’re just hungry.”

“That’s close enough,” said Don.

They stopped. The woman stepped out from behind Susan, just a single pace. “We just want—”

Don fired.

The woman’s head exploded, a crimson flower. She twitched, dropped. Her hand stayed clamped on Susan’s hair, and Susan was dragged down on top of her, screaming. The other bandits stood in shock, for a heartbeat, two. In that time Don plugged his way along the line, one shot, two, three, a single round for each victim. They fell in the dirt, their blood bright. Before he got to the fourth the others had broken and were running. Don shot off a fourth round, a fifth, but they were soon out of range. Don started speaking to his bare wrist; he must have had an implant radio.

Holle was the first to break out of the shock. She ran to Susan. She was crying, and her right shoulder and breast were covered by streaked blood, and a paler fleshy material, and what looked like shards of bone. She was plucking ineffectually at her coverall. Holle helped her get her arms into the sleeves.

Kelly stood before Don, her blanket wrapped tightly around her body. “You killed them,” she said. “Without hesitation.”

“Fucking eye-dees,” he said flatly. He was breathing hard, but was otherwise calm. Holle was astonished to see he had an erection.

Kelly stared at him, then, abruptly, she clutched her stomach and cried out. She doubled up, the blanket exposing her shoulders, her blond hair drifting over her face.

Venus hurried to her. “Kelly? Kelly, honey? What’s wrong?”

Kelly shuddered and threw up, a thin bile spewing from her mouth in loopy strings. She looked up at Venus, and at Holle, and at Don, with his gun, naked. “Shit.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I think I’m pregnant.”

27

September 2039

W
hen the Academy’s final evacuation was called, the Candidates were told to assemble in the hollowed-out shell of the old museum’s IMAX theater. When she got to the theater Holle looked around frantically. The theater was in chaos, mobbed by cops and air force troopers and Homeland drones. The theater’s terracing of seats was covered with people and their gear, hastily packed up. Mixed in with the drab military colors, the Candidates stood out, colorful as exotic birds.

She spotted Kelly standing close to the theater exit, bundles piled at her feet. Don Meisel was at her side in police body armor with a heavy automatic weapon cradled in his arms. Like Holle, Kelly wore a label on her chest numbered “B-6,” the number of the armored bus they were supposed to take out of Denver. Kelly had her baby, Dexter, just two months old, in a bright red papoose on her chest. Kelly bounced the little boy, murmuring to him, while his father glared around, tense, nervous. Parenthood had made the two of them seem older than their age, just twenty-one.

Holle shoved her way through the crowd, her own pack on her back and with the last of Kelly’s gear, baby clothes and diapers, in big canvas holdalls in her hands. When she got through she dropped the bags at Kelly’s feet. Everybody seemed to be yelling, and she had to shout to make herself heard. “I think I got everything this time.”

“Thanks, Holle, you’re a true friend.”

“It was hell getting through to here. Why did they switch the egress point to the IMAX?”

“No choice,” Don said. “There’s trouble at the main entrance. Too many people want a piece of you Candidates today. We couldn’t guarantee your security. So it had to be this way.”

That was not reassuring. The Academy was being cleared in the midst of the chaos of a city-wide evacuation. Mel was already gone, sent on ahead to the Candidates’ new facility at Gunnison. She wished he was here, so they could support each other like Kelly and Don. “The sooner we’re on that bus heading down the 285 the better.”

“Rog that,” said Don.

Kelly asked, “Have you heard any news about the warp test?”

“Not yet.” Amid the chaos of the abandonment of Denver, Project Nimrod continued its own dogged course. Today was the scheduled date of an unmanned test of the warp bubble technology. A speck of antimatter had been tucked into the nose of an Ares stick, the intention being to create a bubble in Earth orbit. The bubble would fly off at superluminal speeds, but not before being sighted by observers on the ground and by spaceborne instruments. A corner of Holle’s mind fretted over that crucial milestone, even if it was just a distraction from more immediate problems.

Edward Kenzie and Patrick Groundwater came bustling up. They both wore AxysCorp coveralls emblazoned with bus numbers, “B-6,” the same number as Kelly and Holle. “Thank God.” Patrick grabbed Holle’s arms and kissed her. She thought he looked more strained, more tired, grayer every time they got together. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. It’s just, it’s a workday and you’re not in a suit.” She forced a laugh. “It makes everything seem real.”

“Oh, it’s real, all right,” Edward Kenzie growled. “And getting more real every damn second.” He was plump, determined, and angry, Holle thought, angry at the encroaching flood, or angry at the swarming crowds who were causing such peril to his daughter and grandson, and his project. He was listening to an earpiece. “They’re loading our bus. The National Guard have kept this doorway clear. But they lost control of the main entrance and there’s some kind of pitched battle going on around the old school group entrance. You wouldn’t believe it, that it’s come to this.”

“That’s the flood for you,” Patrick said. “It reaches us all, in the end.”

The exit door was opening at last. It was a big heavy security gate that had replaced the old theater entrance. They picked up their gear and formed a shuffling line. Holle saw a glimmer of daylight for the first time that morning, and heard shouting.

She turned for one last glance back at the theater. A forest of cables and pulleys hung from the ceiling, from which the Candidates had been suspended during zero-gravity sims, assembling spacecraft components and squirting themselves this way and that with reaction pistols. She remembered how they had swooped like birds, laughing, while their tutors had watched, smiling, earthbound. Now she was leaving this haven, and would never play such games again. She turned away and walked out into the daylight.