41 Pillow Talk It had gone very smoothly, Owen Fletcher told himself. Of course, he was somewhat disappointed by the vote, though he wondered how accurately it reflected opinion aboard the ship. After all, he had instructed two of his fellow conspirators to register Noes, lest the – still-pitiful – strength of the New Thalassan movement be revealed. What to do next was, as always, the problem. He was an engineer, not a politician – though he was rapidly moving in that direction – and could see no way of recruiting further support without coming out into the open. This left only two alternatives. The first, and easier, was to jump ship, as close to launch-time as possible, by simply failing to report back. Captain Bey would be too busy to hunt for them -even if he felt inclined – and their Lassan friends would hide them until Magellan’s departure. But that would be a double desertion – one unheard of in the closely-knit Sabra community. He would have abandoned his sleeping colleagues – including his own brother and sister. What would they think of him, three centuries hence on hostile Sagan 2, when they learned that he could have opened the gates of Paradise for them but had failed to do so? And now the time was running out; those computer simulations of up-rated lifting schedules could have only one meaning. Though he had not even discussed this with his friends, he saw no alternative to action. But his mind still shied away from the word sabotage. Rose Killian had never heard of Delilah and would have been horrified to be compared to her. She was a simple, rather naive Norther who – like so many young Lassans – had been overwhelmed by the glamorous visitors from Earth. Her affair with Karl Bosley was not only her first really profound emotional experience; it was also his. They were both heartsick at the thought of parting. Rose was weeping on Karl’s shoulder late one night when he could bear her misery no longer. ‘Promise not to tell anyone,’ he said, fondling the strands of hair lying along his chest. ‘I’ve some good news for you. It’s a big secret – nobody knows it yet. The ship isn’t going to leave. We’re all staying here on Thalassa.’ Rose almost fell off the bed in her surprise. ‘You’re not saying this just to make me happy?’ ‘No – it’s true. But don’t say a word to anyone. It must be kept completely secret.’ ‘Of course, darling.’ But Rose’s closest friend Marion was also weeping for her Earth lover, so she had to be told … … and Marion passed the good news on to Pauline … who couldn’t resist telling Svetlana … who mentioned it in confidence to Crystal. And Crystal was the president’s daughter.
42 Survivor This is a very unhappy business, Captain Bey thought. Owen Fletcher is a good man; I approved his selection myself. How could he have done such a thing? There was probably no single explanation. If he had not been a Sabra and in love with that girl, it might never have happened. What was the word for one plus one adding up to more than two? Sin-something – ah, yes, synergy. Yet he could not help feeling that there was something more, something that he would probably never know. He remembered a remark that Kaldor, who always had a phrase for every occasion, had made to him once when they were talking about crew psychology. ‘We’re all maimed, Captain, whether we admit it or not. No one who’s been through our experiences during those last years on Earth could possibly be unaffected. And we all share the same feeling of guilt.’ ‘Guilt?’ he had asked in surprise and indignation. ‘Yes, even though it’s not our fault. We’re survivors – the only survivors. And survivors always feel guilty at being alive.’ It was a disturbing remark, and it might help to explain Fletcher – and many other things. We’re all maimed men. I wonder what your injury is, Moses Kaldor – and how you handle it. I know mine, and have been able to use it for the benefit of my fellow humans. It brought me to where I am today, and I can be proud of that. Perhaps in an earlier age I might have been a dictator, or a warlord. Instead, I have been usefully employed as Chief of Continental Police, as General-in-Charge of Space Construction Facilities – and finally as commander of a starship. My fantasies of power have been successfully sublimated. He walked to the captain’s safe, to which he alone held the key, and slipped the coded metal bar into its slot. The door swung smoothly open to reveal assorted bundles of papers, some medals and trophies, and a small, flat wooden box bearing the letters S.B. inlaid in silver. As the captain placed it on the table, he was happy to feel the familiar stirring in his loins. He opened the lid and stared down at the gleaming instrument of power, snug in its velvet bed. Once his perversion had been shared by millions. Usually it was quite harmless – in primitive societies, even valuable. And many times it had changed the course of history, for better or for worse. ‘I know you’re a phallic symbol,’ the captain whispered. ‘But you’re also a gun. I’ve used you before; I can use you again The flashback could not have lasted for more than a fraction of a second, yet it seemed to cover years of time. He was still standing by his desk when it was over; just for a moment, all the careful work of the psychotherapists was undone, and the gates of memory opened wide. He looked back in horror – yet with fascination – on those last turbulent decades which had brought out the best and the worst in humanity. He remembered how, as a young Inspector of Police in Cairo, he had given his first order to fire on a rioting crowd. The bullets were supposed to be merely incapacitating. But two people had died. What had they been rioting about? He had never even known – there were so many political and religious movements in the final days. And it was also the great era of the supercriminals; they had nothing to lose and no future to look forward to, so they were prepared to take any risks. Most of them had been psychopaths, but some had been near geniuses. He thought of Joseph Kidder, who had almost stolen a starship. No one knew what had happened to him, and sometimes Captain Bey had been struck by a nightmare fantasy: ‘Just suppose that one of my sleepers is really…’ The forcible running down of the population, the total prohibition of any new births after the year 3600, the absolute priority given to the development of the quantum drive and the building of the Magellan-class ships – all these, together with the knowledge of impending doom, had imposed such strains on terrestrial society that it still seemed a miracle that anyone had been able to escape from the solar system. Captain Bey remembered, with admiration and gratitude, those who had burned up their last years for a cause whose success or failure they would never know. He could see again the last world president, Elizabeth Windsor, exhausted but proud as she left the ship after her tour of inspection, returning to a planet that had only days to live. She had even less time; the bomb in her spaceplane had exploded just before it was due to land at Port Canaveral. The captain’s blood still ran cold at the memory; that bomb had been intended for Magellan, and only a mistake in timing had saved the ship. It was ironic that each of the rival cults had claimed responsibility … Jonathan Cauldwell and his dwindling but still vocal band of followers proclaimed ever more desperately that all would be well, that God was merely testing Mankind as He had once tested Job. Despite everything that was happening to the Sun, it would soon return to normal, and humanity would be saved – unless those who disbelieved in His mercy provoked His wrath. And then He might change His mind … The Will of God cult believed the exact opposite. Doomsday had come at last, and no attempt should be made to avoid it. Indeed, it should be welcomed, since after Judgement those who were worthy of salvation would live in eternal bliss. And so, from totally opposing premises, the Cauldwellites and the WOGs arrived at the same conclusion: The human race should not attempt to escape its destiny. All starships should be destroyed. Perhaps it was fortunate that the two rival cults were so bitterly opposed that they could not cooperate even towards a goal that they both shared. In fact, after the death of President Windsor their hostility turned to internecine violence. The rumour was started – almost certainly by the World Security Bureau, though Bey’s colleagues had never admitted it to him – that the bomb had been planted by the WOGs and its timer sabotaged by the Cauldwellites. The exactly opposite version was also popular; one of them might even have been true. All this was history, now known only to a handful of men besides himself and soon to be forgotten. Yet how strange that Magellan was once again threatened by sabotage. Unlike the WOGs and the Cauldwellites, the Sabras were highly competent and not unhinged by fanaticism. They could therefore be a more serious problem, but Captain Bey believed he knew how to handle it. ‘You’re a good man, Owen Fletcher,’ he thought grimly. ‘But I’ve killed better ones in my time. And when there was no alternative, I’ve used torture.’ He was more than a little proud of the fact that he had never enjoyed it; and this time, there was a better way.