Then she followed him into a part of the ship she hadn’t seen before. Every step of the way, Tillie sweat into her jumpsuit and tried to convince her jangled insides that she really did want to hear whatever awful things this man was about to reveal. The badge on her jumpsuit, glinting in the subdued emergency-level light, weighed more heavily with each and every step toward doom. He ushered her wordlessly into what might have been a wardroom. Two crewmen she knew were already there: Kelly McTavish and Booker Howard.
Both remained pale and silent.
“Please, have a seat, Dr. Matson.”
She sank into the nearest chair.
“I believe you have already met Kelly McTavish and Booker Howard?”
“Yes.” Her hands wouldn’t quite hold still. She moved them into her lap.
“My name is Lewis Liffey. Ship’s Supply Steward. It’s my job to manage Star Cross’ provisions. Foodstuffs.” He held her gaze steadily. “Regretfully, I am also in the direct chain of command for captaincy.”
An ominous chill touched Tillie’s cheeks.
He glanced at McTavish. “Yes, Kelly, I see you were right. Very well. Yes, Dr. Matson, it is that bad. Probably worse. I’m afraid we’re in very, very serious trouble.”
He paused as though looking at another, far more terrible image than the wreck of Tillie’s composure. “Whatever attacked us blew our Command Module to vacuum. Captain Redditch and Darren Boyd, our Navigator, died instantly. Jay Adler, our Engineer, was killed when they blew our propulsion system. All outgoing communications are dead. So are the propulsion systems and all navigational capability. The three of us are the only crew left alive.”
Tillie shut her eyes and held onto the edge of the table. He’s right, it’s worse . . .
“We may be able to repair part of navigation and propulsion. Maybe. We certainly will not be able to bring the Cross up to anything like standard operating specs. None of us is an engineer. Or even a tekkie.”
Tillie opened her eyes at that faint stress. He was asking her to produce a miracle. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “All our engineers went out in Phase One. Our techs, too. We’re just the crop-production specialists.”
Watching the flicker of hope in his eyes die into blank despair was worse than hearing the grim news in the first place. “I see.” His voice was very, very quiet.
“Bottom line?” Tillie managed.
For the first time, his gaze dropped reluctantly away from hers. He fiddled with a stylus. “We were scheduled for a two-week voyage to Matson’s. The Cross sustained a lot of computer damage when the Command Module blew. Among other things. Bottom line . . .” He finally met her gaze again. “If we can’t repair outgoing communications—which doesn’t look likely—we won’t be able to call for help. We’re a long way from anywhere out here. If we can restore some of our navigation and propulsion systems, at least enough to allow for minor course corrections over time . . . It’s possible we could get to Matson’s. Maybe. That’s the course Darren Boyd laid in and so far as we can tell, it’s still running on autocommand. But we can’t reprogram it for a new course—that part of the nav system’s been blown apart. And anyway, none of us knows enough about navigation to try reprogramming for a closer port of call. It’s stay on autocommand with minor course corrections over time, or nothing.”
There didn’t seem to be much point in demanding to know why the company hadn’t built in failsafes and crew redundancies for such a contingency. They hadn’t, so wishing they had was just plain useless. And it wasn’t the fault of the surviving crew, anyway.
Lewis Liffey cleared his throat. “That, uh, isn’t the worst of it, Dr. Matson.”
Tillie braced herself.
“At current velocity, with repairs to our propulsion systems so we can handle the course corrections we’ll need, we could reach Matson’s. In about twenty years.”
“Twenty years? My God—”
“If we can’t effect any repairs,” he cut her off, “we’re dead.”
She understood that all too clearly. If they couldn’t correct course, they’d keep following their current vector and miss the point in space where Matson’s would have been at the end of two weeks—but not where it would be at the end of twenty years. Maybe someday an alien race would find their bones inside the Star Cross’ empty shell. . . .
The shape of Lewis Liffey’s face wavered in her awareness. The whole room wavered. His voice brought everything back with a disorienting click.
“Dr. Matson, we need to make some very critical decisions and, frankly, I’m going to need your help.”
Tillie blinked, trying to cope with shock on shock. “Yes?”
“You brought three hundred fifty-seven people aboard, as well as live cargo, planning to settle a new colony. Unless we rig some kind of miracle repair, I would suggest you consider the Cross your new colony. You’re agriculturalists. If we’re going to survive a twenty-year voyage on a ship provisioned for two weeks, plus emergency stores, we’ll need every ounce of creativity you’ve got. We have to grow our own food, recycle nutrients, purify water when parts we’d normally swap out start to break down . . .”
“Yes,” Tillie managed. “I see what you mean. You really don’t think there’s hope, then, of repairing anything . . .” Her voice wobbled traitorously. “Anything, I mean, that would get us out of this?”
He sat back, looking suddenly drawn and exhausted. “No. I really don’t. Believe me, Dr. Matson, I’d give just about anything to say otherwise.”
She believed him. Most profoundly believed him. Because Tillie Matson would have given her immortal soul to tell her colonists something—anything—but the granite truth.
To her credit, she didn’t cry until much, much later.
When she was completely and utterly alone.
The orchard thrives. This pleases me. I am programmed to experience a sense of well-being for a job well performed. But I do not understand why my Commander has placed me on Battle Reflex Alert inside the colony perimeter. I perceive no trace of an Enemy against which I should prepare myself. The orchard is pest free. Scanning from a distance, I determine that the cornfield and vegetable plots between my current position and maintenance depot are also pest free. I have done my job well. My gengineered microbes, nematodes, and insect species are performing their tasks perfectly. The crops are safe. The colony is safe.
I work on new peach cultivars as assigned for a planned extension to the apple orchard, running computations, selecting the optimal site for the peach trials, preparing the soil with proper fumigants. I release nerve agents beneath a layer of heavy plastic film and monitor the progress of fumigation. Inimical soil parasites die. I am satisfied.
Seven point two-two hours after assuming my patrol station in the orchard, I detect an incoming Concordiat vessel. I am no longer programmed to respond to such vessels. The subroutines which still exist in my Action/Command center, subroutines which at one time governed my response to such ships, have been modified. I ignore the ship other than to note its landing and subsequent takeoff. I calculate that its mass has increased slightly on departure, indicating onloading of supplies or export goods from our stores. This puzzles me, but I am not involved in decisions to export goods from Matson’s. The colony grows quiet. The silence is too quiet.
I scan.
My sensors detect no trace of human occupation. This disturbs me. My Commander has not mentioned a departure of human personnel. I widen my scan. Livestock are still in place in barns, hutches, and fields. No human remains inside the colony perimeter. I widen scan once again. I detect no trace of human presence for a radius of 4850 meters beyond the colony perimeter. I consider the possibility that the colony has come under attack.
The only logical source of such an attack would be the ship which has departed. It carried proper Concordiat markings and broadcast on official Concordiat frequencies. I do not like to consider that a Concordiat ship has been subverted by the Enemy; but it is a possibility I file to be tested against future data, particularly as its increase in mass would closely match the combined mass of the human contingent of Matson’s World, within an estimated 0.007 percent.
I know of no native agricultural pest which would be capable of deflecting a Concordiat ship from its assigned mission and abducting the members of an entire colony in order to more easily access our crop base. I consider a probable extraterrestrial point of origin. Lacking data, I file the possibility and maintain Battle Reflex Alert. I have been charged with protecting Matson’s World. Vigilance is necessary if there is to be a well-maintained facility waiting when my Commander and the rest of Matson’s colonists return.
I wait and listen and watch.